Gypsies, Tramps & Conspiracies
We pickup with another installment from the wild adventures of Jonny O’Dell and his best friend, Gavin. Gavin has brought his dog/lover in the shape of the famous stray greyhound – tied with a bit of rope around its neck – and we’re in a field in Manchester, England (of course).
O’DELL: Careful. Watch the shit..
I forgot to mention.. shit everywhere – as O’Dell tries to save his friend from standing in it. I don’t know what they’ve been feeding the dog but it’s like the scene off Jurassic Park and discovering the mountain of Triceratops shit. I exaggerate, but still fucking nasty.
O’DELL: Lucky boy.. bad omen, ain’t it?
GAVIN: No it’s not. Shit for luck.. remember?
O’Dell takes a moment to take a long good look at the dog shit. He then, without hesitation – hits a double-footed (and bare-footed) stomp on the shit. The impact fires shit in all directions (even splatters on the camera lens) as the remainder of the turd – whilst O’Dell is left stationary – nestles nicely in between his toes. After such a dramatic scene, Gavin takes a moment to get his bearings before speaking.
GAVIN: ..It’s just a saying, mate.
O’DELL: Yeah? Well maybe we ought to conspire into setting myself on fire and fucking up HOW’s investment! See how they like that!
O’Dell pulls out some matches from his scruffy jeans and increases the threat. Not to mention O’Dell is wearing a brand new looking HOW replica t-shit.. where the fucks he gotten that from?! Probably nicked from the merch stand I dare bet.
Regardless, back to the matter at hand – and O’Dell wanting to fully engulf himself in flames……. but he’s short of gasoline. Though, I don’t quite trust him with a box of matches in any event.
GAVIN: Hand over the matches, Jon.. and nobody gets hurt.
O’DELL: I’ll do it, Gav! I’ll do it!
O’Dell strikes a match.
GAVIN: Easy, Jon. Easy..
O’DELL: You don’t think I’ll do it.. but I’ll do it!
O’Dell holds the flame higher. This could be interesting.. it’s under his Gandalf beard. Once the cameras can pick up a visual of O’Dell’s face – the expression is similar to the one Gavin pulled ‘last adventure’ whilst seemingly on the brink. Same mannerisms.. eyelid twitching, eyeballs bulging and just a look that fully slices through you.
GAVIN: Don’t do that, HOW need you..
O’DELL: He fucking told you to say that!
GAVIN: Who did?
The flame minimizes in it’s potency.
O’DELL: Shhhh! Place is bugged..
Gavin is perplexed at O’Dell’s nonsensical pleas. I mean, they’re fucking outside.
GAVIN: Come on, Jon.. this is daft.
O’DELL: No, see.. that’s what they want you to believe.
GAVIN: Who’s them?
O’DELL: Kedu emu fafa..
GAVIN: Who the fuck is that?
O’DELL: It’s code, man! They’re listening..
GAVIN: Well if they are then you gotta tell me the code, otherwise this is a pointless exercise. (pause) And did you just say emu?!
O’DELL: You’re not taking this seriously! They’re all around me! They’re all around me!
O’Dell is completely confused and looks to be compiling a dozen scenarios in his brain. It’s rather frantic and erratic behavior; thankfully the flame diminishes. Fuck, even that got tired of waiting to burn him.
GAVIN: You’ve lost your fucking head!
Gavin immediately knocks the used match and box out of the hands of O’Dell. This manages to deflate the risk of threat slightly. Perhaps merely only a cry for help.
GAVIN: Fuuuckk! You’re like the local drunken fool who woke up naked in a gas station that says he got abducted by aliens.
O’DELL: I wasn’t abducted.
GAVIN: I know you weren’t, I’m just saying..
O’DELL: Impossible! When they’re already living among us.. be wary of the one they call Lee Best.
GAVIN: Christ Moulder, not everyone is out to get you you know. Not everything is a fucking conspiracy.
O’DELL: Well I was watching Joe Rogan—
GAVIN: Fuck Joe Rogan!
O’Dell frowns, maybe not fully believing or understanding why Gavin has just said ‘Fuck Joe Rogan!’
O’DELL: (Squinting eyes) Saaayy.. what’s your name?
GAVIN: You know my name.
O’DELL: Ok, GAVIN.. if that is your real name.
GAVIN: What?! You think I’m a plant now?!
O’Dell is hesitant in giving an immediate reply. Perhaps he thinks that one misplaced word like ‘politics’ could lose his best (and only) friend forever.
GAVIN: Really doesn’t matter what answer I give because whatever I give it’ll be exactly what a plant would say, right?
O’DELL: That’s exactly what a plant would say!
Gavin without warning, full on slaps O’Dell across the face. The noise can be heard blocks away and the impact causes Jonny to fall back on his arse. Yes, of course.. in more shit.
GAVIN: Get back in the fucking game, Jon! Look at what this business has done to you! It’s corrupted your mind and made you into the wresting version of Alex Fucking Jones!
O’DELL: ..All this time? Could it be?
GAVIN: Yes, don’t you see? You’ve been away from the job for so long that you’ve forgotten everything. Your paranoia is acting as a mental block on your performance.
O’DELL: So I don’t suck?
GAVIN: Suck?! You’re the fucking ‘Fabulous One’ man… ‘The Fabulous One’.
O’DELL: Man, when did you start to become so wise, huh?
Gavin helps up his best friend and it’s a beautiful moment between the pair (among the shit). I don’t know, maybe the penny is finally dropping for O’Dell and that there’s a breakthrough with his deep paranoia.
GAVIN: Quickly! Off to Lady Gypsy! If we have one chance. Our one and only chance.. that chance is now!
Before the cameras can cut – O’Dell plants a massive fat kiss on Gavin’s lips. I don’t think he’s homosexual.. I just think he’s happy. Though, that does fit the criteria – mind.. Gavin would fuck anything with a pulse (that doesn’t necessarily need to be beating).
SCENE #2 SAME DAY..
We enter inside of a traditional vardo wagon renowned for gypsies and their spiritual readings. We assume O’Dell is being brought here for that very reason. What this is in aid of I have no idea – as O’Dell has a problem with his paranoia. A shrink would much suffice. This, somewhat could create the adverse affect.
Regardless, the gypsy wagon is filled with all things expected, really. Old ornaments of horses, jars of ointments and creams (potions) and random fury objects. Also, a little novelty Hamlet skull. I don’t know, I’m no expert – the only thing I can relate to is that it smells like old woman. Maybe she is wearing the same perfume as my nana… or, she knew that was my nana’s favorite perfume. Spooky.
In steps O’Dell through the bead curtain and takes a seat at the table. There, sitting in front of him is the one they call (or at least Gavin did..) ‘Lady Gypsy’. She’s about eighty years old and is wearing a green gown with a crystal bandanna. She seems in deep mediation-mode as she caresses a crystal ball in front of her.
O’DELL: Cold, isn’t it? Think it’s gonna rain later..
O’Dell’s small-talk falls on deaf ears.
LADY GYPSY: I’ve been expecting you, Jon.
O’DELL: Yeah, I kind of had an appointment..
Lady Gypsy immediately goes to the tarot cards that were already stacked on the table. The first one from the pack she flips over.
LADY GYPSY: (closed eyes and touching temple) You are experiencing extreme sadness..
The card shown is The Fool.
O’DELL: Well lady, I’ve been homeless for the last three years so yeah life’s a real kick in the balls. (pause) Christ, can you just give me a rabbits foot and I’ll be on my way..
LADY GYPSY: A sense of loss..
O’DELL: Only like the World.
LADY GYPSY: Yet a feeling of courage..
Lady Gypsy flips over the next card and it’s Strength.
LADY GYPSY: Does a Sess… Cecil mean anything to you? Is he connected?
O’DELL: Who? Richy Rich?! I hope not..
Lady Gypsy allows O’Dell to further answer as she continues to meditate with her eyes firmly closed.
O’DELL: It’s funny, I got my mam to write in to the P.E teacher when I was at school saying I had a bad foot – but I still had to play rugby in the rain with the bigger boys in my pants and vest.
LADY GYPSY: A Steven… a Stevens is connected..
O’DELL: Ha, that’s the guy that was in HOW back in 2002. Fuck, he was the running joke of the locker-room.
LADY GYPSY: Scott… Stevens..
O’DELL: Ah, wrong dude. This is probably his brother. I’m sure Shawn died from feeling worthless. Rest in peace, brother.. see you down the road. I’ll try and get Lee to toll the bell ten times at the next show.
LADY GYPSY: A lady. A lady of the night..
O’DELL: Flo? Yeah, she’d definitely get it. You got her number by the off chance?
Lady Gypsy flicks over the card Death. It brings a little panic to Lady Gypsy but she seems hellbent on finishing the reading. O’Dell seems oblivious to this.
O’DELL: I see where you’re going with this… the Battle Royal for the ICON championship. Which, might I add the info is heavily available on the HOW website..
Lady Gypsy ignores O’Dell’s obvious scepticism as she’s fully focused on the reading . Almost as if the next move could be fatal.
O’DELL: Just tell me if I’m going to win.
Lady Gypsy tentatively and slowly turns the next card. It is non-other than The Devil itself.
LADY GYPSY: You are in grave danger!
O’DELL: Danger? I laugh in the face of danger..HA!
Lady Gypsy jumps out of her seat and begins to concoct a potion from the jars on the converted bookcase behind her. Mixing up random shit as O’Dell watches on.. that green stuff is probably skin grafts from a blended frog.
O’DELL: ..Is Chuck Norris going to be in the match?
LADY GYPSY: Quickly! Drink this..
Lady Gypsy hands O’Dell a glass vile full of the concocted medicine/potion. O’Dell simply has no choice but to drink the mixture as she practically forces it down his throat.
LADY GYPSY: Now shut your eyes and count backwards from the months of the year..
O’DELL: Ok, crazy lady. Whatever you say. (Shuts eyes) December, Nov—
Lady Gypsy out of nowhere nails O’Dell with an ancient baton-like bat made out of sheep’s skin. This completely knocks O’Dell out and Lady Gypsy proceeds to……. rob him. A taste of his own medicine you could say. She goes into his jeans pocket..
O’DELL: ONE IN THE PINKY TWO IN THE STINKY!
O’Dell remarkably regains consciousness for a brief moment before Lady Gypsy gives him one final blow sending him back into unconsciousness. Thus finally allowing her to retrieve the remainder of O’Dell’s money that is probably his crucial HOW pay packet. O’Dell falls off his chair and his arse hangs out of his jeans. It might as well be blinking at us as O’Dell lies belly first on the floor.
Are you the sort of person that likes Werther’s Originals – but you aren’t the same age as your dead Grandma? You read shitty books on fossils and consider John Kerry the most insightful mind of our generation? In the game snog, marry and avoid you’d chose to marry Gwyneth Paltrow? Cricket is your second chosen sport right behind stamp collecting? You run a Michael Buble fan group but you’re the only heterosexual male in it? You volunteer down at the steam train museum for pure enjoyment? The Sum Of All Fears is the greatest movie of all time and you consider the art of wanking a mere chore (unless it’s over an episode of Master Mind)?
Then you’re probably like Mike Best with your default setting still set on boring cunt.
I mean.. where’s all of the demon characters? The roosters and the fucking garbage men? Well, I’d tend to agree there’s a lot of the latter but fuck me you’ve just ended up boring to death the whole HOW audience. Don’t get me wrong, they too can burn but at the end of the day they still pay our wages.
Because what me and Chris Diamond did in the first round was really great. It might as well have been pre-show because the pop from the crowd simply wasn’t there. It probably was pre-show, that makes sense now. But they really experienced a fucking clinic out there and the boys in the back told me that it was really great. It’s a shame that the bloke on lightening was the guy simply only giving out feedback and none of the actual workers. But really speaks volumes about HOW these days.
Back in 2002 for example, we’d all change together in the one locker room. In today’s HOW it’s like you’re all scared about people seeing your penis size. Hitting the showers all at the same time and whipping each others arses seemed like regular common practice back then.
Fast forward 2019, ostracized in today’s refueled era. Resorting to changing in a janitor’s closet. There’s some 2002 nostalgia in what I just said there somewhere.. but it’ll be sadly lost on you all. Regardless, I should be fucking worshiped, not vilified. Respect is fucking earned and I’ve earned thirty years of ridicule. I mean, Christ.. Neil Diamond gets mine after one measly night. Throw a fucking dog a bone here!
Congratulations though, Mike. You are the master at getting the job done. And that’s all that matters, right? Even when an old vet has old retired boots on. Next time, though – you’d not beat a newly christened Samoan. Or the wrestling version of John McClane. Then, they’d be no excuses.. no slips in the workplace, and the real acclaim to the title that I’m simply better than you – and therefore World Champion. By default. Because I deserve it. Besides, there’s more prestige in the acclaim of being a true icon anyway.
Because that’s what we all want, Mike? Once it’s all over and the dust settles – that we’re long remembered for being an icon. And that isn’t done by having two billion world title reigns. It’s down to the sheer fucking moment. Leaving a fucking iconic mark on this business. Fuck, it doesn’t matter if that was curtain jerking all career long – it’s the principle that you stood out from the rest of the fuckers. The black sheep was not scapegoated by the racists, and simply going against the grain was the single most important thing as us as entertainers.
That thing will give me clarity when I’m holding the ICON title above my head. Paying homage to the guys that paved the way for today’s piss-takers like yourself. So here’s to you…. Mr. Reynolds you lovey human being.
It’s NOT a conspiracy.
It’s destiny, fate, a dream, spiritual connection and saliva-swapping with a lady gypsy— gunna happen.
Cherry on the cake, ideal scenario would be me and Cecil the last two in the Battle Royal. That’s if he’s not too butthurt and actually shows. Yeah, cos I’m going to make an example out of this Little Lord Fauntleroy.. BOOM! I nail him with The Climax and by adding insult to injury.. use my IBS to my advantage and spell out Mike’s name on his fucking chest. You fucks want something iconic – then I’ve got a whole belly full. Then out you fucking flush over the top rope… PAL!
Retirement, Mike? You’re thirty three years old you fucking work shy bastard. If you’re not obsessed with me now – you’re gunna be. I know you have my posters on your bedroom wall, Mike. I know you can’t get me out of your head.. I’m fucking living there rent free. And I don’t care what it takes.. I’ll be there uninvited at your next birthday (and every other one after that) party (with a bouncy castle), sitting next to you at the Christmas dinner table.. and fucking spooning you on sleepovers until you give me ONE MORE MATCH! ONE MORE MATCH!
Believe me; me beating you will be the BEST conspiracy yet you fucking little flat-Earther. It’s oh-so-clear now..
Now someone wake my ass up from this eternal abyss because I hate leaving that poor little dog with Gavin for too long (obvious reasons).
The music of ‘Lady Gypsy’ by David Brent plays in the background of the black abyss. Possibly to rub salt into the wounds as the best a broke O’Dell can hope for is The Hermit tarot card to show itself.