The Dollar Bush. No, it is not the name of a trashy brothel located off the Interstate. Another in a long string of “Dollar Stores”. It is, if possible, a cheaper, dingier Dollar Tree. Jatt Starr, feeling the shame churning in his stomach at just setting foot in the dumpster juices of retail establishments. Unfortunately, Halloween is less than twenty-hours away and the King of Grapple from the Big Apple would rather hand out knock off candies like “Fifty Grand”, “Almond Soy”, and “Folly Branchers” than get assaulted by eggs and tissue paper.
Last year, his choice of providing candy corn to the trick or treaters was met with a giant turd in a paper bag left on his doorstep. What kind of sick twist would do that? And were there multiple sickos? That was a large bag, a grocery bag of crap. Did they take turns pooping in the bag? It could not scientifically have come from one person. One elephant, maybe, but not one single human person.
It led to a very important lesson – Giving candy corn is worse than giving nothing.
As the HOW Hall of Famer is met with a rather interesting (and not at all pleasant) body odor from a rather unkempt shopper wearing a black “Amateur Gynecologist” t-shirt passes by him with a cart full of “Dr. Dubbs” soda, he notices something far worse, an image of such fright it is bound to give him night terrors for the rest of his life.
It is the unauthorized Halloween costume named “Wrestling Hall of Mediocrity: Mister Hollywood”. The tacky tights and the cheesy wig (which is oddly accurate), Brian Hollywood has joined the ranks of “Pubescent Toxic Attacking Tortoises”, “Big Red Oh Yeah Man”, and “Feline with the Striped Fedora”.
How in the hell did Brian Hollywood find his way into the popular culture zeitgeist with a hilariously named Halloween costume?
Where is the “Wrestling Renoir” costume?
Where’s the “Hall of Fame Wrestling Statt Jarr” costume?
Should the Starrabian Knight be insulted?
Should the Baron of Boca Jatton feel slighted?
Of course he should.
The Marquis of MadagaStarr is eight times the wrestler Brian Hollywood is….and ten times the man….and twice the female.
Yes, the bureaucratic snafu with his driver’s license has been resolved. Yes, he can no longer refer to himself as a government recognized “female”. And yes, the Hero of Jattlanta is no longer a self-described Transcedent Rolemodel.
Or is he?
If he continues with that line of thinking, will the El Jattador de Starrcelona be cancelled faster than a sitcom starring Michael Richards post-Kramer from “Seinfeld”?
Should he even care about that considering there are far more issues plaguing the world such as a fucking Halloween costume based on that fucking douchewaffle Brian Fucking Hollywood and not the Jattsylvanian Count!
Jattsylvanian Count! Jattcula! LesJatt! Vampiric costumes based on the Ruler of Jattlantis are brilliant! They write themselves! It would be the greatest Halloween costume ever besting Baby Yoda, a Mighty Morphin Power Ranger, and Elsa from “Frozen”. Advertising dumbasses.
Brian Hollywood?! BRIAN FUCKING HOLLYWOOD?!
A young man wearing a Los Angeles Lakers LeBron James jersey over a black t-shirt, khaki cargo shorts, and a pair of Nikes. A young man with such garments should not be shopping at the Dollar Bush on Halloween. Perhaps he is here on a dare? Or maybe all of his disposable income goes towards high end sneakers and sports jerseys and he sustains himself with “Cupful of Noodles with Artificial Beef Flavor” and “Dollar Bush Water”.
The Jattvian Prince does not care enough to ask.
The goofball model with that cheesy smile on the “Mister Hollywood” packaging distracts him too much.
There is a certain level of anger that builds within the pit of the Jatti Master’s stomach the longer the “Mister Hollywood” looks back at him, mocking him, flashing those pearly whites, grinning like a massive tool. Jatt Starr’s hemorrhoid like irritation at “Mister Hollywood” is interrupted by the LeBron James fan standing next to him.::::
YOUNG MAN: Fuck, I was hoping they have some Updog costumes!
JATT STARR: What the hell is “Updog”?
YOUNG MAN: Nothin’! What’s up with you???
JATT STARR: I am just standing here.
YOUNG MAN: No, you asked me “What the hell is up, dawg?”
JATT STARR: And I still don’t know.
YOUNG MAN: No, it’s like a joke, bro. Like “What is up, dawg”! Like “What is up, my man”! Know what I’m sayin’.
JATT STARR: I cannot say that I do.
YOUNG MAN: Psssh!
::::The Young Man waves a dismissive hand at the Jattlantic City Idol before walking down the aisle and stopping a disheveled middle aged woman with one large ratlike tooth protruding over her lip (which causes the Rembrandt of Wresting to subconsciously rub the top of his lip with his index finger) and begins to inquire about an “Updog” as the fluorescent lights bounce off the pale young lad’s skin, giving him an almost Avatar complexion.
The Ruler of Jattlantis turns around and finds himself face-to-face with a slightly shorter preppy gentleman with a more ebony complexion. The Preppy speaks with an almost smooth tone.::::
PREPPY: Sorry about my brother. He can be a bit of a jerk.
JATT STARR: Brother? But you’re….
::::Jatt Starr waves his hand towards the Preppy Gentleman of a more African descent than the young LeBron James fan whose descendants seem to be of a more Albino descent. He moves his hand up and down not comfortable with stating the obvious.::::
JATT STARR: You know….you are….and he is….
PREPPY: I am dressed as though I have just left work whereas he is dressed like he is going to the Staples Center.
JATT STARR: Nooooooooo?
PREPPY: Oh! Because I am black and he is translucent?
JATT STARR: Whaaaaaaaaat? Nooooooooo! Yes.
PREPPY: He’s my foster brother.
JATT STARR: Oh.
PREPPY: The name’s Malcolm. Mac to my friends. Malc the Bezerker to my D and D crew. Or Lord Arthur Vandalay in the LARPing community. Or Max Steel to the ladies.
JATT STARR: Okay. I am not sure why you included that last one.
JATT STARR: And the tool over there?
JATT STARR: My neighbor had a cat named Cheswick. He choked on his own hairball and died. Well, he choked on the hairball and fell off the roof of his house into the woodchipper and died.
MAC: I didn’t need to know that.
JATT STARR: Transparency.
JATT STARR: Cheswick, huh? Cruel.
MAC: We call him Chazz.
JATT STARR: Not much better.
MAC: I didn’t say it was.
JATT STARR: It was implied.
MAC: I’m pretty sure it wasn’t.
JATT STARR: Cheswick, Chazz….he should change it to something else.
MAC: He has mentioned changing it.
JATT STARR: To something with a little panache, I would hope.
MAC: “MC Jizzy C”.
JATT STARR: Wow.
JATT STARR: I assume “Douche Face McSaggysack” was taken?
MAC: We’re angling for “Alvin Theodore Simon”.
JATT STARR: Three names? Too pretentious. Or serial killery.
MAC: Good point.
JATT STARR: What do you do, Mac?
MAC: Corporate trainer.
JATT STARR: That does not sound very enthralling.
MAC: I love it.
JATT STARR: Forcing a bunch of suits to do jumping jacks?
MAC: No, I train new hires the company’s protocols, codes of conduct, and job training.
JATT STARR: I stand by my initial assessment.
MAC: Come on! Steady hours. No holidays. No weekends. 401K plan. What’s not to love?
JATT STARR: The corporate stranglehold.
MAC: And what, pray tell, is it that you do for a living?
JATT STARR: Professional wrestler.
MAC: Steady hours?
JATT STARR: Once a week and then any media scrums.
JATT STARR: Our shows are on Sundays.
JATT STARR: We don’t use computers very much.
MAC: No, I mean a retirement plan.
JATT STARR: We don’t use those either.
MAC: No, thank you! I enjoy the structure that is my life.
JATT STARR: Yeah? But I get to come home to Heidi Vaccarelli.
MAC: The scream queen from “Night Terrors on Maple Lane” and “Sister Hacked”?
JATT STARR: The one and only.
MAC: She turned me off to B.J.’s.
JATT STARR: I do not like the direction of this conversation.
MAC: That scene where she’s going down on that dude and the killer drives an icepick into her ear causing her to bite the dude’s wang off? Too graphic if you ask me.
JATT STARR: Clearly I missed that one.
MAC: It’s number thirty-eight on my all time favorite horror movies.
JATT STARR: I haven’t made a list.
MAC: I enjoy making lists. Horror movies. Songs. TV shows. Theme songs from TV shows. I didn’t catch your name.
JATT STARR: Simon Sparrow. Jatt Starr. The Ruler of Jattlantis. The Sultan of SeaJattle. The Marquis of MadagaStarr. The Baron of Boca Jatton. The Mayor of ManJattan. The Thane of Starrkarth. The—
MAC: Those are a lot of names.
JATT STARR: Says Malcor the Berzerker and Max Steel.
MAC: Those are complex, well thought out pseudonyms for different interests. Those are just you putting your name into different locations.
JATT STARR: It’s worked for twenty years.
MAC: Twenty years and no 401K?
JATT STARR: I’ve got money.
MAC: Look at this guy…..
::::Mac nods towards the hauntingly goofy Mister Hollywood costume hanging on the rack, exorbitantly priced at $1.99. The Duke of Jattmandu rolls his eyes as he is once again forced to look at bullshit costume….a bullshit costume of some worthless, obsolete wrestler. As much as he does not want to look upon that visage again, social etiquette requires him to.::::
JATT STARR: I would much rather not.
MAC: What do you think this Mister Hollywood would say knowing he has no nest egg for the future? What would he say if he knew at any moment he could suffer a catastrophic injury? What would he do next? He has been wrestling in front of fans, what could he do? Work at some greasy fast food chicken restaurant that gives you a gastrointestinal disorder?
JATT STARR: You think that is possible?
MAC: Anything is possible.
JATT STARR: Ah! To dream the impossible dream!
MAC: The Man of La Mancha.
JATT STARR: No, the Savior of Starrkham.
MAC: Uh-huh. You should really consider setting aside a portion of your paycheck towards retirement.
JATT STARR: I am Jatt Freaking Starr. I am a Hall of Famer. A motherloving LEGEND. Legends do not retire. They just start podcasts.
MAC: Ehhhh…it’s a niche market.
JATT STARR: Looks like your brother Chazzwick might need some help.
MAC: Dammit! It was nice meeting you.
JATT STARR: The pleasure was most certainly all yours.
::::Mac hurriedly walks over to the so-pale-he-must-be-allergic-to-sunlight-or-a-vampire Cheswick as the Champion of Jattanooga quite vocally clears his throat. No, the noise he is making is not one of clearing his airways.
It is the sound of one attempting to retrieve a rather large and grotesque mound of phlegm from his sinus cavity. And yes, he launches the loogie from his mouth and onto the clear plastic packaging of Mister Hollywood. The greenish-brown glob slowly oozes down the clear covering, across the beaming smile of the Mister Hollywood model (the Earl of GlouStarr hopes this model gets a nasty case of mega-herpes).
Jatt Starr offers up a Billy Idol-like sneer before storming off, leaving the Dollar Bush, candyless. After he leaves, the realization that his house may be the target of “tricks”, he can almost sense the hooligans aiming their rolls of toilet paper and rotten eggs at his house, which is still on the market. Perhaps a quick stop at the local BP or Chevron on the way back to his home to purchase a small bag of Peanut M & M’s or Baby Ruths or some Milk Duds (maybe not, they have “Dud” in the name, a bad sign). The Ruler of Jattlantis proceeds towards his car, passing a young Manolorian and a young Dorothy from “The Golden Girls”. END SCENE:::::