Sunny (V.O.): OMG!
(A bunch of 90s inspired zany graphics start flying into the screen. Almost like a ‘60s Batman cartoon. High Flyer definitely punches Wolverine from the 1990s X-Men cartoon during this montage.)
Sunny (V.O.): GET READY! GET EXCITED! TELL ALL YOUR FRIENDS AND RELATIVES! LIE TO YOUR PARENTS! TUNE IN!
(A picture of parents in a bed with a big red circle with a line through the middle is shown. Fire then engulfs them, before a flashing siren gives everyone epileptic seizures.)
Sunny (V.O.): IIIIIIIIITTTTTTT’S THE HIGH FLY-EY-EY-ER SHOW!
(Bells, whistles, the works. A bright and showy stage on a Hollywood studio set. There’s 9 seats on a spinning yellow gothic platform that are empty, their seat cushions a deep HOW97 Red hue. On the other side, a large monitor gently does the twist, showing off it’s moves as 15 fake CRT television sets are displayed, showing prices like Jeopardy. Front and center, it looks like the mouth of Pennywise, jaw extended, teeth bare, blood dripping from the fangs. Bursting through the HOW97 Red mouth hole of Pennywise is the wide eyed Cheshire cat grin of Jack Harmen. He wears a large Marge Simpson length wig that requires him to limbo out of the entrance as he emerges. Once upright, it’s blue, green, purple, all shades of the former personalities of the Wildcard. He wears a bright sparkly pressed white suit with a large ketchup stain on the left label and a smaller mustard stain by the crotch. His upper half of the suit jacket is unbutton and his undershirt half untucked. He walks up to a bright purple podium, slams his hands down onto it and shouts.)
High Flyer: WELCOME TO MY SHOW! Did you all sign the waivers?
(Flyer looks around the studio audience. We cut to them. It’s a bunch of empty bleachers. A single tumbleweed rolls through.)
High Flyer: GOOD! Then let’s begin with the ceremonial killing of the audience! Knock ‘em dead, me!
(High Flyer reaches under the podium and starts spraying bullets with an assault rifle at the empty seats. He tries to steady himself, pauses, picks up a lit cigar, chomps down, and then continues spraying.)
The image FREEZES, as if it’s a paused VHS tape. We zoom out of a CRT TV, where a business executive in a traditional black suit looks utterly confused. He strokes his blonde goatee as thoughts rummage through his balding gray head. He turns and looks at the man standing before him, who eagerly is awaiting a response.
Television Executive: What… are you?
CUTTO: High Flyer, aka Jack Harmen. He hasn’t taken off the white suit since filming that. His suit is now a dark deep grey and blood red. He rubs his right eye with the palm of his hand, turning it bloodshot. His hair is matted and unkempt.)
High Flyer: It’s good, RIGHT?!
Television Executive: Uh… right.
The Television executive hits a button on his phone.
Television Executive: Please get me Larry and Curly.
Bemused, Flyer reaches up and scratches the back of his neck.
High Flyer: Those guys are still in show business? Man. Musta been tough losing Moe…
The double redwood doors swing open, revealing a large spacious office, almost reminiscent of Mr. Burns’ office on the Simpsons. Empty, with a large rug, and probably a trap door. Awards and various valuable items adorn the walls. At the entrance, two, well, thugs, security. One holds his ear piece and nods. The two make a beeline for Jack.
High Flyer: Fast as fast can be! You’ll never catch me!
High Flyer rushes toward a stained glass window, leaps and ducks his head, cannonballing his way out of the situation. He lands in a tumbled pile of shards, before turning to smile to the angry TV Exec. The Exec shouts at both guards to get him. Flyer and him lock eyes, and Flyer blows him a raspberry. He then takes off in a sprint.
And rams face first into a large white passenger van, knocking himself unconscious.
Still thinking about retirement? Swinging on a double seater watching the sunsets. Walking through the fields of white dandelions while drug companies list side effects under your stock footage.
Rah, you could have been so much more than a footnote. You could have been the MAN.
Hell, you were a GOD. Now it’s just good riddance.
Go RAH off and enjoy making several disappointing second generation wrestlers. I’ll kick all their teeth down their throats in 20 years. They can look forward to me ending their careers if you don’t get the job done.
So stop day dreamin’, realize you’re six foot ALOT and you’re a BEAST among men. I really hope you come to play. I really hope you try, you push yourself, further than you’ve ever gone before. I want to see the eyes roll into the back of your head. I want to see the light drain, and I want to see the MONSTER you’ll become. Because in Gen Pop, you’re just another one of the boys. And in HOW, it’s only a matter of time until the blood stains your soul.
And if you’re not willing to go to the lengths required to put me down, know that I will, and I have no problems doing so. I revel in the disaster. So, please, I want you to surprise me, make this match exciting, and do something unexpected to put me down. Because if I get the chance, the shot to take the advantage, I’ll not only pin you one two three center of the ring… but you’ll regret ever stepping foot in the ring with me for ONE LAST MATCH, when you could have just left without that permanent disfigurement.
See, here’s the thing. I thought this was gonna be the midway point in the movie, the one where Rah is the protagonist. You know, when things look their most bleak, where the love is snuffed away by the actions of a very talented and equally crazy Sunny, running over your wife, which was hilarious by the way. I haven’t told you that enough. Just absolutely, (blows kiss) breathtaking. It’s the comedy event of the year. But here, I thought I was the villain, and it was just before the SUN GOD becomes a hero who conquers the evil Lunatic, and then pushes forward to being the righteous GOD of HOW. Top of the mountaintop and all that.
Now… I realize… this isn’t your movie. Your movie is stupid. This is MY movie. And this is the first fifteen minutes of a cop flick.
And you’re talkin’ about retirement.
Here, lemme spell it out for you real quick. I plan to hurt you. I don’t plan to win. I don’t care what Sunny wants. I want you to remember me. I want that every time you lift your son with a u out of his crib, your knee cracks and pops. I want your neck to get strained just because you tried to look behind you when you pulled out of your suburban driveway because I gave it so much whiplash you don’t know which way is forward. In the end, I haven’t really decided the how. I have three different polls up in two discord chats, and a third through the USPS, and results are inconclusive. Hell, I might just decide to go too far with you, and make Dawn be the one to have to remember you…
So if you want your happy ending… Give me my happy ending. End me in the ring.
I’ve always wanted to go out like my dad. Stare up at the lights. Take one last breath. Probably couldn’t die a happier man…
Cause I. AIN’T. EVER! LEAVING.
Unless you BREAK ME. DESTROY ME.
Just PLEASE. END. ME.
Or don’t. And regret that for every moment of the rest of your pathetic milquetoast life.