Posted on August 2, 2023 at 9:23 pm by Jatt Starr

US Airways Flight 8643 from Los Angeles to Melbourne.  Jatt Starr had taken his seat in Business Class at the front of the plane.  An unfortunate turn of events had prevented him from garnering the highly coveted window seat but the aisle seat would have to do.  It would be a sixteen hour flight so he was thankful for the leg room and slightly more comfortable seat.  He dressed comfortably for the long sojourn to the Land Down Under.  Perhaps he would try a Vegemite Sandwich.   He taps the hardcover book in his lap “Do Unto Yourself Before You Do Unto Others: The Seven Satanic Tenets of Satan’s Light” given to him by the lovely woman at the Order of Satan’s Light.  

The daydreaming of Australian delicacies came to an abrupt end by virtue of an unwanted yet familiar voice.  The loud, bellowing, baritone faux English accent of Anton Sanchez de la Croix.  


ANTON:  As I live and breathe!  Look at what the pussy dragged in!


The Jattinum Standard unsuccessfully willed himself to become invisible as he slumped as low as he could into his spacious seat, appreciating the extra leg room.  Anton decided to take the empty window seat next to the Ruler of Jattlantis.   The Earl of GlouStarr wished that there was some sort of error, that he would not be saddled with this irritating human hemorrhoid for for the next sixteen hours. 


JATT STARR:  Hey Anton.  Long time.

ANTON:  Well, well, well!  What have we here…..


Anton reached over and grabbed the book on the Starrson City Icon’s lap and began flipping through it before leaning over and spoke in a hushed whisper.


ANTON:  Are you seeking to become a disciple of our Dark Lord?

JATT STARR:  Well, I really should—

ANTON:  Because this is bullshit.  It’s fucking Tony Robbins self-help bullshit under the guise of Satanic preachings.  Chapter One: Be Empathetic.  This fucking sect is the pussiest of Satanic cults.

JATT STARR:  It’s not a cult.  It’s a nontheistic religion.

ANTON:  It’s rubbish is what it is.  No Black Masses.  No Blood Orgies.  They should be sued for false advertising.  I like my Satanic Orders like I like my coffee, black with a lot of fucking sex.


Anton flippantly tossed the book into the aisle between two people that were slowly making their way to their seats.


JATT STARR:  That really was not—-

ANTON:  If you’re serious, there’s a place outside of Detroit, their Satanic orgies are the tits!   But fuck Steve.  Don’t actually fuck him because he’s fucking wanker.  Fuck him!  He won’t give you a good time but he’ll give you chlamydia!  Now Jeff and Tammy from Minneapolis, different story.  They do everything together including sucking cock.  Not separately.  The same fucking cock.  I erupted like—-

JATT STARR:  AH!  No!  NOPE!!!  I do not need to hear this!

ANTON:  Satanic orgies have no place for prudes.  

JATT STARR:  I’m not—-

ANTON:  So, quid pro quo.  I get you into my Satanic Order, maybe you put in a good work with Lee Best.


ANTON:  Because I’m making a comeback.  I heard about this new XPRO promotion and I figure if that fat fuck Benny Newell can do it, so can I!

JATT STARR:  I have no intention of doing that.

ANTON:  After everything I’ve done for you.

JATT STARR:  You haven’t—-


Thankfully, the Hero of Jattlanta was interrupted by an elderly gentleman in a deep purple suit and a silver and black ascot.  He was thin, gaunt, his white hair combed back, his pencil mustache was very distinct.   His attention was solely on Anton.


ELDERLY MAN:  Excuse me, sir, but I believe you are in my seat. 

ANTON:  Fuck off, I’m chatting with my good pal!



The Elderly Man turned toward the flight attendant.  He spoke softly to the young, buxom, athletic flight attendant and handed her his boarding pass.  She looked down at it, her long black eyelashes fluttered as she looked at the boarding pass and then the seat and then back at the boarding pass.   The blonde flight attendant with the broad, muscular build pointed admonishingly towards the portly annoyance sitting to Jatt Starr’s right.



ANTON:  Madame!  Are you suggesting that I have mistakenly taken another’s seat?!  That is offensive!  A besmirchment upon my character and that shall not stand!

FLIGHT ATTENDANT:  Boarding pass, please.  If you do not comply, we will escort you off of this flight.


Anton, his face was redder than a Radio Flyer, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his boarding pass with flourish, and he feigned reading it, knowing what it had already said.


ANTON:  By Satan’s left testicle!  I am mistaken!  Do forgive me for I am but an old man with diarrhetic tendencies!  I shall take my place at seat ‘Forty-Seven C”.


As Anton departed and the Elderly Gentleman took his seat, the Baron of Boca Jatton let out a relieved sigh.  The Flight Attendant leaned in and handed Jatt Starr his book.  Realizing that he would never, ever find the time nor inclination to actually read it, he did what anyone caught with Satanic paraphernalia would do.  He pointed towards Anton.


JATT STARR:  What’s this?  This isn’t mine.  It’s his.  I have never seen that book before in my life.

FLIGHT ATTENDANT:  My apologies.


As the Elderly Gentleman got comfortable in his seat, the Ruler of Jattlanis pulled out his phone and began texting his PWA Co-World Champion that he should be arriving in Melbourne at around 9:40 am and to make sure someone meets him at the airport.  As he was finalizing his text to Dan Ryan, the Elderly Gentleman leaned over.


ELDERLY MAN:  Your friend is quite—

JATT STARR:  He’s not my friend.  At all.  Never my friend.

ELDERLY MAN:  Friend, acquaintance—-

JATT STARR:  Not an acquaintance either!  Ever.  Never ever ever.  

ELDERLY MAN:  He’s quite the character.

JATT STARR:  He’s quite the horse’s ass.

ELDERLY MAN:  You said it, not I.


The Elderly Man chuckled as he leaned back into his seat and buckled his safety belt.   The Elderly Chap extended his hand. 


ELDERLY MAN:  Declan.  Declan De La Ware.


Jatt Starr stared at the skeletal, liver spotted hand a good three seconds before shaking it.



DECLAN:  Oh, that is unusual.  

JATT STARR:  My name.

DECLAN:  And, “Jatt”, what is it that you do?

JATT STARR:  Are you going to try and be all buddy-buddy with me?  

DECLAN:  It’s going to be a long flight, why not get acquainted?

JATT STARR:  I’m good.

DECLAN:  If you change your mind, you know where you can find me.


It was Jatt Starr’s intent to sleep through the majority of the flight.  He did not need some old geezer yammering his ear off for approximately sixteen hours about the good old day and young whippersnappers and the differences between saltwater taffy and butterscotch.  No, he had to get his rest.  There was no way he and Dan Ryan would be outmatched by a couple of hillbillies so inbred their family tree is a sapling.   There could be no excuse – the least of all “jet lag”.   


Unfortunately, the Sheriff of Jattingham could not fall asleep.  For two hours he tried, but he could not. He looked over at Declan whose seat was reclined back, he was engrossed in his e-reader.  The Jattsylvanian Count stared at the buttons above him for a moment and then brought his seat back to an upright position.  He turned towards Declan.


JATT STARR:  Wrestler.


Declan turned towards Jatt Starr and put down his Kindle.


DECLAN:  Pardon?

JATT STARR:  I am a wrestler.  You asked me what I did, that’s what I do.  I’m heading to Melbourne for a big match.

DECLAN:  I wish you success in your endeavor.

JATT STARR:  What about you?

DECLAN:  I guess you could say I am an entertainer of sorts.

JATT STARR:  Like a magician or something?

DECLAN:  Oh heavens no!  I am a celebrity impersonator.

JATT STARR:  You know what?  The moment you sat down I thought it was Elvis Presley himself.

DECLAN:  Not all celebrity impersonators are Elvis impersonators.  My milieu is all things Vincent Price.

JATT STARR:  Yeah, Egghead in “Batman”, the monologue on “Thriller”, yeah.

DECLAN:  Among other more macabre roles.

JATT STARR:  Isn’t he dead?

DECLAN:  Thirty years this October since the curtain rung down and he joined the choir eternal. 

JATT STARR:  Yeah.  Dead.  

DECLAN:  In fact, I am headed to Melbourne myself to host a Vincent Price movie marathon this weekend.  “The Raven” , “The House on Haunted Hill” and “I Am Legend”.

JATT STARR:  That piece of garbage Will Smith movie?  He wasn’t in that, was he?

DECLAN:  No, other one.

JATT STARR:  “Wild, Wild West”?

DECLAN:  No, Vincent Price was in the original “I Am Legend”.  1964.  A classic.

JATT STARR:  Never saw it.  Saw the 2007 version.  It fucking sucked. 


The Mayor of ManJattan disliked using profanity and had made a conscious effort to censor himself but occasionally an “F” bomb would be dropped if he was not careful.   Declan did not seem to mind.  But Jatt needed some sleep and he needed a nudge.  Perhaps he could get the old coot to drone on and on….


JATT STARR: So, why Vincent Price?

DECLAN: Well, I doubt I could make a very convincing James Cagney, now would I?


Declan chuckled with his mouth closed as the King of Jatten Island forced a smile.


JATT STARR: I mean, he’s not exactly a household name.  

DECLAN: When I started this decades ago, a part of me felt it was an homage to the legend whose films I enjoyed when I was younger.  The other part of me was convinced that Vincent Price would find it ghoulishly whimsical that he could entertain from beyond the grave.  


The glint that was in Declan’s eye when he was speaking about Vincent Price disappeared and his face took on a more weary expression.


DECLAN: Nowadays, I believe I do it to keep his memory alive.  Make no mistake, even legends can fade into obscurity.

JATT STARR: No offense, but once you’re a legend, you’re basically immortal.

DECLAN: I counter that once you are forgotten, you are no longer a legend.  I challenge you to go to any city in the U.S.A., pick ten random strangers off the street between the ages of eighteen to thirty-four, and ask them about Tyrone Power, Gene Tierney, Carole Lombard, Richard Grieco, and I would wager that none of them would have a single notion as to who they are.  Case in point, are you familiar with Tanner Pickford?

JATT STARR: Skateboarder, right?  He tried to jump a fence but ended up getting his face caught on those tiny, pointy spokes on top of the chain link fence, ripping the flesh from his cheek, didn’t he?

DECLAN: No.  He was an actor in the forties and fifties, his talent was compared to the likes of Sir Laurence Olivier.  He started on over forty critically acclaimed films ranging from horror to noir.  Sadly, due to degradation, fires, and, presumably, incompetent filing, all but a couple of his films are gone forever.

JATT STARR: Like Clay Byrd’s testicles.

DECLAN: I’m sorry, that name is unfamiliar to me.

JATT STARR: He is a man without balls.

DECLAN: How unfortunate for him.  Fast-forward to 1973, a reel of the Tanner Pickford film “His Ginchiest Lady, The Ripper” made it’s rounds to the caustic delight of more than a few studio executives.  It was a poorly made film, to be sure.  One such executive, whose name escapes me, took that reel to a theater in New York City where it amassed a cult-like following.  It ran for several months and on the eve of it’s final performance, Tanner Pickford was invited.  By that point, his health had deteriorated.  His nurse wheeled him to the front of the theater where upon he was cheered for his performance, and an exceptional performance at that, as Pervy Pete.

JATT STARR: What’s the point?

DECLAN: Legacy matters. It mattered not that Tanner Pickford was a contemporary of Sir Laurence Olivier.  It mattered not that he acted across the Barrymores and the Hepburns.  In the end, no one in that audience that cheered for him knew of his acclaim, to then he was just Pervy Pete, a depraved Peeping Tom whose penis was horrifically severed by the Ripper.  And now?  Nary a person has any inclination of who he is.  


And there it was.  The Thane of Starrkarth could imagine a doddering old man whose past was erased by circumstances outside his control, being applauded not for putting out his best effort but because he played a creep whose dick was chopped off.  It was pity applause.


Pity applause like those ninnyhammered dunderheads in Buenos Aires.  Jatt Starr gave it his all and came close to defeating Shane Reynolds to capture the HOTv Singular Championship.  The fans saw a loser in the ring.  Someone that could only attain victory by riding  the coattails of Dan Ryan.  They were wrong.

They were all most definitely wrong.

The Jattinum Standard knew his days were numbered.  In the short time he had remaining with the HOW, he planned on making the most of it.  And it started with being the difference maker at 97Red.

If anyone was getting the pity applause, it would the Alabama Gang.




The following is a submission in the One Act Play Category for the New York Conservatory for the Dramatic Arts Application Process penned by Jatt Starr.  While not a traditional One Act Play, it seeks to redefine the dramatic arts in this One Scene Play entitled “Incest and Diaper Mints” without the annoying stage directions.  





R.G. JENKINS: Hey then thar, Mark!

MARK HENDRY: You ready to reget them thar PWA Tag Team Champeenships?

R.G. JENKINS: Mark, ya idjit, we ain’t done never won no PDubyaA Champeenships!  

MARK HENDRY: Whatchoo mean?

R.G. JENKINS: We had them thar Hot-Vee Tag Team Champeenships!

MARK HENDRY: Hot-V?!  Like what Cousin Bobbie Jo calls vaginie?

R.G. JENKINS: Watch yer mouth, boy!  That’s yer sister you talkin’ ‘bout!

MARK HENDRY: She’s also mah cousin, so it makes it alright!

R.G. JENKINS: Doo-Shay.  That’s French.

MARK HENDRY: Like that thar kiss Bobbie Jo gave me under that thar whistle toe?

R.G. JENKINS: Stop talkin’ ‘bout your sister-cousin like that!

MARK HENDRY: She tasted like chewin’ tobacky.

R.G. JENKINS: I’m yer brother-uncle and I will whoop you upside your thick skull boy!  Get yer head outta yer pants and focus!

MARK HENDRY: But I ain’t wearin’ no pants, Uncle R.G., this here’s overalls.

R.G. JENKINS: We gotta focus on our match, boy!  That thar Jatt Starr feller and that thar Dan Ryan feller.

MARK HENDRY: How we do that, Uncle-Brother R.G.?

R.G. JENKINS: We start with big ol’ bowl of “Wheatles”.

MARK HENDRY:  Don’t you mean “Wheaties”?

R.G. JENKINS: We cain’t ‘ford no “Wheaties”, ya dumb shit!  We kin only ‘ford the ReeseMart imitation whole wheat flake cereal: “Wheatles: The Breakfast of Crampions”.

MARK HENDRY: But it make me poop my pants lots, Uncle-Brother R.G.!

R.G. JENKINS: Diaper up, then!

MARK HENDRY: Diapers chafe mah bits!

R.G. JENKINS: Stop yer whinin’ or I’ll send ya to drink from the brown cow milk bucket!

MARK HENDRY: But that bucket ain’t got milk in it!  And that cow ain’t no cow, it’s a bull.

R.G. JENKINS: Don’t sass me!  You might just need to drink outta that thar bucket anyway for all that thar pee-ro-teen.

MARK HENDRY: How we gettin’ to Australia?  We goin’ one-a-them thar flyin’ machines?

R.G. JENKINS: We cain’t ‘ford no tickets.  We goin’ by boat.

MARK HENDRY: And what about the farm, Uncle-Brother R.G.?

R.G. JENKINS: ‘taint no farm, ya moe-ron!  Donchoo worry!  Yer paw’ll run the meth lab while we’re gone.

MARK HENDRY: After he done blowed up the trailer that time?

R.G. JENKINS: We gots insurance now.

MARK HENDRY: So, these two HODubya fellers, they’s the ones that beat us and made me go tinky-winky in mah britches them months ago?

R.G. JENKINS: Well, shit my britches and build me a wigwam, me too.  This time’ll be different.

MARK HENDRY: How so Uncle-Brother?  Ya really think we gonna win?

R.G. JENKINS: Shit no!  We just ain’t gonna piss ourselves this time!


R.G. JENKINS: We gonna do our pissin’ BEFORE the match.

MARK HENDRY:  Last time I done that, I got ‘rested for indecent exposure.

R.G. JENKINS: This time, we usin’ one o’them indoor outhouses!

MARK HENDRY:  With what them fancy terlets with them lever-ma-bobs?

R.G. JENKINS: Ah-yuh!

MARK HENDRY: I’m a-scared, Uncle-Brother!

R.G. JENKINS:  It’s alright, we’ll just have’ta give ya a big ol’ helpin’-a-meth and everything’ll be alright.

MARK HENDRY:  Ya promise?

R.G. JENKINS: I promise.