- Event: ICONIC
::::SCENE: It’s 11:36 on Wednesday in Chicago, Illinois. The city lives up to it’s name as the wind has picked up. Rubbish in the parking lot of the Best Arena is swirling in the air — plastic bags, flyers (apparently THAT’S still a thing), and pages from the Chicago Tribune are whipping in the air. Witnessing this from the warmth of the StarrSek Industries epicenter is Jatt Starr. The low hum of the heater can be heard as the Ruler of Jattlantis, with hands behind his back and the HOW Tag Team Championship belt around his waist, stares out the window.
The room is rather spacious containing a conference table, which may or may not have dried gum on the underside, since Jatt is scared to look for fear of finding that or other remnants of bodily functions. Who knows where this table came from? For all Jatt knows, Bobby Dean did some depraved things on (or to) this conference table or Lee Best had one of his buxom “interns” service him during a meeting.
There is nothing wrong with sticking his head in the sand like an ostrich from time to time. But then again, he will just get Hugo to do it. He is on the payroll after all.
As he stares out at the practically empty parking lot, the Sovereign of Starrgentina feels the sharp pains in his thighs, calves, and abdomen from the intense six hour training session he had with Sektor and Sid the day before. He also feels the throbbing pain from behind his eyes, a benefit from hanging out with Sektor the evening before. He is thankful that the nausea passed about two hours ago.
This is part of being an LSD Champion.
Conditioning your body to power through the pain.
For LSD Champions, pain don’t hurt. Well, LSD Champions and world renowned bouncers hired to work at the Double Deuce.
The door to the conference opens and Hugo Scorpio enters sporting a cream and brown flannel shirt and jeans, looking like Harvey Dent the lumberjack. He hands the King of Grapple from the Big Apple a coffee. Jatt Starr takes a sip and immediately spits it out.:::
JATT STARR: What the hell is this?
HUGO: Pumpkin Spice.
::::Jatt Starr stomps over to the door like a two year old about to have a tantrum for not getting what he wants and hurls the pumpkin spice coffee against the wall in the corridor. He spins towards his disfigured employee, raising an admonishing finger.::::
JATT STARR: LSD CHAMPIONS DO NOT DRINK PUMPKIN SPICE!!!!
HUGO: I’m sorry.
JATT STARR: LSD Champions drink regular coffee, espresso, or cappuccino. None of this fancy-schmancy pumpkin spice hazelnut blueberry gourmet crap. Regular coffee. Six sugars! Got it?
::::Hugo, for his part, remains emotionless and expressionless. It’s always best just to put his head down, apologize, and move on. It’s a steady paycheck, he gets to travel, and, whether his bosses know it or not, they are paying him more than a minor league baseball player at Triple-A. For the most part, though, they do leave him alone, so he has plenty of time to check his phone.::::
HUGO: Sorry boss.
JATT STARR: And hurry up! I am expecting Sektor shortly and we have important StarrSek Industries business to discuss.
HUGO: You got it, boss.
::::Hugo hurriedly exits the conference room as Jatt Starr closes the door behind him. The Starrabian Knight realizes he should not have yelled at Hugo. His headache has gone from mild to eye splitting in the matter of seconds. He looks at the conference table. There are twelve boxes lined up. The first shipment is in. He walks over to the whiteboard located on the wall behind the head of the table. There is a diagram sketched in blue marker of the corridors where the concession stands are located at the ringside level of the Best Arena.
The Jattsylvanian Count removes the HOW Tag Team Title from his waist, sits in the leather office chair at the head of the table, places the championship belt on his lap, and closes his eyes. He hopes it will help alleviate some of the pulsating pain emanating from his eyes. He takes several deep breaths. His head drops down and he opens his eyes. He sees the upside down image of Arnold Schwarzanegger on his black “The Running Man” t-shirt.
The Jattagonian Giant looks up at the white board and stares at it. Soon he begins daydreaming about Lindsay Troy. How satisfied he would be breaking her face. Her smug, know-it-all face. The thought of gripping Mister Whacky like a Louisville Slugger and that stainless steel ball handled connecting with her jaw, breaking it, potentially knocking out a few teeth. All in front of her kids.
Then the thought of Hughie Freeman pops up. Ultimately, there is no beef between the two of them. This is business. While Jatt may not take pleasure in it, if Hughie gets in the way, he will have no choice but tear him apart at the joints.
After all, LSD Champions have no remorse for what happens in the ring.
Jatt Starr is jerked awake from his fantasy by the door opening. He looks over at the clock on the wall. The red numbers indicate it is “11:49”. Hugo Scorpio enters carrying the coffee and places in front of the Thane of Starrkarth.::::
JATT STARR: Is it…?
HUGO: Regular. Half and half. Six sugars.
::::Jatt Starr audibly sips the coffee. The sweetness from the sugar almost overpowers the bitterness of this coffee blend. To the Baron of Boca Jatton, this is acceptable.::::
HUGO: I take it Sektor has not arrived.
JATT STARR: You are very perceptive.
:::The Jattlantic City Idol takes another audible slurp from his coffee before placing the hot cup of joe on the conference table. Jatt Starr picks up the title belt from his lap before rising from the chair. He walks over, the sound of the fabric of his black tracksuit pants making a slight “zip, zip”noise with each step. He reaches behind one of the boxes and pulls out a manila folder.::::
JATT STARR: You have a job to do.
:::The Hero of Jattlanta walks over to Hugo and hands him the folder. Hugo opens it and peruses it’s contents. Jatt Starr places the HOW Tag Team Championship on the table and picks up his coffee..::::
HUGO: You want this done now?
JATT STARR: What are you waiting for, eleven fifty-nine? True LSD Champions don’t wait until the last minute to get the job done.
HUGO: You got it.
::::Hugo, manila folder in hand, exits the room. The Mayor of ManJattan half sits, half leans on the table, pondering what to do while he waits for Sektor. His left leg hangs off the table, his gray Adidas sneaker with black stripes dangles off the side. He takes another sip, this less audible, and it’s more of a gulp. The pounding in his head has become a dull throb. He rises from the table and walks over to one of the chairs on the opposite end of the conference table. He retrieves the upper part of his tracksuit. He puts it on and zips it up halfway. The tracksuit is light gray and black with the “StarrSek Industries” logo over the left side of the chest in gold lettering.
From the inside pocket, he retrieves his cell phone.
No messages.
Jatt Starr supposes he could look around the YouTube for videos of a Hughie Freeman match, to scout the opponent he knows the least about. Or stupid cat videos. Although, maybe looking at a tiny screen may exacerbate his headache, perhaps some soothing music. Music that will calm him. Perhaps some Lana Del Rey or Enya. No, he knows what to play.:::
PHONE: “As a mother of three, my children’s nutritional needs are one of mine major concerns. High fructose corn syrup? What’s that?
JATT STARR: Stupid ads.
PHONE: “My kids need their brussel sprouts, not sugary, carbonated—-
::::Jatt Starr could not click “Skip Ad” fast enough. Who cares about brussel sprouts? LSD Champions don’t eat brussel sprouts. They eat prime rib. Suddenly, “Bye, Bye, Bye” by N’Sync starts playing. The Sultan of SeaJattle starts bobbing his head and silently sings along to the song. One “bye” for each opponent at ICONIC.
The door swings open and John Sektor enters.::::
SEKTOR: It’s fucking Wednesday. Why am I in here on a fucking Wednesday?
JATT STARR: There he is! The Miracle Breaker!
SEKTOR: Shut that shit down.
::::Jatt Starr pauses the song as Sektor, wearing shades, plops down in the chair at the head of the conference room.:::
SEKTOR: I reiterate, why am I here on a fucking Wednesday?
JATT STARR: John, are you still mad about last night?
SEKTOR: Mad? No. Disappointed? Immensely.
JATT STARR: What was I supposed to do?
SEKTOR: I struck out with that chick last night because of you! All you needed to do was sidle up to her fucking friend.
JATT STARR: What am I supposed to do? Lie?
SEKTOR: Sometimes!
JATT STARR: She thought I was a lesbian!
SEKTOR: That’s on you. You decided to wear flannel.
JATT STARR: I was trying a new look.
SEKTOR: But flannel? With that haircut? The only thing missing was a Lilith Fair t-shirt.
JATT STARR: I had to set the record straight!
SEKTOR: You should have waited until I sealed the deal. Her friend wasn’t even bad looking. You could have faked it! That’s what’s pissing me off the most. I could almost get behind it if she were a real fuckin’ uggo.
JATT STARR: She would have found out I’m a dude and I don’t think that would have gone well. But alright, next time I’ll do better. Geez!
:::Waving his hand towards the Jattinum Standard, dismissing his question, the Gold Standard leans back in the chair, stroking his glorious ‘stache. He glances at the board and the boxes on the table.::::
SEKTOR: What the fuck is all this?
JATT STARR: I know you’re focused on grounding High Flyer permanently, so I don’t want to keep you here too long. StarrSek Industries has completely cornered the market in the tag team division. You and me? We ARE the HOW Tag Team Division. There’s no combination of “talent” on the roster that can compete with us.
SEKTOR: No shit.
JATT STARR: You have proven that Steve Harrison can be beaten. His Miracle Milk has an expiration date! We need to strike while he’s licking his wounds. Let’s not just beat that weaselly charlatan in the ring, but let’s squish his bullshit business like a fucking mosquito.
SEKTOR: So we’re dropping F-bombs now?
JATT STARR: LSD Champions are permitted the use of profanity when appropriate.
SEKTOR: Okay, then.
JATT STARR: As I was saying, Steve Harrison needs to pay for making me look like a fucking clodhopper at “Refueled”.
SEKTOR: Are you referring to when he called you a “fat fuck” or for cutting your sound while you were reading that list of yours?
JATT STARR: Yes! That Dilberry Maker thinks he can get away with making me look like a dalcop! No. You beating him, making him tap out in the middle of the ring, that’s just the tip of the iceberg sized cock that is going to fuck him in the ass!
::::Sektor lowers his sunglasses, partially impressed by the profanity laden rant by the Jattvian Prince and partially disturbed, it’s honestly a confusing situation for him, who is more accustomed to the dim and proper Jattinum Standard. Jatt Starr looks partially crazed, like a blonde Doc Brown trying to guess why Marty McFly is knocking on his door in 1955, as he grabs Mister Whacky from behind the boxes nearest to the window and walks up to the whiteboard.::::
JATT STARR: As you can see, we have a shipment of fully licensed StarrSek Industry products. We have cups shaped like a garbage can with our logo emblazoned on the side. And you might think we have t-shirts? Heck to the no! We have official StarrSek Industry tracksuits! And, for the holidays only….
::::Jatt Starr opens one of the boxes and retrieves a snowglobe and tosses it to the Gold Standard, who examines it. The official StarrSek Industries snowglobe depicts a photo of Jatt Starr giving a thumbs up and a wink. The bottom reads “STARRSEK INDUSTRIES — TAKING OUT THE TRASH”.::::
SEKTOR: Is there someone missing from this photo?
JATT STARR: Oh! That’s the ultra-limited edition Jatt Starr snowglobe. Only five were made. Here…
:::The Baron of Boca Jatton reaches in and pulls out another snowglobe, this one depicting a drunken Sektor passed out in a bed, a half-empty bottle of whiskey still in his hand, and a trail of drool running out of his open mouth onto the pillow. Or it could be vomit.::::
JATT STARR: The John Sektor snowglobe. One hundred and twenty-five of these bad boys are going on sale starting Friday.
SEKTOR: The FUCK they are!
JATT STARR: I can’t tell, is that an excited “fuck” or an angry “fuck”?
SEKTOR: It’s an “I am going to fucking bludgeon you with this fucking snowglobe until you bleed from your fucking eyes!” fuck!!! Look at me, I look….
JATT STARR: What? It’s raw! It’s real! It’s the only clear picture of you I had on my phone.
SEKTOR: YOU took this picture?
JATT STARR: Technically, yes. But in all fairness, I was drunk at the time and I don’t quite remember taking it.
SEKTOR: I can’t fucking believe you.
JATT STARR: I wasn’t given much choice.
SEKTOR: You didn’t even ask me about it!
JATT STARR: I tried. But you were talking to some chick at the time. She was blonde, had red streaks in her hair. Huge knockers. Wore that “Harley Quinn” t-shirt?
:::A look of recognition comes across the face of Sektor and an almost lecherous, leering smile upon recalling the evening in question.::::
SEKTOR: Veronica….
JATT STARR: …and you said “Fine, fine, do whatever”. So, I made do with what I had. An LSD Champion always improvises.
::::Jatt Starr’s comment has brought Sektor back from his ever so brief walk down “mammary” lane. Sektor’s face is stoic but his tone is simmering with anger.::::
SEKTOR: I will kill you.
JATT STARR: Save that for High Flyer.
SEKTOR: You are NOT selling these.
JATT STARR: Clearly, we will need to have a further discussion on this.
SEKTOR: You are fucking dead if one of those fucking pieces of shit gets their hands on any of these.
JATT STARR: I will have Hugo set up a meeting for further discussion. But wait! I almost forgot!
:::There is glint in Jatt Starr’s eye, like Ralphie opening the Red Ryder BB gun on Chsristmas morning as he rushes over to another box and rips it open.:::
JATT STARR: For the kids.
::::The King of Grapple from the Big Apple, forgetting all about his headache, pulls out two plush dolls of Jatt Starr and Sektor. Jatt Starr’s right hand is stitched to Sektor’s left hand in a perpetual high five. They are both wearing mini-plastic Tag Team Championship belts. Plush Sektor is sporting an open bright orange tropical shirt, the plush moustache covering its mouth (hiding either a smile or a scowl), and it is wearing it’s ring gear. Plush Jatt Starr is sporting his red HOW Hall of Fame polo shirt and white pants. Plush Jatt Starr’s yellow hair and big, thin, black smile makes the doll look like a douchey Schroeder sans piano. The Hero of Jattlanta hands Sektor the plush set.:::
JATT STARR: Here you go.
::::Sektor reads the little tag attached.:::
SEKTOR: “StarrSek Industries. Jatt Starr and John Sektor. Best Friends Forever. Fifty-four dollars and ninety-five cents.”
::::A proud Jatt Starr is smiling goofily as he nods.:::
JATT STARR: Can’t stay mad at me now, can you?
::::Sektor stares at the plush dolls silently. Not sure how to respond. Finally, he lets out a frustrated sigh and puts his hands over his face as the black, dead, plastic eyes stare up at him.::::
SEKTOR (to himself): Why?
JATT STARR: Every kid will want one for Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, New Year’s…Do you think kids are going to be asking Santa for MILK or one of these plush bad boys?
SEKTOR: I dunno. I didn’t think he was still sellin’ that shit.
JATT STARR: Of course he is!
::::Sektor places the dolls on the conference table in front of him and proceeds to rub his temples.:::
SEKTOR: I suppose the stuffed us is fine. As long as we get rid of the snowglobes.
JATT STARR: Let’s put the proverbial pin on that for the moment. Right now, we have more pressing matters. We have been assigned two primo locations for our StarrSek Industries Concession Stands. We have one right here…..
::::The Jattagonian Giant points to an area next to the main entrance of the of the Best Arena with the end of Mister Whacky.::::
JATT STARR: ….and here!
::::The Starrcelona Idol points to another area on makeshift Best Arena blueprint. This time, right next to the walkway heading towards the ringside seats.::::
JATT STARR: This is all about real estate. And what are the three rules of real estate? Location. Location. Location! By getting the foot traffic entering the arena, StarrSek Industries will be the first merchandise kiosk people will see. Cha-Ching! By taking over the kiosk right next to the floodgates to the ridiculously overpriced ringside seating. That’s where the wealthy dingbats sit. Obviously, if they can afford those seats, they can afford one or several StarrSek Industries tracksuits for the whole family! Double Cha-Ching!
::::Sektor looks at Jatt Starr as if he were Ben Stein teaching a high school lesson in Voodoo Economics.::::
JATT STARR: Here’s the best part. We are only selling them inside the Best Arena and during events. In order to get our premium merchandise, you have to come to the show! I know, I know, what about those sorry saps that can’t afford tickets? We hire a couple of people to sell outside in the parking lot at a two hundred and fifty percent markup!
SEKTOR: Hold up there, amigo. You wanna sell all this shit inside the building—
JATT STARR: Not shit. Merchandise.
SEKTOR: But sell it at a much higher price just outside the arena? Who the fuck is stupid enough to do that?
JATT STARR: Have you met the HOW fans? They’re fucking idiots.
SEKTOR: That’s fair.
JATT STARR: If they buy Steve Harrison’s milk products, which are essentially poppycock, then they will clamor for our tangible items. We’re selling mother loving memories here, bro! While at the same time, crushing Miracle Enterprises and ruining Steve Harrison!!!
SEKTOR: All this because he called you fat.
JATT STARR: The products were already in development. What? You think Santa’s elves delivered this overnight?
SEKTOR: Don’t be an obnoxious fuck about it.
JATT STARR: Sorry. We just got the delivery. Steve insulting me is just the fire that is igniting the nuclear bomb that is StarrSek Industries merch—-
:::The door swings open and Hugo Scorpio enters, panting and sweating. Jatt Starr and Sektor turn towards the door.::::
HUGO: Jatt! The stall is occupied!
:::Sektor looks over at Hugo and then to Jatt Starr and then back to Hugo, looking more confused than a blind man in a labyrinth.::::
SEKTOR: What the fuck! Use a different bathroom!
HUGO: No…the stall….next to the entrance….taken….
JATT STARR: Impossible.
::::The HOW Classic grabs one of the snowglobes instinctively and begins squeezing it as he starts to feel his face get hot.::::
JATT STARR: That’s our booth! Lee gave us that booth!
HUGO: Says….Miracle Enterprises.
::::The mere name of the adversarial company coming from the mouth of his employee causes abdominal unrest. The Ruler of Jattlantis feels the shaking begin. He wonders ever so briefly if this is how Bill Bixby felt moments before turning into Lou Ferrigno. But the moment passes and he is overcome with anger.:::::
JATT STARR: That milk swilling dweeb thinks he can take over the turf that I legitimately pulled out from under him? Come on, John, let’s take turns pounding this turd’s ass!
SEKTOR: Yeah, I don’t think so. I’m bueno, gracias.
::::Jatt Starr charges out, waving Mister Whacky in one hand haphazardly, nearly taking out Hugo’s eye, the other hand clutches a snowglobe. Hugo, naturally, mumbles under his breath and follows. Once the door closes, Sektor gets up and picks up a trash bin located next to the door. One by one, he begins to drop the snowglobes with the unflattering photograph of him into the garbage.
**** ELEVEN MINUTES AND FIFTY-NINE SECONDS LATER ****
The scene cuts to the Best Arena’s main entrance. On event nights, it is bustling with HOW fans young and old. People (perhaps unwisely) bringing their dates or children to watch their favorite wrestlers compete and trash each other. Today, however, it is nearly empty. All that’s missing is a tumbleweed rolling down the corridor.
Hugo and Jatt Starr walk around the bend. The Sultan of SeaJattle, walking with purpose, as Hugo tries to keep up.
They approach the merchandise stand located right next to the entrance. Instead of a large banner with “STARRSEK INDUSTRIES” emblazoned on the side, he is met with a sight so ghastly, if his eyeballs could puke, they would….a “MIRACLE ENTERPRISES” sign.
The stand itself is bare save for a lone cash register. Sitting behind the counter is some twentysomething douche sporting a faux hawk with frosted tips. The kid is leaning back in a chair wearing a bright orange t-shirt with a cream colored puffy vest over it, his sneakers….Black Nike Vapormax, to be exact….texting on his phone.::::
JATT STARR: That little prick had you running scared?
HUGO: I thought you wanted to know.
JATT STARR: Watch and learn, padawan.
::::Jatt Starr, Mister Whacky in one hand, snowglobe in the other, struts confidently, nay, pompously towards the stand. He brings down the cane onto the counter resulting in an echoing “whack”. The young working, one moment looking uninterested, now shook, ever so slightly, from his phone, before immediately going back to looking bored.::::
JATT STARR: Who the hell are you and what the hell is going on?
YOUNG GUY: I’m Todd and I work here.
JATT STARR: Don’t you realize that this is the “StarrSek Industries” stand?
TODD: Not what the sign says, homey.
JATT STARR: “Miracle Enterprises” have been moved right next to the restrooms. Follow the smell. It’s the one with the sewage issue.
TODD: Nah, brah.
::::Jatt Starr thrusts his cane, shoving Todd’s feet off the counter as Hugo stands a step behind him. Todd stands up and puffs his chest under his puffy vest.::::
TODD: These cost two hundred bucks!
JATT STARR: Do you have any idea who I am?
TODD: Nah, brah. But you ain’t payin’ me, so I aint carin’.
:::::The Sovereign of Starrgentina’s face drops. He feels the annoyance towards this little frosty tipped punk start swelling into anger.::::
TODD: Lookit here guy. I gotta job to do. Uncle Stevey—
JATT STARR: Steve Harrison is your uncle?
TODD: Nah man! We jus’ call him that. Not to his face, though. He says we ain’t movin’ from this spot until we sell all the merch.
::::The King of Grapple from the Big Apple looks at the bare counter and the bare shelves behind Todd and then he finally looks at Todd.::::
JATT STARR: I don’t see any milk back there.
::::Todd begins laughing a rather high pitched laughter, sounding like Woody Woodpecker after breathing in helium followed by nitrous oxide. Jatt Starr brings the bottom of the cane to the chest of the insolent little jerk.::::
JATT STARR: Is something funny?
TODD: Where you been? Milk’s been sold out for like ever!
JATT STARR: You’re kidding me.
TODD: Nah brah. That shit was limited edition!
JATT STARR: No milk means no merchandise. So, move along….
::::Jatt Starr offers up a self-satisfied smile as he flippantly waves Todd towards the direction of the Mens Room of Doom.
How the plumbing got so bad in that Mens Room, no one really knows. The most popular story is Bobby Dean took a dump so massive that it took twelve flushes before it started to move but the sheer weight and girth of it caused a busted pipe. Other names have been associated to it, such as Cancer Giles, Hughie Freeman, and Brian Bare.
Todd, however, does not move.::::
TODD: We got merch. We got one pen for sale.
JATT STARR: You’re staying here for freaking pen???
TODD: I do what Uncle Stevey says. He says as long as there—
JATT STARR: I get it. I’ll buy the pen if we can move this along.
::::Todd reaches behind the counter and produces a non-descript blue pen and places it on the counter.:::
TODD: Two hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars.
JATT STARR: IT’S A PAPERMATE!!!
TODD: I don’t set the prices.
::::Jatt Starr places the snowglobe on the counter and, with almost Ninja Turtle-like reflexes, he grabs the vest, pulling the employee to his face. The Marquis of MadagaStarr’s face is now red. With controlled breathing, he slowly and deliberately begins to speak.::::
JATT STARR: I am done trying to be civil. This is MY stand. If you do not vacate this stand, I will shove that cash register so far up your ass you’ll be shitting quarters for a week.
TODD: Brah, I—-
::::The Baron of Boca Jatton releases the puffy vest and grabs Todd by his loathsome hair and slams down on the counter. Jatt Starr brings his face close to Todd’s ear. Jatt Starr is seething to point that when he speaks, spit spatters into Todd’s ear.::::
JATT STARR: Listen here, you little pissant. No more fucking pleasantries. Last fucking warning, get the fu—-
WHACK!!!!
::::Todd, in, what can only be described as a moment of desperation or stupidity, had grabbed the snowglobe that Jatt Starr, in what can, at this point, be described as a moment of overconfidence or stupidity, and clocked the Mayor of ManJattan right in the face, stunning him and sending him down to a knee. Mister Whacky falls to the ground, clanging against the concrete.::::
TODD: Fuck this.
::::Todd proceeds to hop the barrier in an attempt to escape. Jatt Starr reaches over and manages to trip Todd up momentarily by grabbing his Nike. Todd stumbles forward. Jatt Starr, the sharp pain of the ceramic base colliding with his right eye is agonizing. The Jattinum Standard starts to get up.::::
JATT STARR: You made a huge fu—- AUUUUUGH!!!!
::::Todd has thrown the snowglobe and nailed Jatt Starr right in his family jewel. The Earl of GlouStarr doubles over in pain. At this point Jatt Starr sees that Hugo Scorpio, to this point, has been more useless than a vegan at a pig roast. The Thane of Starrkarth screams at his employee like Gordon Ramsay at a “Hell’s Kitchen” contestant for serving undercooked chicken.::::
JATT STARR: WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING???
:::Hugo, as is awakened from a hypnotic trance, immediately charges and then lunges at Todd, tackling him. Todd begins flailing his arms and legs as if he were in a coffin infested with spiders. Jatt Starr, meanwhile, grabs Mister Whacky. He gets up and, clutching his aching groin, hobbles over to the two men grappling on the floor.
“Joltin’” Jatt Starr grabs the bottom of his cane like a baseball, brings the cane over his head and brings the steel head down on the two men. A shot connects with Todd’s right leg, who screams in pain. A second shot connects with Hugo’s left arm, who also screams in pain. Hugo releases Todd as a third shot comes down and connects with the small of Todd’s back.
Jatt Starr looms over the fallen Miracle Enterprises employee, who is gasping for air. The Ruler of Jattlantis looks down and smiles.::::
JATT STARR: If you see “Uncle Stevey”, let him know, in the end, I always win.
::::Jatt Starr then kicks Todd in the head, knocking him out. Hugo, winces as he slowly gets up.::::
HUGO: You hit me.
JATT STARR: Collateral damage.
HUGO: Shouldn’t you apologize?
JATT STARR: LSD Champions don’t need to apologize. Now drag this prick to the Bobby Dean toilet and shove his head in.
HUGO: Do I have to? It smells like something died in there.
JATT STARR: TAKE THIS FUCKING PRICK TO THE BOBBY DEAN FUCKING TOILET AND SHOVE HIS FUCKING HEAD IN IT OR YOU WILL FUCKING JOIN HIM!!!
HUGO: Okay, no need to yell. I’m sorry.
:::Hugo, holding his arm, grabs Todd by one of his legs and starts to drag him down the corridor. Jatt Starr looks down for a moment and then turns to Hugo.::::
JATT STARR: Wait!
::::The HOW Classic walks over to Hugo and looks him square in the eye, who looks back at him, hopeful.:::
JATT STARR: Am I bleeding? Is there any damage?
::::Jatt Starr points his right eye.:::
HUGO: You might have a shiner. You should put ice on it.
JATT STARR: Carry on.
::::Jatt Starr dismissively sends Hugo to complete his task at hand as if he were Caligula ending away a servant who has just poured him some wine during one of his hedonistic orgies. The large mutilated man lets out a depressed sigh as he continues to drag Todd’s unconscious body down the corridor. Jatt Starr, however, returns to the kiosk and begins taking down the sign. Jatt Starr looks beyond his wounded pride and decides that today was a battle won over Steve Harrison and Miracle Enterprises. He looks over at the plain, blue Papermate pen on the counter and cannot help but consider the irony of shoving that pen in Lindsay Troy’s eye. He quickly pushes the thought aside as the pounding in his head increases. Somehow, Jatt thinks, this headache will never go away. END SCENE.::::