Let’s fade in from black.
Claw marks run down the right eye of Simon Loveless, making it look like he either tried to catch an out of control eagle or is attempting some Captain Marvel Nick Fury cosplay. Let’s just hope he doesn’t try for the blackface, let’s really hope in this case. Holy shit now I’m worried about that happening. But still, there are a number of claw marks across the eye and down the cheek of Simon and a look on his face that is equal parts anger, shock and disbelief.
“The Hardcore Artist, Scottywood. Congratulations on your big victory over me at Refueled 54. Take it and run with it, I hope you’re happy. No, no. I know you’re happy. Because it’s the only type of victory that you’re ever going to be able to get over someone like me. But I’ve got to ask you something… just between me and you here. When did the Hardcore Artist learn to fight like such a bitch? A claw to the eye, fucking really?
I was right. You really are nothing more than a glorified wine mom at this point in your career and after Refueled 54? We have video proof that you fight like one too. But, I guess when you sell your soul to the blind bastard that runs things around here there’s a price to pay. In your case, he gave you boxed wine and a set of flabby titties. Congratulations on your win again, Scottywood.
Here’s to the former Hardcore Artist.”
Simon lifts up a beer and downs it, because Scottywood can no longer really hang. Just as Simon finishes, he tosses the bottle to the side and swoops his dyed blonde hair back making sure not to hit the claw marks on the side of his face. From the distance, Missy calls out to him.
MISSY: “Do you need more aspirin for that boo-boo?”
“I do not.”
Simon is annoyed by the interruption momentarily, but then gets right back to his anger issues.
“…but regardless of who my opponent was, let’s all face facts here. I was once again defeated by an illegal move that in any normal circumstance would have gotten my opponent disqualified. This is now two times in a row this has happened to me. There’s no denying it now that there is a conspiracy out there to keep me down, force me to quit or walk away from wrestling all together! We’ve all seen it! Not only can you add Scottywood to that list, but you can add HOW referee Joel Hortega to the list. That’s right, even the supposed adjudicators of fairness, the referees are not above kissing the blind sky daddy’s ass!
So, I guess the question is… what to do? Soon it’ll be the time keeper against me, then the announcers, the locker room cleaning crew, then the caterers and so on and so on. Everyone will be out to get me soon enough… so, what to do?
What to do?
Well, it’s simple. I’m going to stick around. I’m going to show up each and every week, every single fucking week you’re going to see my face. I’m going to keep on showing up until they finally lock me out of the arena… and even then I’m just going to crawl through the air conditioning ducts like John McClane until I find my way in. I’m the goddamn fly in the ointment, Lee. You’ll pay attention when I’m done, you’ll hear my name and shudder when I’m finished and as you fall from Nakatomi Pla–.”
That’s when Missy walks by holding one of those signs that read ‘Live. Laugh. Love’ this stops Simon dead in his thoughts talking about Die Hard. Normally, people just stare at Missy’s chest like this, but Simon that dumbfounded look on his face is purely looking at the sign.
“What the hell is that, Missy?”
MISSY: “Do you like? It’s a sign that says ‘Live. Laugh. Love.’ and I’m going to hang it above the bed.”
“Why the hell do you have a sign that says ‘Live. Laugh. Love’? Oh my God, Scottywood’s wine mom-ness somehow got onto my body and I passed it on like a plague to you! Is that what happened? Are we both wine moms now? Holy fucking shit, what have I done!? Is there a vaccine for this? Missy are you feeling okay?”
Missy self checks her temperature by putting her free hand to her forehead.
MISSY: “No, I feel good. Tad gave me the idea of adding some happiness around the house so it would make the stress aura dissipate quickly. Tad said that the build up stress is not good for the home. So, don’t forget to live, laugh and love today!”
Simon just sits there with a dumbfounded look as Missy just walks on by. She’s long gone when Simon shakes off and processes just what happened.
“Wait, who the fuck is Tad?”
From the other room, Missy calls out.
MISSY: “He was the couple’s therapist.”
Continuity, motherfuckers. Continuity. Under his breath, Simon udders ‘fucking Tad’ as he tries to shake the rest of it off.
“Black Mamba. First off, let me just go ahead and be the first one to congratulate you on your victory over me this Saturday at Refueled 55. Because let’s face it, there’s not one single fucking chance that that blind old man running the show is ever going to let me win. So, like I said Mamba, enjoy your win over me. Feel free to load up on the padded knuckles or pull the tights on a pin, either way don’t worry about what the HOW referee is going to see.
None of that matters, honestly. You could just bash my head in with a chair just as the bell rings and take the victory in five seconds.”
That’s when Simon pauses, the smirk disappearing from his face and his eyes catch that of the camera.
“In fact, you might want to go with the chair plan. I know I’m going to get dicked over, so what I’m going to do is simply beat you pillar to post up until the point where Lee decides that he’s se–wait no, not seen enough. Heard enough? How the fuck does this work? Either way, when Lee decides to end the match. But until that happens, I’m going to show the world that the Black Mamba has no business standing in the ring with Simon Loveless. Just like Scottywood had no real business being in there with me, nor that Xander shithead with the ass kissing tendencies had no real business. I’m going to break what bones I can Mamba so when the bullshit is pulled the whole world can witness it too.
You know what? I don’t even think I want to call you Black Mamba anymore. Fuck that. The real Black Mamba blew up in a helicopter a year ago, you ain’t no Mamba… you’re James. James from fucking England, that’s who you are. Maybe you’re a Jim or Jimmy too, but you are for fucks sake no Black Mamba. Because if you were, I’m going to be the fucking helicopter and we’re going down together in a fiery explosion.
No, you’re Jim and you’re probably getting a phone call from Lee Best right about now telling you exactly where and how to fuck me over one more time this Saturday night. Once again congratulations on your victory… you’re going to take one hell of a fucking beating, though.”
Just then from the other room, Missy yells out again.
MISSY: “You’re doing a lot of swearing hon. Tad said that was bad for stress.”
Simon just shakes his head and leans closer into the camera making sure that Missy can’t hear this part.
“Just one more thing there Jimmy. Blink twice if this is one of those ‘Get Out’ situations, you know that Lee’s got you under here. I can help you get revenge on the whole family if you want. But send me a message, I’ll be watching.”
Simon leans back and takes a deep breath. He looks around for a moment before cracking a smile again.
“You know what? I actually feel better now, wow that kind of works. Live. La– now what the hell is with that sign?”
And that’s when Missy comes walking by with a sign that reads ‘Life’s a Beach. Enjoy the Waves.’ and all of the good feelings that Simon was having quickly begin to disappear. He walks off throwing his hands into the air.
“We don’t even live near a beach.”
And we fade to black.