Posted by NPW on 9/23/2003, 12:43 am THE FOLLOWING PROGRAM CONTAINS SCENES OF VIOLENCE, COARSE LANGUAGE AND ADULT SITUATIONS. PARENTAL DISCRETION IS ADVISED. [The cheers of the fans watching over the NationalTron rise suddenly as a silver limousine pulls into the garage, the license plate reading THINK - the fans instantly knowing who's inside. As it rolls to a stop by the back doors, however, it's not the former NPW champion who emerges... but rather his longtime agent, Jimy "One-M" Holiday, who steps out of the back with his trademark Palm Pilot in hand and telephone headset over his ear. Jimy talks as he emerges, his free hand holding an unlit cigar and punching away furiously at his pad.] JIMY HOLIDAY [into the headset's mic] : Yeah, whatever. Listen, this is "The Thinking Man's Wrestler" we're talking about here, so don't try and jerk my Jimmy, Dave. Tommy doesn't fly on commercial airlines, he doesn't ride in taxi cabs, and he sure as hell doesn't market half-assed sports drinks that try to pretend they're better for you than the glacier water he flies in from Norway and actually does drink. [Pause.] What? He's "only a man"? "Only human"? No, no, Dave, once again you're entirely mistaken, because Thomas "Think Tank" Turner is most assuredly not human. He is proof of creationism, Dave. He defies Darwinism simply by being alive. You might have descended from an ape, Dave, and I might have descended from an ape, but Thomas Goddamned Turner sure as hell didn't descend from an ape. He is a living, breathing wrestling god on Earth - a veritable deity to the squared circle - and I'll be damned if I'm going to have him standing in front of your camera telling children everywhere to drink "Thunderade Very X-Treme Berry Flavour Sports Revitalizer" when he wouldn't touch that dirty, dirty product with a HAZMAT suit and a tetanus shot ready. [Jimy pauses.] You're paying how much? Well, why the hell didn't you say so? Let me schmooze with "The Champ Who Cares" tonight, and we'll get into bed on this product together. I can hear the beautiful sounds of the cash register already, baby, and I can tell you that Thomas is very excited about this product. He loves it. He drinks it every day. He puts it on his cereal. He laps that crap up like a frickin' cat. If he drank any more of it, we'd have to bottle his piss and sell it as holy water -- TJ KILLINGBECK [as Jimy walks into him] : Why don't you just marry him and have his f[BEEP!]kin' kids, Jimy? [Holiday stops, looking up from his five-foot-seven inches at the cane-weilding form of Killingbeck, who stands holding one end of the barbed-wire wrapped stick, turning it in a slow circle in roughly Jimy's direction. Holiday answers automatically.] HOLIDAY : If I were a woman, I'd give him a litter. [Jimy stops, swallowing.] You're gonna beat the shiznit out of me, aren't you. KILLINGBECK : See, this is why you're such a successful agent, Jimy -- you're so perceptive. What gave it away? Was it the giant stick with the pointy wire on it in my hand here? Or was it that I told Turner last week that the WPN was going to kick his ass all around town? Yes, I mean, I understand you're not him, sure, but in a pinch, you'll be a fine proxy until the most lazy-assed champ in NPW history shows his square jaw around here. HOLIDAY [backing up] : Listen, fine, I understand, I get it, really I do. But listen, Teej, baby -- the whole NFAC thing, the whole Extreme title encholada... he was just having some fun! You know how he is.... he gets bored, needs to stir up the pot a bit, dip his toes back in the water... KILLINGBECK : That makes me feel so much better, Jimy, to know that the hardcore roots of this company were cast aside because Thomas "I Don't Even Wrestle Anymore" Turner was bored one Sunday afternoon, and decided to eliminate extreme-style wrestling because there was no way the Patriots were coming back in the third quarter anyhow. That the NPW Extreme championship is gone because he was tired of fannin' his balls on a $4,000 leather couch and banging supermodels on yacht trips to Bimini fills me with such a sense of relief. I don't know what I was thinking a moment ago, Jimy, when I was considering decapitating you and mailing your head to Turner's apartment. HOLIDAY : He's a Raiders fan. Swear to God. KILLINGBECK : Jimy, you know that's a lie. Thomas Turner is a New England Pats fan if I ever saw one, and there's probably nothing he likes more than standing around on a Sunday watching the game in his neo post-modernist kitchen in Martha's Vineyard, sipping a saucy Californian wine with Maria Shriver and Martha Stewart and singing "Fair Harvard" with the lads from the tennis club. This is what turtleneck-wearing, whitebread, that-cab-driver-was-so-rude-to-me types do, Jimy, and now I'm going to smash you repeatedly in an effort to alieviate some of the personal anger and resentment he's built up in me. HOLIDAY [shouting and holding up a defensive arm as TJ raises the cane] : I want to manage you! KILLINGBECK [hesitating] : What? HOLIDAY : I do! I swear! TJ, you've got the moves, the style, the arrogance, the pinache, the will to get the one thing that Astroth and Fantastico and Regan and Jack Mace denied you for so long - the NPW championship! You've been denied your destiny by the powers that be, boyo! KILLINGBECK [still holding the cane up] : You're appealing to my immense ego, Jimy. Go on.... HOLIDAY [lowering his arm slightly] : You've never had a shot at that title - and that's despite beating everyone worth beating around here, and winning BOTH of the "Match Beyonds". Because of Astroth, you had your career run by a six year-old. You haven't made a dime, have you? The way you wrestle, how long do you think you've got left before your shoulder or knees or back go? Two years? Three? Everyone knows you've gotten the shaft... and I can take you to the top. You want the Tank? Fine, I can make that happen, and you two can beat the crap out of each other just for the hell of it. But that's never gonna happen if you don't sign with me, and neither's the NPW championship, and you're not going to make any more than the chump change you do, either. Sign with me. Swing that cane at my head and get it out of your system if you have to, but sign with me.
66.46.57.11
[Click.]
[Canadian Rating : 14+]
WARNING :
*****
[Fade up : the interior parking lot of the Calgary Saddledome, Alberta, Canada.]
