Bob The Mob
09-30-2006, 03:41 PM
Inside the office of Paul Timmons, head of WcE. Timmons reclines in a tan leather swivel chair, feet up on a hardwood oak desk with black top, a gold nameplate at the front, and a black intercom on his right-hand side. He wears a tuxedo; except for the jacket (which he has on the back of the chair) and bow-tie (which is on the desk); he is dressed this way for the “Night Of Champions III” press conference. In his left hand he holds a cell phone to his ear, which he speaks into in an irritated manner.
Timmons: Yes, dammit, I said all of them! Every last one, from the beginning…Right, including Xtreme, Milenko, all of…(calming down) Exactly, that’s what the fans want to see….Thank you….Goodbye. (tensing back up again; under his breath) Everyone has to have things spelled out for them these days--!
He presses the “END” button and breathes out heavily. The intercom then buzzes.
Timmons (jerking forward in his chair as he puts his feet down to answer; under his breath, half exasperated, half annoyed): What now?! (pressing the red button to speak with his right hand) What?!
Secretary (her much calmer voice sounding tinny from the machine): Mr. Tuno is here as you requested, sir.
Timmons: Well what the hell are you waiting for?! Send him in!
After a few seconds, Jimmy Tuno, dressed in his usual three-piece black pinstripe suit, black fedora, red silk tie tied in a Windsor knot, and polished black wingtip shoes, enters the room somewhat gingerly; having been briefed on Timmons’ mood by his secretary.
Jimmy (hat in his hands, speaking softly): Mr. Timmons…?
Timmons (sighing wearily): Look, Jimmy, I’m under a lot of stress right now, and so I called you in to (swiveling his chair around 180o) give me a massage…
Jimmy: WHAT THE F**K?!
Jimmy looks around his hotel room; sitting bolt-upright, freaked-out; since when was his boss a cross-dresser in her eighties? Terri Dymond, his girlfriend and manager, turns over in her bed on the left-hand side of the room.
Terri (murmuring groggily): Jimmy...? Jimmy, it’s 5:30 in the mornin’…(yawning) What’s gotten inta ya?
Jimmy (looking over to her; trying to calm down): T-Terri! Oh, man, Terri I had the weirdest, nastiest dream. …I’ll tell ya later.
2:00 p.m., as the two young New-Yorkers sip mocha-lattes in a small, almost completely empty coffee shop. Jimmy wears blue jeans with a hole in the right knee, a black T-shirt with a picture of Louis Armstrong dabbing his face with a handkerchief on it, with “Satchmo” [Louis Armstrong's nickname] printed in block letters below it, and black sneakers. Terri wears a New York Yankees jersey, gray sweatpants, and black high-heel boots.
Jimmy: …An’ so that’s what happened.
Terri, whose eyes have been wide the whole time jimmy was speaking, suddenly bursts out laughing.
Terri (slapping her knee): Oh-ho, man Jimmy! That’s--ah, ha-ha!--that’s disgustin’! I’m not sure I’ll be able ta have lunch! Ah, ha… But yeah, seriously, we need ta work on a strategy fer this Hardcore Matcher fer the X-Treme Title.
Jimmy: Well, I was thinkin’ I come in with a four-foot long steel chain like last time, an’ also not have my jacket, tie, er fedora on in case I get jumped. Timmons--the real Timmons (they both laugh)--let me do those things last time, so think he’ll do so again.
Terri: An’ I won’t hesitate ta get involved. Tagether, we’re gonna make sure ya go back ta New York as the WcE X-Treme Heavyweight Champion. (both) …An’ that’s the way it should be.
Jimmy (taking a small sip from his latte): Good stuff. Yeah, I wish it didn’t hafta be this way, with both Nero an’ “DeathTrap” in there. They showed a lot o’ class in that last match.
Terri takes a swig from her latte.
Jimmy: But as we both know there can be no allies in Hardcore Matches. No friends, no partners. But girlfriends can help boyfriends, (they simultaneously raise there lattes in toast) an’ sisters can help bros, so we gotta look out fer Sophia. But in the end, only one will emerge victorious…here’s ta victory.
The raise their lattes again to him winning his first-ever title in WcE.
Timmons: Yes, dammit, I said all of them! Every last one, from the beginning…Right, including Xtreme, Milenko, all of…(calming down) Exactly, that’s what the fans want to see….Thank you….Goodbye. (tensing back up again; under his breath) Everyone has to have things spelled out for them these days--!
He presses the “END” button and breathes out heavily. The intercom then buzzes.
Timmons (jerking forward in his chair as he puts his feet down to answer; under his breath, half exasperated, half annoyed): What now?! (pressing the red button to speak with his right hand) What?!
Secretary (her much calmer voice sounding tinny from the machine): Mr. Tuno is here as you requested, sir.
Timmons: Well what the hell are you waiting for?! Send him in!
After a few seconds, Jimmy Tuno, dressed in his usual three-piece black pinstripe suit, black fedora, red silk tie tied in a Windsor knot, and polished black wingtip shoes, enters the room somewhat gingerly; having been briefed on Timmons’ mood by his secretary.
Jimmy (hat in his hands, speaking softly): Mr. Timmons…?
Timmons (sighing wearily): Look, Jimmy, I’m under a lot of stress right now, and so I called you in to (swiveling his chair around 180o) give me a massage…
Jimmy: WHAT THE F**K?!
Jimmy looks around his hotel room; sitting bolt-upright, freaked-out; since when was his boss a cross-dresser in her eighties? Terri Dymond, his girlfriend and manager, turns over in her bed on the left-hand side of the room.
Terri (murmuring groggily): Jimmy...? Jimmy, it’s 5:30 in the mornin’…(yawning) What’s gotten inta ya?
Jimmy (looking over to her; trying to calm down): T-Terri! Oh, man, Terri I had the weirdest, nastiest dream. …I’ll tell ya later.
2:00 p.m., as the two young New-Yorkers sip mocha-lattes in a small, almost completely empty coffee shop. Jimmy wears blue jeans with a hole in the right knee, a black T-shirt with a picture of Louis Armstrong dabbing his face with a handkerchief on it, with “Satchmo” [Louis Armstrong's nickname] printed in block letters below it, and black sneakers. Terri wears a New York Yankees jersey, gray sweatpants, and black high-heel boots.
Jimmy: …An’ so that’s what happened.
Terri, whose eyes have been wide the whole time jimmy was speaking, suddenly bursts out laughing.
Terri (slapping her knee): Oh-ho, man Jimmy! That’s--ah, ha-ha!--that’s disgustin’! I’m not sure I’ll be able ta have lunch! Ah, ha… But yeah, seriously, we need ta work on a strategy fer this Hardcore Matcher fer the X-Treme Title.
Jimmy: Well, I was thinkin’ I come in with a four-foot long steel chain like last time, an’ also not have my jacket, tie, er fedora on in case I get jumped. Timmons--the real Timmons (they both laugh)--let me do those things last time, so think he’ll do so again.
Terri: An’ I won’t hesitate ta get involved. Tagether, we’re gonna make sure ya go back ta New York as the WcE X-Treme Heavyweight Champion. (both) …An’ that’s the way it should be.
Jimmy (taking a small sip from his latte): Good stuff. Yeah, I wish it didn’t hafta be this way, with both Nero an’ “DeathTrap” in there. They showed a lot o’ class in that last match.
Terri takes a swig from her latte.
Jimmy: But as we both know there can be no allies in Hardcore Matches. No friends, no partners. But girlfriends can help boyfriends, (they simultaneously raise there lattes in toast) an’ sisters can help bros, so we gotta look out fer Sophia. But in the end, only one will emerge victorious…here’s ta victory.
The raise their lattes again to him winning his first-ever title in WcE.