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| **As the scene opens we find, sitting before the IoA camera crews THE face of wrestling. Rob Osbourne. He is situated on a purple plush couch in the study of his West End Avenue penthouse in downtown Nashville, Tennessee. While the cameras are testing the lighting and the sound guys are making sure they have a NEW tape loaded into their recording device, �The Nitemare� fires up a spliff and smokes it down to a roach in three hits. The director asks NRO a few last minute questions before they begin the promo.** Director: Ok Rob, we�re just about all set up, is there any last requests you�d like to make? NRO: You can call me Mr. Osbourne you little nut shot. Last requests? What the fuck, I thought I was cutting a promo, not awaiting my godamned execution?!?! Director: Uhm, sorry Mr. Osbourne. I was merely attempting to accomodate your needs sir... **Rob cuts him off in mid sentence.** NRO: What? Look you little 20,000 dollar a year bringin� in, no pussy getting, IoA fuck, there is NOTHING that you can provide to me that I don�t already have, or have had, do you understand? Do you realize who you�re talking to? I�m not the �poor suffering� rookie staying at the Motel 6�s, driving rental cars, eating at every Waffle House from River Falls to Muskeegee Bay. Unless you can hand me the keys to Blair�s office and keep me from having to break a sweat over this �takeover� then let me change shirts, and we�ll start this fucking promo, if, of course (sarcastically) if that�s ok with you? Director: Sure, whatever...(mumbling) asshole. **Rob darts around the corner and pulls off his shirt and slips on a black t-shirt out of a manila envelope and, still turned around tells the camera man to start rolling. Rob turns around waiving, wearing a vintage UWL �The Ruler� Paul Blair t-shirt.** |
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| NRO: Hey there Paulie? Did you miss me? You�ll never guess what I had to go through to get my hands on this historical artifact. I called up Bob Truxall, you remember Bullet Bob don�t you Paul? Well, he�s shoveling shit at the dump they put in next to the old UWL offices. Anyhow, I�m telling Bob all about the big plan, and of course, checking on old Paul Pipp and Billy Rusnock. But anyway, after a brief interlude about Power N Glory he tells me that when the health department came by and condemned the old UWL offices due that they found a store room that was packed full of merchandise in the �shit that doesn�t sell� side. Stacks and stacks of old Gravedigger and David Clay shirts, about three dozen grosses of Hudson memorabilia, and one solitary Paul Blair shirt. |
| **Rob�s eyes open wide as his jaw drops. His eyes, red and creamy, look like two cherries floating in a bowl of milk. He brushes the shirt, as if to say �look at this pimp tight gear� and tilts his head back up, smiling from ear to ear.** NRO: Sweet ain�t it Paulie? God damn, it brings back the memories of when you still had it, doesn�t it? One shirt, that should have told you then that you were playing your back nine. But you are stubborn, almost as stubborn as that warm buttermilk drinking geriatric paraplegic, Jimmy Blast. **Osbourne lights up another J and sits down on the aforementioned plush purple couch and pops the top on an icy cold Heineken and continues to speak to the camera.** NRO: But what�s this you say? NRO, you�re match is against �The Madman� Matt Digger! You see Matt, I won�t even grant you the respect to be called by your birth name, you lost that right the day you chose to stop being an Osbourne. And Matt, for the record, your dad�s name wasn�t Martin, you jock strap, it was Otto, he was just such a drunk that they called him Martini, and when you were little, that�s what you heard, so you called him Martin because of your shortened medula oblongata and oversized hypothalemus, you couldn�t pronounce the word �MARTINI� the proper way, so your dad took Martin on as a nickname, much the way we called my dad, Joe, �Feet.� You fucking moron. I have covered everything possible, every little tidbit you would ever want to know about �The Madman� Matt Digger right here, in my book, When Nitemare�s become reality, available at better booksellers everywhere. **Deep sigh.** NRO: But I digress. Matt, come with your mask on, come with your punk kid under the mask, come as yourself or somebody else, it don�t make three squirts of cow piss to me any which way it goes. They�ll be naynotanutha day go by that you will continue to down speak the prestige that is the Osbourne name. Tim came around, Chris is teetering. What�s your problem Matt? Don�t trust family? Then how do you think you can trust your own son Matt? Don�t you think he wants to be proud of his father�s name, and the legacy of his family? Don�t you think he wants to see his uncle�s and cousins at the holidays Matt? Don�t you think knowing where he comes from wouldn�t be a big enough payoff for him to truly take his first stabs at becoming an Osbourne and sticking the knife so deep into your back that you�ll walk crooked the rest of your miserable days? **Rob shifts on the couch as he kicks his black leather steel toed boots off and leans back to take a swallow of his fine imported ale from Holland.** NRO: So I will have said enough about Digger when I say , he is gonna be my bitch, and then, I�m gonna do like Prodigy tells me to, and Smack My Bitch Up! **Rob begins bobbing his head, as if to be hearing the techno jam in his head.** NRO: Now let us move on to address the other little misguided goatfuckers in the locker room of the IoA. Let�s address the second best stable to ever begin in the MWWF, X-FUCKING RATED!!!! Who in the hell do you guys think you are? T-Money? Come on T, what the fuck holmes? Naw, naw, it�s all good G, cause we bout to get down and show all ya�ll that are biznitch is the shiznit! Ya knaw� mean dog? Maybe, just maybe, you little stooge , goin off to play with the highest bidder instead of being loyal to the only man that ever pushed you, maybe we�ll have to get a little Loco on that ass esse? **NRO signals to the camera man to zoom out. Rob stands and walks to the desk top electric beer cooler and pulls out another Heineken.** NRO: Throughout my tenure in sports entertainment, I have seen some dumbass tag teams before. Everything from Flash and Trash to Axe and Smash, but give me a fucking bus pass, �THE DEATH SQUAD?� What the hell are these two supposed to be? Jesus, did you see the one guy, the Bruno clown? He was talking into a wash cloth pretending it was a telephone! I swear to god, I saw the guy�s promo, well, no I didn�t, I was getting my balls licked my a hot little bitch from New York while I was in Manhatten finalizing the plans for the invasion. But, I did read it , and he wrang the phone man, I swear, go get yourself a written transcript of it from IoAonline.com, that�s what I did, and I swear you�ll see what I saw. But regardless, these two are half wits at best, look at the tubby one, he doesn�t even talk. What the hell Blair, you so hard up for talent you had to go out an get your very own Jay and Silent Bob? Ok, so I�ll play along with these two cocksucks, they go saying that the AIW �stable� is only about four guys from what they saw. First and foremost, bitch, a stable, according to Webster is a stall or barn used to house horses. And stable, according to Pimpology 101 at Harvard University taught by Professor Cum Laude, Baby Powder, is defined as , and I quote �a grouping of hoes, or a pack of honnies that work that ass to make you the monies.� Secondly, the fact that you two can�t count doesn�t help your chances of survival in the jungle boys. There is, and count along with us home children, Mz. Christina Danky, one, there is Donovan Torigianni, two, there is AWOL, three, there is �Too Xtreme� Eric Badger, four, there is �The saint� Tim Osbourne, five, and of course, there is me, and even that alone would be more than you ferries could handle. So that is 6, to your 2, to X-Rated�s 5, and we have only covered those AIW superstars that have been brought to aHeatwave event yet. You want to call us a stable of four, when we are a Federation of , well, I really don�t think you two can count that high, so I won�t give you a number of how many we have in our ranks. What I will say is the best thing you can do for your careers, and your own personal safety and well being, is so step the fuck off, and pretend you never said a cross word in any speakings about the AIW, or the Osbourne family. You only meddle in matters which you cannot possibly comprehend. **Osbourne tells the director to come into the shot.** NRO: Now you, earlier, you were just doing your job, trying to direct the crew of a promo team, and simply asked me a question. Right? Director: Yessir... NRO: And then I ripped into you like I was Matt Osbourne on his own cock while watching internet porn, right? Director: Yessir... NRO: And then you called me an asshole and thought I didn�t hear you, didn�t you? Director: (sweating profusely) Uhm, yes, I did, but I didn�t mean to, really, I... **Osbourne grabs the kid and gives him a Badd Dream right into the ceramic coffee table. The shatter of the ceramic sounds like a bomb going off and gives the same eerie squelching sound as the tape played by the IoA crew that tried to evesdrop on the AIW meeting held by Donovan late last week. Osbourne stand up and blows some dust off his now bloody vintage Paul Blair shirt.** NRO: Awe fuck, now my shirt is ruined? Oh well, it�s a piece of shit anyway. This interview is over. **Osbourne pulls the shirt off and tosses it in a trash can and sits down on the couch, lighting another joint as the EMT�s arrive to rush the fallen director to nearby Vanderbilt University Medical Center. Awe shit...it has begun....** |
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