Cue the campy "Ebert and Roeper At the Movies" music.
Two silhouetted figures sit in what looks like, well of course, a
balcony!
Rows of empty theatre chairs sit, with Ebert and Roeper sitting there
in place, waiting for said campy music to end.
But of course, silly reader, there's no Ebert, nor any Roeper to be
seen.
Rather in their place: playing the part of the jolly, loveable Ebert,
Seamus Finnegan. And playing the role of the serious, classy
Richard Roeper, the good Duke of Wessex, Robert Lancaster II.
The lights fade in, and we see both men, smiling amiably.
Both are dressed to exactly match their particulars in reality,
spectacles and all.
Why, they could be twins!
...perhaps not.
Cue "Ebert."
"Auch welcome to 'Ebert and Roeper
at the Movies.' I'm Roger Ebert of the Chicago...what the feck
does that say?" Seamus leans forward. "Auch, I'm Ebert, aye, of the feckin
Chicago Sun Times."
Lancaster rolls his eyes and clears his throat. "And I'm Richard Roeper of...I don't
know what paper in particular I'm affiliated with, but I am by far the
superior writer."
"MY ARSE ye are."
"We'll talk about that
particular movie next week, Roger." Lancaster tilts his
head and furrows his brow, to look serious. "This week however, we have the
misfortune, as has the entire CAL, to review a horrid little piece of
rubbish put out by the braintrust, or rather lack thereof..." he
chuckles, "of Soylent Green."
The shot switches to Seamus, who adjusts in his seat.
"Aye, this was an absolutely
feckin' horrid piece o'film shyte, I don't even know why we're even
botherin' to review it but since Richard an'myself are both paid so
well to sit here an'watch these films, we'll review it anyway! Besides,
we prefer to think of it as doing ye, the movie-going public, a 'public
service', so to speak!"
Robert frowns oh so slightly.
"Roger, you're being so
critical, right off the bat! Don't we want to at least give the details
about the fine editing and the fine jobs done by the Best Boys and the
Dolly Grips?"
"Auch, I suppose ye've got a
point, Richard. Now, where the feck do we start?"
"How about the best part of the
film...the credits. The film," a little box appears above
Lancaster's shoulder reading: 'Starsky and Hutch by SG: They're Not
Even Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson,' "starring the beloved Jack Slade and
Enormous Norman of NPW and that German fellow...my he's such a sour
kraut..."
"Auch can ye say that on TV?"
"I won't worry unless I have a
wardrobe malfunction. Anyway, starring these three stooges, the
credits of the film however marked the best part of its making: the
conclusion. Wouldn't you agree, Roger?"
"Aye, I'd have to agree with ye,
Richard. I thought the ending o'the film was probably the best part of
the film itself...not because they threw in some grand dramatic twist
at the end o'the film, oh nay...because it was FINALLY over!"
Lancaster wipes his brow with a hankerchief. "I do admit though that that
dramatic scene with the Coke can...was Razzie worthy. In fact, it
was 'Gigli' bad, get it!? It sounds like 'really,' but I actually said
'Gigli!' Isn't my analysis brilliant Roger?" Robert smacks
Ebert's knee in hilarity, hoping for some sign of praise from his
partner.
"Feck, did ye have to bring
'Gigli' into this??? Wasn't Soylent Green's movie bad enough on its
own?"
Robert hangs his head in shame.
"I profusely apologize
Roger. I know it's insulting to your intelligence and to all our
good viewers to mention that crap. But frankly, Soylent Green was
far more insulting...and not for what they said." He
raises his head.
"But rather for what they
didn't say."
The two men stand.
The lights fade nearly to naught, with only dim traces illuminating
their faces.
They cast away their glasses and remove their blazers and shirts to
reveal Triumvirate t-shirts.
They begin to walk slowly, towards nothing in particular.
"What you've seen Slade,
Norman, was a bit of fun. We like to have fun, much like you do,
as evident in your little series of pieces. But there is a
serious difference between us, and yourselves. We do not have the
gall to denegrade the magnitude of this match up at Absolute Power by
failure to mention one's opponents but once."
Disgust crosses both their faces and is etched deeply.
"Oh aye, Robbie...ye see, Slade,
Norman, an' that poncy-arsed German manager o'yers...all three o'ye've
made one o'the worst mistakes ye could EVER make. First of all, the
three o'ye had the nerve to show up in OUR arena, on OUR show, to call
out the best feckin' tag team in the business today, the Whiskey
Devils. That was yer first bloody mistake. "
"Ye wanna know what the second one
was? DO YE??? Second mistake, yer apparent lack o'respect fer both
myself an'Robbie here. By not even botherin' to mention the match, or
yer opponents, ye've fallen into a trap. Oh aye, a trap."
"So what's this trap I'm talkin'
about? Well, let me put it this way, Soylent Green...ye've basically
fallen into the trap o'writin' cheques wi'yer mouth that yer arses
won't be able to cash when push comes to shove on May 23rd."
"Mark that day now in pen, for
in mere hours we shall mark it in your blood. It is unfortunate
though that such promising careers will be shortened so violently at
the hand of whiskey's devils. But you made that decision the
moment you came to Las Vegas, and the second you stepped through those
curtains of the MGM. While I may spit in your collective faces, I
do admire your bravery."
The Duke smiles viciously.
"And I do condemn your
stupidity."
"Oh aye, ye see, one difference
that sets the two o'ye an'the two o'us apart, is that, unlike the two
o'ye wankers, when we say we're gonna do somethin', we don't just run
from it like the bunch o'feckin' pussies that ye three are, oh nay.
When we say somethin', we back it up wi'action. Just ask SeX, NAE, or
Larger Than Life...just ask them."
"Because ye see, when we went into
Stable Wars, we said we'd come out o'there wi'gold, an'lo an'behold,
yer lookin' at the new BWWa Tag Team champions...[pointing
to Lancaster] yer
lookin' at the new BWWa Silver Dollar champion ...an' yer lookin' at
the NEXT...BWWa HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION."
"And tell me, Soylent Green...how
confident do ye feel? How do ye like yer chances o'survival against the
Whiskey Devils? Are ye willin' to talk the talk AND walk the walk? ARE
YE WILLIN' TO PAY THE GODDAMNED PRICE??? Or, have ye bitten off just a
wee bit more than ye can chew?"
The two men stop in their tracks.
"The answer will be made clear
soon. But will it matter. When your spirits are
broken. Your necks twisted, your spines disjointed, your
extremities and minds weakening because of severe blood loss.
Will it matter."
"You do not respect us
now. You do not respect our past accomplishments. Nor will
you in the future when you return to your federation, just another team
that has fallen by the wayside at the hands of the Devils. We are
content to have you feel this way, and we will be equally content to
destroy you. And
we shall know no limit to the gluttony we have for your mortality."
"Ask and it shall be given...seek
an'ye shall find...knock...AN' WE'LL SLAM THE BLOODY DOOR RIGHT IN YER
GODDAMNED FACES!!!"
Silence, which lasts several
moments. The two men simply stare, searching.
"We'll see you in Toronto."
In unison: "Now tremble."
