GIMME THAT RANSOM, FOOL, THIS A FULL TIME JACK MOVE
Characters: Ken Kaze & (???)
The Hero of Hardcore graced the RaveTron as the audience erupted into cheers. Ken Kaze was entering his locker room, returning from only God knows where. He immediately made way his locker before opening it to glance at the contents contained inside. He reached in and pulled out a Pepsi®.
SORRY TO INTERRUPT YOUT CURRENT PROGRAMMING, BUT SINCE THIS IDIOT NEVER MENTIONED HE WAS GOING TO DISPLAY OUR PRODUCT ON AIR, WE, THE PEPSI® NAZI REGIME, A TRADEMARK OF COCA-COLA (OR SOME S[BEEP!]T LIKE THAT), HAVE DECIDED TO BRING YOU JOLT WRESTLING’S TUESDAY NIGHT INTENSE, BROUGHT TO YOU IN PART BY . . . WELL, PEPSI®.
YES, PEPSI®. WE’RE BETTER THAN THAT SHIT DR. PECKER AND MT. WHO, MUCH AKIN TO THE WAY WE ARE SUPERIOR TO THE CHEAP GENERIC BRAND CHEK SODAS. CHEK, YOU CAN SUCK OUR MOTHER F[BEEP!]IN’ C[BEEP!]KS YOU PIECE OF S[BEEP!]TS!
NOW, WE’D LIKE TO RETURN YOU TO YOUR NORMAL VIEWER BROADCASTING.
“God, I love Pepsi. This s[beep!]t is a thousand times better than that cheap generic brand Chek. Chek sodas can suck my mother fluckin’ c[BEEP!]k! Those pieces of s[BEEP!]ts! What do you say, George?”
A moronic smirk was widespread on Kaze’s face.
“George?” he called out once more.
Ken glanced over into the corner of the room; however, the flickering lights above him strayed his attention away. One of the fluorescent light bulbs exploded as shards of glass rained down on top of Kaze. Before he knew it, the flickering had finished as it dimmed steadily.
The air encompassing his environment had grown much colder – spine chilling colder. An aura of eccentricity had overwhelmed him until the lights had faded away.
“George? Uh . . . what’s going on?” he called, hoping for some sort of rational explanation. “George? GEORGE?!”
BAM! BOOM! CRASH! (and other cheesy sound effects from the late ‘70s comics)
A shred of illumination emerged as the creaking hinges of a door was heard. The ounce of enlightenment had vanished just as quickly as it had came as the door slammed shut.
The lights returned. Ken was lying on the floor in a heap, bleeding from his forehead. A bench was broken in two and a dent now appeared on his locker door. Kaze hastily clutched his bleeding head before looking into his hands.
“What . . . the . . . fluck?”
He glanced over into a corner of the room. There sat a vacant steel chair.
“GEORGE! NOOOO!”
Upon closer inspection, the chair was not vacant after all. Resting on the seat was a letter. It read:
YOU’LL NEVER SEE YOUR TRASHCAN AGAIN!
Ken crumpled the paper in his hands. He was fuming.
“Polar, you piece of crap. You’ve been f[BEEP!]ing with me all night. Next week, I’ll make sure you pay.”
The scene faded as the Hero of Hardcore exited his locker room, looking to seek the culprit behind this kidnapping – er, cannapping.
