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Mr. Flynn rocks on!
Last time on The Mr. Flynn show.....
Various superpowers and egomaniacs were conspiraring to get rid of world beloved and super-talented GQ poster boy, Mr. Jerry Flynn. Jealous of Mr. Flynn's superior talent, charisma, and looks, the faceless executive commitee tried to come up with ways to despose of Good ol' JF. Needless to say, they lacked the talent to come up with a decent angle to drive Mr. Flynn out. So they decided to just fire him.....
4:47 pm, Teusday night Thunder taping....
".....so we just walk up to him and hand him the slip? What if he tries to chop us in half with his LIGHTNING kicks or something?"
"Relax, it's safe. He'll be so crushed when he finds out he dosn't work here anymore that you'll have time to run for the hills before he reacts."
"I don't know. I've seen his reflexes. Remember 'Shoot Fight City 1986'? Some guy tried to hit him with a women's shoe, but before he could Flynn grabbed his arm and with one blow, broke it in 20 different places! I'll be damned if that happens to me, Kevin."
"You have my word." The short, balding man said. "Scouts honor. You do this and I'll make sure you're US champ within a month."
"Well........Okay." MVP Dale Torborg responded. "I'll do it. US champ in a month sounds good to me." With that, he turned and walked towards the dressing room with the "Mr. Flynn" plate on the door.
"Heh Heh Heh, sucka! I wouldn't go 50 feet within the range of Jerry Flynn, for his overwelming street smarts and down to Earth looks would surely over-eclipse my Munchkin a$$....."
A knock on the door brings Mr. Flynn away from his pre-match rituals.....
"Uh, Your're Mr. Flynn right? World famous kicker of butt and role model for small infants right? I'm here to give you this. I'm afraid it's your're pink slip.....PLEASEDONTKILLME!"
Mr. Flynn looked over the strange document and gave a hearty laugh. "Don't worry, young talentless gimmick impared putz. You are not to blame. Please kindly direct me in the way of who gave you this."
The young MVP slowly stood up, shaking. He pointed in the direction of Kevin Sullivan's dressing room and then ran for the hills.
Mr. Flynn took a stroll down to the office of one of WCW's head bookers. Kicking down the door and barging in rudely, he grabbed the chair that Sullivan was sitting in and turned it around. A look of shcok crossed Mr. Flynn's face...
"Good lord, this isn't Kevin Sullivan at all! It's a remote controlled robot!"
His instincts kicking in, sharpened by years of surviving on the mean streets of Tokyo, Hong Kong, and San Fransisco, CA, Mr. Flynn realized this robot was being controlled by a power hungry mongul. But which one in WCW was the question. SO many choices: Turner, Nash, Shiller, maybe even Disco. Suddenlly, Mr. Flynn felt like he was being watched. Looking around he saw nothing. He decided to go home and book the next flight to Atlanta, where this mysterious Jerry Flynn hater may be, if such a thing exists. Waliking out, he didn't notice the hidden camera watching his every move.....
The scene switches to an undisclosed location, where a dark figure sits in front of numerous TV and computer monitors.
"Yes, Mr. Flynn come to Atlanta." The dark raspy voice said. "Come find me, like a mouse into the trap. Soon you, like all the other talented, charismatic, good looking, and overy-nice fools, will feel the wrath of......"
To be continued.......
Note:In the irony of it all, shortly after this story was originally posted on the Wrestleline forum, Dale Torborg was given the mother of all crappy gimmicks, the KISS Demon. It was rumored that he might even be getting the US title despite the lack of heat he was drawing.
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