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Jeers

December 13th, 2001
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A bar. Somewhat deserted. Pretty well-lit for a bar. Kinda set up like “Jeers.” Sure, just picture that bar. Since that’s the name of this bar. It would be helpful.

“Well looky here, it’s the place where nobody knows your name,” bellowed Little Good as he opened the door and it crashed against the wood Native-American-Indian with the cigars. “Finally, Little Good is back in Cloudydale. Finally, Little Good is back home.”

Little Good walks down the three steps and heads toward the bar. He looks down at a brown stool and takes a seat. He bangs on the gold bar surrounding the bar twice. That grabs the attention of the bartender, a short man whose eyes barely can see over the bar. He is wearing a luchadore mask. Dennis approaches Little Good. He takes a seat next to the most evil addition to the BOB roster of all time. After putting in an order for a Red Death, he looks over at Dennis. He’s got a microphone.

“You better watch out or I’ll stick that microphone up your nostril. Y’know, some people are just born evil. That’s my story. You know my name. Don’t you? Doesn’t everybody here know who I am? I’m a bad boy. I cause trouble and hurt people. I’m notorious for injuring other wrestlers by blowing easy moves such as headlocks and armbars and lockups. But I’m damn good at punching, kicking and throwing. I’m not in this business to entertain. I’m here to legitimately hurt people. Now bugger off.”

Dennis doesn’t.

“Bloody hell, are you still here?” Little Good asks Dennis. Little Good bangs the bar. This time, a man dressed in a wedding dress comes to take his order.

“I’ll take a bloody Sarah.”

“A what?” came the high-pitched reply from the man in the wedding dress.

“Sorry. I mean, a bloody Mary.”

“That I can do you for sugar.”

“Oh yeah. Sarah ‘The Jobber Slayer’ thinks she’s doing good by getting rid of bad gimmicks and untalented wrestlers. We have rights too damnit! What’s my gimmick? I’m evil. I’m more evil than the devil mate. All in due time. What you want to ask me about guy?”

Dennis tells him about the upcoming pay-per-view. And the weapons.

“Well I’ll be jiggered. Too bad my ultimate plan of evil will prevent FUBAR from ever happening. For you see, I have devised the most evil, yet legally binding plan of all time. And if all goes according to plan, by the time BOB hits PPV, I will be the most powerful man EVER.”

He pauses.

“And if not, then I guess I’ll bring a video camera of some sort to whack people with.”

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100 jobbers, no problem

December 13th, 2001
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“I’m somewhat disturbed,” said the beautiful redhead.

“What about,” replied the beautiful blonde.

Sarah and Kay are sitting underneath the stars, on the front porch of Sarah’s home in Cloudydale, Conn. As they talk, clouds of breath come from out their mouths. They are both bundled up in large coats. In case you couldn’t figure, it’s kind of chilly out tonight.

“Well, doesn’t it bother you that now there are two women in BOB with the name of Kay Fabe? It’s kinda freakin’ me out, ya know?”

“Two? And what do you mean ‘in’ BOB? Have we even been accepted yet?”

“I think so. Aren’t we filming this for them?”

“I dunno. It’s not your usual format. This is almost kind of like a book set up, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Hell, if people read this long enough, they won’t even know who’s talking. Because we don’t have enough money to buy HMTL.”

“I know Sarah. But still…”

“Look, you and that other Kay Fabe are worlds apart. It’s just a wild coincidence that you would end up in a parody-fed. I can take down ‘Smart’ Mark Green. I can take down all the jobbers in this joint. It’s my job. I am the Slayer.”

“Excuuuuse me,” said the voice of a male. Probably in his teens. Yep. Looks like it. Messy short brown hair. Dopey look on his face. He’s wearing an Ungrateful Dead T-shirt and jeans. And a black trenchcoat. He’s a slack-jawed yokel of some sort. But he sounds kinda normal. “I heard this is where Sarah Michelle Gellar lives.”

Sarah stood up. “Yeah, you found it.”

“Wow! Can I get her autygraph?”

Sarah gives Kay a puzzled look and then returns her gaze to the boy. “You’re looking at her.”

“Uh….no, I don’t think I am. I seen her on the TV and she don’t look like you. I mean, you’re hot and all, but….you ain’t Sarah Michelle Gellar.”

“No kidding. My real name-”

Kay suddenly stands up and puts her hand over Sarah’s mouth.

“That is her real name. It’s just a crazy coincidence, what with the vampire slayer and…whatnot. What are the odds you know? A lot of people have similar names. Like me and this other girl in BOB. We both have the name Kay Fabe. But, see, everyone has differences. Like me, I’m different from the other Kay Fabe in that I’m a hot red-headed lesbian witch who is another of the chosen ones to protect wrestling from breaking down into chaos. I am the guardian of wrestling and I am the guardian of BOB. I protect things from breaking.”

The boy looks confused and scratches at his head. “When isn’t wrestling chaotic? Isn’t that the whole point?”

Kay huffs. She still has her hand over Sarah’s mouth by the way. And her hand is on Sarah’s ass. Just thought you’d like to picture that. Sarah isn’t exactly fighting to get free.

“Well, I can’t tell you that. It’s all kind of hocus pocusy stuff. Wrestling with shadows, and stuff. All I can say is wrestling is reality. Without Kay Fabe, wrestling would be kinda, fake.”

Sarah finally pulls Kay’s hand off her mouth. But she leaves the other hand on her ass. Maybe she just doesn’t know it’s there. “And when it gets too goofy, I take over.”

“So what’s your real name?” the boy asks Sarah again.

“I can’t tell you. Kay Fabe is forbidding it.”

“Sorry,” Kay says shrugging her shoulders.

“Buffy Summers,” Sarah quickly answers, swerving her best friend in the whole world.

“Sarah!”

“What, Kay? Just hit delete. Cut. Backspace.”

“I’m bored and out of material. I’m going away,” the kid says.

He does.

The girls sit back down. Kay manages to stick her hand, palm up, underneath Sarah’s behind as she sits down. Sarah looks at Kay.

“What were we talking about?”

“Kay Fabe, the other one. The one that isn’t me.”

“Oh right, with ‘Smart’ Mark Green. Well, I don’t know what to say. All I can suggest to you is to challenge the boy to a match.”

“Me? Wrestle a boy?”

“C’mon, you’ve seen me kick plenty of jobbers asses. Surely you’ve picked up something through osmosis.”

Suddenly, there is a crash from behind. Out runs Xamfir. He’s got his panflute poised to strike.

“Oh. Hey guys,” Xamfir says, dropping his panflute to his side.

“What’s wrong Xamfir?” Sarah asks, standing up, concerned.

“Come inside.”

They do. They go to a TV set. On it, is Angel.

That’s Kurt Angel.

“Angel?” Sarah says breathlessly.

“Not to step on your toes here, but can we introduce my character sometime soon?” Xamfir asks.

“So, not going to respond to that,” Sarah says pointing at Xamfir without taking her eyes away from the TV.

“Screw you. Hi. My name is Xamfir. Now that you know these other two people, and since they can’t find a way to write me into this, whatever the hell this is, book, promo, RP, whatever you want to call it, I’m just going to introduce myself. I once was a jobber. But unlike so many other jobbers, I had heart. Sure, you can look at me and see the bad moustache, my oddly shaped man breasts and my jiggly love handles, but I’ve got a heart of gold and get my ass kicked better than anyone.”

“No, actually, you’re just a good distraction,” Kay says bluntly. “Like that time, remember the group Ass*crack? The wrestling gay boy band? Remember when they were gang raping you how easy it was for Sarah to kick their asses with their pants down?”

“No. I try to FORGET, things like that.”

“Oh.”

“I can’t believe Angel is here.”

Styles runs into the room. “OH MY GOD!”

The threesome looks to their Commentator. In unison, they ask him what’s wrong. He looks at all of them and takes off his glasses. After a dramatic pause, he tells them his latest discovery.

“BOB is having a battle royal of Armageddon like proportions. 100 jobbers in the same area at the same time! And you can bring a weapon to the ring. It’s Armageddon. OH MY GOD!”

“100 jobbers, huh,” Sarah says cooly. “No problem.”

“But it’s on PAY-PER-VIEW in January! At half-price!”

“Those bastards,” Xamfir says disgusted.

“Like I said,” Sarah says sternly. “NO problem. You tell me who’s in it, I’ll knock every one of them out. Guaranteed.”

“Right, well,” Styles says fumbling with his glasses. He tries to put them on but jabs himself in the eye. “I’ve taken the liberty to call up BOB. I’m trying to get all three of you in the match. As you know, they have no money, so I can’t guarantee you payment.”

“You know I don’t do this for the pay,” Sarah says. “I do it because I am the chosen one. It is my job. Jobbers legs go snap. They bring companies low ratings and buyrates, make fans stare on in apathy and worst of all, give our sport a bad name. I will not rest until we obliterate every jobber in BOB. Styles?”

“Yes Sarah.”

“Get my banana peels….”

“I’ve got my panflute,” Xamfir proudly says.

“And you know I’ll bring my broomstick,” Kay says.

The other three look at her.

“Oh come on, I didn’t mean….not THAT broomstick. It’ll be a brand new one to ride to the ring.”

Eyebrows raise.

“Not ride, ride, You know what I mean….”

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I have a plan

December 12th, 2001
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The man you will know as “Little Good” (for now) looked on from the comfort and shadows of the other side of the wrestling ring where Cowman was taken down by Sarah “The Jobber Slayer.” Once she and her crew cleared out, Little Good walked back to where the big fight scene took place. His foot crashed into something. Heavy. He looked down toward his feet and smiled.

“Well bloody hell. I’ll be jiggered.”

Little Good bent down and picked up the camera Cowman had swiped from somewhere. The key to broadcasting bad gimmicks was at his fingertips. The key to getting new talent jobs in BOB was here. Little Good smiled evily.

“Oh I am so Little Good. Keep living in your fantasy world Slayer. BOB will be mine. It’s time for talentless jobbers to reclaim their place on television.”

Haha.

Hahahahaha.

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

The laugh echoed in the night.

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Welcome to Cloudydale

December 12th, 2001
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“Look out, he’s got a camera!” the voice called out in the darkness.

“I see it.”

The shadow of a woman is seen. She is running down an empty street. The night is dark and spooky. You can hear some sort of bell clanging. Not like a clock bell, a smaller kind of bell. The figure she is chasing hangs a right and goes into….a graveyard. I mean, a backyard. The figure made the right before the graveyard. Gotta get the eyes checked. Anyway, the figure being chased, it ran like it was a human, but it has a very odd-shaped body. Nothing new for the woman chasing the figure however. It’s her job.

Her job is to end jobs you could say….

Go ahead, say it if you like.

{Her job is to end jobs}

And there it stood in the middle of the yard. A wrestling ring. The kind you could buy for between $5,000 and $8,000, depending on where you go. It’s a plague. These kids today. Nothing to do but save money and buy wrestling rings. But that isn’t the crime. It never is. It’s not the ring itself that’s the problem. It’s the kids who step into the ring.

They all share one problem.

Really bad gimmicks.

And this town, it’s in the shadows of Stamford, Conn. The industrial waste from the WWF has infected the town and left a plague of horrible, talentless kids creating fake federations and really bad gimmicks.

That’s why The Federation was created.

That’s what her job is.

To get rid of the jobbers.

She is the chosen one.

She is the Slayer.

She is Sarah The Jobber Slayer.

“What were you expecting?” she asked the shadowy figure.

“I want to be in BOB! I’m talented. If I can only make them a tape, I’m sure I’ll get a job!”

“It’s people like you who make a laughingstock of our business,” said Sarah, the beautiful blonde. “Your days of sports entertaining are over. And believe me, this is the only time ‘you’ and ‘over’ will ever be used in the same sentence. You make Ed Leslie look talented.”

Cue that fight music.

Suddenly, the shadowy man dives at her and spears her. He starts to wail away on her. Is he wearing mittens? I don’t see any fingers with that fist. Suddenly, Sarah catapults the man over her head. She does that cool snake like move to get to her feet, perhaps called a ‘nip up,’ I’m not sure. But she’s on her feet and at a fighting stance. She charges the man and kicks. Kicks. Kicks. Kicks. Swinging punch. Kick. Punch.

But he retailates with punch to her face. Punch. Punch. Punch. Did he just punch her breast? Hard to miss I guess.

And why won’t that bell-like noise go away.

Block. Shot to his rib area.

Elbow to her face.

She responds with kicks, kicks, kicks, kicks, kicks, kicks, kicks to the area beneath the neck and over the pelvis. The man is overwhelmed. She’s spinning, kicking, punching, delivering elbow shots, back punches, knees, low blows. She is a wrecking machine. And then….

The music stops.

Dramatic silence.

He fell….

More dramatic silence.

Down.

She grabs his leg.

“Only one way to wreck a jobber’s career.”

He looks up at her and cries out. “Nooooooooooooo.”

The music rises!

She twists the leg.

Silence. Except for the….

Crack.

“Moooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.”

Somehow, a car drives onto the lawn. The headlights rest on the man Sarah has just crippled for life.

It is a man. He is a wearing a white body suit. With black splotches. His hands are covered by little black hooves. A bunch of phallic-looking, oh….an udder is hanging from his midsection. And there is a cow bell around his neck.

“So this is how the story of Cowman ends? Who are you?”

“I’m the Slayer.”

A man wearing a blue suit has stepped out of the car. He has short black hair and is wearing glasses.

“Oh my God!” Styles belts out. That’s Mikey Styles, by the way.

From the other side of the car, often known as the passenger side, out steps a red-headed woman. She goes by the name of Kay. Kay Fabe. Behind her is a man with a moustache. He goes by the name of Xamfir. They stare down at the remains of the jobber. They don’t say a word.

Welcome to Cloudydale.

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