Post by @xL on Jan 8, 2007 18:55:08 GMT -5
:: Monday, January 8th, 2007 - 1:31 p.m. ::
~ Location: The Middle of Nowhere... ~
[The Middle of Nowhere. Axl VanHalen's private estate, in his birthplace of Nowhere, Oklahoma. We fade into Axl's den, where Axl's munching away on a bag of Muncheritos, while Tifa, his new personal assistant, vaccums behind his sofa. Suddenly, she switches the cleaner off, and turns toward Axl.]
Tifa: Dammit! I can't believe you suckered me into this! Once I found out you weren't David Bowie, I should have left your @ss stranded by the nursing home to drive your OWN d@mn limo!
Axl: Hey babe, how was I supposed to know you thought I was this 'David Bowie' guy?
Tifa: Oh, uhm, gee, lemme think. Maybe the time when I shouted 'Oh, Oh, don't stop DAVIDE BOWIE!!! That's the spot DAVID BOWIE!!!'
Axl: Well... I just thought David Bowie was your boyfriend's name. You'd be surprised at how many girls I've screwed on tour that were... well, let's just say 'not exactly single'.
Tifa: I would be?
Axl: Meh. I'll refrain from lowering myself to your level. And by the way, I could be just as pissed at you about hiding the fact that that place you got me to pull a gig at wasn't even a nightclub! It's was a RETIREMENT VILLAGE!!!
Tifa: Axl. Why do you think it's CALLED Nowhere Retirement Village?
Axl: Well... most of the good club names are already taken. It could happen...
Tifa: JESUS CHRIST!!! Axl, half the people in that place were less than a week away from death, and the other half couldn't remember what they'd eaten for lunch!
Axl: So? Neither can I. And I just ate...
Tifa: UGGHH!!! Axl, you're unbearable! You're NOT David Bowie, you've got the IQ of a field mouse, you're singing? TERRIBLE. And if I ever see you compete in the ring, I'm sure it would match your singing just fine! There's absolutely NOTHING charming about you, NOTHING that is even CLOSE to respectable. You're a good for nothing, low down, low life, son-of-a-
[Suddenly, Axl grabs Tifa by the hair, reels her in, and plants a big kiss right on her mouth. At first, she fights it... but before very long, she wraps her arms around him and enjoys it. Axl then looks into Tifa's eyes... and whispers.]
Axl: Shhh. Oh baby, just you shut your mouth.
Tifa: *sigh* Well Axl... looks like I'm going to be with you for awhile. I just can't fight you. I'm yours.
Axl: Babe... could you go run my bath?
Tifa: You mean, you want to take a bath with me?
Axl: ... No... What kinda sicko do ya take me for? I mean MY bath.
Tifa: Oh... sure. Ok. *walks off towards the bathroom*
Axl: And make sure it's not too warm and not too cold! And put in two and a half cups of bubble bath! And my rubber ducky!
Tifa: *mumbling under her breath* Razafrackin motherfu-
Axl: What was that, babe?
Tifa: Uhm... I said anything for you, dear!
Axl: Ah, that's a good personal assistant. ... Mmm, personal assistant. That's a good idea you had, Axl. Thank you Axl, you're the man. No, YOU'RE the man Axl! Heheheh.
[Axl turns toward the camera, placing the Muncheritos on the sofa to the side, and kicking his feet up on the glass table. He reaches behind the couch... and pulls out a stereo. He places it on the table, and presses play. "Empire", by Queensryche kicks on. Axl folds his arms behind his head, and closes his eyes... as he leans back, and smiles. That smirky, Axl smile...]
Axl: They say you just can't beat the classics... And sometimes, that's true. Like, for example, in the case of good metal. This stuff right here? 80's hair metal... well, it's the only way to rock. It's the music I've devoted my life to. But really... in the end, classic metal is the ONLY exception when it comes to new school vs old school. In most cases, let's face it, you just can't beat the new kid on the block. And BoB... *Axl opens his eyes and stares directly into the camera, pulling his legs off the table* I'M the new kid on your block. Look at me! I'm 202 pounds, 5 foot 5, and I'm leaner than any man, OR woman on this roster. Not to mention cuter...
Axl: Yeah, I use make-up. Yeah, I use lipstick. Yeah, I pluck my eyebrows, put a little eyeliner on, and LOVE hotpink. But does that make me a sissy? HELL NO! I'm Metal, b!tch, and I ain't changin' for NOBODY! And every last one of you are afraid of that very fact. Why? Because you're all a bunch of old, washed-up geezers whose best days are behind 'em, and the only hope you have of clutching onto that top spot is by ridding the young, up and coming talent... by any means neccesary. You're afraid. Of my agility. Of my finesse. Of my cute, round, tight buttocks. And so, what do you do? What do all 16 of you in the Only World Title Battle Royale do? You beggg, you PLEAD for Big Boss to stick me in with 15 jobbers in some second rate Swiss Army belt Royale, just so I can't get a crack at that big gold belt! You know it, the fans know it, and most importantly... I know it.
Axl: But... since I'm SUCH a generous guy, I'll tell ya what I'm gonna do. I'll go down the list of participants in this Royale, and give each and every one of you my opinion on them. Why? Because if I'm not walking into this thing, we may as well know who has a chance of walking out as the number one seed.
Axl: Let's start off with Atomo. Positives: Guy's made of metal. Not HAIR Metal, mind you, but you've got to believe it would be a tad hard to toss him over the top rope. Other than that... he has a nice antennae. Probably good for catching the local rock station... Wonder if it gets good reception. / Negatives: THE GUY'S A FVCKING ROBOT!!! Who the FVCK lets a ROBOT into a wrestling organization?!?!?! Hell, if this was an ordinary match, you'd basically just have to trip him, and get the 1... 2... 3. And the Pop-Up Ads title reign? Pathetic. If one of my good buddies, by the name of Reeve Gordon, would have had a crack at that title when he and his sWo buds were here, trust me. That reign would've been cut in HALF. / Advice for Atomo: Let me put it in terms he can understand; UNIT-ATOMO. ONE-WORD-OF-ADVICE. QUIT. UNIT-VAN-HALEN-IS-SURE-UNIT-TIFA-COULD-USE-A-NEW-VACCUM-CLEANER. AND-LET'S-FACE-IT. YOU-SUCK.
Axl: And then we have Coma... Positives: ... Uh... Well... He'd make a good lyricist for most current rock bands, that's for sure. Compared to that crap, the things he says are just about as coherent as anything I could think of. As far as the Royale's concerned though... well, some people like to root for the underdog. He's definitely got that covered... / Negatives: One word: Poink. I mean, come on, do ANY of you take this guy seriously? He can't compose a single comprehensible sentence... and babe, the cat's way out, like, he's sooo totally gnarly. He sooo reeks of UN-radical-ocity, ya know man? Totally. / Advice for Coma: Again, let me phrase this so you can understand what I'm about to say, Coma. Plain and simple. ... Narf. And let's face it, that explanation makes about as much sense as anything Coma's ever said. On to the next has-been...
Axl: Douja. Douja... there are no positives about you. For one thing, you're probably the kind that's into that horrible rap crap. And even if you're not, you're always strung out on some sort of drug, so tossing your carcass from the Royale would be easier than taking candy from a 17 year old... and then cleverly tempting that same 17 year old into your bedroom in exchange for said candy. ... Not that I'd EVER think of doing such a thing... again ... And Douja, the fact that you've been in BoB longer than even most of the other prunes in the geezer fest that is the OWTTM Battle Royale... it just goes to show that you're the LEAST likely to walk out as the number one seed. Well... next to Coma. And Atomo. And... / Advice for Douja: Once more, allow me to give you some advice in your language. Ahem... Yo, yo, yo, yo, yo, yo, YO Dawg. G, you so old, your WRINKLES got wrinkles. Dawg, you so old, when God said 'let there be light', you rolled up to him with a blunt, reached into yo pocket, and said, 'Naw, don't worry G, got ya covered'. Homey, you so old... damn, you just old! Now belie' dat, playa'! Holla, holla!
Axl: Sheesh, I hope I never have to do THAT again... Yech, I think I've got a bad taste in my mouth. Tastes like smoke and... what's that word... stank? Anyway... *reaches into his pocket and pulls out a list, skimming it for a bit* Let's see who else we got... Hallucination Boy... Who? ... Pigeon? What about Pigeon... The Sanfrancisco GIANT?! Who's in charge of NAMING these people? And furthermore, why are they in the OWTTM Royale? They're not 'legends', and they're DEFINITELY not the future of this business... Studnuts was right about one thing, by the way. Kamikaze Ken? I'd be surprised if he even makes it outside of the dressing room without losing an arm or a leg. Pete Trable? Babe... there's so many words I could say to you. But I'll sum it up in three;
Axl: Rap...
Axl: Is...
Axl: CRAP.
Axl: And if you think you have an Eminem fan's chance in a Motley Crue concert of walking out the winner of THIS Battle Royale? Well... keep dreaming. I'll say it, one more time, so you can understand me; Dun-dun-dun-nu-nu-nu-nu, dun-dun-dun-nu-nu-nu-nu, You've got;
Axl: No-chance-baby.
Axl: No-chance-baby.
Axl: Word... to your mother.
Axl: Sir Zeno. Positives: ... Next question, please. / Negatives: Everything. Absolutely everything. WHY this guy is in the OWTTM Royale... God can only know. He's a waste of space, and furthermore- ... he dresses funny. / Advice: Go back to whatever crummy planet you came from, ya d@mn alien!!! You probably don't even have a green card...
Axl: Then we have a washing machine. Oops, excuse me, "Unit 5". Cooome ON people. You'd rather see a washing machine in the middle of the ring, tossing more laundry around than he does combatants... than me? I'm beautiful! I'm gorgeous! I'm radiant! I'm... I'm... I'm HUMAN!!! And this... this UNIT 5?! He's a JOKE!!! Why, for God's mother-fvckin' sake, would ANYONE rather see that clunky old piece of scrap metal over the Metal God HIMSELF, Axl VanHalen? / Advice for Unit 5: ... You expect me to give advice to something that DOESN'T EVEN HAVE A GODDAMN MOUTH?! As he would say; *rumble, rumble, go fvck yourself*
Axl: Jim... Massive Man... why don't you two guys patch up your differences? That way, you two can go after the tag titles, and leave the REAL gold to the REAL superstars. You may be old, but you're FAR from legends. Which brings me to the eventual Final Four. Kurt Angel. Seth and Steve. And of course... Death. First off, Kurt. Mr. Angel... you should have stayed up in heaven. Where you belong. Because the only thing worse than a bunch of guys that are on the verge of becoming worm food... is a guy who died, and then had the utter nerve to come BACK from the dead, just so he could ruin BoB for those young bucks whose time it truly is. Kurt... you sicken me. You may have been where it was... but babe? I'M where it's at. You're the past, I'm the future, time to move on. Oh, and by the way. I've heard the rumors. I go to the online wrestling sites, and babe, I know your secret. All those times you were hurt? So hurt it KILLED you? I know how you came back, to not only LIVE... but to COMPETE. Kurt... you use DRUGS, don't you?! ADMIT IT. The rumor? It's real... it's D@MN real.
Axl: Then we have Seth and Steve. The iAd, if ya wheel. Seth... you're nothing more than a rip-off. I know YOU'RE secret too! Admit it! You ripped off my bud Reeve Gordon! The trenchcoat! The... uh... THE TRENCHCOAT! And... uhm... not to mention the fact that he wears SUNGLASSES!!! Ring a bell?! ... Yeah, I know, kind of a stretch... And speaking of stretching... Studnuts. You think you're cool just because you've got girls bending over backwards for ya? Well, trust me babe, I've got girls ALLLL over me. Girls flock to me like Nurse Heidi on SMP! So babe, get over yourself. As soon as all of your bimbos get even the smallest glance at the leader of the Rock-O-Lution? They'll ditch your wrinkled old @ss and come to where the REAL action is. To paraphrase David Lee Roth; When the girls come to Axl? It's Just Like Livin' in Paradise. And without the girls, Steve-o? You ain't NOTHIN', babe. You're lousy in the ring, on the mic, and once the girls see how lousy you are in the sack compared to yours truly? Kiss your spot at the top of the heap adios!
Axl: In fact, there's not a man on the roster that can even compare to my greatness. So, what does that mean for the Royale? Who could possibly walk out the victor? Well, when man fails... Death doesn't. That's right. I'm rooting for none other than the Grim Reaper himself. The way I see it, this Sunday, there's 15 men who would do themselves good if they didn't listen to Blue Oyster Cult, and instead, heeded my words of advice; Fear the Reaper. Death, dude, my only words advice for you? Touch... and toss. All of your opponents this Sunday are on the verge of... well... you. So really, all you'd be doing is helping them along. Sorta like giving them a bit of a nudge on the path they've already almost completed anyway. Touch of Death to 15 washed up hacks, toss them over the top like a pile of dirty laundry, and Death, you'll be in that tournament. You deserve it, because let's face it. YOU'RE the guy who gets rid of all of the old jack-offs that flood this sport like the plague. When wrestlers are past their prime and don't know when to hang up the boots, who do we turn to do what the Big Boss is afraid to do? YOU! Death... this Sunday? Do your worst. And I may even think of doing a cover of "Them Bones" for ya... you'd totally kick @ss coming out to my cut. Get together with me later, we'll talk.
Tifa: Ok Axl, your bath's ready. I have the bubble bath in and rubber ducky. <mumbling>Ya big baby...</mumbling>
[Axl raises from the sofa, smiling to himself. He lifts up both hands in the universal 'Rock On' hand gesture, sticking out his tounge for the camera, before walking toward the bathroom.]
Axl: Look out, rubber ducky, here I come! Hmm... I wonder if anyone's ever written a song about a rubber ducky... sounds like some grade A Metal material to me...
- rock on... -