Post by Press1269 on Nov 15, 2016 23:30:43 GMT
Econo Lodge
Philadelphia, PA
11/15/2016
The scene opens to SOB standing in the parking lot of his latest accommodations, an Econo Lodge near the Philadelphia Airport. The camera work is shaky, and the surly black man’s face shows that he is aware of it.
“Hold that god damn thing straight, Cracka, or I’m not going to give you this ten dollars!”
A voice off camera. “I can’t help it, sir. I’ve got PTSD, and I get the shakes sometimes.”
SOB glares ate whoever it is operating the camera, and then looks around his surroundings for something to stabilize the situation. He ‘Hrmphs’ as he stalks over to a stack of boxes set beside the dumpster, and snatches them up, bringing them back over to in front of the camera. He stacks them up, and then steps back to where he’s more in frame.
“Now, rest your arms on those boxes, and hold the thing steady!”
Apparently the person complies, as the camera stabilizes for the most part, still the occasional disorientation of a random shake from time to time. SOB just shakes his head in disgust, before finally addressing his audience.
“You know what, AWE, this is some bullshit. You waste all this money on Busta Ass Cracka’s like Nate Hollis, but leave half your roster out here to fend for themselves. Get me somebody that knows what they’re doing, damn it!”
SOB blows out a long breath before continuing, trying to gain his calm.
“I should have known that I would start a trend. Everybody wanna follow the black man. I tell the world that I’m about to bust up this muthafucka, Zack Fantana, and errbody else gets the same idea. Well let me tell you something, you pariah sacks of shit! Best get to stepping off my bandwagon, cause Zack Fantana is mine!
He points at the camera, violence in his eyes.
“I’m talking to you, Benny Stevens, you cross dressing weirdo! Everybody in this mutherfucka’s been playing around with letters like its fucking Sesame Street. Zack Fantana brings us the letter ‘L’, while Benny brings us the letter ‘N’, acting like these two bitches want to be Elmo or something. Well call me Snuffaluffagus muthafucka, and for obvious reasons.”
SOB makes the sign of an elephant’s trunk down below his waist, and turns it into an upturned bird.
“Then there’s Kimitsu Zombie, walking around here talking about being snakes and mongooses, and shit. Then she goes one better, and talks about being a gorilla in the mist, which I’m pretty fucking sure was directed at me.”
His eyes go wide in bewilderment.
“Bitch, is you serious? Well god damn, it’s pretty fucking obvious this Bukakke Warrior has been watching her Animal Planet. This bitch don’t need a shot at the title, she needs somebody to take her ignorant ass to the zoo. Maybe she’ll do us all a favor and fall into the tiger pit. That would save me from having to put her rabid ass down.”
SOB shakes his head, but trudges on.
“And then there’s Amis Shelton, one more cracka who put’s fuckin’ in his name. I mean, between you and Benny Stevens I don’t know which one is more ridiculous. You BFW boys run around here talking about the shit you used to do in that place like anybody gives a damn. Place has been dead and gone for months now, yet you guys can’t seem to let it go. Well let me clue you in on something, if BFW stands for Bitch Fudgepacking Whores, then you two sumbitches need to put aside your differences, and settle into that love affair you obviously got going on. Ye dig?”
SOB grins devilishly.
“You two bastards talking about lowering your standards to my level. The only thing you’ve lowered is your head when you’re sucking each other off. So keep on spitting that bullshit, cause I got no problems cramming it right back down your throat. Kind of like Benny did. heh-heh”
SOB’s scowl returns.
“Sure, I could keep going down the list, but what the fuck does it matter. I’m not here to become the next Resilience Champion. I’m not here to play patty cake with 9 other muthafucka’s who can’t figure their way out of a fucking paper bag, let alone get past their own egos. While all you sumbitches are out here running your mouths about how great you are, ole Samuel Orville Buchanan has made his mind up. He has one purpose, and one purpose only, and that’s to stomp Zack Fantana’s face in and make sure he doesn’t leave this thing the champion.”
SOB points at the camera gain.
“And for all you busta ass cracka’s that can’t seem to understand that, then keep on chipping away at your own claim to fame, and leave me to mine. But I swear to all that’s holy, if you get in my way, if you tread on my goal, I will BEAT YO ASS!”
SOB’s nostrils flare at the threat.
“Zack Fantana, your god damn ass must be jealous of your mouth with all the shit that’s been falling out of it lately. I hope you still have that high opinion of yourself come Sunday, cause that’s going to make snatching it out from under you that much sweeter. And I promise you this, once you’re gone, it’s still not about winning that title. It’s about shoving boo-boo’s, toothpaste, and any other ridiculous fucking thing right up all of your cracka assses!”
Lip curl.
“It’s like I said before. I got patience. And when the time is right, maybe I’ll think about taking hold of that championship, and when that day comes my little cracklings……you’ll get your chance to find out just how much of an SOB I really am.”
SOB tosses a ten dollar bill into the street, and a homeless man rushes into view of the camera to snatch it up as he grabs the device, and it cuts to black.