Post by Press1269 on Feb 20, 2020 15:09:42 GMT
The announce team has disappeared for a brief intermission, and when the cameras shift over to the ring, there is a table in the center of the ring, with a table cloth with the PAW logo wrapping around it. Above all of this is a sign made up of hundreds of light bulbs that read 'The Box Office'. The lights dim in the arena as Joe Walsh's 'Turn to Stone' comes across the speakers, and the sign in the ring flashes to life, along with a montage on the screen above the ramp way of tickets being tacked off of a roll. The fans jeer and boo in disgust as they already know what to expect from the cocksure owner of the sign and song. The lights focus on the entrance to the ramp as Cross Recoba comes through the curtain, wearing a neatly pressed Armani suit, with a brown leather brief case in one hand, and a cane in the other. He brushes his shag haircut off his eyes and looks at the crowd, instinctively clutching the crucifix necklace that hangs from his neck. He walks to the ring with purpose, albeit slower because of the use of his cane, only looking away from the ring to answer hecklers in the crowd. He makes his way up the steps and onto the apron, and smiles at his disapproving audience before stepping through the ropes. He steps over to the desk and sets his briefcase down, grabbing up one of the three microphones sitting upon the surface. The lights remain dim everywhere else in the arena, except for directly over the ring where Cross Recoba prepares to address the PAW Universe.
CROSS RECOBA: Welcome, one and all, ingrates and trailer trash, puritans and carnival folk, to The Box Office!
The fans shower Recoba with boo's as his smug expression scans the audience.
CROSS RECOBA: That Stevie Harris is something, isn't he? He absolutely destroyed Alex Blake just a few short moments ago, hung the man by his neck. Hell, he even got a little fan participation out of the act. Yet...
Cross holds his finger up, shaking his head in disappointment.
CROSS RECOBA: The one thing that Stevie Harris hasn't been able to do is knock Press off the mountain.
The fans cheer at the mention of the PAW Heavyweight Champion, and Cross shakes his head once more, this time in disdain.
CROSS RECOBA: You see, when I posted that $50,000 to the man that could leave that man laying, I thought for sure that Stevie Harris would be the one receiving the money. I mean, look at him. He's a certifiable nut job, capable of all manner of violence and destruction. From the minute that he stepped foot into this promotion he's cost people years from their career, got DVD's banned from production, had the censorship bureau breathing down our necks. He was the perfect candidate to destroy Press' life the way that he destroyed mine, but....well there it is. BUT!
Cross' lip curls around the word.
CROSS RECOBA: He has failed to do the job. On three separate occasions he has come against this seemingly immovable object, and failed to put him away. That's not saying that Stevie hasn't left a dent. Oh, he's put his mark all over Press, with belts, brass knucks, chair shots, even with the man's own title, BUT....he didn't put him down.
Cross shakes his head 'no', the smug expression returning.
CROSS RECOBA: And that's why, my next guest, is so important. He has an opportunity to finish what Stevie started. He has the opportunity to take a battered and bruised champion, and finally deliver the killing blow that we've all been waiting for. At Heat Stroke, when that happens, that man will be $50,000 richer. Hey, he might not be motivated by the money, but god damn....it sure couldn't hurt. That man, ladies and germs, is none other than the #1 Contender, CJ O'Donnell!
When the sun rises
I wake up and chase my dreams
I won't regret when the sun sets
Cause I live MY LIFE like I'm a beast
I'm a mothafucking beast
Ayo back to make you run around the game like its a fire
I spit acid bitch like I got cyanide in my saliva
Watch me wet and heat shit up like I'm a washer and a dryer
While I beat you in your head until you tire
I'm a motherfucking beast
As the beginning notes of "Beast" begins to play, the arena goes to darkness. With the beats kicking in, "The Distinguished" slowly walks out with a huge smirk on his face as the fans welcome him with a chorus of boos throughout the arena. As O'Donnell slowly makes his way down to the ring he can not help but take in all the insults and jeers from the crowd.
I'ma motherfucking beast
I'ma, I'ma fuckin' beast
I'ma mothafuckin' beast
Fucking mothafucking beast
I'ma motherfuckin' beast (you don't want problems)
I'ma motherfuckin' beast (you don't want problems with me)
I'ma motherfuckin' beast (you don't want problems)
I'ma motherfuckin' beast (you don't want problems with me)
I'm a motherfucking beast right
Homie welcome to the east side, where the killers reside
We playing war games, please hide
Ain't no signs of peace, so fuck a peace sign, we ride
Bust shots from a car seat
Or maybe hang you 'til your neck is broke
Choke with you with a Stethoscope
That's how I kill a motherfucker in a heartbeat on a dark street
Caleb reaches the end of the entrance way and is making his way up the ring steps. Once CJ gets on the top steps he raises his arms up in the air which only receives more boos from the audience tonight.
I'ma I'ma fuckin' beast!
I'ma mothafuckin' beast
Fucking mothafucking beast
I'ma motherfuckin' beast (you don't want problems)
I'ma motherfuckin' beast (you don't want problems with me)
I'ma motherfuckin' beast (you don't want problems)
I'ma motherfuckin' beast (you don't want problems with me)
CJ enters the ring, smoothing out his black Unstable shirt, and joins Cross Recoba by the table. Recoba extends his hand, and CJ looks down at it for a minute before reaching out and taking it himself as the music fades, and the fans continue to boo. The two men release their handshake, and CJ takes one of the microphones sitting on the table as Cross steps forwards to address the less than enthusiastic crowd once again.
CROSS RECOBA: You neanderthals need to learn some fucking respect! How on earth can you boo this man! He's your NEXT PAW HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION!!
The crowds reaction explodes back against Recoba, as an 'asshole' chant starts somewhere in the back. Before you know it, the entire arena becomes one, taking up the mantra, and leaving Cross Recoba to stand there in utter dismay. He turns to CJ, and point to the crowd in disbelief, before bringing the mic back up to his lips.
CROSS RECOBA: If you idiots wouldn't mind, I'd like to talk to my guest for a minute. (Turns back to CJ) CJ O'Donnell, welcome to The Box Office.
O'Donnell offers a smile, and nods, lifting the microphone to his lips.
CJ O'DONNELL: Appreciate you having me, Mr. Recoba, and although I'm sure these people out here would love to hear all that I have to say, I'd much rather just get this show on the road, get this contract signed, and make sure that everything is ready for when I become the NEW PAW Heavyweight Champion...
Recoba beamed, nodding his head in understanding.
CROSS RECOBA: Spoken like a true champion, indeed. Well....
A look of disgust flashes across Cross' face.
CROSS RECOBA: Let's go ahead and get that big lummox out here. If nothing else, it will be entertaining watching him try to spell his own name....
The lights go dim as "Strangle Hold" begins to blare across the arena. Red strobe-lights begin to flicker all around the ring and ramp way, and finally settle on the entry way where the silhouette of the massive Press can be seen standing in the curtain. These words can be seen clearly up on the four small screens.
WITH THIS PASS
I CAN GO ANYWHERE I DAMN WELL PLEASE!
At the chorus of the song Press bursts through the curtain, and thrusts his PAW Heavyweight Championship high into the air with a grimace spread across his face. He scans the crowd as he stalks down towards the ring, and upon reaching ringside he hops up on the apron, and enters the ring by swinging his leg up and over the top rope. He stops to stare at CJ O'Donnell and Cross Recoba for a long second, before lifting the belt once more, never taking his eyes from them. The crowd goes wild, and he holds the pose for a minute, flash photography going off all around the arena. He smirks a bit, tossing the championship over his shoulder, and raises the mic he brought with him from the back.
PRESS: You know, I like that, O'Donnell. Straight and to the point. No need for long drawn out banter, or the needless words of a glorified mic stand....
Press pauses to look at Recoba, who's face goes red at the remark, fuming.
PRESS: Nah, let's just get this over with.
With that, Press slips his mic into his pocket, steps past the two men over to the table, takes one of the pens, and signs the contract without hesitation. He drops the pen, steps back away from the table, and crosses his arms over his chest, awaiting O'Donnell. CJ stares at him for a moment, and then slides over to the table as well, making sure to put it between him and the big man. He slides the contract over, lifts and reads a few lines on each page, then shrugs, and signs it himself. He throws the pen down, and stands to his full height, looking over at the Champion confidently.
CROSS RECOBA: Well, there you have it folks! We've got a date with destiny on June 9th, right here in the Pure Arena at Heat Stroke. On that night, we will finally see the dethroning of the illegitimate champion, and if we're lucky, maybe there will be just enough Irish Knowledge left to put his idiot partner back on the shelf for another three months!
Press bristled at the words, and made a step forward, fishing out his mic.
PRESS: You know, Cross, when we had our match way back when, I never actually intended to cripple your ass....it was just an inadvertent accident. But I never lost any sleep over it, because of all the people who've faced me and gotten hurt, you are the one who most deserved it. You fuc...
Out of nowhere, mid-sentence, a voice blasts through a megaphone cutting through all other noise like the white-hot focused beam of a laser.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: All right people fan out. Let’s get these walls properly measured.
All heads turn to the top of the ramp where holding the megaphone in a collared button-up dress shirt is a man few of these people recognize: Francis Ford Cuppola. He is flanked by a small group of skilled trades people bearing measuring tape, voltmeters and similar surveying equipment. Some from his entourage fan out to either side along the walls of the El Paso County Coliseum, extending their tape towards the ceiling and recording their findings on little notepads. Francis maintains the megaphone.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: Excellent.
In lockstep, barely conscious of the impact he’s made, Francis leads his little group down the ramp.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: I want the voltage accurately gauged on those plugs there.
He points out and someone drops away from the mini parade to use their voltmeter, and the rest of the Cuppola train keeps moving. In the ring, everything’s ground to a halt and Francis is noticeably confused and uncertain the closer he gets. Some in the crowd boo, and parts of Francis’ entourage seem offended. Francis scales the ring steps and looks around himself obliviously clueless. Before he steps through the ring ropes, Francis is handed a microphone he takes but clearly isn’t sure why he has it. With a shrug he steps to a confused Cross Recoba, lifts the megaphone, and the microphone in front of it and,
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: WHAT’S GOING ON HERE?
The speaker system nearly blows, everyone covers their ears and winces. Cross Recoba is nearly blasted out of the ring by the volume. Francis is bewildered, looking to the microphone with a blink before lowering it, and preferring the megaphone just as Cross Recoba had recovered.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: WHAT’S GOING ON HERE?
With apparent irritation Cross Recoba reaches to grab the megaphone out of Francis’ hand. It’s a mild scuffle where Francis’ small group is unsure of how to react, Francis himself is unsure of its purpose. His and Cross Recoba’s voices are amplified by the various voice amplification devices now close by.
CROSS RECOBA: GIVE ME THAT….
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: WHAT ARE YOU… UNHAND ME YOU…. FOOL! SWINE! THIS IS… MY… LOUD…SPEAKER.. GAH!
Recoba wrests control of the megaphone and angrily tosses it from the ring with smug satisfaction. Francis straightens his collar proudly and remembers his microphone.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: Clearly that’s why I was given this thing.
Shouts of ‘who are you’ ring out through crowd. Francis ignores that and is instead hung up on the presences in the ring, first eyeing C.J. with a frown, then Press, whose height takes him a back. He motions back to his entourage.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: Somebody measure this man. I need to know what kind of focal length we’re looking at for clean portraiture.
At once he’s obeyed, much to Press’ chagrin. The look of dismay at Francis’ presence doesn’t seem to clue him in. He inspects the turnbuckle before looking to one of his coterie.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: Dwayne, if I didn’t know better I’d say this is a wrestling ring.
Barely audible is a “that’s right, sir” which makes Francis do a double take at him. Finally, the unhappiness of the actual talented people in the ring at being subjected to this auteur’s interruption spurs someone to interject.
CROSS RECOBA: Yes… this is a wrestling ring. And you, old man, are interrupting a very important—
Francis looks back to whomever it was who responded to the name ‘Dwayne’.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: See? I told you. It IS a wrestling event.
Francis looks back to C.J., Cross, and Press apologetically.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: Now it appears there’s been a miscommunication. Earlier this week when I showed up in Purity Louisiana for the location scout of my movie: French Mime Assassins (Due out in 2017, probably December,) I was told this “WICKET” show was taking place in an AMUSEMENT PARK. Is that wrong?
Shouts of “NO”, and shakes of the head make Francis reconsider with a clueless, but amiable frown that hints at an idea being formed.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: So… you’re saying this is BOTH an Amusement Park AND a Wrestling promotion?
Return shouts of “YES” and “Get out of the Ring”. Francis nods a slow nod of realization as the consensus comes in and turns back to his team who have all gathered with him in the ring.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: Take a knee boys.
Oblivious to the fact that those in the ring may want to continue their signing, Francis’ group takes a football huddle around him as he continues with the microphone.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: Originally we came here to location scout for my movie, again: French Mime Assassins, (due out in 2017), but it appears we may be sitting on an even bigger cash cow than originally surmised. Let’s wrap this for now and rethink this project.
There’s a consensus within the circle. Like a break they all rise and begin to exit the ring. Francis looks back to the three confused men.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: Sorry for the interruption. Minor inconvenience. I’ll be back next WITCHY with a retooled focus.
Francis struggles to exit the ring, his foot caught on the ropes. He takes a last look back at those in the ring once he’s on the apron.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: Oh right, don’t forget: French Mime Assassins. 2017. Save the date.
Ignorant and oblivious, he strides back down the steps with his team and they exit the arena the way they entered. Press watches him go with a bewildered expression, never noticing Recoba slipping out on the other side of the ring to give O'Donnell plenty of room. As soon as Press returns his attention back to the center of the ring, CJ O'Donnell springs into action, leaping into the air with his knee extended to crack Press right in the face with Irish Knowledge. The blow sends the championship off of his shoulder and down to the canvas, as Press sails through the top and middle rope to the concrete floor. O'Donnell smirks, reaching down and lifting the PAW Championship off the mat. He stares at the face plate for a moment, before looking out at the crowd with a devious grin, and thrusting the championship over his head. The fans shower him with boo's, while Press gets up to his feet on the outside. Upon seeing his opponent in the ring with his belt, Press makes to jump up on the ring apron, but security is already there, keeping him at bay.
4Loco appears at ringside, and he confers a hasty message to O'Donnell, who concedes, tossing him the championship with a smirk. He then stares down at the champion, who has six other security personnel restraining him from reentering the ring. CJ shrugs, causing another flash of rage to cross Press' face, as he moves all six men with a grunt. They are able to hold him steady, however, and 4Loco offers him his championship, and then points towards the back. He finally relents, knocking the restraining hands off of him with a bristling shake. He back peddles slowly up the ramp, never taking his eyes off of O'Donnell, who returns the stare ten folds. The scene cuts to backstage.
CROSS RECOBA: Welcome, one and all, ingrates and trailer trash, puritans and carnival folk, to The Box Office!
The fans shower Recoba with boo's as his smug expression scans the audience.
CROSS RECOBA: That Stevie Harris is something, isn't he? He absolutely destroyed Alex Blake just a few short moments ago, hung the man by his neck. Hell, he even got a little fan participation out of the act. Yet...
Cross holds his finger up, shaking his head in disappointment.
CROSS RECOBA: The one thing that Stevie Harris hasn't been able to do is knock Press off the mountain.
The fans cheer at the mention of the PAW Heavyweight Champion, and Cross shakes his head once more, this time in disdain.
CROSS RECOBA: You see, when I posted that $50,000 to the man that could leave that man laying, I thought for sure that Stevie Harris would be the one receiving the money. I mean, look at him. He's a certifiable nut job, capable of all manner of violence and destruction. From the minute that he stepped foot into this promotion he's cost people years from their career, got DVD's banned from production, had the censorship bureau breathing down our necks. He was the perfect candidate to destroy Press' life the way that he destroyed mine, but....well there it is. BUT!
Cross' lip curls around the word.
CROSS RECOBA: He has failed to do the job. On three separate occasions he has come against this seemingly immovable object, and failed to put him away. That's not saying that Stevie hasn't left a dent. Oh, he's put his mark all over Press, with belts, brass knucks, chair shots, even with the man's own title, BUT....he didn't put him down.
Cross shakes his head 'no', the smug expression returning.
CROSS RECOBA: And that's why, my next guest, is so important. He has an opportunity to finish what Stevie started. He has the opportunity to take a battered and bruised champion, and finally deliver the killing blow that we've all been waiting for. At Heat Stroke, when that happens, that man will be $50,000 richer. Hey, he might not be motivated by the money, but god damn....it sure couldn't hurt. That man, ladies and germs, is none other than the #1 Contender, CJ O'Donnell!
When the sun rises
I wake up and chase my dreams
I won't regret when the sun sets
Cause I live MY LIFE like I'm a beast
I'm a mothafucking beast
Ayo back to make you run around the game like its a fire
I spit acid bitch like I got cyanide in my saliva
Watch me wet and heat shit up like I'm a washer and a dryer
While I beat you in your head until you tire
I'm a motherfucking beast
As the beginning notes of "Beast" begins to play, the arena goes to darkness. With the beats kicking in, "The Distinguished" slowly walks out with a huge smirk on his face as the fans welcome him with a chorus of boos throughout the arena. As O'Donnell slowly makes his way down to the ring he can not help but take in all the insults and jeers from the crowd.
I'ma motherfucking beast
I'ma, I'ma fuckin' beast
I'ma mothafuckin' beast
Fucking mothafucking beast
I'ma motherfuckin' beast (you don't want problems)
I'ma motherfuckin' beast (you don't want problems with me)
I'ma motherfuckin' beast (you don't want problems)
I'ma motherfuckin' beast (you don't want problems with me)
I'm a motherfucking beast right
Homie welcome to the east side, where the killers reside
We playing war games, please hide
Ain't no signs of peace, so fuck a peace sign, we ride
Bust shots from a car seat
Or maybe hang you 'til your neck is broke
Choke with you with a Stethoscope
That's how I kill a motherfucker in a heartbeat on a dark street
Caleb reaches the end of the entrance way and is making his way up the ring steps. Once CJ gets on the top steps he raises his arms up in the air which only receives more boos from the audience tonight.
I'ma I'ma fuckin' beast!
I'ma mothafuckin' beast
Fucking mothafucking beast
I'ma motherfuckin' beast (you don't want problems)
I'ma motherfuckin' beast (you don't want problems with me)
I'ma motherfuckin' beast (you don't want problems)
I'ma motherfuckin' beast (you don't want problems with me)
CJ enters the ring, smoothing out his black Unstable shirt, and joins Cross Recoba by the table. Recoba extends his hand, and CJ looks down at it for a minute before reaching out and taking it himself as the music fades, and the fans continue to boo. The two men release their handshake, and CJ takes one of the microphones sitting on the table as Cross steps forwards to address the less than enthusiastic crowd once again.
CROSS RECOBA: You neanderthals need to learn some fucking respect! How on earth can you boo this man! He's your NEXT PAW HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION!!
The crowds reaction explodes back against Recoba, as an 'asshole' chant starts somewhere in the back. Before you know it, the entire arena becomes one, taking up the mantra, and leaving Cross Recoba to stand there in utter dismay. He turns to CJ, and point to the crowd in disbelief, before bringing the mic back up to his lips.
CROSS RECOBA: If you idiots wouldn't mind, I'd like to talk to my guest for a minute. (Turns back to CJ) CJ O'Donnell, welcome to The Box Office.
O'Donnell offers a smile, and nods, lifting the microphone to his lips.
CJ O'DONNELL: Appreciate you having me, Mr. Recoba, and although I'm sure these people out here would love to hear all that I have to say, I'd much rather just get this show on the road, get this contract signed, and make sure that everything is ready for when I become the NEW PAW Heavyweight Champion...
Recoba beamed, nodding his head in understanding.
CROSS RECOBA: Spoken like a true champion, indeed. Well....
A look of disgust flashes across Cross' face.
CROSS RECOBA: Let's go ahead and get that big lummox out here. If nothing else, it will be entertaining watching him try to spell his own name....
The lights go dim as "Strangle Hold" begins to blare across the arena. Red strobe-lights begin to flicker all around the ring and ramp way, and finally settle on the entry way where the silhouette of the massive Press can be seen standing in the curtain. These words can be seen clearly up on the four small screens.
WITH THIS PASS
I CAN GO ANYWHERE I DAMN WELL PLEASE!
At the chorus of the song Press bursts through the curtain, and thrusts his PAW Heavyweight Championship high into the air with a grimace spread across his face. He scans the crowd as he stalks down towards the ring, and upon reaching ringside he hops up on the apron, and enters the ring by swinging his leg up and over the top rope. He stops to stare at CJ O'Donnell and Cross Recoba for a long second, before lifting the belt once more, never taking his eyes from them. The crowd goes wild, and he holds the pose for a minute, flash photography going off all around the arena. He smirks a bit, tossing the championship over his shoulder, and raises the mic he brought with him from the back.
PRESS: You know, I like that, O'Donnell. Straight and to the point. No need for long drawn out banter, or the needless words of a glorified mic stand....
Press pauses to look at Recoba, who's face goes red at the remark, fuming.
PRESS: Nah, let's just get this over with.
With that, Press slips his mic into his pocket, steps past the two men over to the table, takes one of the pens, and signs the contract without hesitation. He drops the pen, steps back away from the table, and crosses his arms over his chest, awaiting O'Donnell. CJ stares at him for a moment, and then slides over to the table as well, making sure to put it between him and the big man. He slides the contract over, lifts and reads a few lines on each page, then shrugs, and signs it himself. He throws the pen down, and stands to his full height, looking over at the Champion confidently.
CROSS RECOBA: Well, there you have it folks! We've got a date with destiny on June 9th, right here in the Pure Arena at Heat Stroke. On that night, we will finally see the dethroning of the illegitimate champion, and if we're lucky, maybe there will be just enough Irish Knowledge left to put his idiot partner back on the shelf for another three months!
Press bristled at the words, and made a step forward, fishing out his mic.
PRESS: You know, Cross, when we had our match way back when, I never actually intended to cripple your ass....it was just an inadvertent accident. But I never lost any sleep over it, because of all the people who've faced me and gotten hurt, you are the one who most deserved it. You fuc...
Out of nowhere, mid-sentence, a voice blasts through a megaphone cutting through all other noise like the white-hot focused beam of a laser.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: All right people fan out. Let’s get these walls properly measured.
All heads turn to the top of the ramp where holding the megaphone in a collared button-up dress shirt is a man few of these people recognize: Francis Ford Cuppola. He is flanked by a small group of skilled trades people bearing measuring tape, voltmeters and similar surveying equipment. Some from his entourage fan out to either side along the walls of the El Paso County Coliseum, extending their tape towards the ceiling and recording their findings on little notepads. Francis maintains the megaphone.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: Excellent.
In lockstep, barely conscious of the impact he’s made, Francis leads his little group down the ramp.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: I want the voltage accurately gauged on those plugs there.
He points out and someone drops away from the mini parade to use their voltmeter, and the rest of the Cuppola train keeps moving. In the ring, everything’s ground to a halt and Francis is noticeably confused and uncertain the closer he gets. Some in the crowd boo, and parts of Francis’ entourage seem offended. Francis scales the ring steps and looks around himself obliviously clueless. Before he steps through the ring ropes, Francis is handed a microphone he takes but clearly isn’t sure why he has it. With a shrug he steps to a confused Cross Recoba, lifts the megaphone, and the microphone in front of it and,
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: WHAT’S GOING ON HERE?
The speaker system nearly blows, everyone covers their ears and winces. Cross Recoba is nearly blasted out of the ring by the volume. Francis is bewildered, looking to the microphone with a blink before lowering it, and preferring the megaphone just as Cross Recoba had recovered.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: WHAT’S GOING ON HERE?
With apparent irritation Cross Recoba reaches to grab the megaphone out of Francis’ hand. It’s a mild scuffle where Francis’ small group is unsure of how to react, Francis himself is unsure of its purpose. His and Cross Recoba’s voices are amplified by the various voice amplification devices now close by.
CROSS RECOBA: GIVE ME THAT….
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: WHAT ARE YOU… UNHAND ME YOU…. FOOL! SWINE! THIS IS… MY… LOUD…SPEAKER.. GAH!
Recoba wrests control of the megaphone and angrily tosses it from the ring with smug satisfaction. Francis straightens his collar proudly and remembers his microphone.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: Clearly that’s why I was given this thing.
Shouts of ‘who are you’ ring out through crowd. Francis ignores that and is instead hung up on the presences in the ring, first eyeing C.J. with a frown, then Press, whose height takes him a back. He motions back to his entourage.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: Somebody measure this man. I need to know what kind of focal length we’re looking at for clean portraiture.
At once he’s obeyed, much to Press’ chagrin. The look of dismay at Francis’ presence doesn’t seem to clue him in. He inspects the turnbuckle before looking to one of his coterie.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: Dwayne, if I didn’t know better I’d say this is a wrestling ring.
Barely audible is a “that’s right, sir” which makes Francis do a double take at him. Finally, the unhappiness of the actual talented people in the ring at being subjected to this auteur’s interruption spurs someone to interject.
CROSS RECOBA: Yes… this is a wrestling ring. And you, old man, are interrupting a very important—
Francis looks back to whomever it was who responded to the name ‘Dwayne’.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: See? I told you. It IS a wrestling event.
Francis looks back to C.J., Cross, and Press apologetically.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: Now it appears there’s been a miscommunication. Earlier this week when I showed up in Purity Louisiana for the location scout of my movie: French Mime Assassins (Due out in 2017, probably December,) I was told this “WICKET” show was taking place in an AMUSEMENT PARK. Is that wrong?
Shouts of “NO”, and shakes of the head make Francis reconsider with a clueless, but amiable frown that hints at an idea being formed.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: So… you’re saying this is BOTH an Amusement Park AND a Wrestling promotion?
Return shouts of “YES” and “Get out of the Ring”. Francis nods a slow nod of realization as the consensus comes in and turns back to his team who have all gathered with him in the ring.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: Take a knee boys.
Oblivious to the fact that those in the ring may want to continue their signing, Francis’ group takes a football huddle around him as he continues with the microphone.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: Originally we came here to location scout for my movie, again: French Mime Assassins, (due out in 2017), but it appears we may be sitting on an even bigger cash cow than originally surmised. Let’s wrap this for now and rethink this project.
There’s a consensus within the circle. Like a break they all rise and begin to exit the ring. Francis looks back to the three confused men.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: Sorry for the interruption. Minor inconvenience. I’ll be back next WITCHY with a retooled focus.
Francis struggles to exit the ring, his foot caught on the ropes. He takes a last look back at those in the ring once he’s on the apron.
FRANCIS FORD CUPPOLA: Oh right, don’t forget: French Mime Assassins. 2017. Save the date.
Ignorant and oblivious, he strides back down the steps with his team and they exit the arena the way they entered. Press watches him go with a bewildered expression, never noticing Recoba slipping out on the other side of the ring to give O'Donnell plenty of room. As soon as Press returns his attention back to the center of the ring, CJ O'Donnell springs into action, leaping into the air with his knee extended to crack Press right in the face with Irish Knowledge. The blow sends the championship off of his shoulder and down to the canvas, as Press sails through the top and middle rope to the concrete floor. O'Donnell smirks, reaching down and lifting the PAW Championship off the mat. He stares at the face plate for a moment, before looking out at the crowd with a devious grin, and thrusting the championship over his head. The fans shower him with boo's, while Press gets up to his feet on the outside. Upon seeing his opponent in the ring with his belt, Press makes to jump up on the ring apron, but security is already there, keeping him at bay.
4Loco appears at ringside, and he confers a hasty message to O'Donnell, who concedes, tossing him the championship with a smirk. He then stares down at the champion, who has six other security personnel restraining him from reentering the ring. CJ shrugs, causing another flash of rage to cross Press' face, as he moves all six men with a grunt. They are able to hold him steady, however, and 4Loco offers him his championship, and then points towards the back. He finally relents, knocking the restraining hands off of him with a bristling shake. He back peddles slowly up the ramp, never taking his eyes off of O'Donnell, who returns the stare ten folds. The scene cuts to backstage.