A Prelude to…Into the Parsonsverse: ”Into a New Era”
Jul 12, 2019 1:05:55 GMT -5
via mobile
JasonCash, Union Jack, and 1 more like this
Post by Deleted on Jul 12, 2019 1:05:55 GMT -5
A Prelude to…Into the Parsonsverse: ”Into a New Era”
In the streets of Manchester, a light fog hazed the sun, creating individual beams of light. Each seemingly intent on skewering the individual nerves held within his eyes.
Shielding his sensitive retinas from the assault of the sun, his hand does little other than allow him a brief view of his surroundings.
Asphalt, concrete, brick and mortar, did he smell garbage? He was in an alley. But where? And why?
Producing a pair of black RayBan’s, one problem was taken care of, now the questions would have time to set in.
They had ‘won’, hadn’t they? He and Marcus Anderson had played a part in sending Armand Von Krauss to prison, why was he here?
He should be off celebrating still, Vegas, Morocco, Jamaica, Ibiza…but surely not here.
What had happened? What catastrophic event could have brought this to pass? What apocalyptic outcome could have possibly brought him here?
Through the fog of confusion, the infinite possibilities of reality passed before him. All of them pointed to one event, the night [Name Redacted] blinded him.
It was there that things went awry. The night, one person said, “I have nothing else going on, I guess he’s blind now.”
His mind ached, memories he hadn’t actually formed were now doing their best to supplant themselves into his psyche. He went to a knee, a shaking hand running it’s way to the pills in his breast pocket.
Chewing and gulping one back quickly, he stood up, brushed the dirt off the knee of his charcoal pinstripe pants, checked his shoes and, satisfied with their shine; continued down the alley.
A skinny orange tabby hunting for scraps runs past, and he stops, something was wrong. Very wrong.
It wasn’t déjà vu, it was something far far worse.
Every cliché in the book said that cat was supposed to be solid black, maybe even have a descriptor like ‘dark as midnight’. Yet, there it was, it’s head buried into a discarded Big Mac, fucking orange.
Slipping his hand inside his jacket a second time, he produces a late model iPhone. Glancing at the wallpaper, now he was sure.
Something was wrong, very wrong.
He was at his lowest here, figuratively and literally. Something had crushed him. Watching before rounding the bend, there he was…
Alone, he was still lean and at least somewhat muscled. Manchester wasn’t Las Vegas, but the sun had done an adequate job maintaining his tan, at least this one wasn’t a total write off. Rebuilding him wouldn’t be a complete overhaul. There might be hope after all.
Sprawled out in the sun on a freshly discarded refrigerator box, he hadn’t a care in the world. Judging from his thick beard and oily hair, it had been at least a few weeks since ‘ground zero’; the moment he had given up.
Though disappointed by what the man before him had become, he would give credit where credit was due. He drank from a rather ingenious invention.
Buying two forty ounce Colt 45’s, and a bag of ice. The rest was desperation and ingenuity.
The first step was to separate the bag into two sections laying out some of the ice that wouldn’t be needed to keep cool, some he drank.
The rest saw a Colt 45 slammed into it and then concealed in a paper bag. Ladies and gentlemen, we present for your approval; the ghetto cooler, handheld edition.
Not stepping forward; frustration gets the best of our voyeur, he lowers his voice an octave or two as he asks from the shadows, “Why are you here?”
If he had chosen to wait for his answer, he would have waited until eternity.
Rubbing his left hand through his beard, it was possible Captain Down on His Luck didn’t hear him. He’d try again, “Hey, jinglenuts…I asked you a question. Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be somewhere better than this?”
Barely looking up, the ’sunbather’ practically growled, “‘ The fuck are you? Get outta here while the getting’s good.”
Normally, that kind of warning was enough to allow a person to understand their company wasn’t wanted. ”Why are you here?” He asked again, even more annoyed than before.
Wiping a little sweat from his brow, instinctively ensuring his eyepatch is secure. ”Look you drippy fuckstain…” He caught himself, relaxing slightly. ”I am in a generous mood…” Spreading his arms wide, he feigned benevolence. “…you may gather the fucks I give about you asking me the same motherfucking question repeatedly AND as you can see…” Gesturing around for a second time at the glorious sun drenched and piss soaked alley that spread before him. “…everything’s going great here. So how about you…”
Cutting him off, one out of every ten had a gun, caution was necessary. ”Gather up my nuts before they realize what I’m fucking with?” Allowing time for the groaning pile of Parsons before him to sit up properly, he added, “Is that what you were going to say?”
Shielding his lone eye from the sun, a disheveled Chris Parsons has clearly seen better days. Looking around for the source of the voice, he throws a fresh line out, ”Some kinda fanboy huh?” Laughing as he partially sat up with a pained groan. “No autographs, and If I finish getting up…”
Cutting him off a second time; if he had a gun, by now he would said some lame ass troupe like ’pop a cap in your ass’, or something equally ridiculous. Since the former RSW mainstay seemed to be trying to intimidate him into leaving, he was fairly convinced of his relative safety. “Save it. Look you’re my seventh stop today, there’s six more possibles and I ain’t got all fucking day. Can we speed this up so everyone reading stays interested?” He sighed heavily, walking into Parsons’ field of vision. “This goes a lot quicker if you just show me your ass.”
The calm manner in which he continued to bask to see his ass aside, this wasn’t supposed to be possible, yet there he stood.
His hair was short and mostly grey, what little of the brown he’d known his whole life that remained would be gone within a year or two. A thick beard hangs an inch or so below his chin. At roughly sixty years old, he was in phenomenal physical shape.
Removing the RayBans just for a few moments they locked eye to eyes for the first time.
The Chris Parsons we’ve all known and loved these past nine years or so is the first to break the silence, “Who, the fuck, are you?”
Smirking, his lips hidden behind the grey mane of an old lion. There was an intensity held in those Serpentine green eyes that Parsons knew all too well as the old man answered, “Come on, you’re not that drunk. You know exactly who the fuck I am.”
Tilting his head to the side, the one eyed original that was once known as Wrestling’s Viagra (Patent Pending) was in a state of disbelief, “Not possible, even for me! I’m self-aware, I break the fourth wall, I include random things because I can and generally seem to get away with whatever I want, but even I can’t do this!”
The younger, disheveled Current RSW Minority Shareholder’s protests were silenced with a confidence that only age brings, “Not until today you couldn’t. My name is Christopher W. Parsons. I was warped from a generic heel into some sort of self aware satirical wise ass; and for the past thirty six years I have been the one and only, ”The Nightmare” Chris Parsons...”
“I’m pretty sure you know the rest…”
At that, a familiar melody plays softly. The voice of an angel joins in in time…Whitney Houston
If I should stay, I would only be in your way
…I made the careers of a bunch of people. Fell in Love, didn’t tell her. Saved the promotion, and then I saved the promotion again, and again, and again, and again, and again.”
So I'll go, but I know
Parsons is shown as foil to Morcant Davis in the early days of the company, then Rob Riot, Hunter Valentyne, Shane Mitchell and even [Name Redacted] himself! Sighing once again, he adds…
I'll think of you every step of the way
Leaving [Name Redacted] on the screen just a moment longer than the rest.
And I will always love you…
”And I also did this…”
Things change to an old clip of Parsons from early in his career. In the red, white and black ring of Xtreme Wrestling Zone, Parsons hands Devin Stone a championship belt, having orchestrated his rise to the title to win a bet.
I will always love you
Streamers fill the air, Parsons raises Stone’s hand improbably in victory, fans cheer in a mixture of shock and anticipation of Ashton Kutcher coming out to ’Punk’ them. But it happened…
You, my darling you, hm
”I don’t like to talk about that…” Moving on quickly a series of hardly changing pictures glosses over some of the humble beginnings.
Bittersweet memories
Parsons, clad in old blue jeans and a black T.I.B. Shirt and a Santa hat, as each image changes all that differs is the colour of the hat as it shifts from red to pink to a sequinned purple.
”I’ve done a Christmas Special, an Easter Special and a Christmas Themed Easter Special. A couple titles, the hall of fame, hell…I owned the joint at one point…”
Parsons had tormented and fought pretty much every ‘name’ the company had ever produced. He could always hang his hat on that.
That is all I'm taking with me
”But after everything…no matter what I did my best to have fun with it. No matter what.”
A record scratch knocks the elder Parsons off his proverbial soapbox quipping, ”You’ve been trying to make this happen since you saw that movie in December, haven’t you?”
So, goodbye
”Yes…I mean, shut up…” ”Look, I’m from an alternate dimension, Parsonsverse six nine six nine, and I’m doing this thing, but I need a version of ’Him’ that isn’t ruined…now are you going to show me your ass or not?!”
“No fucking way!” His tone was one of disbelief at finding out there are, in fact, an infinite number of parallel universes, yet worded as such that clarification was necessary.
The older man’s brow furrowed slightly, “I’m confused. Is that a yes or no? If I’m right, in this version of twenty nineteen, consent is still a big deal right?”
Please, don't cry
Running his hand across his mouth the younger, downed Parsons mutters, “Sure is. Unfortunately for Vas’ other Fed…”
Confusion grips the charcoal pinstripe suit clad man before him. “What?”
Not needing a signal to take control for a moment, the downtrodden ‘Nightmare’ still wasn’t convinced, “…look. I’m flattered and all, but I’m done. I went out helping the kid avenge his old man that I sorta got killed. I’m done. The serious shit is finished. I’m done.”
We both know I'm not what you, you need
Shaking his head, the old man’s hands instinctively go to his hips, he casts an oddly father-like figure for a man who had none of his own. A stern disappointment grips him as his looks at the younger ‘him’, “‘That what you think? Look, sure the krout’s in jail but we have one last thing to do. It doesn’t take much to go back to the comedy. Just do something incredibly awkward like pin your whole plot on one man showing his ass to another man in a seedy alley. Hemingway you are not. Look stand up and show me your ass or this gets kinda rapey and I’m just not feeling that…how about this? Please could you show me your ass?”
And I will always love you
Maybe it was the look in the old man’s eye, maybe it was drinking in an alley in the sun all day, but he had finely hit ‘fuck it’.
“Fine…at this point if it’ll shut you up, I could tea bag you for a small fee. Here, happy now?”
Rolling over on his makeshift tanning bed, Parsons drops his pants and moons the old man, laughing as he does.
“Pull up your pants…” he rubbed his greyed beard as a crooked smile slid across his face. “…that bandage on there looks fresh. Probably gonna leave a scar, how’d you get it?”
I will always love you
Pulling his pants up quickly, he turns back over shrugging at the ridiculousness of it all, “Look, ‘guy I just showed my ass to’, even if you are some impossibly complex plot device that I’ll never be able to maintain long term, that doesn’t mean we’re besties now. I got ass cut, end of story, no big deal.”
Again, the older man shook his head. Had he too been this stubborn? This pigheaded? “That’s not how it happened.”
Frustration takes the younger man’s words and adds an intensity sorely lacking until anger tempered his voice with something akin to confidence, even if momentarily. “You know what? You have to be me. Only me would be this arrogant. Wait, did I just refer to myself in the third person subjectively? I need a drink.”
I hope life treats you kind
Pausing, there was a surefire way in the young man’s mind to settle this whole thing, “If you’re so smart asshole…you tell me how it happened.”
Expecting a juvenile response, the older ‘Nightmare’ was ready, quickly returning. “That’s not how this works. I can give you a chance to fix it all…just tell me how it happened.”
And finally the man seemingly arguing against himself gets to a point of complete exasperation, the younger Parsons can take the twisting plot implications no more!
“Fine…I can’t believe you’re going to make me relive this…” “…but fine.” Without even getting up, the younger Parsons simply waves his hands and finger up and down in front of his face ala Wayne and Garth dissolving the scene…
When it returns, we’re back in Ibiza, focused back on the ring. We’re back at Pandemonium…
He remembered thinking this might be it, the moment he’d waited for. Five years in the making, but Kofi Kingston, he was not.
In the ring, D bounces backwards as Shane is on top of him. He drags D up and hits him once again with his patented Sudden Death double underhook DDT. D is actually out on his feet. Shane drags him to the ropes and manages to tight him in the ropes.
And I hope you have all you've dreamed of
JOSEPH GREER: Someone stop this! Can we have the lip synch instead?
Shane reaches into the bag and pulls out a firecracker and holds it up high.
At that exact moment, a *snap worthy of Thanos, Banner and Stark combined echoes throughout the arena.
Time itself freezes as none other than our hero, ‘The Nightmare’ Chris Parsons strolls out hilariously dressed as ‘D’, a grim determination on his face.
His eyes soften momentarily as he catches himself taking one last look around for old time sake.
But above all this, I wish you love…
Followed closely by Christopher W. Parsons, they quickly remove the defeated enigma from the ropes, replacing him with the painted Parsons.
Christopher W. carries a frozen ‘D’ (free dick joke) to the back. Looking around, Parsons is at peace with his decision as he looks to his left hand.
*SNAP*
Time restarts and Shane spreads what he believes to be D’s cheeks, and he rams it in. Parsons takes a deep breath…it would only hurt for a little while he was told…
And I will always love you!
As Whitney hit the crescendo, Shane lights the firecracker of Destiny and evacuates the ring. The firecracker explodes launching The now impossibly complicated Parsons dressed as ‘D’ half way across the ring.
He rolls around, his ass still burning. Shane strides up the ramp way holding his belt up high as security come rushing down the ramp way with fire extinguishers to end what became perhaps the most controversial of any match ending in company history, topping quite a list.
I will always love you
TOMMY ONIONS: Shane Mitchell retains the RSW World Championship!
JOSEPH GREER: All I can say is must have a bungling bunghole now!
I will always love you
Must have a bungling bunghole now!
Have a bungling bunghole now!
I will always love you
A bungling bunghole now!
Bungling bunghole now!
I will always love you
Bunghole Now!
Bunghole…
I, I will always love you
Fading back to the present, a still seated upon his cardboard bed Parsons tosses an empty Colt 45 into the dumpster, a shattering sound breaking the silence since Greer’s echoing cringeworthy call had tortured him anew.
He was immediately on the defensive, ”There…better now? Yeah, I took one for the team ok? So what!? He deserved better than that, ok? So I took one for the team. No big deal. That could have seriously fucked up his shit. I’d get little more than a scratch. Besides, what’s a little exploded asshole between friends? Right?”
You, darling, I love you
Smiling, Christopher W. knew he’d found the right one. It was time to move on, ready or not.
The old man was proud, “You did good kid, but I got one better. Finish it and come on. I need to get you cleaned up, what if I told you we could go back?”
Stopping for a moment, younger Chris seems just slightly off, he wipes away a single, manly tear. “Huh? Do you hear that?”
Oh, I'll always, I'll always love you
Looking to wrap it up, for what might just be the last time, it was time to hurry it along.
Coughing, the older Parsons dropped the levity just for a moment. “Never mind, just go with it! But stop for a moment, what if I told you we could go back to what we did before? Only better, because this time we’re…” A dramatic ”dun dun duh!” plays. ”…’All in’!”
The younger Parsons just groans and shoots daggers at him. If looks could kill fictional characters…
Redoubling his effort, Christopher W. has a second offering, “This time it’s ‘Double or Nothing’.”
Sighing, the younger Parsons couldn’t help but admit that the prospect of a new adventure excites him more than he wanted to admit as he asked, “Think it’ll work this time?”
“I’m ‘All Out’ of puns.” Sensing the glare, he finishes, “Now, I’m done. Look at it this way kid, if it doesn’t…imagine how much more you’ll get done around the house. Now stop being a piece of shit and get up.”
Turning his back on the broken, self pitying wreck, he offers a glimmer of hope. “You and Marcus got one last chance at doing something great, at Anarchy Fifty, you get to have one last moment kid, don’t fuck it up…” Sensing his new friend needed a moment to take in the moment that now stood before him, he started to walk away slowly, ”…the limo stays parked for exactly five minutes, that’s how much more of my very fucking precious time you get. After that…I don’t give a fuck if you’re the right one or not, I’ll find another…now make it quick, I gotta get back to ’Hotlanta’…I got a show to run…”
His eye widened as he bolted to his feet with a speed that surprised even him. Were he truly in that much of a hurry to relive the past? “Do you mean?
Smirking as he continued his saunter back toward the street and the waiting limousine, a final reminder echoes throughout the alley.
”The limo stays parked for exactly five minutes.”
The end?
In the streets of Manchester, a light fog hazed the sun, creating individual beams of light. Each seemingly intent on skewering the individual nerves held within his eyes.
Shielding his sensitive retinas from the assault of the sun, his hand does little other than allow him a brief view of his surroundings.
Asphalt, concrete, brick and mortar, did he smell garbage? He was in an alley. But where? And why?
Producing a pair of black RayBan’s, one problem was taken care of, now the questions would have time to set in.
They had ‘won’, hadn’t they? He and Marcus Anderson had played a part in sending Armand Von Krauss to prison, why was he here?
He should be off celebrating still, Vegas, Morocco, Jamaica, Ibiza…but surely not here.
What had happened? What catastrophic event could have brought this to pass? What apocalyptic outcome could have possibly brought him here?
Through the fog of confusion, the infinite possibilities of reality passed before him. All of them pointed to one event, the night [Name Redacted] blinded him.
It was there that things went awry. The night, one person said, “I have nothing else going on, I guess he’s blind now.”
His mind ached, memories he hadn’t actually formed were now doing their best to supplant themselves into his psyche. He went to a knee, a shaking hand running it’s way to the pills in his breast pocket.
Chewing and gulping one back quickly, he stood up, brushed the dirt off the knee of his charcoal pinstripe pants, checked his shoes and, satisfied with their shine; continued down the alley.
A skinny orange tabby hunting for scraps runs past, and he stops, something was wrong. Very wrong.
It wasn’t déjà vu, it was something far far worse.
Every cliché in the book said that cat was supposed to be solid black, maybe even have a descriptor like ‘dark as midnight’. Yet, there it was, it’s head buried into a discarded Big Mac, fucking orange.
Slipping his hand inside his jacket a second time, he produces a late model iPhone. Glancing at the wallpaper, now he was sure.
Something was wrong, very wrong.
He was at his lowest here, figuratively and literally. Something had crushed him. Watching before rounding the bend, there he was…
Alone, he was still lean and at least somewhat muscled. Manchester wasn’t Las Vegas, but the sun had done an adequate job maintaining his tan, at least this one wasn’t a total write off. Rebuilding him wouldn’t be a complete overhaul. There might be hope after all.
Sprawled out in the sun on a freshly discarded refrigerator box, he hadn’t a care in the world. Judging from his thick beard and oily hair, it had been at least a few weeks since ‘ground zero’; the moment he had given up.
Though disappointed by what the man before him had become, he would give credit where credit was due. He drank from a rather ingenious invention.
Buying two forty ounce Colt 45’s, and a bag of ice. The rest was desperation and ingenuity.
The first step was to separate the bag into two sections laying out some of the ice that wouldn’t be needed to keep cool, some he drank.
The rest saw a Colt 45 slammed into it and then concealed in a paper bag. Ladies and gentlemen, we present for your approval; the ghetto cooler, handheld edition.
Not stepping forward; frustration gets the best of our voyeur, he lowers his voice an octave or two as he asks from the shadows, “Why are you here?”
If he had chosen to wait for his answer, he would have waited until eternity.
Rubbing his left hand through his beard, it was possible Captain Down on His Luck didn’t hear him. He’d try again, “Hey, jinglenuts…I asked you a question. Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be somewhere better than this?”
Barely looking up, the ’sunbather’ practically growled, “‘ The fuck are you? Get outta here while the getting’s good.”
Normally, that kind of warning was enough to allow a person to understand their company wasn’t wanted. ”Why are you here?” He asked again, even more annoyed than before.
Wiping a little sweat from his brow, instinctively ensuring his eyepatch is secure. ”Look you drippy fuckstain…” He caught himself, relaxing slightly. ”I am in a generous mood…” Spreading his arms wide, he feigned benevolence. “…you may gather the fucks I give about you asking me the same motherfucking question repeatedly AND as you can see…” Gesturing around for a second time at the glorious sun drenched and piss soaked alley that spread before him. “…everything’s going great here. So how about you…”
Cutting him off, one out of every ten had a gun, caution was necessary. ”Gather up my nuts before they realize what I’m fucking with?” Allowing time for the groaning pile of Parsons before him to sit up properly, he added, “Is that what you were going to say?”
Shielding his lone eye from the sun, a disheveled Chris Parsons has clearly seen better days. Looking around for the source of the voice, he throws a fresh line out, ”Some kinda fanboy huh?” Laughing as he partially sat up with a pained groan. “No autographs, and If I finish getting up…”
Cutting him off a second time; if he had a gun, by now he would said some lame ass troupe like ’pop a cap in your ass’, or something equally ridiculous. Since the former RSW mainstay seemed to be trying to intimidate him into leaving, he was fairly convinced of his relative safety. “Save it. Look you’re my seventh stop today, there’s six more possibles and I ain’t got all fucking day. Can we speed this up so everyone reading stays interested?” He sighed heavily, walking into Parsons’ field of vision. “This goes a lot quicker if you just show me your ass.”
The calm manner in which he continued to bask to see his ass aside, this wasn’t supposed to be possible, yet there he stood.
His hair was short and mostly grey, what little of the brown he’d known his whole life that remained would be gone within a year or two. A thick beard hangs an inch or so below his chin. At roughly sixty years old, he was in phenomenal physical shape.
Removing the RayBans just for a few moments they locked eye to eyes for the first time.
The Chris Parsons we’ve all known and loved these past nine years or so is the first to break the silence, “Who, the fuck, are you?”
Smirking, his lips hidden behind the grey mane of an old lion. There was an intensity held in those Serpentine green eyes that Parsons knew all too well as the old man answered, “Come on, you’re not that drunk. You know exactly who the fuck I am.”
Tilting his head to the side, the one eyed original that was once known as Wrestling’s Viagra (Patent Pending) was in a state of disbelief, “Not possible, even for me! I’m self-aware, I break the fourth wall, I include random things because I can and generally seem to get away with whatever I want, but even I can’t do this!”
The younger, disheveled Current RSW Minority Shareholder’s protests were silenced with a confidence that only age brings, “Not until today you couldn’t. My name is Christopher W. Parsons. I was warped from a generic heel into some sort of self aware satirical wise ass; and for the past thirty six years I have been the one and only, ”The Nightmare” Chris Parsons...”
“I’m pretty sure you know the rest…”
At that, a familiar melody plays softly. The voice of an angel joins in in time…Whitney Houston
If I should stay, I would only be in your way
…I made the careers of a bunch of people. Fell in Love, didn’t tell her. Saved the promotion, and then I saved the promotion again, and again, and again, and again, and again.”
So I'll go, but I know
Parsons is shown as foil to Morcant Davis in the early days of the company, then Rob Riot, Hunter Valentyne, Shane Mitchell and even [Name Redacted] himself! Sighing once again, he adds…
I'll think of you every step of the way
Leaving [Name Redacted] on the screen just a moment longer than the rest.
And I will always love you…
”And I also did this…”
Things change to an old clip of Parsons from early in his career. In the red, white and black ring of Xtreme Wrestling Zone, Parsons hands Devin Stone a championship belt, having orchestrated his rise to the title to win a bet.
I will always love you
Streamers fill the air, Parsons raises Stone’s hand improbably in victory, fans cheer in a mixture of shock and anticipation of Ashton Kutcher coming out to ’Punk’ them. But it happened…
You, my darling you, hm
”I don’t like to talk about that…” Moving on quickly a series of hardly changing pictures glosses over some of the humble beginnings.
Bittersweet memories
Parsons, clad in old blue jeans and a black T.I.B. Shirt and a Santa hat, as each image changes all that differs is the colour of the hat as it shifts from red to pink to a sequinned purple.
”I’ve done a Christmas Special, an Easter Special and a Christmas Themed Easter Special. A couple titles, the hall of fame, hell…I owned the joint at one point…”
Parsons had tormented and fought pretty much every ‘name’ the company had ever produced. He could always hang his hat on that.
That is all I'm taking with me
”But after everything…no matter what I did my best to have fun with it. No matter what.”
A record scratch knocks the elder Parsons off his proverbial soapbox quipping, ”You’ve been trying to make this happen since you saw that movie in December, haven’t you?”
So, goodbye
”Yes…I mean, shut up…” ”Look, I’m from an alternate dimension, Parsonsverse six nine six nine, and I’m doing this thing, but I need a version of ’Him’ that isn’t ruined…now are you going to show me your ass or not?!”
“No fucking way!” His tone was one of disbelief at finding out there are, in fact, an infinite number of parallel universes, yet worded as such that clarification was necessary.
The older man’s brow furrowed slightly, “I’m confused. Is that a yes or no? If I’m right, in this version of twenty nineteen, consent is still a big deal right?”
Please, don't cry
Running his hand across his mouth the younger, downed Parsons mutters, “Sure is. Unfortunately for Vas’ other Fed…”
Confusion grips the charcoal pinstripe suit clad man before him. “What?”
Not needing a signal to take control for a moment, the downtrodden ‘Nightmare’ still wasn’t convinced, “…look. I’m flattered and all, but I’m done. I went out helping the kid avenge his old man that I sorta got killed. I’m done. The serious shit is finished. I’m done.”
We both know I'm not what you, you need
Shaking his head, the old man’s hands instinctively go to his hips, he casts an oddly father-like figure for a man who had none of his own. A stern disappointment grips him as his looks at the younger ‘him’, “‘That what you think? Look, sure the krout’s in jail but we have one last thing to do. It doesn’t take much to go back to the comedy. Just do something incredibly awkward like pin your whole plot on one man showing his ass to another man in a seedy alley. Hemingway you are not. Look stand up and show me your ass or this gets kinda rapey and I’m just not feeling that…how about this? Please could you show me your ass?”
And I will always love you
Maybe it was the look in the old man’s eye, maybe it was drinking in an alley in the sun all day, but he had finely hit ‘fuck it’.
“Fine…at this point if it’ll shut you up, I could tea bag you for a small fee. Here, happy now?”
Rolling over on his makeshift tanning bed, Parsons drops his pants and moons the old man, laughing as he does.
“Pull up your pants…” he rubbed his greyed beard as a crooked smile slid across his face. “…that bandage on there looks fresh. Probably gonna leave a scar, how’d you get it?”
I will always love you
Pulling his pants up quickly, he turns back over shrugging at the ridiculousness of it all, “Look, ‘guy I just showed my ass to’, even if you are some impossibly complex plot device that I’ll never be able to maintain long term, that doesn’t mean we’re besties now. I got ass cut, end of story, no big deal.”
Again, the older man shook his head. Had he too been this stubborn? This pigheaded? “That’s not how it happened.”
Frustration takes the younger man’s words and adds an intensity sorely lacking until anger tempered his voice with something akin to confidence, even if momentarily. “You know what? You have to be me. Only me would be this arrogant. Wait, did I just refer to myself in the third person subjectively? I need a drink.”
I hope life treats you kind
Pausing, there was a surefire way in the young man’s mind to settle this whole thing, “If you’re so smart asshole…you tell me how it happened.”
Expecting a juvenile response, the older ‘Nightmare’ was ready, quickly returning. “That’s not how this works. I can give you a chance to fix it all…just tell me how it happened.”
And finally the man seemingly arguing against himself gets to a point of complete exasperation, the younger Parsons can take the twisting plot implications no more!
“Fine…I can’t believe you’re going to make me relive this…” “…but fine.” Without even getting up, the younger Parsons simply waves his hands and finger up and down in front of his face ala Wayne and Garth dissolving the scene…
When it returns, we’re back in Ibiza, focused back on the ring. We’re back at Pandemonium…
He remembered thinking this might be it, the moment he’d waited for. Five years in the making, but Kofi Kingston, he was not.
In the ring, D bounces backwards as Shane is on top of him. He drags D up and hits him once again with his patented Sudden Death double underhook DDT. D is actually out on his feet. Shane drags him to the ropes and manages to tight him in the ropes.
And I hope you have all you've dreamed of
JOSEPH GREER: Someone stop this! Can we have the lip synch instead?
Shane reaches into the bag and pulls out a firecracker and holds it up high.
At that exact moment, a *snap worthy of Thanos, Banner and Stark combined echoes throughout the arena.
Time itself freezes as none other than our hero, ‘The Nightmare’ Chris Parsons strolls out hilariously dressed as ‘D’, a grim determination on his face.
His eyes soften momentarily as he catches himself taking one last look around for old time sake.
But above all this, I wish you love…
Followed closely by Christopher W. Parsons, they quickly remove the defeated enigma from the ropes, replacing him with the painted Parsons.
Christopher W. carries a frozen ‘D’ (free dick joke) to the back. Looking around, Parsons is at peace with his decision as he looks to his left hand.
*SNAP*
Time restarts and Shane spreads what he believes to be D’s cheeks, and he rams it in. Parsons takes a deep breath…it would only hurt for a little while he was told…
And I will always love you!
As Whitney hit the crescendo, Shane lights the firecracker of Destiny and evacuates the ring. The firecracker explodes launching The now impossibly complicated Parsons dressed as ‘D’ half way across the ring.
He rolls around, his ass still burning. Shane strides up the ramp way holding his belt up high as security come rushing down the ramp way with fire extinguishers to end what became perhaps the most controversial of any match ending in company history, topping quite a list.
I will always love you
TOMMY ONIONS: Shane Mitchell retains the RSW World Championship!
JOSEPH GREER: All I can say is must have a bungling bunghole now!
I will always love you
Must have a bungling bunghole now!
Have a bungling bunghole now!
I will always love you
A bungling bunghole now!
Bungling bunghole now!
I will always love you
Bunghole Now!
Bunghole…
I, I will always love you
Fading back to the present, a still seated upon his cardboard bed Parsons tosses an empty Colt 45 into the dumpster, a shattering sound breaking the silence since Greer’s echoing cringeworthy call had tortured him anew.
He was immediately on the defensive, ”There…better now? Yeah, I took one for the team ok? So what!? He deserved better than that, ok? So I took one for the team. No big deal. That could have seriously fucked up his shit. I’d get little more than a scratch. Besides, what’s a little exploded asshole between friends? Right?”
You, darling, I love you
Smiling, Christopher W. knew he’d found the right one. It was time to move on, ready or not.
The old man was proud, “You did good kid, but I got one better. Finish it and come on. I need to get you cleaned up, what if I told you we could go back?”
Stopping for a moment, younger Chris seems just slightly off, he wipes away a single, manly tear. “Huh? Do you hear that?”
Oh, I'll always, I'll always love you
Looking to wrap it up, for what might just be the last time, it was time to hurry it along.
Coughing, the older Parsons dropped the levity just for a moment. “Never mind, just go with it! But stop for a moment, what if I told you we could go back to what we did before? Only better, because this time we’re…” A dramatic ”dun dun duh!” plays. ”…’All in’!”
The younger Parsons just groans and shoots daggers at him. If looks could kill fictional characters…
Redoubling his effort, Christopher W. has a second offering, “This time it’s ‘Double or Nothing’.”
Sighing, the younger Parsons couldn’t help but admit that the prospect of a new adventure excites him more than he wanted to admit as he asked, “Think it’ll work this time?”
“I’m ‘All Out’ of puns.” Sensing the glare, he finishes, “Now, I’m done. Look at it this way kid, if it doesn’t…imagine how much more you’ll get done around the house. Now stop being a piece of shit and get up.”
Turning his back on the broken, self pitying wreck, he offers a glimmer of hope. “You and Marcus got one last chance at doing something great, at Anarchy Fifty, you get to have one last moment kid, don’t fuck it up…” Sensing his new friend needed a moment to take in the moment that now stood before him, he started to walk away slowly, ”…the limo stays parked for exactly five minutes, that’s how much more of my very fucking precious time you get. After that…I don’t give a fuck if you’re the right one or not, I’ll find another…now make it quick, I gotta get back to ’Hotlanta’…I got a show to run…”
His eye widened as he bolted to his feet with a speed that surprised even him. Were he truly in that much of a hurry to relive the past? “Do you mean?
Smirking as he continued his saunter back toward the street and the waiting limousine, a final reminder echoes throughout the alley.
”The limo stays parked for exactly five minutes.”
The end?
