SURPRISE, BITCH | Touchdown A2

[Drag]

Thanks For Tunin' In

Three

Two

One

Let's Jam!

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JAMROKERZ: 1

IPW: 0

We open on the cheap looking shirt proudly worn by Alastor Touchdown. Custom made, if the spelling is anything to go by. The quality still looks like absolute shit after the police ended up breaking the one camera Alastor and Jimi had.

“M-M-M-MONEY SHOOOOOOT!”

Touchdown says with a shit eating grin as he stretches out the shirt. Trying to advertise a product of which only one currently exists.

“WELCOME! To Casa. De. Touchdown!”

The apartment is of poor quality. Bordering on unliveable. Living room, bedroom and kitchen all crammed into one square space. Bathroom, presumably, hopefully, in its own room off-camera. All ravaged through time and poor maintenance. The sea foam green wallpaper long since having stripped off the walls.

“At Adrenaline, I wi-”

The phone’s camera suddenly acts up, the last thing we see is Touchdown’s surprised expression as the recording ends.

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A sudden close-up of Touchdown’s face.

“Ok… I put a new battery and shit in this thing. Hopef-”

The camera switches off.

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Again, we open on Touchdown. Looking clearly annoyed as he stares silently at the screen. Making sure the camera will not glitch out. After a few moments he exhales and begins psyching himself up for BIG PROMO MODE.

This mostly revolves around him shaking his arms really fast for an uncomfortable amount of time.

“FIRST OF ALL! SENATOR TOUCHDOWN TOOK THAT PHONE TO THE GENIUS STORE! They said it was NOT Apple made, so they could do NOTHIN’! THEN, I took it to three different electronic stores. THEY could not fix it either! One of ‘em told me the wiring on the inside reminded him of a Vietnam-era bomb! ONLY, FIIIIINALLY did I fix it, when the guy who sold it to me said it was custom!”

He grins and stretches his shirt.

“Like this puppy. Soon to be sold on the IPW store. But, y’know, with a “two” next to our names.”

He releases the shirt.

“Now, FINALLY, I can record this sonuva bitch! The guy told me the phone charges itself through radiation, like bein’ put in the microwave for a little while. So, ISSUE RESOLVED!”

He points at the camera, eyes narrowing.

“SO LET THAT BE A LIL TANGIBLE LESSON FOR YA, PRETTY JUDY!”

“That. Is the level of dedication Homeboy is bringin’ to the FIGHT!”

With a smirk, Alastor removes the shirt he so reverently treated before and tosses it aside. Revealing his upper torso with several… Marks on it.

“Now, to be fair, a lotta these are old-school scars from jumping off shit, deathmatches, field trips and so forth. But lately, to step up ‘gainst Judy-Frudy’s no pain CRAP. I’ve had The Cooldown attacking me with things at random intervals! DRAMATICALLY increasing my already CUH-RAZY tolerance for pain!”

“This mark here was from being hit with the base of a skillet. These ones were from when me and Jimi found a bag of broken glass. This nasty boy was when he had me harassing a biker gang at Denny’s…”

Touchdown continues listing injuries sustained as the camera quality suddenly begins to dip.

“NO!”

To no avail, Touchdown lunges towards the screen before the recording ends.

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With far, far, more pace in his movements, Touchdown sprints back from the camera to his original position. Speaking with frantic speed.

“Not that I need all this to eek out a win ‘gainst ya, Jude.”

“Pain really ain’t no thang s’far as I’m concerned. It’s easy to take one look at me and my Boy and assume we’re two effeminate weirdos, scared of gettin’ hurt and unworthy to be in the company. Let alone this tourney. It’s easy for you and even for Unc to assume that I’m the one at the disadvantage here. Booked against a tough ‘ol sadist. My buddy banned from interfering.”

“But, truth is, all he really did was get rid of another excuse for ya, Judes.”

Touchdown slows, somewhat. Lifting his neck high with his tone more deliberate.

“Ya ran from our tag match. Ya can claim it was cause'a Stef-O bein’ an asshat. But, I think, somewhere inside of ya? You knew you didn’t have what it took to win.”

“If ya did? You would’ve backed up allllll that big talk you were slingin’ before the match. You woulda beat both our asses solo dolo and KEPT yourself from bein’ for-EVER stained in the record books as IPW’s. First. Loser. But your lil reputation was more important to ya than the chance of you losin’ for real.”

Flicking his hair back, Touchdown smirks.

“‘Cept, now, one on one and with Championship GOLD danglin’ on the horizon? There ain’t gonna be anythin’ you can blame it on.”

“Ya talk a damn big game and as someone who does too, hell, baby, I can respect that! But ya pass yourself off as THE BOOGEYMAN! As a tough, no nonsense bitch who wrecks anybody in her way!”

“So, imagine. How embarrassing it’s gonna be, if you lose against The Crazy White Boy.”

“And make no mistake Lil Lady, I’m going to embarrass you, at Adrenaline.”

He puts his shirt back on.

“‘Cause you underestimate me and overestimate yourself. You're enamoured by your own REP. Painless or not, I can lead you into a no-win position and you’d be none the wiser. Wear down that leg till your body won’t let ya stand. Overexert yourself, till you’re runnin’ on fumes tryin’ to keep up!”

“Jamrockers are the first winners in IP-Dub HISTORY. Soon enough? Alastor Touchdown’s gonna be the first. World. Cha-”

Touchdown is interrupted by his doorbell. He raises an eyebrow and answers, revealing Jimi Cooldown with a trashcan held over his head.

“Surprise, bitch.”

Cooldown slams the trashcan against Touchdown’s head. Alastor falling to the floor and yelling out obscenities as the footage, once again, abruptly cuts to black.

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Thanks for Jammin’...

Go Get ‘Em Touchdown Man…