Post by Sir Chris Cairns on Feb 3, 2015 8:19:13 GMT -6
Our scene is set in the cramped, dingy office of Creation Wrestling II's Commissioner John Smith. The uncharismatic and severely depressed second-in-command to Chris Cairns sits slumped over his desk, with one hand clasping at his sweaty forehead as he converses with someone on the telephone.
Smith: So, you're sure we can't get him booked into a better match than this? ...Really? Happy Sumo?! Well, SIR Chris Cairns is going to be VERY unhappy about this!
Indignant, John Smith slams the phone down onto his desk. Flummoxed, he stares off into space for a few seconds while rubbing at his temples, trying to ease the stress... all that anxiety... crushing anxiety. Maybe... maybe the handgun in your desk drawer really is the answer. Yes, John, maybe just do it now. Make it quick, because you've suffered for so long and nobody cares. Get it all over with and then you can sleep peacefully... forever. Just open the damn drawer, reach inside and pull out the gun. Go on, John. You owe it to yourself!
Smith: Whimper...
One bullet to the head and all your worries will be over. Yes, that's right. Just reach down. No need to tremble, John. Just open the desk drawer. That's it... that's it! Slide it open! Ah, there she is! Look at her glistening in the moonlight. Beautiful, isn't she? 10mm automatic. 1,050 bullet speed velocity... you won't even feel a thing. Yes, John. Yes! That's it! Raise the gun up! Raise her up! Feels good in your hand, doesn't she? Yesss. Don't cry, little Johnny. You're doing the right thing. Just place the cold, hard steel against your temple, like so... yes.
Smith: Sob...
Don't be afraid, John. You've already done the hard part! Now, just ease that trembling. Take a deep, slow breath. That's it. And another deep breath. Slow that heart-rate down... calm yourself right down. Thaaat's it. Now there's only one thing left to do, John: Pull that trigger. Go on. Your finger's in position. Just apply pressure onto the trigger and you'll finally be free. Yes, John. Pull that trigger, John. END IT! END IT ALL AND PULL THAT TRIGGER! IT'S THE PERFECT SUICI-
Cairns: SIR CHRIS CAIRNS! SIR CHRIS CAIRNS!! SIR CHRIS CAIRNS!!!
The office door flies open and SIR Chris Cairns marches into the office, thrusting his regal scepter into the air as he chants his own name over and over again. He comes to a standstill opposite John Smith, who is still sat in his chair and with a handgun pointed at his own temple. Cairns takes absolutely no notice of the gun whatsoever as he glares down upon his miserable lackey.
Cairns: You there! Intern! Any updates?
Trembling, Smith takes his finger off the trigger and slowly lowers the handgun back down onto his desk. His eyes are dead.
Smith: Sigh. I'm not your intern, SIR! I'm John Smith and I have been your second-in-command for five ye-
Cairns: Whatever! Shut up! SIR CHRIS CAIRNS! Have you booked me into a match for Crimson yet, oh lowly Intern?
Smith bows his head dejectedly.
Smith: Yes, SIR! Yes, I have.
Cairns throws his head back with with maniacal laughter. His crown falls off though and so he has to cease laughing in order to bend down and pick it up.
Cairns: So, who have I been booked to face at Crimson then, eh? Who will I be murdering this time, hm? Will I be facing Jericho “Piss” Cross? Or will Cairnsy be facing “Minister of Evil” Piss Dragon, perhaps? SIR CHRIS CAIRNS! Or will I be competing against a returning legend, such as “Wicked Ways” Lord Deacon Piss, or “Human Miracle” Piss Bizkit, or perhaps even Nathan “T-Piss” Willpiss? SIR CHRIS CAIRNS!!
Smith: Well, Sir, I-
Cairns waggles his scepter furiously at Smith.
Cairns: It's SIR!!!!
Smith: Oh... Yes! Yes, of course, SIR! My apologies, SIR!! Uh... Well, with regards to your opponent for the upcoming Crimson broadcast, GZW2K1 have seen fit to book you – the GZW2K1 Globalstar of the Year 2013 – into a match with... Uh... Well... The Happy Sumo.
Cairns: WHAT?!
Cairns smashes his scepter down onto John Smith's desk, making Smith jump with fright as sweat pours down his gleaming forehead.
Smith: I... Uh... Perhaps they want to ease you back in?
Cairns: This is an outrage! SIR CHRIS CAIRNS! Get me Commissioner Nathaniel Davis on the phone immediately! I want to talk to him about this and... Oh, wait... I completely forgot; I brutally murdered Nathaniel Davis in cold blood at Heatwave 11, before pissing on his and his idiot son's singular grave!
Cairns cackles evilly at the memory.
Cairns: Oh, whatever, eh?! Happy Sumo it is! I'll batter the obese shite until he dies and then I'll throw a welcome party to celebrate me regal return to GZW2K1!
Smith: That's the spirit, SIR!
Cairns: Shut up. Well, I suppose that's that then! Happy Sumo – or Pissy Sumo, as I like to call him – had better make the most of his time left on this earth because by the time SIR Chris Cairns is done with him then the fat blimp will well and truly be deflated... and pinned for the three-count! And brutally murdered!
Cairns throws his head back with dastardly laughter and his crown falls off yet again, causing him to fly into a blind rage, battering his scepter down onto John Smith's desk, destroying the phone and laptop and scattering paperwork all over the place as John Smith flees.
Cairns: SIR CHRIS CAIRNS! SIR CHRIS CAIRNS! SIR CHRIS CAIRNS!!
Fade to piss.
Smith: So, you're sure we can't get him booked into a better match than this? ...Really? Happy Sumo?! Well, SIR Chris Cairns is going to be VERY unhappy about this!
Indignant, John Smith slams the phone down onto his desk. Flummoxed, he stares off into space for a few seconds while rubbing at his temples, trying to ease the stress... all that anxiety... crushing anxiety. Maybe... maybe the handgun in your desk drawer really is the answer. Yes, John, maybe just do it now. Make it quick, because you've suffered for so long and nobody cares. Get it all over with and then you can sleep peacefully... forever. Just open the damn drawer, reach inside and pull out the gun. Go on, John. You owe it to yourself!
Smith: Whimper...
One bullet to the head and all your worries will be over. Yes, that's right. Just reach down. No need to tremble, John. Just open the desk drawer. That's it... that's it! Slide it open! Ah, there she is! Look at her glistening in the moonlight. Beautiful, isn't she? 10mm automatic. 1,050 bullet speed velocity... you won't even feel a thing. Yes, John. Yes! That's it! Raise the gun up! Raise her up! Feels good in your hand, doesn't she? Yesss. Don't cry, little Johnny. You're doing the right thing. Just place the cold, hard steel against your temple, like so... yes.
Smith: Sob...
Don't be afraid, John. You've already done the hard part! Now, just ease that trembling. Take a deep, slow breath. That's it. And another deep breath. Slow that heart-rate down... calm yourself right down. Thaaat's it. Now there's only one thing left to do, John: Pull that trigger. Go on. Your finger's in position. Just apply pressure onto the trigger and you'll finally be free. Yes, John. Pull that trigger, John. END IT! END IT ALL AND PULL THAT TRIGGER! IT'S THE PERFECT SUICI-
Cairns: SIR CHRIS CAIRNS! SIR CHRIS CAIRNS!! SIR CHRIS CAIRNS!!!
The office door flies open and SIR Chris Cairns marches into the office, thrusting his regal scepter into the air as he chants his own name over and over again. He comes to a standstill opposite John Smith, who is still sat in his chair and with a handgun pointed at his own temple. Cairns takes absolutely no notice of the gun whatsoever as he glares down upon his miserable lackey.
Cairns: You there! Intern! Any updates?
Trembling, Smith takes his finger off the trigger and slowly lowers the handgun back down onto his desk. His eyes are dead.
Smith: Sigh. I'm not your intern, SIR! I'm John Smith and I have been your second-in-command for five ye-
Cairns: Whatever! Shut up! SIR CHRIS CAIRNS! Have you booked me into a match for Crimson yet, oh lowly Intern?
Smith bows his head dejectedly.
Smith: Yes, SIR! Yes, I have.
Cairns throws his head back with with maniacal laughter. His crown falls off though and so he has to cease laughing in order to bend down and pick it up.
Cairns: So, who have I been booked to face at Crimson then, eh? Who will I be murdering this time, hm? Will I be facing Jericho “Piss” Cross? Or will Cairnsy be facing “Minister of Evil” Piss Dragon, perhaps? SIR CHRIS CAIRNS! Or will I be competing against a returning legend, such as “Wicked Ways” Lord Deacon Piss, or “Human Miracle” Piss Bizkit, or perhaps even Nathan “T-Piss” Willpiss? SIR CHRIS CAIRNS!!
Smith: Well, Sir, I-
Cairns waggles his scepter furiously at Smith.
Cairns: It's SIR!!!!
Smith: Oh... Yes! Yes, of course, SIR! My apologies, SIR!! Uh... Well, with regards to your opponent for the upcoming Crimson broadcast, GZW2K1 have seen fit to book you – the GZW2K1 Globalstar of the Year 2013 – into a match with... Uh... Well... The Happy Sumo.
Cairns: WHAT?!
Cairns smashes his scepter down onto John Smith's desk, making Smith jump with fright as sweat pours down his gleaming forehead.
Smith: I... Uh... Perhaps they want to ease you back in?
Cairns: This is an outrage! SIR CHRIS CAIRNS! Get me Commissioner Nathaniel Davis on the phone immediately! I want to talk to him about this and... Oh, wait... I completely forgot; I brutally murdered Nathaniel Davis in cold blood at Heatwave 11, before pissing on his and his idiot son's singular grave!
Cairns cackles evilly at the memory.
Cairns: Oh, whatever, eh?! Happy Sumo it is! I'll batter the obese shite until he dies and then I'll throw a welcome party to celebrate me regal return to GZW2K1!
Smith: That's the spirit, SIR!
Cairns: Shut up. Well, I suppose that's that then! Happy Sumo – or Pissy Sumo, as I like to call him – had better make the most of his time left on this earth because by the time SIR Chris Cairns is done with him then the fat blimp will well and truly be deflated... and pinned for the three-count! And brutally murdered!
Cairns throws his head back with dastardly laughter and his crown falls off yet again, causing him to fly into a blind rage, battering his scepter down onto John Smith's desk, destroying the phone and laptop and scattering paperwork all over the place as John Smith flees.
Cairns: SIR CHRIS CAIRNS! SIR CHRIS CAIRNS! SIR CHRIS CAIRNS!!
Fade to piss.
