Post by Deleted on Apr 3, 2014 21:23:08 GMT -5
A flashy introduction graphic swirls over the screen, with the letters WMBF boldly resting on top of an italicized and cursive statement: “Your leading source for breaking news.” As a somehow endearingly generic fanfare plays over the graphic, it darts off screen again and the scene is now set inside of a news studio. The camera sharply begins to focus on a single man sitting behind the anchor desk. Just as generic as the fanfare but without any of the endearing qualities, he embodies the full persona and image of an evening news anchor; moussed but still ruffled hair to give it a very forced casual look, a blue suit jacket with a darker blue tie, eyes that peer through the camera lens directly at whoevers watching but with an even more so forced emotion, and a smile that’s fake enough anybody could be easily convinced he was made of plastic.
“Hello, I’m Michael Maely. Welcome to WMBF, your leading source for breaking news!” The anchor starts off casually, his arm resting over the table as he leans towards the camera for a moment to adjust how he’s sitting. “Paula Caruso is off today. Our first story is a major one, concerning packs of wild, vicious stray dogs that are slowly taking over…our nations…” Maely slowly stops reading the teleprompter, and looks around the newsroom in disbelief. “Really? That’s from Talledega Nights. Ok, are we ever on the air?”
“Well, it was worth a shot, mate!” Somewhere from behind the camera a British accent cries out, and the sound of a commotion can be heard. Maely follows the ruckus, still unseen by the camera, appears to grow very nervous, very quickly. He appears to look for an exit, but finds none as Whitey Ford approaches him from his left, and Michael John Windsor does the same from his right.
“Ok, guys, we have no airtime for you, I already explained that over the phone. You need to contact—“ Maely starts, but he’s pushed out of his chair by Whitey Ford. Maely doesn’t quite fall over, but catches himself at the last minute, standing upright.
“Tell em’, MJ.” Whitey commandeers the newly available chair while adjusting a sharp apple-red tie. The number one contender for the PCW World Championship is looking quite dapper, with his hair slicked back and un-greasified (that is a word, if you know Whitey Ford.) He sports a gray and obviously expensive suit jacket to go along with the tie.
MJW has come prepared with another chair, and rolls it into position next to Whitey. Maely nervously looks at the imposing brit before meekly taking the seat offered to him. “See, the thing is, just because you and the network says no doesn’t mean that Whitey and I won’t get what we want. Mr. Ford is a rich man. I, myself, am a VERY rich man, and took the liberty to pay dozens of your employees who run the very important aspects of any respectable news program to…well, do what I say. Paid them enough, in fact, that they all quit after this broadcast. Your cameramen, your sound guys, the key grips, those little twats who run coffee to you and your idiot co-anchors, your makeup crew…we even paid the men sitting just through that room behind the camera, operating the video feed. And to be sure that they wouldn’t balk at our offer and take a moral route, I also placed a very large, violent, angry, and unpleasant Mexican in their midst, by the name of Johnny Veigns, to watch over this operation until we’re through here.” MJW curtly explained, his voice so matter-of-fact that Mr. Maely seems to relax just a tiny bit.
“I bribed the gaffer. That was my job. I don’t know what a gaffer is, but I bribed the shit out of it.” Ford proudly exclaims while rustling through the news anchors paperwork. He appears to have it all in order after a minute of sorting, but quickly gets bored and tosses the pile haphazardly over his shoulder, sending pieces of paper flying through the air behind him.
“Well…um…” Michael Maely begins, and clears his throat to try and regain his composure. “What do you gentlemen have in mind?”
“Read the news, my boy. Just do your job.” Windsor gives Maely a rough ‘pat’ on the cheek that comes off nearly as a slap, and makes his way off camera…which is still airing the scene live to all of Myrtle Beach and beyond. Whitey clears his throat this time, and clasps his hands together on the desk in front of him, giving his best toothy grin to the camera.
A few moments of silence pass, and Maely finally speaks. “Well, um…sorry for the delay, folks, but let’s get on with tonight’s first news item. The Myrtle Beach budget hearing had some difficulties getting underway this afternoon, as there was a small power outage in the area…”
Whitey is polite enough to let Maely half-finish his sentence before driving his elbow outwards and upwards, connecting squarely with the nose of the poor news anchor. Maely gurgles out blood instantly, mixed with a moan of pain as he falls backwards in his office chair. Ford’s face is still calm, although the cheesy smile has faded from his face. Calmly surveying the blood spatter on the elbow of his suit, Whitey shrugs and puts his focus back on the camera.
“Well, if he would have kept talking about packs of stray dogs taking over most of America’s major cities, I would have let him finish. But his news sucks. Let’s face it, all news sucks if it doesn’t apply to me or what I’m doing at the time or in the near future. So! Let’s talk about that. Let’s talk about Mass Destruction…myself versus Eira versus Andy D.” Whitey begins, his normally volatile nature seemingly dissipated by the fact he’s on a news broadcast, or at least momentarily. “I can explain how I feel about this match and its inevitable outcome. It’s a big secret.”
Ford pauses for a moment, and looks around him in mock secrecy, to make sure that nobody is listening in to his revelation. When he’s confident nobody is near him, which is foolish because he’s broadcasting live, he waves his hands in front of his face as if showcasing the billboard of an attraction pitch. “Women’s…rights.”
“Now, I know there are a thousand women out there who are instantly going to change the channel right now, but that’s ok because you’re all probably butch lesbians or militant feminists, two types of people that I don’t care about whatsoever. And you’re all stupid to boot. So go ahead, change the channel. There’s also another thousand of you women out there who are going to listen to what I say, then protest PCW, WMBF, all of my investments and my face on television in general. That’s ok with me, since you all have nothing better to do than dishes, laundry, cooking, and giving terrible blowjobs because that’s what you think you’re man expects.”
Whitey leans back in his chair, kicking his feet up onto the news desk and resting his hands behind his head. “To the rest of you, let’s face it. Women’s rights are what are wrong with this country. God knows how many years ago we allowed you cunts to vote, and since that moment—“
“1920…” Maely’s voice, barely audible over the fountain of blood pouring from his nose below the news desk, can be heard. Whitey jolts his legs off the desk and begins to stomp away at the still unseen but probably prone body of Michael Maely. After a good half dozen stomps, the groaning stops and Ford turns his attention back to the camera as if nothing happened.
“…Since that moment, men have been royally and completely FUCKED. First we started to let them vote and all of a sudden fuckin’ BAM! We can’t beat them anymore or we go to jail. We have to give them our seats on the bus. We no longer have firemen, we have firefighters. No policeman anymore, just that there police officer! Let’s not even mention that they now get all the good jobs because lord knows if you’re an employer and you DON’T hire a woman over a man, you’re a fucking sexist pig and you’ll be on the news for it.” Whitey stands up now, getting a bit heated.
“Let’s not even mention that us men can’t even fuckin’ LOOK at women anymore! This chicks who claim to have class or swag or whatever-the-fuck go out wearing nothing but a towel and a piece of string, and if we so much as look at them through our peripherals we get slapped and made to feel like a pig.”
“AND THE WORST!?” Whitey jabs his finger at the camera, leaning over the news desk to get closer to the lens. His eyes are wild, and perspiration is starting to show on his forehead. Whitey Ford is now looking shades of his usual self. “The worst is that we, as men, are expected to just be nice in general to women. Why? WHY? Can you tell me why, Maely?” Ford doesn’t look down, but kicks out with his leg sideways. A thud and a groan are heard, but Whitey doesn’t stop for a real response. “It’s because they’re weaker, smaller, less intelligent creatures, but they want the same fucking rights as us men have. They want all the rights, but they don’t want to be picked on because they generally suck at everything. EV-‘RY-THING!”
Whitey gasps suddenly, out of breath after the last few sentences of his fast-paced tirade. He falls backwards into his chair, and begins to unbutton his suit jacket. He takes a few labored, deep breaths, before reaching into his pants pocket to produce a pack of cigarettes. His hands, shaky from getting all worked up, eventually pull one cigarette out but unfortunately five or six more fly out of the pack as a result. Seeming to not care, Ford lights up with a match, and exhales. The calming effect is seemingly instant, and he gestures towards the camera with the hand that holds the nicotine.
“And how does that relate to Mass Destruction or PCW at all, some of you idiots may ask? Well, the answer is even simpler than you think. The fact that we let women vote in 1920, and let them become these power hungry thundercunts that they are today, is why Eira is the PCW World Champion. I’ll admit it! I wanted to break her fucking face every time I saw her, but no. This little brainwashed prick in the back of my head was always said ‘Oh, no, don’t do that, she’s a woman! She’s a delicate flower and needs to be honored and respected!’” Whitey spoke the last two sentences in a sing song voice, giving a sigh of disbelief in himself afterwards.
“But not anymore. Eira, you bitch, you have beaten all of your opponents because they took it easy on you. ESPECIALLY me. But no longer. You want to be treated as an equal, in life and in PCW? I vow to no longer let you get by just because you have a vagina and rumor has it you put out to the people who let you beat them in the ring. I have yet to see proof of that rumor, so therefore…” Whitey trails off, and goes silent for just a moment. His head is lowered in deep thought, but after the moment passes and he looks back up towards the camera, a psychopath’s mind can be easily seen through the windows of his eyes. “Come Mass Destruction, I’m going to fucking kill you, as an equal. Your free ride is over, bitch. And I’ll be the first man to rape his way to the PCW World Championship Belt.”
Ford leans back, taking one last drag off of his smoke before flicking the coffin nail off into the distance somewhere. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for just another fleeting moment…and surges back into his verbal manifesto. However, his voice has now changed to a cheery, whimsical sort of tone, and the former Intercontinental Champion slaps both palms down on the desk. “And rape, folks, is what is going to happen to Andy D in this match! Here we go, Andy, let’s just get yourself into the main event of Mass Destruction by blowing the new goofy fuck of a boss we have, even though you lost the Number One Contenders match! Awesome job.”
“You know…” Whitey grimaces and looks away from the camera. “…I don’t even want to be in the same fucking ring as you, Andy. You’re a predator…like, to women. You and your super optimistic ‘Little Engine That Could’ bullshit attitude. And you’re always complaining about being alone, or else that’s what I hear at the ol’ watercooler when your name comes up…other than the phrase, ‘He’s a fucking predator!’ Let’s see, Andy…”
Ford begins to count off on his fingers. “You lost to Eira, you lost to ME…and if you’ve ever beaten me before I don’t remember so it doesn’t count. You have no friends, no life, you’re the pity-party central of the PCW so much that even Rick Majors thinks you’re emo, and you’re so lonely that your dick is like a rape whistle. Women only blow it when they feel like they’re in danger!”
Suddenly, the muddled sound of yelling is heard from one of the distant rooms. A door is heard being pounded out, but whatever group of people is trying to get in can’t quite be heard.
“Sir, the police are here.” A voice comes from within the studio.
“Who the fuck are you?” Whitey asks incredulously, as if he hadn’t noticed people were even still in the room.
“The gaffer, sir.”
“GodDAMN, I knew I paid you for a reason!” Whitey leaps over the news desk, and falls to his knees. His hands are clasped behind his head in a submissive position; one that years of dealing with police comes natural. He stares into the camera, a grin on his face and his eyes smiling as well. “Eira, Andy…see you at Mass Destruction. I’ll only be in jail for the night. Just remember, Andy…I’ll pay your rent if you just stay the fuck out of my way. Oh, and Eira? I’ll throw you one for free if make this easy on yourself and forfeit. Some of the PCW fans are going to be a little too…squeamish…to the pain I’m going to put you through. Danny, cut the feed.”
The video and audio feed cuts out just as the sound of a door splintering is heard. The indistinct yelling of the police is just barely missed, but the noises are forgotten by the last image of Whitey Ford’s supremely confident face smiling out to the Myrtle Beach area, and whoever else is watching.
“Hello, I’m Michael Maely. Welcome to WMBF, your leading source for breaking news!” The anchor starts off casually, his arm resting over the table as he leans towards the camera for a moment to adjust how he’s sitting. “Paula Caruso is off today. Our first story is a major one, concerning packs of wild, vicious stray dogs that are slowly taking over…our nations…” Maely slowly stops reading the teleprompter, and looks around the newsroom in disbelief. “Really? That’s from Talledega Nights. Ok, are we ever on the air?”
“Well, it was worth a shot, mate!” Somewhere from behind the camera a British accent cries out, and the sound of a commotion can be heard. Maely follows the ruckus, still unseen by the camera, appears to grow very nervous, very quickly. He appears to look for an exit, but finds none as Whitey Ford approaches him from his left, and Michael John Windsor does the same from his right.
“Ok, guys, we have no airtime for you, I already explained that over the phone. You need to contact—“ Maely starts, but he’s pushed out of his chair by Whitey Ford. Maely doesn’t quite fall over, but catches himself at the last minute, standing upright.
“Tell em’, MJ.” Whitey commandeers the newly available chair while adjusting a sharp apple-red tie. The number one contender for the PCW World Championship is looking quite dapper, with his hair slicked back and un-greasified (that is a word, if you know Whitey Ford.) He sports a gray and obviously expensive suit jacket to go along with the tie.
MJW has come prepared with another chair, and rolls it into position next to Whitey. Maely nervously looks at the imposing brit before meekly taking the seat offered to him. “See, the thing is, just because you and the network says no doesn’t mean that Whitey and I won’t get what we want. Mr. Ford is a rich man. I, myself, am a VERY rich man, and took the liberty to pay dozens of your employees who run the very important aspects of any respectable news program to…well, do what I say. Paid them enough, in fact, that they all quit after this broadcast. Your cameramen, your sound guys, the key grips, those little twats who run coffee to you and your idiot co-anchors, your makeup crew…we even paid the men sitting just through that room behind the camera, operating the video feed. And to be sure that they wouldn’t balk at our offer and take a moral route, I also placed a very large, violent, angry, and unpleasant Mexican in their midst, by the name of Johnny Veigns, to watch over this operation until we’re through here.” MJW curtly explained, his voice so matter-of-fact that Mr. Maely seems to relax just a tiny bit.
“I bribed the gaffer. That was my job. I don’t know what a gaffer is, but I bribed the shit out of it.” Ford proudly exclaims while rustling through the news anchors paperwork. He appears to have it all in order after a minute of sorting, but quickly gets bored and tosses the pile haphazardly over his shoulder, sending pieces of paper flying through the air behind him.
“Well…um…” Michael Maely begins, and clears his throat to try and regain his composure. “What do you gentlemen have in mind?”
“Read the news, my boy. Just do your job.” Windsor gives Maely a rough ‘pat’ on the cheek that comes off nearly as a slap, and makes his way off camera…which is still airing the scene live to all of Myrtle Beach and beyond. Whitey clears his throat this time, and clasps his hands together on the desk in front of him, giving his best toothy grin to the camera.
A few moments of silence pass, and Maely finally speaks. “Well, um…sorry for the delay, folks, but let’s get on with tonight’s first news item. The Myrtle Beach budget hearing had some difficulties getting underway this afternoon, as there was a small power outage in the area…”
Whitey is polite enough to let Maely half-finish his sentence before driving his elbow outwards and upwards, connecting squarely with the nose of the poor news anchor. Maely gurgles out blood instantly, mixed with a moan of pain as he falls backwards in his office chair. Ford’s face is still calm, although the cheesy smile has faded from his face. Calmly surveying the blood spatter on the elbow of his suit, Whitey shrugs and puts his focus back on the camera.
“Well, if he would have kept talking about packs of stray dogs taking over most of America’s major cities, I would have let him finish. But his news sucks. Let’s face it, all news sucks if it doesn’t apply to me or what I’m doing at the time or in the near future. So! Let’s talk about that. Let’s talk about Mass Destruction…myself versus Eira versus Andy D.” Whitey begins, his normally volatile nature seemingly dissipated by the fact he’s on a news broadcast, or at least momentarily. “I can explain how I feel about this match and its inevitable outcome. It’s a big secret.”
Ford pauses for a moment, and looks around him in mock secrecy, to make sure that nobody is listening in to his revelation. When he’s confident nobody is near him, which is foolish because he’s broadcasting live, he waves his hands in front of his face as if showcasing the billboard of an attraction pitch. “Women’s…rights.”
“Now, I know there are a thousand women out there who are instantly going to change the channel right now, but that’s ok because you’re all probably butch lesbians or militant feminists, two types of people that I don’t care about whatsoever. And you’re all stupid to boot. So go ahead, change the channel. There’s also another thousand of you women out there who are going to listen to what I say, then protest PCW, WMBF, all of my investments and my face on television in general. That’s ok with me, since you all have nothing better to do than dishes, laundry, cooking, and giving terrible blowjobs because that’s what you think you’re man expects.”
Whitey leans back in his chair, kicking his feet up onto the news desk and resting his hands behind his head. “To the rest of you, let’s face it. Women’s rights are what are wrong with this country. God knows how many years ago we allowed you cunts to vote, and since that moment—“
“1920…” Maely’s voice, barely audible over the fountain of blood pouring from his nose below the news desk, can be heard. Whitey jolts his legs off the desk and begins to stomp away at the still unseen but probably prone body of Michael Maely. After a good half dozen stomps, the groaning stops and Ford turns his attention back to the camera as if nothing happened.
“…Since that moment, men have been royally and completely FUCKED. First we started to let them vote and all of a sudden fuckin’ BAM! We can’t beat them anymore or we go to jail. We have to give them our seats on the bus. We no longer have firemen, we have firefighters. No policeman anymore, just that there police officer! Let’s not even mention that they now get all the good jobs because lord knows if you’re an employer and you DON’T hire a woman over a man, you’re a fucking sexist pig and you’ll be on the news for it.” Whitey stands up now, getting a bit heated.
“Let’s not even mention that us men can’t even fuckin’ LOOK at women anymore! This chicks who claim to have class or swag or whatever-the-fuck go out wearing nothing but a towel and a piece of string, and if we so much as look at them through our peripherals we get slapped and made to feel like a pig.”
“AND THE WORST!?” Whitey jabs his finger at the camera, leaning over the news desk to get closer to the lens. His eyes are wild, and perspiration is starting to show on his forehead. Whitey Ford is now looking shades of his usual self. “The worst is that we, as men, are expected to just be nice in general to women. Why? WHY? Can you tell me why, Maely?” Ford doesn’t look down, but kicks out with his leg sideways. A thud and a groan are heard, but Whitey doesn’t stop for a real response. “It’s because they’re weaker, smaller, less intelligent creatures, but they want the same fucking rights as us men have. They want all the rights, but they don’t want to be picked on because they generally suck at everything. EV-‘RY-THING!”
Whitey gasps suddenly, out of breath after the last few sentences of his fast-paced tirade. He falls backwards into his chair, and begins to unbutton his suit jacket. He takes a few labored, deep breaths, before reaching into his pants pocket to produce a pack of cigarettes. His hands, shaky from getting all worked up, eventually pull one cigarette out but unfortunately five or six more fly out of the pack as a result. Seeming to not care, Ford lights up with a match, and exhales. The calming effect is seemingly instant, and he gestures towards the camera with the hand that holds the nicotine.
“And how does that relate to Mass Destruction or PCW at all, some of you idiots may ask? Well, the answer is even simpler than you think. The fact that we let women vote in 1920, and let them become these power hungry thundercunts that they are today, is why Eira is the PCW World Champion. I’ll admit it! I wanted to break her fucking face every time I saw her, but no. This little brainwashed prick in the back of my head was always said ‘Oh, no, don’t do that, she’s a woman! She’s a delicate flower and needs to be honored and respected!’” Whitey spoke the last two sentences in a sing song voice, giving a sigh of disbelief in himself afterwards.
“But not anymore. Eira, you bitch, you have beaten all of your opponents because they took it easy on you. ESPECIALLY me. But no longer. You want to be treated as an equal, in life and in PCW? I vow to no longer let you get by just because you have a vagina and rumor has it you put out to the people who let you beat them in the ring. I have yet to see proof of that rumor, so therefore…” Whitey trails off, and goes silent for just a moment. His head is lowered in deep thought, but after the moment passes and he looks back up towards the camera, a psychopath’s mind can be easily seen through the windows of his eyes. “Come Mass Destruction, I’m going to fucking kill you, as an equal. Your free ride is over, bitch. And I’ll be the first man to rape his way to the PCW World Championship Belt.”
Ford leans back, taking one last drag off of his smoke before flicking the coffin nail off into the distance somewhere. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for just another fleeting moment…and surges back into his verbal manifesto. However, his voice has now changed to a cheery, whimsical sort of tone, and the former Intercontinental Champion slaps both palms down on the desk. “And rape, folks, is what is going to happen to Andy D in this match! Here we go, Andy, let’s just get yourself into the main event of Mass Destruction by blowing the new goofy fuck of a boss we have, even though you lost the Number One Contenders match! Awesome job.”
“You know…” Whitey grimaces and looks away from the camera. “…I don’t even want to be in the same fucking ring as you, Andy. You’re a predator…like, to women. You and your super optimistic ‘Little Engine That Could’ bullshit attitude. And you’re always complaining about being alone, or else that’s what I hear at the ol’ watercooler when your name comes up…other than the phrase, ‘He’s a fucking predator!’ Let’s see, Andy…”
Ford begins to count off on his fingers. “You lost to Eira, you lost to ME…and if you’ve ever beaten me before I don’t remember so it doesn’t count. You have no friends, no life, you’re the pity-party central of the PCW so much that even Rick Majors thinks you’re emo, and you’re so lonely that your dick is like a rape whistle. Women only blow it when they feel like they’re in danger!”
Suddenly, the muddled sound of yelling is heard from one of the distant rooms. A door is heard being pounded out, but whatever group of people is trying to get in can’t quite be heard.
“Sir, the police are here.” A voice comes from within the studio.
“Who the fuck are you?” Whitey asks incredulously, as if he hadn’t noticed people were even still in the room.
“The gaffer, sir.”
“GodDAMN, I knew I paid you for a reason!” Whitey leaps over the news desk, and falls to his knees. His hands are clasped behind his head in a submissive position; one that years of dealing with police comes natural. He stares into the camera, a grin on his face and his eyes smiling as well. “Eira, Andy…see you at Mass Destruction. I’ll only be in jail for the night. Just remember, Andy…I’ll pay your rent if you just stay the fuck out of my way. Oh, and Eira? I’ll throw you one for free if make this easy on yourself and forfeit. Some of the PCW fans are going to be a little too…squeamish…to the pain I’m going to put you through. Danny, cut the feed.”
The video and audio feed cuts out just as the sound of a door splintering is heard. The indistinct yelling of the police is just barely missed, but the noises are forgotten by the last image of Whitey Ford’s supremely confident face smiling out to the Myrtle Beach area, and whoever else is watching.