I'd bet you a hundred bucks you've been losing sleep over the fact that there hasn't been a new episode for two whole weeks! Then I'd lose the bet, but that's OK, 'cause it was only pretend-money anyways, so the joke's on you. Asshole.

The reason there was no episode last week was that I didn't have a new episode written. And the reason for that is that I've been busy with oter matters. So there.

Now to the obligatory blah that I have to do every episode; explanaing this weird shit. Pulp Bookerman is a parody of Pulp Fiction with wrestling characters in the important roles. In all roles, on second thought. Even in roles that previously weren't played by human beings, sometimes. So anyway, that's the concept. For more of a backstory, watch the movie about three hundred times, and read the old episodes: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, and 10.

Soon to come: the official Pulp Bookerman archives. The webmaster responsible for it is dead right now, so it's still not up. Get off your ass, lazy anonymous webmaster!

No, it's not Bob Ryder.

Anyway, on to the matter at hand. Where we last left off, Goldberg had just speared Kevin Nash to death. The rest will come after the dividing line that signifies the start of the episode. I think Massa Chris will enjoy the inclusion of one particular character in this one, by the way. . .

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking: enough intro. Let's get it on.

The scene: Goldberg is in the pickup truck, on his way back to the motel. He is in a much better mood now, and turns on the radio. "Flowers on the Wall", as sung by Berlyn's bodyguard, blares out of the speakers.

Goldberg (to himself): That's the way you're gonna beat 'em, Bill. They keep underestimating you. Even after you've beaten two hundred jobbers, they keep underestimating you.

He stops by a red light, signing along with the song. Then, he looks up to see the pedestrian crossing the street. The pedestrian stops and turns his head toward Goldberg. It's Hollywood Hogan, the man who's behind the manhunt for Bill. Both are shocked.

Hogan: Brotha, sucka--. . .

Goldberg, acting fast, rams the car into Hogan, who goes flying. The pickup Goldberg is driving is out of control and crashes into another car. The driver may or may not have been blonde.

Hogan: Who?

Blonde EMT: No, him.

She points to Goldberg. While a lot of people are gathered around Hogan, only one's helping Goldberg out: It's the Spanish Announcers' Table.

Hogan: I'll be damned. . .

He takes out a bigass gun, and fires at Goldberg. Hogan, still woozy from being hit by a car, misses, and the table gets hit instead. Goldberg runs and Hogan follows, shooting wildly, but missing again and again. Hogan's reputation as a shooter isn't that good, so it makes sense.

Goldberg, bloodied, stumbles into a store and hides by the door. At the counter is a guy with sideburns and rather effeminate mannerisms.

Lodi: Can I help you with something?

Goldberg: Shut the heck up.

Lodi: Now you just wait a God-damned minute now. . . What the heck you up to?

Right when he says that, Hogan bursts in through the door. Goldberg flies on him immediately and manages to land a bunch of punches in his face.

Goldberg: Feel like Sting, big boy? That's pride, messing with you, see! You've gotta fight through that crap!

Hogan: You better job me out.

Goldberg: Yeah, somebody's gonna get jobbed! Somebody's gonna get squashed by me!

He puts his foot on Hogan's throat, but before he can do anything, Lodi intervenes, pointing a huge shotgun at Goldberg.

Lodi: Hold it right there goddamnit.

Goldberg: This ain't your angle, mister!

Lodi: I'm making it my angle.

Goldberg: You don't understand, man!

Lodi: Get your foot off the goblin, put your hands behind your head, and approach the counter right now.

Goldberg does as told, but takes the opportunity to kick Hogan a bit on the way.

Goldberg: He's trying to job me!

Lodi: Shut up. Keep comin'. . . Come on.

Suddenly, Lodi hits Goldberg in the face with the handle of the shotgun. He's out cold, Goldberg sells!

Lodi picks up the phone and dials.

Lodi: Lane? Lodi. Yeah, spider just caught a couple of flies. . .

Lodi: Nobody jobs to anybody in my place of business except me or Lane.

A doorbell rings.

Lodi: That's Lane.

He leaves the room to go open the door.

Lane: I thought you said you'd wait for me?

Lodi: I did.

Lane: Then how come they're all beat up?

Lodi: They came in fighting. This one (pointing to Goldberg), he was gonna job this one. (pointing to Hogan)

Lane: That right? You were gonna job him, boy? I'm impressed. (to Lodi:) Perry can stand out front?

Lodi: Yeah, it ain't Tuesday is it?

Lane: No, it's Thursday.

Lodi: Then he'll be fine.

Lane: Well. . . Bring out the Gene.

Lodi: But the Gene's sleepin'. . .

Lane: Then I guess you're just gonna have to go wake him up now, won't you?

While Lane takes a seat on a chair, we see Lodi going into another room and open a trap door into a small compartment where the Gene -- Okerlund dressed in full leather bondage gear -- resides.

Lodi: Get up!

He grabs The Gene's leash and pulls him into the room where Hogan and Goldberg sit. Lane grabs the leash and forces The Gene down on his knees.

Lane: Get down.

Lane taps his fingers on Okerlund's bald head while looking at his two captives.

Lodi: Which one of 'em you wanna do first?

Lane: I ain't for sure yet. . . I'll just do it the way Bischoff used to decide winners for PPV matches.

He stops tapping the Gene's head with his fingers and starts counting "Eenie meenie miney mo" on Goldberg and Hogan. After a while of this, he lands on. . . Hogan.

Lane: Guess that means you, big boy.

Hogan(still with ball in his mouth): Mpphm!! Mphmphm!!

Lane (to Lodi): You wanna do it in here?

Lodi: No. . . I was thinking of maybe Patrick's old room.

Lane: Sounds good to me.

He stands up, goes over to Hogan, and pulls his chair into another room.

Hogan: Mphmphm! Mphm mphmpmphm!

Lodi attaches the Gene's leash to the roof.

Lodi: You keep an eye on this one.

He walks into the room where Lane and Hogan are and closes the door.

We hear stange grunting noises from the room while Goldberg is trying to loosen the ropes tying his arms to the chair. As he struggles, the Gene is making giggling noises. All of a sudden, the ropes just slide off and Goldberg is once again a free man. The Gene is shocked and tries to warn his friends in the other room, but all he can muster is a silent mumble. . .

The Gene: I can't tell you what it is, but a major occurrence has just taken place here in the cellar of Lodi's shop! Call the hotl--. . .

Goldberg punches him in the face. The Gene is out cold.

Goldberg takes out the ball from his mouth, finds Lane's keys, and goes up the stairs and into the store. He's on his way out to the free world, but stops at the door. Shouting and grunting is still heard from the backroom in the basement.

Goldberg takes a decision: He can't let this happen, not even to Hollywood Hogan. Those two guys who tied him up ARE NEXT!

He searches the room for a weapon. . . First he sees a sledgehammer, much like the one Triple-H uses. After a moment thinking about it, he disregards it; not too lethal.

Next, he picks up a black baseball bat, much like the one Sting uses. He grips it in his hands, but it too isn't lethal enough and gets disregarded.

Next, he picks up a cheese grater. He's seen 'em used in ECW and knows that they are in fact very, very dangerous, but is it practical? Goldberg holds it in his hands, but then he looks up on a shelf and sees the answer. . . He has found the most lethal weapon available.

Goldberg reaches up to the top shelf and takes down Steve Blackman. Goldberg grips the Lethal Weapon by his feet with both hands, and sneaks down the stairs.

He opens the door to the backroom and is met with a horrible sight: Lodi is with his back to Goldberg, watching Lenny Lane going at Hollywood Hogan. . . painting his fingernails purple! Hogan, still with the ball in his mouth, is teary-eyed, but sees Goldberg sneaking up behind Lodi. Lodi turns, and Goldberg throws Blackman at him. Blackman gives him a viscious kick to the chest, and Lodi is out. Lane stops what he's doing to stand eye to eye with Goldberg. His eyes go to a gun lying on a crate close by.

Goldberg: You want that gun, don't you, Lane?

Lenny Lane just looks at, at glances at the gun longingly.

Goldberg: Go ahead, pick it up. . . Pick it up.

Lane knows that if he takes his eyes away from Goldberg for too long, he'll be speared. He has been in world title matches with him, so he knows. . .

Hogan: Step aside, Bill.

As Goldberg steps aside, we see that Hogan has gotten up and that he is holding Lodi's shotgun. It BLASTS Lenny in the. . . erm. . . lower abdominals. Lane is crawled up on the floor, screaming.

Goldberg: You OK?

Hogan: Nah, brutha. I'm pretty --sucka-- far from OK.

Goldberg nods.

Goldberg: What now?

Hogan: What now? I'm gonna tell you what now. I'ma call a couple of early 1980s NWA jobbas to go to work on the sucka here with a crowbar on a parking lot. (to Lane:) You hear me talking, stereotype-boy? I ain't through with you by damn sight. I'ma get Four Horsemen on your ass.

Goldberg: I meant what now between me and you.

Hogan: Oh, that what now? Let me tell you what now between me and you. There is no me and you. Not no more.

Goldberg: So we're cool?

Hogan: Yeah, we're eatin' fruit and bein' cool. Two things: Don't tell nobody about this. This is between me, you, and mister Soon-to-be-spending-the-rest-of-his-short-ass-career-being-jobbed-out fingernail painter here. It ain't nobody elses business. Two: You leave town tonight. Right now. And when you leave, you stay on leave, or you be-lieve.

Goldberg: Huh?

Hogan: I think I might have messed up that line. . . Either way, you're out. You lost all of your WCW privileges, deal?

Goldberg: Yeah.

Hogan: Get your ass out of here.

Goldberg leaves.

Goldberg: Steve!! Steve!!

He runs up the stairs to get Steve.

Goldberg: Steve, come one baby, come on. Get your crap, we've gotta go.

Austin: But I was so worried, what about the beer?

Goldberg: Screw the beer. If we don't split right now, we're gonna miss the fricking train. Come on, I'll be downstairs.

He starts going down the stairs.

Austin (from upstairs): Is everything alright and that's the bottom line cause Stone Cold said so?

Goldberg (still on his way down): Just come on, no talking now!

Austin: Are we in danger?

Goldberg ignores the question and sits himself down on the chopper.

Goldberg: Come on honey.

Steve Austin goes out the door and sees Goldberg on the chopper. He's a bit shocked.

Austin: Where did you get this motorcycle?

Goldberg: It's not a motorcycle, baby, it's a chopper. Now come on, let's go.

Austin: What happened to my Austin 3:16 pickup truck?

Goldberg: I'm sorry baby, I had to crash that pickup. Will you come on now, please? Come on.

Austin goes down the stairs. He sees that Bill's nose is bloodied.

Austin: You juicing?

Goldberg: I'm no-selling it, it's no biggie. Hop on.

Austin reaches out to lovingly touch the hurt nose. Goldberg pulls back.

Goldberg (impatiently): Baby, we. . . Honey, we gotta hit the fricking road! Get on!

Austin begins to weep.

Goldberg: Aw. . . I'm sorry, come here, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

He pulls Austin close and kisses him lightly on the cheek.

Austin: You were gone so long, I started to think dreadful thoughts, and that's the bottom line 'cause Stone Cold said so. . .

Goldberg: Oh, I'm sorry baby, I didn't mean to worry you. . . How was the breakfast?

Austin (starting to regain his compusure): Austin 3:16 says it was good.

Goldberg: Did you get the ravioli? The Chef Boyardee ravioli?

Austin: No I didn't get Chef Boyardee Ravioli, I just Got Milk. Are you sure your ass is OK?

Goldberg: Honey, since I left you, this has been without a doubt the weirdest fricking day of my life. Come on, hop on, I'll tell you all about it. Come on.

Austin sits on the chopper behind Bill and puts his hands on his waist.

Austin: Who's motorcycle is this?

Goldberg: It's a chopper, baby.

Austin: Who's chopper is this?

Goldberg: It's Lane's.

Austin: Who's Lane?

Goldberg: Lane's slain, baby. Lane's slain.

They ride off.