After months of DDP and Kevin killing people with catchphrases, Austin and Goldberg being cute lovers, and various other wrestling personalities in various other wacky situations, the parody is coming to a halt. The final episode is here.

I promised myself I wouldn't cry. . . I can only pray you readers will be as strong as me. I know Massa Chris himself usually has a hard time keeping his emotions bottled up. Let it all out if you need it, CRZ!

For those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about and what's coming to a halt, go to The Official Pulp Bookerman Archives and read up on it. And before you do that, watch Tarantino's movie a few times.

Before we get to the actual episode, I'd like to thank all the readers who have sent me feedback, Eliott Sparks who is the webmaster of the archives page, CRZ for not only having a site for this writing to go up on, but for also giving me the [slash] early so that more folks will care, and some of the folks on a certain message board I frequent who have been with this story since it started. It's greatly appreciated, everyone.

What now for Mr. JF? Another movie? "Rasselin' War Dogs", perhaps? Well, we'll see. I'm not really up to doing another big movie thing; it's too much work. But I think you'll see me around with other stuff. Keep your eyes open.

In the mean time, spread the word on Pulp Bookerman. Maybe if they get to be part of a greater audience, all the wrestlers already reading this will have the guts to e-mail me. OK, so I'm delirious. Sorry about that.

Final episode. Let's get it on.

Kevin: I don't know why, I just thought he'd be European or something.

DDP: Yeah, he's about as European as scummin' Sir William.

Kevin: I know that now. . .

DDP: But was he cool or what? Totally scummin' cool. In control. Didn't even, you know. . . He didn't even really get pissed when you were fucking with him. I was amazed.

Kevin (changing the subject): Want to job Kidman?

DDP: Nah, man, I don't associate with cruisers.

Kevin: Why, 'cause he's Jewish?

DDP: Nah, not 'cause he's Jewish, I just don't dig on cruisers, that's all.

Kevin: Yeah, but Misterio puts you over good! Kidman puts you over good!

DDP: Hey, Guerrero may put me over like I'm Hogan and he's Savage, but I'd never know, 'cause I wouldn't wrestle the filthy motherscummer. Misterio sleeps and roots in the undercard. That's a Filthy Animal. I don't eat nothing that ain't got enough sense to disregard the undercarders.

Kevin: How 'bout K-Dawg? K-Dawg wrestles in the undercard.

DDP: I wouldn't wrestle K-Dawg either.

Kevin: Yeah, but do you consider K-Dawg to be a Filthy Animal?

DDP: I wouldn't go so far as to call K-Dawg filthy, but he's definitely dirty. But K-Dawg's got catchphrases. Catchphrases goes a long way.

Kevin: Ah, so by that rationel, if Kidman had better catchphrases, he'd cease to be a Filthy Animal and be moved up the ranks. Is that true?

DDP: Well, we'd have to be talking about one catchphrase-spouting motherscummin' Kidman! I mean, he'd have to have ten times more catchphrases than that Rock in the WWF, you know what I'm sayin'?

They both laugh.

Kevin: That's a good one, man. You're starting to lighten up. You've been sitting there all serious and shit.

DDP: I've just been sitting here thinking.

Kevin: About what?

DDP: About that miracle we witnessed.

Kevin: The miracle you witnessed. I witnessed a freak occurrence.

DDP: What is a miracle, Kevin?

Kevin: An act of Turner.

DDP: And what's an act of Turner?

Kevin: When Turner makes the impossible possible. . . But, this morning I don't think qualifies.

DDP: Hey, Kevin, don't you see, that scum don't matter? You're judging this scum the wrong way. I mean, it could be Turner stopped the remote from working, he changed Nitro from three hours to two, he stopped your dumbass booking. You don't judge scum like this based on merit. Now whether or not what we experienced was an according-to-Kunze miracle is insignificant. But what is significant is that I felt the touch of Turner. Ted got involved.

Kevin: But why?

DDP: Well, that's what's scummin' with me, I don't know why. But I can't go back to sleep.

Kevin: You're serious? You're really thinking about quitting?

DDP: The life?

Kevin: Yeah!

DDP: Most definitely.

Kevin: Fuck. . . What's you gonna do then?

DDP: Well, that's what I've been sitting here contemplating. First, I'm gonna deliver this case to Hollywood. Then, basically, I'm just gonna roam the indys.

Kevin: What do you mean, "roam the indys"?

DDP: You know, like Jake Roberts. Roam from fed to fed, meet people, get in adventures.

Kevin: And how long do you intend to "roam the indys"?

DDP: Until Ted puts me where he wants me to be.

Kevin: And what if he don't do that?

DDP: If it takes forever, I'll roam forever.

Kevin: So you decided to be an alcoholic has-been who'll never get pushed because you can't keep a job!

DDP: I'll just be Dallas, Kevin. No more, no less.

Kevin: No, no, no, Dallas, you decided to be an alcoholic has-been who'll never be pushed because you can't keep a job! Just like all those pieces of shit out there who were at Heroes of Wrestling. People that'll do anything to earn a buck, who wrestle in front of crowds of fifty. They've got a name for that Dallas, it's called an alcoholic has-been who'll never be pushed because you can't keep a job! And without a contract or TV time, that's what you're gonna be, man. You're gonna be a fucking alcoholic has-been who'll never get pushed because you can't keep a job!

DDP: Look, my friend, this is just where you and I differ.

Flair: Viscera! Coffee!

Kevin: Look, Dallas, what happened this morning, I agree, it was peculiar, but gay lovers into brothers. . .

DDP: All shapes and sizes, Kevin.

Kevin: Don't fucking talk to me that way, man.

DDP: If my answers frighten you, Kevin, then you should cease asking scary questions.

Kevin ignores DDP's mumbo-jumbo this time.

Kevin: I'm gonna take a shit.

He stands up.

Kevin: Let me ask you something: When did you make this decision? When you were sitting there, eating your muffin?

DDP: Well, yeah. I was sitting here, eating my muffin, drinking my coffee, replaying the incident in my head, when I got what Scott Hall refers to as "a moment of clarity".

Kevin: Fuck. To be continued. . .

He walks away. DDP sits silently, drinking coffee, when all of a sudden at the old timers' table. . .

Flair: I love you, Double A!

He stands up on the table and shouts at the top of his lungs.

Flair: WHOO! Everybody try to be the man, this is the Nature Boy!

Arn: Any of you fucking pricks laugh, and I'll tire-iron every motherfucking last one of you!

Ric Flair runs around the coffee shop, WHOOing, stylin' and profilin'. Arn, embarrassed by his friend's rather senile behaviour, goes around in the coffee shop and sees to it that no one is laughing. The place is in a state of panic, but DDP is looking on calmly.

Flair: WHOO!!! By God! WHOO!!!

Arn (to various guests): You be quiet over there! Be quiet!

He goes up to a guy sitting with five rather trashy-looking ladies. The guy is wearing a purple jacket with a "Pimpin' Ain't Easy" caption.

Arn: You! You're in a blind spot. Take your hos over to that booth over there, on the count of ten.

The Godfather, along with the train of hos, does as told.

One guy, who looks rather preppy in a knitted jumper, tries to sneak out the door. Ric Flair stops him.

Flair: What the WHOO! -by God!- are you doing?! You're gonna stay right here, and watch me style and prooo-file! WHOOO!!!

Joey Abs, frightened by the senile old geezers unpredictable behaviour, goes back to his seat.

Flair: WHOOO!!! You luchadores will watch me style and proooo-file! WHOO!!!

Ric Flair chases out Silver King and various Villanos who have been working in the kitchen. He runs back out in the main portion of the coffee shop.

Ross: I'm in charge of public relations here, and there's no problem. . . No problem at all. . .

Flair: You're gonna give me a problem? You're gonna give me a WHOO!! -by God! - problem?

Ric Flair goes over to the chubby man and presses him up against the counter.

Flair: I think we've got a hero here, Double-A!

Arn: Well just put the figure four leglock on him and get it over with so we can get out of here!

Ross: I am not a hero. . . I'm just good ol' J.R. You can soon buy my barbecue sauce, which should be hitting the stores by--. . .

Flair: Shut up, fat boy! You talk to the customers. . .

Ross: Yeah. . .

Flair: You tell them to be WHOO!!ing cool. . .

Ross: Yeah. . .

Flair: . . . and they're going to be allowed to watch me style and prooo-file! Do you understand me!?

Ross: Yes sir.

He turns to the other customers.

Ross: Listen everybody! Be calm. Cooperate, and this will all be over in a minute.

Flair pushes him to the floor.

Flair: Well done, fat boy! WHOOOO!!!

He takes up a big plastic sack.

Flair: You don't WHOO!ing talk. Are we clear? I said are we WHOO!!! - by God! - clear? Good. Now, wallets out.

He walks around collecting money from people, as Arn walks around in the background with the tire iron to make sure no one if making fun of his old pal. Everything is going nicely, and Ric winds up face to face with DDP, who is holding a brown wallet in his left hand.

Flair: In the bag.

Page puts it in the bag. Flair spots the briefcase that DDP and Kevin picked up before taking care of Malenko, Eddy and Jericho. It's lying on the seat next to DDP.

Flair: What's in the case?

DDP: My boss's dirty laundry.

Flair: Your boss makes you do his laundry?

DDP: When he wants it clean.

Flair: Sounds like a shit job.

DDP: Funny, I was thinking the same thing.

Flair: Open it.

DDP: Afraid I can't do that.

Flair pauses, suddenly not so sure of himself.

Flair: I didn't hear you.

DDP: Yes you did.

Arn (from across the room): What's going on?

Flair: Looks like we've got a vigilante in our mits.

Arn: Shoot on him!

DDP: I hate to shatter your ego, but this ain't the first time I've been up against someone with good workrate.

Flair: If you don't take your hand off that WHOO!ing case, it'll - by God! - be your last.

Ross (from across the room): Stop causing trouble, you'll get us all killed! Give them what you've got and get them out of here. You can buy my barbecue sauce--. . .

DDP: Shut the scum up, fat man, this ain't none of your God-scummed business!

Arn panicks and runs over with the tire iron.

Flair: Be cool, Double-A, be cool. I've got it under control. (to DDP:) Now, I'm gonna count to three. If you don't open that case, I'm gonna unload with chops across your WHOO!ing chest. Are we clear?

DDP says nothing.

Flair: One. . . Two. . . Three.

DDP: OK, Naytch. You win. It's yours.

He puts the case on the table.

Flair: Open it.

DDP opens the case. Flair stares at its contents, mesmerized.

Arn: What is it? What is it?!

Flair: Is that what I think it is?

DDP: Uh-huh.

Flair: It's beautiful.

Arn: Godamnit, what is it?

All of a sudden, DDP grabs Flair! He puts him in a headlock, ready to take him with the Diamond Cutter. This freaks Arn out. He jumps up on a table and stands with the tire iron ready.

Arn (screaming): You let him go! You let him go! Let go of him!!

DDP (to Flair): Tell him, "fat boy, be cool". Say "fat boy, be cool"!

Flair: Be cool, Double-A.

Arn (screaming): Let him go!!!

DDP (screaming): Tell that fat boy to chill!

Flair: Chill, Double-A.

Arn finally calms down.

DDP: Now, tell him everything's gonna be alright.

Flair: It's gonna be alright, Double-A.

DDP: Promise him!

Flair: I promise!

DDP: OK, now tell me his name.

Flair: Arn.

DDP: Alright, Arn. We're not gonna do anything stupid here, are we?

Arn: Don't you hurt him!

DDP: Nobody's going to hurt anybody here. We're all gonna be like three little Big Daddys here. And what's Big Daddy like? Come on, Arn, what's Big Daddy Like?!

Arn: Cool. . .?

DDP: What?

Arn: Cool?

DDP: Correctomundo! And that's what we're gonna be. We're gonna be cool. Now, Naytch. I'm gonna count to three. And when I count three, I want you to put your palms flat on the table, and sit your ass down. But when you do, you do it cool. You ready? One. . . two. . . three.

DDP releases the hold, and Flair puts his palms on the table and sits down.

Arn: OK, now you let him go!

DDP: Arn, I thought you were gonna be cool. Now when you yell at me, it makes me nervous. And when I get nervous, I get scared. And when motherscummers get scared, that's when motherscummers accidentally feel the BANG!

Arn: Just know: You hurt him, you get punked out.

DDP: Well, that seems to be the situation. But I don't want that. And you don't want that. And Naytch here, he definitely doesn't want that. So let's see what we can do. Now, here's the situation: Normally, both of your asses would get jobbed like scummin' Disorderly Conduct. But you happened to pull this scum while I'm in a transitional period, and I don't wanna kill you, I wanna help you. But I can't give you this case, because it don't belong to me.

He closes the briefcase.

DDP: Besides, I've been through too much scum this morning to just hand it over to your dumb ass.

Kevin Nash has come out of the bathroom, and is pointing a cattle prod in Arn's direction. Arn yelps and points his tire iron to Nash instead of DDP.

DDP: Kevin, be cool! Arn, it's cool, buddy. It's cool! We're still just talking. Point the tire iron at me. Point the tire iron at me.

Arn, still looking shocked, points it back at DDP.

DDP: That's better. Now, Kevin, just hang back, and don't do a God-scummed thing. (to Flair:) Tell him we're still cool.

Flair: Still cool, Double-A.

DDP: How're we doing, buddy?

Arn: I. . . I gotta go pee. I wanna go home.

DDP: Just hang in there, you're doing great. I'm proud of you. And Naytch's proud of you. Tell him you're proud of him.

Flair: I'm proud of you, Double-A.

Arn: I love you.

Flair: I love you too, Double-A.

DDP: Now. . . I want you to go in that bag, and find my wallet.

Flair: Which one is it?

DDP: The one that says "Bad Motherscummer".

Ric Flair takes the bag up from the cloor and starts looking through it. He eventually finds the one he's looking for and takes it up. Sure enough, it says "BAD MOTHERSCUMMER".

DDP: That's it. That's my "Bad Motherscummer". Open it up, take out the pictures.

Flair takes out the pictures, a stack of polaroids. Kimberly Page is on them, nude.

DDP: Count it.

Flair counts, taking his time to look at each photo. All of them are of Kim naked.

DDP: How many are there?

Flair: About fifteen pictures.

DDP: OK, put it in your pocket. It's yours. Now with the rest of those wallets and the register, that makes this a pretty successful little house show, huh?

Kevin: Dallas, you give that fucking nimrod fifteen naked Kimberly pictures and I'll job him out on general principles.

Arn quickly turns to Kevin with the tire iron. Arn looks very frightened, not knowing what to do.

DDP: No, Arn! Arn! He ain't gonna do a God-scummed motherscummin' thing! Kevin, shut the scum up!

Arn: Shit!

DDP: Come on, Arn. Stay with me, buddy.

Arn once again redirects his attention to DDP.

DDP: Now I ain't giving it to him, Kevin. I'm buying something for my pictures. Wanna know what I'm buying, Naytch?

Flair: What?

DDP: Your contract. I'm giving you these pictures so you I don't have to job your ass. Do you read the Book of Catchphrases, Naytch?

Flair: Not regularly, no.

DDP: Well there's this passage I got memorized. Diamond Dallas, 25:17. "The path of the bookerman is beset on all sides by the inequities of the talented, and the tyranny of workrate freaks. Blessed is he, who in the name of tradition and sports entertainment carries the stiffs through the matches of Nitro, for he is truly the workrate's keeper, and the finder of lost quality. And I will lay the smack down upon thee with great vengeance and furious roid rage those who attempt to outwrestle and expose my brothers. And you will know that I am the Bookerman, when I lay my catchphrase upon you."

This time, however, DDP doesn't unleash the catchphrases.

DDP: I've been saying that scum for years. If you heard it, that meant your ass. You know, like with the broken glass. I never gave much thought to what it meant, I just thought it was a cold-blooded thing to say to a motherscummer before I put some crap in his bag. Figauratively speaking, that is. Then I saw some scum this morning that made me think twice. See, now I think maybe it means you're the workrate freak, and I'm the bookerman. And my Diamond Cutter here, he's the stiff-carrying one, protecting my ass in the matches of Nitro. Or it could also mean you're the bookerman and I'm the stiff-carryer, and it's the rest of the roster that's made up of the talented and the workrates freaks. Now I'd like that, justn as I'm sure most wrestling fans would. But that scum ain't the truth. Truth is. . . you're the stiff, and I'm the tyranny of workrate freaks. But I'm trying, Naytch. I'm trying real hard to be the stiff-carryer.

He stops talking. For a few moments, he and Ric Flair just look at each other.

DDP: Go.

Flair gets up and walks out, with is arm around Arn. Arn is clutching to Ric.

DDP takes a bite of his muffin. Kevin Nash walks up to him.

Kevin: I think we should be leaving now.

DDP: Yeah, that's probably a good idea.

Page gets up, and he and Kevin walk through the coffee shop as stunned customers look on. The two bookermen, wearing shorts and "J.O.B. Squad" and "bWo" T shirts, open the door and leave. . .