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| Guest Columns | Mr. JF |
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Before we get into the next episode of this enthralling serial, there are
a few matters to take care of. First of all, let's adress the feedback this Pulp Bookerman thingee has received. I would do the "I get letters" bit that everyone important does, but there's really no point. See, while there have been some backfeedings (eight mails, to be exact), they aren't exactly thrilling. As a matter of fact, the shortest was only five words ("haven't seen it, but it's funny!") and the longest began with "Pulp Fiction, while an OK movie, is just terribly overrated", and just went on like that for three paragraphs, explaining why the damn *movie* 's overrated. Like I'm Tarrantino or something. The other six were basically all the same: Liked it, yaddayaddayadda. Not that I don't appreciate the support (I do) but some more in-depth analyses or astute observations would be cool. Hell, I'd like some flame mail just for a change. If you like it and have absolutely nothing else to say on the matter. . . Well, I still want you to tell me. But if you don't like it that it was Dean Malenko getting creamed and not Bret Hart in the last episode, then by all means, FLAME ME! I might just regret saying that. . . I any event, I'm sure you have all figured out what this is about. Right, a desperate call out for more feedings of that sweet back. Now on to other matters. This is the third episode of Pulp Bookerman that has appeared on [slash]. The first two are located here and here. Good master CRZ will see to it that those 'heres' are links, I think. As we set the scene for today's adventure with the Bookermen, Hollywood Hogan, who is the leader of all the Bookermen, is out of town. He has told Kevin Nash to take his (Hogan's) bitch Eric out for the night. Nash, being a loyal underling to Hollywood, agrees. And so it begins. . . PULP BOOKERMAN! part 3 We see Eric and Kevin in Kev's car, arriving in a parking lot. They are outside a building that says "Bingo Hall". Kevin: What the fuck is this place? Eric: This is Extreme Championship Wrestling. An idea-stealing man should love it. Kevin: Come on, Eric, let's go get a steak somewhere. Eric: You can get a steak here, Sexy-O. Come on, you're (holds up four fingers, then forms an 'L' with his thumb and forefinger). Kevin: Well, after you, Greyhound. Inside the bingo hall, we see a bunch of tables set up. However, instead of breaking them, guests are having dinner. ECW wrestlers serve as waiters, seemingly to get some extra income. Kevin and Eric walk up to Paul E., the maitré d'. Paul E.: Good fucking evening, fucking gentlemen. Now, how the fuck can I fucking help you? Eric: We have a reservation under 'Bischoff'. Paul E.: Fucking Bischoff. . . He looks through the list of reservations. Eric: We reserved a ringside seat. Paul E.: Oh, a fucking ringside seat. . . Why the fuck don't you sit the fuck down in that fucking section. He points them to a table. As Kevin and Eric walk towards their table, Kevin looks around amazed at the different waitors and waitresses. He seems to recognize some of them his WWF days. He passes some one who looks an awful lot like Sunny, as well as a guy who's similar to his old pal Aldo Montoya. As he reaches his table, Rob Van Dam has just finished a one-man acrobatic-spots filled performance in the ring. Paul E. has walked up to the ring and adresses the crowd. Paul E.: Let's fucking hear it for Rob Fucking Van Dam! The Whole Fucking Show! Good fucking job, Rob. In the mean time, Eric has located their seats. Eric: Kevin! Kevin walks over to the seats. Paul E.: Just to let you fuckers know, Rob will be back in the other fucking part of the fucking show, because we don't have that many wrestlers. So we hope you enjoy your fucking meals here at E C fucking W. As Kevin and Eric sit down, a midget walks by their table. Taz: Surviiiiiiive if IIIIII leeeeeet yooooouuuuu! He just keeps on walking. Eric: So, what do you think? Kevin: It's like a wrestling show with a very, very weak pulse, cause everybody's losing blood. Suddenly, Sabu does a triple-jump moonsault and lands on their table. It doesn't break. He gets up, walks a few feet away, and tries again. It doesn't break. He does it a third time, but still the table holds. He gives up, for now, and instead takes up a pen and paper. Sabu: Hello, I'm Sabu, what can I get you? Kevin: Let's see, steak. . . steak, steak, steak. . . ah, yes, I'll have a Taz's T-Bone steak. Sabu: How do you want that, burned with a fireball or bloody as Balls. Kevin: Bloody as Balls. And, look at this. . . some New Jack-coke. Sabu: What about you, Earl Grey? Eric: I'll have a Dudley-Dudley burger, bloody. . . And a $500,000 milkshake. Sabu: How do you want that shake, Master P & the No Limit Soldiers or Bryan Adams & KISS? Eric: Master P & the No Limit Soldiers. Kevin: Wait a minute, did you just order a $500,000 shake? Eric: Uh-huh. . . Kevin: That's a shake? That's milk and ice cream? Eric: Last I heard. Kevin: That's $500,000? (to Sabu): You don't put SSSUUUURGEEEE!!!!!!! in it or nothin'? Sabu: No. Kevin: Just checkin'. Sabu: I'll be right back with your drinks. He triple-jump moonsaults away. Kevin is rolling himself a cigarette. Eric: Could you roll me one of those, cowboy? Kevin: You can have this one, cowgirl. Kevin gives Eric the cigarette, then hold up his lighter for Eric to light the cigarette. For a moment, just a split second, there is some feeling of sexual tension between the two. Eric: Thanks. Kevin: Think nothing of it. Eric: So. . . Hollywood told me you've just gotten back from McMahonland. Kevin: Sure did. Eric: How long were you there? Kevin: Just a little under three years the first time. I was just visiting my friends this time around. Eric: I go there a few times a month. Just to chill out, steal ideas. Kevin: No kiddin'? I didn't know that. Eric (with a big sly smile on his face): Why would you? Kevin: I heard you did a pilot. Eric: That was my fifteen minutes of Hasselhoffdom. Kevin: What was it? Eric: It was a show about a team of wrestling bookers called "Book Force Five." Kevin: What? Eric: "Book Force Five". "Book", as in we were a bunch of crappy bookers. "Force", as in we were forcing our ideas down people's throats. And "five", as in there was one, two, three, four, five of us. There was one good one, Vinny MacDaddy, he was the leader that we all secretly looked up to. Dusty Rhodes was a screwy finish master. Bill Watts was a nepotism expert. Vince Russo's speciality was ass. Kevin: What was your speciality? Eric (chuckling at the corniness of this *completelly* imaginary idea): Ridiculous expenses. The character I played, Cracka Eazy-E, his background was that he grew up raised by Rock'n'Wrestling fans. According to the show, he was the deadliest booker in the world with a checkbook. And, he knew a zillion ridiculous statements that his friend, Tony Schiavone, had tought him. And if we would have got picked up, we would have worked in a gimmick where every show, I would have made a ridiculous statement. Kevin: You know any of the ridiculous statements? Eric: Well, I only got the chance to do one, 'cause you know, we only did one show. Kevin: Tell me. Eric (shaking his head): It's corny. Kevin: Don't be that way, tell me. Eric: Nah, you wouldn't like it and I'd be embarrassed. Kevin: You'd be embarrassed. . .? You told it in front of fifty million people, and you can't tell me? I promise I would laugh. Eric: That's what I'm afraid of Kevin, they're not supposed to be intentionally funny. Kevin: Come on, you know what I mean. Eric: Now I'm definitely not gonna tell you, 'cause it's been built up too much. Kevin: What a WCW. All of a sudden, Sabu comes flying through the air and lands on their table. Sabu: Here are your drinks. . . Master P & the No Limit Soldiers (puts the milkshake on the table in front of Eric). . . New Jack coke. (pours the cocain in front of Kevin.). He triple-jump moonsaults away. Eric drinks from his milkshake. Eric: Yummy. Kevin: You think maybe I could have a sip of that? Eric: Be my guest. Kevin: I gotta know what a $500,000 shake tastes like. Eric (as Kevin is picking up a straw): You can use my straw, I don't have cooties. Kevin: Yeah, but maybe I do. Eric: Cooties I can handle. Kevin: All right. . . (he takes a sip from the milkshake). Goddamn, that's a pretty fucking mediocre milkshake that adds absolutely nothing to the overall quality of the dinner! Eric (smiling): I know. Kevin: I know it wasn't worth no $500,000, it was pretty fucking mediocre. Eric sits back with his milkshake and seems generally pleased with his overpriced buy. A silence breaks out between him and Kevin. None of them seem to be able to think of what to say next. It's Eric who finally speaks. Eric: Don't you hate that? Kevin: Hate what? Eric: Uncomfortable silences. Why do you find it necessary to yak about bullshit in order to be comfortable? Kevin: I don't know, that's a good question. Eric: That's when you know you got something really special. When you can just shut the fuck up for a minute and comfortably share the silence. Kevin: Well, I don't think we're quite there yet, but don't feel bad. When we're on Nitro we can at least cover it up by having three commentators. Eric: Tell you what. I'm gonna go to the bathroom and powder my nose. You stay here, and think of something to say. Kevin: I'll do that. In the bathroom, where Eric has just snorted some coke and seems to have got another great idea. Eric: I say Rodman! Rodman. . ! Back at the table, Eric Bischoff take his seat and notices the meal on the table in front of him: a hamburger drenched in blood. Eric: Mmm. . . Don't you just love it when you get back from the bathroom and find the food there waiting for you? Kevin: We're lucky we got anything at all. I don't think Sabu is much of a waiter. We see Sabu in the background, repeatedly jumping into tables in various manners. Kevin: Maybe we should've sat in the Tammy Lynn Sytch section. Eric: Which one, there are two Sytches. Kevin: No there isn't. That's Tammy Lynn Sytch. That's Dawn Marie Bytch. I don't see Bealuh McGillicuttytch, she must have the night off or something. Eric: Pretty smart. . . Kevin: Yeah, I got my moments. Eric: So, you think of anything to say? Kevin: As a matter of fact I did. However, you seem like a really nice person, and I don't wanna offend you. Eric: Ooh! This doesn't sound like the ususal boring I-wanna-suck-up-to-the-booker-chit- chat. This sounds like you actually have something to say. Kevin: Well, I do, I do. But you have to promise not to get offended and job me in spite of doing nothing wrong. Eric: No. Nonono. You can't promise something like that. I have no idea what you're gonna ask me. So you can go ahead and ask me what you're gonna ask me, and my natural response could be to get offended and job you like hell because I can't fire you, because then you might go back to the WWF. Then through no fault of my own, I would have broken my own promise. Kevin: Let's just forget it. Eric: That's an impossibility. Trying to forget something as important as this would be an exercise in futility. Much like who raised the briefcase at the King of the Ring. Damnit, I've been losing sleep over that one! Kevin: Is that a fact? Eric: Besides, isn't more exiting when you don't have permission? Kevin: Alright, alright. . . Well, here goes. What do you think about what happened to Rodney? Eric: Who's Rodney? Kevin: Yoko Fat-assed Horror. You know him. Eric: He fell of a balcony. Kevin: That would be one way to say it. Another way to say it would be that he was thrown off and fell through a bunch of tables, through the ring, through the arena floor, and through solid bedrock. Another way would be that he was thrown off and fell through a bunch of tables, through the ring, through the arena floor, and through solid bedrock by Hollywood. And yet even another way would be that he was thrown off a balcony, through a bunch of tables, through the ring, through the arena floor, and through solid bedrock by Hollywood because of you. Eric: Is that a fact? Kevin: No, no, that's not a fact, that's just what I heard. Eric: Who told you? Kevin: They. Eric: They talk a lot, don't they? Kevin: They certainly do. Eric: Don't be shy Kevin, what else did they say? Kevin: Well, I'm not shy. . . Eric: Did it involve the 'F' word? Kevin: Nono, nothing like that. They just said that Rodney had given you a headscissor. Eric: And? Kevin: And nothing, that was it. Eric: You heard that Hollywood threw Rodney of a balcony for giving me a headscissor? Kevin: Uh-huh. Eric: And you believed that? Kevin: Well, at the time I was told it sounded reasonable. Eric: Hollywood throwing Yoko off a balcony for clamping his thighs around my head sounded reasonable? Kevin: It sounded excessive, but that doesn't mean it didn't happen. I mean, I understand that Hollywood is very. . . very protective of you. Eric: A man being protective of his bitch is one thing. A man almost killing another man for headscissoring is another. Kevin: But did it happen? Eric: The only thing Rodney ever touched of mine was my buffet table when he ate it. . . At mine and Hollywood's contract signing. The truth is, nobody knows why Hollywood threw Yoko off that balcony except for Hollywood and Yoko. When you little scamps get together, you're worse than an internet newsboard. They are interrupted by Paul E., who is once again up in the ring. Paul E.: Ladies and fucking gentlemen. Now the fucking moment you've all been fucking waiting for, the fuck-famous EC Fucking W brawl contest! The crowd cheers. Paul E.: This is where one lucky fucking couple will win these handsome fucking belts that Tammy here is holding. (he motions toward Tammy Sytch, who holds up the belts) Now who the fuck will be our first fucking contestants? Eric( shouting): Right here! (to Kevin:) Wanna wrestle? Kevin: Nonono. . . Eric: Nononono. I do believe Hollywood, my man, your leader, told you to take me out and do whatever I wanted. Now I wanna wrestle. I wanna win. I want those belts. So wrestle good. Kevin: Alright. They walk up to the ring. Paul E.: Now let's meet our first fucking contestants this fucking evening. . . Old man, what is your name? Eric: Mrs. Eric Bischoff. Paul E.: And how 'bout your bookerman here? Eric: Vinnie Vegas! Erm, I mean. . . Kevin Nash! Paul E: OK, let's see what the fuck you can do. Take it a-fucking-way. The two are ready to lock up and. . . WE'RE OUT OF TIME! Mr JF freelance Mail the Author |
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