This website is hosted for free by  .
Get your own Free Website now!
|
An old fashioned, black and white film countdown begins rolling, the film flickering and a beep heard after every digit.
MASS GENERAL - INTENSIVE CARE UNIT. BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS. 3:21 PM.
A closed eye, specifically the eyelid, fills the screen. Suddenly, it opens wide, the pupil dilating immediately due to the mid-afternoon sunlight seeping in through the half-closed blinds on the windows. The camera jumps back, revealing the owner of that opened eye: COREY LAZARUS.
Lazarus
...huuuuhhhhh...?
He lies naked, a white sheet covering his private parts. Corey sits up, looking around the room. He grabs the IV from his arm, ripping it out, and them winces, breathing through clenched teeth, from the quick, sharp pain. Blood seeps from his new wound, and Lazarus grabs the sheet from beneath him, wrapping the corner around his hand.
Lazarus
What the fuck...why the fuck am I...here...?!
MASS GENERAL - CAFETERIA. BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS. 3:45 PM.
Corey walks past the revolving tray rack, no longer moving, and sniffs the air. His face contorts, showing disgust, and the camera pans to show rotting food scattered about the floor, decorating the once-clean eating facility alongside pools of dried blood.
Lazarus
What...the...
RED-LINE STOP - ROTARY BENEATH. BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS. 3:59 PM.
Corey, shivering from the icy cold winds, stands in the middle of the empty street. Burnt shells of cars litter the rotary, and a single lifeless arm dangles from the train bridge above. Corey runs back inside the hospital, the high winds blowing his shaggy hair to and fro.
MASS GENERAL - MAIN LOBBY. BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS. 4:02 PM.
After shivering for a minute, Corey walks over to a coat rack conveniently located near the receptionist's desk. He finds a black wool trenchcoat on the floor beside it, picks it up, and puts it on. He shivers again, his breath visible before him (though obviously not as much as outside earlier). Corey clears his throat, and then walks off-screen.
NEWBURY STREET - OUTSIDE THE ORIGINAL NEWBURY COMICS. BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS. 5:55 PM.
Corey walks out from the broken front door of the legendary local music store, now with a brand new pair of black Doc Martens on his feet, and black skeleton fingertip-less thermal gloves on his hands. The streetlamps, surprisingly, still work, and shuffling is heard. Corey turns in the direction, breathing heavy into his hands as he rubs them together, and squints to get a more in-focus look up the street. Shadows dance between the broken-down cars and trucks, and Corey clears his throat.
Lazarus
HELLO?! IS THERE ANYBODY THERE?!
The shadows stop moving momentarily, with one walking into the light. It's a middle-aged man, covered in filth and dried blood and his eyes bloodshot. The middle-aged man screams, and the other shadows quickly begin running after Corey.
Lazarus
Oh motherFUCKER!!!
Corey takes off running south on Newbury Street, reaching the Boston Garden with the filthy ones merely a few yards behind him.
BOSTON PUBLIC GARDENS. BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS. 5:59 PM.
He slows down, turning around to see the middle-aged man that he first spotted directly behind him, and then leaps into him, diving off to the middle-aged man's side and nailing the End Credits. The middle-aged man falls face-first to the ground, not moving. Laz kips back up to his feet and takes off running again, just narrowly dodging a swing from one of the filthy, this one wearing a black shirt with a white PWA logo screenprinted on the front and a replica PHOENIX mask.
Lazarus
Nope, sorry! Looks like you missed me again, Robinson!
Corey rushes towards Chinatown, hopping over the small cast-iron fence along the border and crossing the the street. The filthy ones continue their chase, and Corey grabs the front door of Emerson College.
EMERSON COLLEGE - FRONT DOORWAY. BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS. 6:00 PM.
Corey pulls on the door, yanking hard, but it won't budge. Locked. Lazarus pounds on the glass window in the middle of the door, and then turns around to witness the filthy ones closing in on him. He looks carefully at each of them: the aforementioned one with the replica Phoenix mask; a petite female bearing a striking resemblance to RIONA LANGLY; an average-height ginger male with a Pink PANTHER t-shirt on, his hair frozen so much that it appears SNOW falls when he moves; another average-height man, this one with his head shaved and a goatee, wearing a shirt that has a picture of an ANGEL on it; and, finally, a fat black woman slacking behind the others, bearing no resemblance to anybody famous.
Lazarus
Alright...alright...
Corey clears his throat, and then catches his breath. He stretches his arms out, rotates his shoulders, and then balls up his fists, readying them.
Lazarus
You crazy cunts wanna go? Well then fine. Let's go!
The locked front doors of Emerson College open behind Corey, and a hand reaches forward, grabbing him by the collar of the trenchcoat he took from Mass General. Laz is pulled into the front lobby of Emerson, and the doors shut behind him, the sound of metal chains wrapping and a padlock clicking barely audible beneath the grunts and growls of the filthy ones.
EMERSON COLLEGE - FRONT LOBBY. BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS. 6:04 PM.
Corey falls to the dusty tiled floor, and quickly turns over onto his back, getting himself into a guard position. The owner of the arm that grabbed him, rescued him, walks into the light: EMMA O'REILLY.
Lazarus
Holy...EMMA!!
The scene fades...
LAZARUS ESTATE - TRAINING ROOM. HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA. 2:12 AM.
...and then comes back in with Corey, wearing nothing more than athletic tape around his hands and feet and a pair of black silk Adidas jogging shorts with a trio of white stripes down the outside of either leg, throwing lefts and rights into his punching bag. The chains holding it steady, one running to the ceiling and the other bolted into the floor, jingle with each hit, the sound of the impact of flesh on tough, sand-filled sack echoing through the oddly quiet room.
Lazarus
Hyah...HYAH...!
He grunts with every few shots, sweat beads forming on his forehead. He stops, taking in a deep breath through his nose, and then nods.
Lazarus
Yeah...not bad...
Corey searches his right hand for where the tape ends, and then begins peeling it off. He stops, catching his breath, and wipes sweat from his brow onto his forearm. He swallows the spit in his mouth, temporarily wetting his dry throat, and then goes back to peeling the tape off of his hand. The scene fades...
EMERSON COLLEGE - FRONT LOBBY. BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS. 6:14 PM.
...and re-opens with Corey and Emma both sitting on the cold, dusty tiled floor. Emma's hair, greasy and unwashed, is pulled back behind her ears. She is wearing a camouflage winter coat, a pair of black cargo pants, and a pair of black Chucks. Her hands are covered with military green fingerless gloves, the black polish on her fingernails worn away save for scattered patches from finger to finger.
Lazarus
Emma
More pounding on the front doors from the ones who chased Corey down Newbury Street. Both Corey and Emma look at the doors, and then stand up, dusting themselves off.
Emma
The window on one of the front doors smashes open, causing both Emma and Laz to jump, startled.
Emma
The window on the other door smashes open, and those who chased Corey begin pushing the doors in. Emma and Corey take off running to the corridor out of the front lobby, and then burst through the back doors out onto Allens Alley.
ALLENS ALLEY. BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS. 6:16 PM.
They take off running, jumping over a wrecked, upside-down Volkswagen Jetta on Tremont Street to charge down LaGrange Street. The filthy ones turn the corner onto LaGrange, giving chase once again.
LaGRANGE STREET. BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS. 6:17 PM.
Corey stops, catching his breath quickly, and readies himself as the one with the Pink Panther shirt on comes too close. Corey lunges forward, driving his knee square into the Pink Panther's jaw. The Pink Panther backflips over himself, landing face-first on the concrete, and Corey takes off running again.
Lazarus
Corey follows Emma down LaGrange, hurdling over a fallen Harley Davidson on the end of Tamworth Street. They reach Centerfolds and dive through the doorway, shutting and locking it behind them.
CENTERFOLDS. BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS. 6:19 PM.
Emma
Lazarus
Emma and Corey quickly grab every barstool they can find, propping them against the front door and window. They struggle to lift a billiards table, propping it against the window before grabbing a couple of dining tables and throwing those up against the window and door as well.
How did this all happen? The last thing I remember is going under the anesthesia so they could put pins in my collarbone, and now I wake up and everything's all...it's all gone to shit.
It's...complicated.
I'll tell you all about it in a few minutes. But right now? We've got to get to somewhere a little bit more...
...secure...
Yeah! Try to fucking come after ME?! You're not in my league, prick!
Why the fuck did you choose here?!
Don't mind that now, grab those stools!
LAZARUS ESTATE - BACK PORCH. HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA. 3:00 AM.
Corey sits still on the wooden back porch of his estate, his feet on the wooden steps that lead down to the beach. The breeze coming from the water blows his hair out of his face, and a half-smoked cigarette, still lit, rests between the index and middle fingers of his left hand.
Lazarus
It seems that whenever I'm away, this entire company goes to shit.
He lifts the cigarette up and takes a drag, blowing the smoke slowly out of his nostrils.
Lazarus
For three months...for three months I sat on the shelf, waiting for the perfect time to return. Waiting until I felt I was needed the most. And I found that moment a week and a half ago at Good vs. Evil.
He is wearing a pair of black and gold plaid shorts, a black beater left untucked, and his feet bare. A platinum Rolex rests comfortably on his left wrist, and his oft-overlooked tattoos - the theatrical mask for tragedy on his right shoulder, and that of comedy on his left - seem to be focused on in the dim lighting coming from the open backdoor of his house, stemming from the kitchen.
Lazarus
But I explained all of that last Friday night in Memphis. But for those of you who missed it - and, let's face it, my appearance was the only highlight of both Rampage AND Chaos last Friday night - I've come prepared with a clip. So, Mister Editor, please let it roll.
The scene blurs into last Friday night in Memphis during the broadcast of Rampage.
FEDEX FORUM - MAIN ARENA. MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE. 9:43 PM.
Corey stands in the ring, the PWA World title thrown over his shoulder. Two members of Hollywood Security stand in the ring with him, while the remaining eight take guard around the ring, preventing anybody - be they fan or fellow wrestler - from even attempting to make an entrance.
Lazarus
Corey's grin disappears, his face showing the anger within.
Lazarus
The scene blurs back to Corey on his back porch.
You see, boys and girls, when you're a SUPERSTAR the calibre of yours truly, you can get away with things that not everybody else can. When you are the L-A-Z, things just naturally come to you. Things like championship reigns. Things like Pay-Per-View main events. Things like an adoring, devoted fanbase; like the begrudging respect of each and every single person in the back; and like the ability to rub your God-given superiority in the face of anybody you damn well please.
And for three months, Strader, I've been on the shelf! I broke my collarbone saving YOUR ass back in August. I won that match for us, not you! And what did I receive as a "thank you"? No phone call. No Hallmark card. Not even a fucking nod of your head when you walked by me in the back of the ambulance. But I don't blame you, Scott. If I were in the position you were in, somebody who tried so hard to make it to the top, overcoming obstacles like complete mediocrity to do so when every SUPERSTAR was on the shelf, then I too would take the injury of somebody like the Hollywood Kid as a complete blessing.
LAZARUS ESTATE - BACK PORCH. HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA. 3:04 AM.
Lazarus
And now everybody has their own choice words for me. Like you, Matt. Unfortunately, I didn't catch a replay of your little sorry excuse of a promo until AFTER I'd left Memphis, but I was able to watch a little bit of it this past weekend. And really, pal, all I've got to say about you can be summarized into one word, and it's one you so incorrectly accuse me of being: pathetic.
Corey takes another drag, this time letting the smoke out as he speaks.
Lazarus
But to go a little bit more into it, since that's what people apparently want, the very notion that you even have to point out that my disguise as Rapture was lame means that you never really knew who was under that hood to begin with. Not until Good vs. Evil, anyway. Sure, there were hints...little Biblical references here and there, much like my adopted ring and screen moniker...but outside of when I showed up right behind you in the ring in Madison Square Garden, you had no idea who it was. Just admit it, Matt. You'll feel a lot happier when you do. Something of a release, if you will: the acknowledgment of your own ignorance. And, later on, you tried to threaten me. Daring me to show up on Rampage. Well, Matthew, I did. And you did nothing. Nothing besides pick glass out from under your skin before you took care of that disgrace to the Grizzly Beer title we all call Jacob Figgins. And believe me, it wasn't the universe, and it wasn't karma, that came to smack you around like a bitch the last two weeks: it was the L-A-Z. So I'm daring YOU now, Matt. TRY to jump me this Friday night. You'll have to deal with ten well-trained members of Hollywood Security to do it, though. Good luck with this Hunter Sullivan kid, though.
Corey takes one final drag before reaching behind the wooden beam connecting the porch to the canopy. He pulls out a glass ashtray, blowing the smoke out through his nostrils as he extinguishes his Marlboro 27. He clears his throat, and then rests his hands on the porch floor beside him as he turns back to the camera.
Lazarus
And then there's Jamie Flynn...oops, sorry, "Mickey." Really...you're still alive? It's quite amazing just how relevant you think you are when, by golly, all you've done this past year in the PWA is come in, rack up a couple of wins here and there, and then fade back into obscurity. And you have the audacity to even attempt to insult me? Please, Jamie. I thought you were better than that. I guess I thought wrong, though. Good luck coming back and actually meaning something to somebody other than that inbred Jethro Hayes, buddy. I have no idea why you're on the shelf, be it drugs or mental breakdown or papercut, but it must be for a good reason. Now onto somebody who DOES deserve more than thirty seconds of my time, a man by the name of Scott Nash Strader.
Corey smirks, and then shakes his head slowly.
Lazarus
Or, should I say, was worth it, considering it looks like he may or may not have handed in his resignation. Sounds like a breach of contract there, Scotty. But I bet you wouldn't know anything about, given your tendency to knock back Canadian Mist and your living conditions. Well, long story short, I've been in your position, man. And I can tell you this: it fucking blows. You talk about being held down, about your opportunities being given to others, and then you go and try to place the blame on me. Strader, buddy, if you think you're the only person that's happened to, then you're a much bigger fool than I ever thought you were. Which is saying a lot, considering I used to think you were a bad hat away from being a Court Jester. But hey, I digress. I can empathize with you, man. I really can. Unlike a lot of people who love to yammer on and on about how they deserve to be the World champion, or deserve a shot at the belt, I've actually climbed that mountain. Just two weeks after McNasty pinned me at Retribution for the PWA World title, the very belt I've got right here...
Corey reaches behind him, pulling out the PWA World title and placing it, plaque-up, on his lap.
Lazarus
...I dropped him from the top rope onto the back of his head with the Sands of Ishtar, one-two-three. Were Chamelion not afraid of any minute amount of money McNasty would draw as World champion being thrown away by putting the belt on the line, I'd STILL be World champion now. Back in the Death Row Wrestling Federation, I had pinfall victories over both Pete Ebdon, who held the DRWF World Heavyweight title, and Vern Michaels, who was the DRWF Eternal champion, and did I get a shot at either of them? No. I had to wait for the belts to be unified, held by that schmuck Sean Moro, and THEN I got my formal one-on-one shot at it. And as a sidenote? I won it then. But that's neither here nor there.
Corey gives the camera wink, and then flashes his trademark devilish grin.
Lazarus
And hell, my rookie year! On the July Eleventh, Two-Thousand-One edition of Wednesday Chaos, I KO'd both the number one contender, Dalton Campbell, AND the PWA World champion, Silverback, in the same fucking match! Did I get another shot at the title? Of course not. It's called politics, Scott. Every company has them. And only the best rise above them. Men like myself. And women like one of my opponents this week...but I'll get to her in a little bit. See, between little bits of me actually cutting my promo, I've been treating you all to a short film I call Twenty-Eight Days Lazarus. Is it a take off of Twenty-Eight Days Later? Of course it is. But, see, it's got quite a bit to say about certain members of the PWA roster, so I hope you enjoy it. I'll show another couple of minutes or so of it, and then we'll go on to this coming Friday night. Now enjoy the show.
The scene fades...
CENTERFOLDS - BACK OFFICE. BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS. 6:22 PM.
Corey and Emma sit across from one another in the small office, the sound of pounding fists against blockaded glass echoing throughout the otherwise-empty gentlemen's club. The room is well-lit with only a small window, too small for even Emma to fit through, from which an empty alley behind the building can be seen. The walls are painted a creamy white, and the room is bare save for an oakwood desk, a steel coatrack painted black, and an empty bookcase, with its former contents strung about on the dark carpeted floor. Corey takes off the trenchcoat he found at Mass General, dropping it on the floor. He stands up and paces in a circle around the room before grabbing the coatrack, examining it.
Lazarus
Emma shakes her head, breathing heavy. She cups her hands over her face, and then sits up straight as she takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. She clears her throat, and then stands up, walking over to the desk and taking a seat on it.
Emma
Corey examines the coatrack some more, running his finger over the screws holding its branches to it.
Emma
Lazarus
Emma
Emma can no longer hold back the tears in her eyes, and they begin streaking what little remainder of eyeliner and eyeshadow there is down her cheeks.
Emma
Lazarus turns the coatrack upside-down, now examining the screws holding its legs into the body.
Emma
Lazarus
Emma
Lazarus
Emma
Lazarus
Emma starts laughing, her tears dissipating as her mood changes.
Emma
Lazarus
Emma
Lazarus
Emma
Lazarus
Emma
Corey puts the coatrack down, nodding. He clears his throat, and then leaves the office. Emma takes a deep breath, holding it for a moment, and then lets it out. She hops off of the desk, and follows Corey out of the office.
Alright. Now that we're safe, at least momentarily, what the hell happened while I was out?
Right after you broke your collarbone, when you had the surgery to put the pins in it, everything just went to hell. This...this...VIRUS just started running rampant, infecting everybody that came into contact with it. At first everybody was fine, but in a matter of days the...the symptoms started showing.
Everybody stopped...stopped caring about what they usually cared about. They started forgetting basic everyday things, like where they lived or why they were doing what they were doing. Then it spread. Everybody infected with it began to go crazy, to start accusing everybody else of cheating them, of trying to kill them. President Robinson practically issued a state of emergency, Core!
Robinson...
I mean...people just started disappearing, and there were reports that men and women everywhere were just going completely insane, trying to tear everybody apart but themselves! It..it was...
Oh my God...IT WAS HORRIBLE! Within WEEKS everything just died. It was like people disappeared, people you'd see every day, and were just replaced with...with...
...with some sort of...mindless...fucking...zombies, or something!
Zombies? We're dealing with fucking zombies?
Well, not really, because they're not dead and don't want to eat us, and they're fast! Zombies aren't fast.
What about that Dawn of the Dead remake? They ran in that.
That doesn't count! It's not canon to Romero's actual movies!
True, true. But remember when they were on the roof playing Celebrity Look-Alike Assassination?
Haha, yeah! Fucking Burt Reynolds!
Damn straight! So...we're dealing with people infected with a virus...so they're the Infected, then.
If you want to call them that, sure.
Alright. Well, I took out that one with the beergut in the Public Garden, and just took care of that one with the Pink Panther shirt before we ran into here. So that leaves four of them that we know of. Are all of the roads completely undriveable?
Yeah. Why?
Because there's a set of carkeys right next to you, and I'm guessing that whatever car they go to can't be too far from here. I say we make a run for it, try to find somewhere safer than this place.
As much as I don't want to do that...it's all I've been doing since August. Is that why you're checking out the coatrack?
LAZARUS ESTATE - BACK PORCH. HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA. 3:11 AM.
Corey leans against the wooden beam running from the porch to the canopy above it, his arms crossed over his chest and the PWA World title wrapped around his waist. He chuckles a little bit, shaking his head.
Lazarus
Yeah, I know. Em's a mediocre actress at best, but what can I say? She's not too big on acting anyway. More of a hands-on performer, so to speak. But onto the trash talking, the reason people are even watching this.
Corey cracks his neck to the side, and clears his throat.
Lazarus
This coming Friday night, November Twenty-Eighth, in Cleveland, Ohio at the Quicken Loans Arena, the main event of the Pioneer Wrestling Association's flagship program, Rampage, will be a Three-Way match between the Hollywood Kid, Riona Langly, and Scottie Snow. Now, one of my opponents will actually be worth a match against. I'll be dealing with her in two weeks during the Dome of Destruction at Christmas at Ground Zero in Kalamazoo, Michigan, and this week will be a perfect way to wear her down, feel her out - and possibly up - a little bit more, so to speak. The other? Complete fodder, thrown into the mix just for the sake of having somebody for the two of us to beat on so we don't hurt each other too much before Ground Zero.
He chuckles, nodding his head.
Lazarus
Heh...it's funny. Robinson decides to vacate the title when, in all truth, the match should have either ended in a draw, a no contest, and a rematch scheduled ASAP, or at least the match restarted, but oh no. He wants HIS shot at the belt, too. Now that he's in charge again, he waived that little "retire forever"...
Corey uncrosses his arms to make the quotation marks in the air with his fingers, and then crosses them again.
Lazarus
...stipulation from his match with McNasty back at A Farewell to Arms, and put together a match just so he could come back and try to mean something again. Like he ever meant much in the first place, right? But I digress. See, Riona, you could say I'm a bit of a misogynist. You could say that, but you'd be wrong. Dead wrong. Like that song that Andy's band, Excyde, has. Only not as heavy, or anywhere near as hardcore.
See, Miss Langly, you were put in this match because of two reason. The first being the obvious, and that you've earned yourself a shot at it. You had a virtual stranglehold on the Grizzly Beer title, the belt I made famous seven years ago, from the time you won it off of Vicious back in April until...well, to be honest, I can't find when you lost it. I do now that, somehow, Duff Cote d'Ivoire ended up with the belt, and then Figgins took it from him, but I can't find the record of you losing it after you regained it from "The Kumquat Kid" Ryan Lewis. Ah, Kumquat...we could've been the PWA World Tag Team champions had you not given up during the United Forces Tournament. Then I probably wouldn't have broken my collarbone saving Strader's ass, and the PWA wouldn't have gone to hell. Whatever. Back to Riona.
Corey pulls a pack of Marlboro 27s from his pocket, flipping open the top. He counts how many cigarettes he has left, and then closes the pack, sliding it back into his pocket.
Lazarus
On top of your dominance of the Grizzly Beer title, you've also held the Intercontinental belt since September Nineteenth, if the PWA title histories are to be trusted. I know they're going through a bit of a re-do now that a new website's been put up, but hey, they do what they can. So that's two, count 'em, TWO of the lower-card belts - and yeah, they do have quite a history here, but really, folks, the World title IS the main event - in your list of accomplishments, as far as the PWA goes. Of course, there's also the other championships you've held - like the CWA World title, the BTWF NeoFighters championship, and, of course, the ACW Tempest championship - but none of those matter. Not here. Not in the PWA. Hell, your victory over me in Pride and Honor Wrestling, back when I was filled to the brink with ringrust and just not trying anymore? That doesn't matter either. Fuck, I only know you beat me in that shithole because I watched the match on your little fansite you got there. And with all of these accolades in your relatively brief career, and after all of the great names in this sport that you can lay claim to holding victories over, your time has finally here in the big leagues. You've earned it, kiddo. Or...have you? See, there's another reason why, despite the ruling that no holder of a PWA singles title can compete for another PWA singles title, Robinson decided to let you have your chance at Ground Zero. And it has abso-fucking-lutely nothing to do with anybody you've pinned or made tap, or any belt you once had around your slim little waist. It's all because of what lies between your luscious thighs.
Corey winks at the camera, nodding.
Lazarus
Face it, Langly: this is a man's world, and a man's sport. The only reason you've been given this opportunity to go against the rulings of the PWA and compete for the World title while holding the Intercontinental belt is because Robinson is trying to gain new female viewers. He figures that if they see a beautiful young woman competing side-by-side with men, then they'll continue watching, and hopefully becoming addicted to our product like so many other faithful fans have. Hey, nevermind that it didn't quite work out with Gabrielle, that heroin addicted whore, or even for a favorite like Psycho Sandra, given she used to look like quite the shemale, because it'll work this time, dammit! Well...until Christmas at Ground Zero comes to pass, that is. Until all of the potential new female fans order the show, get together, and cheer "GIRL POWER!" over and over again like it was ninteen-ninety-seven, or whatever it is chicks do together these days that doesn't involve sexual exploration, all while you get shown up by a man like myself, further reinforcing the classic belief that a man will always win against a woman in a physical contest. That's why the WNBA is failing. That's why women's tennis doesn't do as well as men's. And that's why the LPGA doesn't even fucking matter: men are better natural athletes than women are. Sorry, Riona, but it's true. So try to prove me wrong Friday night, chica. Try to avoid being another notch in my six shooter. Try to show up the man who not only steals the show, but IS the show. There's a reason they call me "The Premiere Attraction," y'know. But onto Scottie.
Lazarus walks away from the beam, and over to the doorway into his kitchen. He stands there for a moment, and laughs a litle bit.
Lazarus
Hahaha...you know what I just realized?
Corey looks to the camera, the viewers, as if waiting for a response to his obviously rhetorical question.
Lazarus
That I have no fucking clue who you are, Scottie! All I know is that you USED to be a lackey of sorts for Robinson, Doshky, Dragon, and Strickland, AKA the Gimp, but outside of that? Nothing. There's nothing about you that makes me sit back and take notice. You're not flat-out horrible in a Don Mega way, and you're not downright amazing like myself or even Jonathon Wehali is. You're. Just. There. Everybody meet Ron Barker version two, folks! This time, he's shorter, is in desperate need of a tan, and likes to come out to a song made famous by a cartoon cat the color of GLAAD's logo! Cheer up, though, Snow. At least you're not an inforrrrrmant...or am I the only one who even remembers that song? Oh well...I guess I'm getting old.
Corey laughs again, and then takes a seat, pressing his back to the screendoor separating his kitchen from his back porch.
Lazarus
But seriously, Scottie. Do you HONESTLY believe that you serve any purpose in this match other than to help keep myself and Riona from absolutely killing each other, thus preventing the advertised main event at Ground Zero from going off without a hitch? You're here to take the fall, son. I'm sorry, maybe not as sorry as I am for Riona that she's being used just to sell a few tickets, but I am sorry. You know damn well Robinson thinks you're a fucking joke, and that he's putting you here hoping you'll suffer a career-ending injury so you'll get out of his hair. But I'll tell you what, kid...I'm considering getting together a small little contingent of people, from the PWA to all over, who I can teach, considering I know my years in this sport are dwindling down. I can't wrestle forever, despite what Cliff may like to think about himself, and so I'm offering you a trial basis to be the first to join the ranks of my forthcoming team. All you have to do? Don't come to the ring Friday night. Don't even come to Cleveland. I don't want to hurt you too much, Scottie. I'm done with casualties of war. I'm done with collateral damage. I'm sick of it. I don't want to beat you down in front of all of the scum that lives in Cleveland, since it DOES suck despite what the song says, and I really, really don't want to be the one to end your career. I know, I know...you've been wrestling almost as long as I have, if not longer. But really, dude, some of us have it and some of us don't. I do. You're the latter. In fact, everybody else is pretty much the latter. Be they Scottie Snow, be they Riona Langly, or be they Matthew Engel, Scott Nash Strader, Rob Robinson, or even Viktor Stone. Friday night's a warm-up for me. After I take care of Langly - and hopefully JUST Langly, since I'm hoping, PRAYING that Scottie takes my advice and doesn't show - I'm coming after each and every other person that I'm up against at Ground Zero. I'll be walking in with this...
Corey pats the World title, laying on the porch next to him.
Lazarus
...and I'll be walking out with it, the rightful, true, and UNDISPUTED PWA World Heavyweight champion. But hey, that's life. Deal with it. Rock n' roll, queefbags.