Post by codemana on Oct 8, 2015 20:49:52 GMT -5
A pair of UWR remote employees stand in boredom at the front of a Dick’s Sporting Goods. One holding a boom mic, the other standing next to an impressive looking DSLR on a tripod. They’re at the end of their ropes now having waited for an hour and a half for who put them up to this. The camera man finally stops looking at his phone and turns angrily towards his cohort.
Camera: All right fuck this. I’m going out to smoke.
Boom: Fine. I’ll join you. Might be good to get some fresh air. Can’t believe this asshole is actually representing the company.
Camera: I here ya. Laying out a geriatric like that. Really sickens me.
Just then the camera man’s phone buzzes. He pulls it out of his pocket to see he has received a text message from an unknown number. It reads: Places everyone! We’ve arrived.
Befuddled the camera man shows the message to the boom operator who also scratches his head. They both shrug and head back to their equipment. No sooner do they get there, a fist sized rock smashes through painted front window of the store the DSLR was pointed towards. The two man crew and every cashier at the front duck for cover. As they rise back to their feet the last few pieces of glass hit the floor to reveal Reno Mustang in all his glory. Strapped with the UWR gold and wearing a dashing maroon on white plaid golfer’s outfit complete with fuzz ball adorned scaly cap. He leans against his comically oversized driver in triumph and stares deeply towards the camera.
Reno: Absolutely perfect!
From behind Mustang emerges Mr. Bellagio who admires his bosses handy work. Inspired he attempts his own feat and spits out a large wad of chewing gum and takes a swat at it, missing by a good six inches. His face falls in defeat.
Bellagio: He makes it look so damn easy.
Mustang gives a quick snap of the fingers towards Bellagio and both stroll into the store through the shattered glass. The crew, now affirmed that their work day will be more torturous than they’d thought, focus their instruments on the approaching Reno and Bellagio. Reno stops on his spot and puts his club casually over his shoulder.
Reno: Glad you could join me folks, for this…public service address. A lot has been made of YOUR world champion.
He gives the belt a sumptuous stroke with his non club hand. Bellagio’s eyes immediately dart to the sparkly thing.
Bellagio: Oooooh. Aaaaaah.
Reno: And his tactics in earning all this metallic goodness. Rude comments. Downright savage things floating across message boards here to your mom’s basement. Mostly about a miscarriage of justice. To which i say, you can’t make a championship omelet without a few broken babies.
Bellagio: Ba-dump-bump.
The crew look at each other puzzled, neither sure what part of that punchline was supposed to make sense.
Reno: Some critics actually wonder if i’ve got any athletic ability in me at all what with the stick assisted smashy smashy. Now i know you kind people to be wise enough to not fall in with this kind of libel, but i still felt it necessary to put a little demonstration on for those outliers that might be swayed by the pencil necked haters.
Turning his attention away from the camera, Reno reaches into his pocket to produce a small orange bottle with a homemade label on it. He holds it up next to his head doing his best QVC stare down.
Reno: But first a word from my sponsor. Wreckital! The all natural synthetic supplement for
men, meant to…
Mustang focuses his eyes as best he can on the fine print on the side of the bottle, giving up, and flipping back to the audience.
Reno: Make you nasty as shit! No championship workout routine is complete without it. Isn’t that right Mr. B?
Bellagio: Not approved by the FDA, or your local drug dealer.
Reno: So bottoms up jabroneys. It’s time to get jack diesel.
Reno pours half of the bottle down his throat trying desperately to keep his good natured expression going as the battery acid flavor consumes his tongue.
Bellagio: Side effects include crushing your enemies, hearing the lamentations of their women, and making you handsomer.
Reno puts the bottle aside and gurgles to the camera through a foam frothing mouth.
Reno: As if that were possible!
Cut to: Reno at a bench press trying desperately to lift twice his body weight on an olympic bar that’s fallen to his throat. Bellagio stands in the background tooting out his best “Flying High Now” on a plastic harmonica. A few more ditch thrusts and he barely manages to throw the bar of himself. Not long before vomiting a heap of sick onto Bellagio’s shoes. Gathering what’s left of his senses, Reno sits up from the bench and flips a pathetically weak thumbs up to the camera.
Reno: Strength!
Cut to: Reno chasing a piece of fried chicken on a string being pulled by Bellagio, who darts in no specific line or direction around the half court section of the basketball department. Mustang follows the crispy breast doggedly looking paler by the second. Mr. B takes a turn too sharp and sends his trainee head first into the post of the hoop. The camera pans over his sickly face as he throws up another thumb.
Reno: Agility!
Cut to: Reno, now in the bicycle section riding a kid’s sized Yeti bike in what most would consider to be a figure eight pattern, but what he means to be an infinity symbol as a reference to god knows what. A pair of attractive women in spandex pass next to the department and Mustang makes a bee-line for them. His now mutilated sense of direction failing him, he ends up piling into the repair rack adjacent to the ladies, knocking it asunder and covering himself in wheel oil. They look down upon him in horror as Reno turns what’s left of his attention back in their direction, raising a far less than suave eyebrow.
Reno: Hey babies. You wanna take a ride on the Matterhorn?
The women take off as far and fast as they can, shrieking like banshees as they go. Reno raises his, now blackened, thumb up to the camera.
Reno: Charisma!
Cut to: Reno now shackled in police hand cuffs on the back of an ambulance. The medic that’s been helping him cough up what’s left of the lubricant and Wreckital leaves his side and walks over to the patrolmen who are taking accounts from Dick’s employees and customers. Bellagio appears and puts a towel over Reno’s shoulders, then begins giving them a light rub down. Mustang heaves a hearty belch that spills more charcoal goo down across his shirt, a few drips spotting on the UWR title still around his waist. He shoots a paper white glance up to the still recording crew, who had better be getting hazard pay for this shit assignment.
Reno: Such is the life of a champion. Tough stuff, but it beats working for a living. Needless to say my opponents in the upcoming tag debacle are in for one hell of a fight. And to my partners, Compton ass Compton and the blissfully silent Brody Gates.
He gives out one last wretch sending a wave of blackness across Bellagio’s shirt. Mr. B gives a few motherly pats to his ribs.
Reno: I got your back. Like Marv Albert on a Cialis binge.
Bellagio: Yess!
Camera: All right fuck this. I’m going out to smoke.
Boom: Fine. I’ll join you. Might be good to get some fresh air. Can’t believe this asshole is actually representing the company.
Camera: I here ya. Laying out a geriatric like that. Really sickens me.
Just then the camera man’s phone buzzes. He pulls it out of his pocket to see he has received a text message from an unknown number. It reads: Places everyone! We’ve arrived.
Befuddled the camera man shows the message to the boom operator who also scratches his head. They both shrug and head back to their equipment. No sooner do they get there, a fist sized rock smashes through painted front window of the store the DSLR was pointed towards. The two man crew and every cashier at the front duck for cover. As they rise back to their feet the last few pieces of glass hit the floor to reveal Reno Mustang in all his glory. Strapped with the UWR gold and wearing a dashing maroon on white plaid golfer’s outfit complete with fuzz ball adorned scaly cap. He leans against his comically oversized driver in triumph and stares deeply towards the camera.
Reno: Absolutely perfect!
From behind Mustang emerges Mr. Bellagio who admires his bosses handy work. Inspired he attempts his own feat and spits out a large wad of chewing gum and takes a swat at it, missing by a good six inches. His face falls in defeat.
Bellagio: He makes it look so damn easy.
Mustang gives a quick snap of the fingers towards Bellagio and both stroll into the store through the shattered glass. The crew, now affirmed that their work day will be more torturous than they’d thought, focus their instruments on the approaching Reno and Bellagio. Reno stops on his spot and puts his club casually over his shoulder.
Reno: Glad you could join me folks, for this…public service address. A lot has been made of YOUR world champion.
He gives the belt a sumptuous stroke with his non club hand. Bellagio’s eyes immediately dart to the sparkly thing.
Bellagio: Oooooh. Aaaaaah.
Reno: And his tactics in earning all this metallic goodness. Rude comments. Downright savage things floating across message boards here to your mom’s basement. Mostly about a miscarriage of justice. To which i say, you can’t make a championship omelet without a few broken babies.
Bellagio: Ba-dump-bump.
The crew look at each other puzzled, neither sure what part of that punchline was supposed to make sense.
Reno: Some critics actually wonder if i’ve got any athletic ability in me at all what with the stick assisted smashy smashy. Now i know you kind people to be wise enough to not fall in with this kind of libel, but i still felt it necessary to put a little demonstration on for those outliers that might be swayed by the pencil necked haters.
Turning his attention away from the camera, Reno reaches into his pocket to produce a small orange bottle with a homemade label on it. He holds it up next to his head doing his best QVC stare down.
Reno: But first a word from my sponsor. Wreckital! The all natural synthetic supplement for
men, meant to…
Mustang focuses his eyes as best he can on the fine print on the side of the bottle, giving up, and flipping back to the audience.
Reno: Make you nasty as shit! No championship workout routine is complete without it. Isn’t that right Mr. B?
Bellagio: Not approved by the FDA, or your local drug dealer.
Reno: So bottoms up jabroneys. It’s time to get jack diesel.
Reno pours half of the bottle down his throat trying desperately to keep his good natured expression going as the battery acid flavor consumes his tongue.
Bellagio: Side effects include crushing your enemies, hearing the lamentations of their women, and making you handsomer.
Reno puts the bottle aside and gurgles to the camera through a foam frothing mouth.
Reno: As if that were possible!
Cut to: Reno at a bench press trying desperately to lift twice his body weight on an olympic bar that’s fallen to his throat. Bellagio stands in the background tooting out his best “Flying High Now” on a plastic harmonica. A few more ditch thrusts and he barely manages to throw the bar of himself. Not long before vomiting a heap of sick onto Bellagio’s shoes. Gathering what’s left of his senses, Reno sits up from the bench and flips a pathetically weak thumbs up to the camera.
Reno: Strength!
Cut to: Reno chasing a piece of fried chicken on a string being pulled by Bellagio, who darts in no specific line or direction around the half court section of the basketball department. Mustang follows the crispy breast doggedly looking paler by the second. Mr. B takes a turn too sharp and sends his trainee head first into the post of the hoop. The camera pans over his sickly face as he throws up another thumb.
Reno: Agility!
Cut to: Reno, now in the bicycle section riding a kid’s sized Yeti bike in what most would consider to be a figure eight pattern, but what he means to be an infinity symbol as a reference to god knows what. A pair of attractive women in spandex pass next to the department and Mustang makes a bee-line for them. His now mutilated sense of direction failing him, he ends up piling into the repair rack adjacent to the ladies, knocking it asunder and covering himself in wheel oil. They look down upon him in horror as Reno turns what’s left of his attention back in their direction, raising a far less than suave eyebrow.
Reno: Hey babies. You wanna take a ride on the Matterhorn?
The women take off as far and fast as they can, shrieking like banshees as they go. Reno raises his, now blackened, thumb up to the camera.
Reno: Charisma!
Cut to: Reno now shackled in police hand cuffs on the back of an ambulance. The medic that’s been helping him cough up what’s left of the lubricant and Wreckital leaves his side and walks over to the patrolmen who are taking accounts from Dick’s employees and customers. Bellagio appears and puts a towel over Reno’s shoulders, then begins giving them a light rub down. Mustang heaves a hearty belch that spills more charcoal goo down across his shirt, a few drips spotting on the UWR title still around his waist. He shoots a paper white glance up to the still recording crew, who had better be getting hazard pay for this shit assignment.
Reno: Such is the life of a champion. Tough stuff, but it beats working for a living. Needless to say my opponents in the upcoming tag debacle are in for one hell of a fight. And to my partners, Compton ass Compton and the blissfully silent Brody Gates.
He gives out one last wretch sending a wave of blackness across Bellagio’s shirt. Mr. B gives a few motherly pats to his ribs.
Reno: I got your back. Like Marv Albert on a Cialis binge.
Bellagio: Yess!