A Chill Choice (w/ K. Raab vs. B. Armstrong & D. Master)
Mar 12, 2020 22:55:17 GMT -5
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Post by wwjbcd on Mar 12, 2020 22:55:17 GMT -5
Our story today begins at the front of an ajar door with this familiar decal on the frosted window:
When enough time has gone by that all but the slowest of readers would have had a chance to check out the unusual window lettering, the ajar door evolves into a fully swung-open one. The camera moves into the room, scanning around at the out-of-date decor. This appears like a psychiatrist's office frozen in time and thawed out 50-60 years later: unnecessary shag carpeting, an ancient chaise longue, sociology and psychology books whose yellowed pages are barely visible encased in dust, and a surprisingly mint-condition solid oak desk, freshly polished and inhabited by a man we've seen several times before.
Busy writing notes down on his trusty notepad attached to clipboard, he's so lost in thought that he doesn't even notice he's being filmed until the cameraman coughs a few times, each time louder than the next. Finally, Doctor Numbers looks up, momentarily taken off-guard, until he spies the UGWC logo on the camera, which none of you see, because it's on the camera.
"O-oh! Oh yes, that's, ah, that's right! I was expecting you all this evening, wa-wasn't I?" Numbers asks as he rests his clipboard on his exceptionally nice desk. "We-well, I'm, ah, you know, I'm being videotaped by you, uh, you people for, for a very good reason, of which I-I'll be glad to explain right now!"
The good Doctor rises out of his rickety chair, sauntering over to the chaise longue, kicking up some dust as he plops himself down onto it. He coughs a bit, waving a hand in the air to exercise the dust away. He then rests his hands in his lap.
"You see, ah, our mutual friend Johnathan Bonecrusher, he..." Numbers struggles with how to state what he wants to state diplomatically. "He's, ah, he's a sensitive soul, and, well, two weeks' worth of, uh, of... well, not quite failures, but, ahhhh... more like successful attempts at unsuccess, have weighed heavily o-on his psyche. I-I mean, you upgrade your forces, as it were, you-you get a fancy new name, yuh-you have your a-army? Is it called an army in, in wrestling?"
Number thinks about that for far too long. He snaps his fingers.
"Faction! Faction, that's it. Or stable! Bu-but anyway, in short, they've, ah, come onto some bad times so early on in their, ah, rebirth, as it were. So Johnathan has decided to..." He once again struggles with how to properly word Johnny's Twitter rant/in-person diatribe. Numbers was used to Johnny's temper, which while his temper was tempered in part thanks to a(n un)healthy dose of Zoloft and in other part thanks to a(n un)healthy dose of Nice Lessons, the "clean sweep of failures" this past Monday caused Johnny to all but relapse. "Ah, take a sabbatical from his, ah, managerial duties."
He pushed up his glasses. "And, uh, you know, uh, has sort of conscripted me to take his place."
He coughs.
"No-now, I am no stranger to, ah, you know, managing folks; take Joe Nobody here, for, for example:" he says as he points behind him. The cameraman moves in to see what the Doctor's going on about, and sure enough...
N1U2M3B4E5R6S
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When enough time has gone by that all but the slowest of readers would have had a chance to check out the unusual window lettering, the ajar door evolves into a fully swung-open one. The camera moves into the room, scanning around at the out-of-date decor. This appears like a psychiatrist's office frozen in time and thawed out 50-60 years later: unnecessary shag carpeting, an ancient chaise longue, sociology and psychology books whose yellowed pages are barely visible encased in dust, and a surprisingly mint-condition solid oak desk, freshly polished and inhabited by a man we've seen several times before.
Busy writing notes down on his trusty notepad attached to clipboard, he's so lost in thought that he doesn't even notice he's being filmed until the cameraman coughs a few times, each time louder than the next. Finally, Doctor Numbers looks up, momentarily taken off-guard, until he spies the UGWC logo on the camera, which none of you see, because it's on the camera.
"O-oh! Oh yes, that's, ah, that's right! I was expecting you all this evening, wa-wasn't I?" Numbers asks as he rests his clipboard on his exceptionally nice desk. "We-well, I'm, ah, you know, I'm being videotaped by you, uh, you people for, for a very good reason, of which I-I'll be glad to explain right now!"
The good Doctor rises out of his rickety chair, sauntering over to the chaise longue, kicking up some dust as he plops himself down onto it. He coughs a bit, waving a hand in the air to exercise the dust away. He then rests his hands in his lap.
"You see, ah, our mutual friend Johnathan Bonecrusher, he..." Numbers struggles with how to state what he wants to state diplomatically. "He's, ah, he's a sensitive soul, and, well, two weeks' worth of, uh, of... well, not quite failures, but, ahhhh... more like successful attempts at unsuccess, have weighed heavily o-on his psyche. I-I mean, you upgrade your forces, as it were, you-you get a fancy new name, yuh-you have your a-army? Is it called an army in, in wrestling?"
Number thinks about that for far too long. He snaps his fingers.
"Faction! Faction, that's it. Or stable! Bu-but anyway, in short, they've, ah, come onto some bad times so early on in their, ah, rebirth, as it were. So Johnathan has decided to..." He once again struggles with how to properly word Johnny's Twitter rant/in-person diatribe. Numbers was used to Johnny's temper, which while his temper was tempered in part thanks to a(n un)healthy dose of Zoloft and in other part thanks to a(n un)healthy dose of Nice Lessons, the "clean sweep of failures" this past Monday caused Johnny to all but relapse. "Ah, take a sabbatical from his, ah, managerial duties."
He pushed up his glasses. "And, uh, you know, uh, has sort of conscripted me to take his place."
He coughs.
"No-now, I am no stranger to, ah, you know, managing folks; take Joe Nobody here, for, for example:" he says as he points behind him. The cameraman moves in to see what the Doctor's going on about, and sure enough...
The perpetually-sedated Joe Nobody lies in a slump on the floor. He appears to be awake, but is in a coma of disinterest and apathy. Seated next to him is none other than "Deathwish" Hide Yamazaki, quietly munching on a big bag of breaded shrimp from Long John Silver's.
"But see, I think, I think we need to pick up the, ah, pick up the pace." He says as he allows his gaze to linger on The Strong Style Satanist for a while longer. The good behaviour Yamazaki is on is unnerving. "I've been brought up to speed regarding the, ah, this upcoming episode of Chill, where, ah, that fine Japanese gentleman behind me is teaming up with that nice German gent that, ah, I'd very much, ah, like to have a few words with at some point in the, uh, the future. I'm fascinated with his reliance on that mask and how it allows a normally restrained part of his psyche to become, ah, un-unleashed."
He realizes his time allotted is running out fast. He puffs out his cheeks and exhales as his eyes widen. He's taken on way more than he can chew, and it doesn't help that he's overly verbose. "A-anyway, they'll be going toe-to-toe with one Buzz Armstrong and one Dungeon Master. I-I must admit that my knowledge of these gentlemen is limited to them both being fascinated by parallel forms of fantasy: one fixated on sailing the endless black seas of outer space, the other deluded by the high fantasy exploits of wizards and warriors. Un-untested grapplers against a rough and tumble specialist in the Rising Sun's strong style, paired with a veritable toughs-as-nails veteran of the, ah, the so-called sport of kings, and it seems like, ah, a foregone conclusion, don't you think?"
Numbers sports a sincere smile. But suddenly, it dawns on him:
"O-oh! Oh. That's right, my god. I'm to convince you, the fans of the Chill show why the team I'll be rooting for is not only, ah, be-better than Armstrong and Master, but also Mr. Maleek Raheem and Ms.... Miss... Mrs.?! Salvatore. Wellllllll..." He thinks about the situation briefly, then snaps his fingers. "Of course! Quite simply, they're far too intertwined with their own, ah, if you'll allow me to, ah, say... baby mama drama, as the kids say, to be of much use to the good hard-working folks who tune in to watch the first of only four Chills this year. So, ah, that's them out of the running, and, ah, I'm sure I-I've already convinced you of the untestedness of-"
And with that, the video cuts out; the cameraman's battery has just died.
"But see, I think, I think we need to pick up the, ah, pick up the pace." He says as he allows his gaze to linger on The Strong Style Satanist for a while longer. The good behaviour Yamazaki is on is unnerving. "I've been brought up to speed regarding the, ah, this upcoming episode of Chill, where, ah, that fine Japanese gentleman behind me is teaming up with that nice German gent that, ah, I'd very much, ah, like to have a few words with at some point in the, uh, the future. I'm fascinated with his reliance on that mask and how it allows a normally restrained part of his psyche to become, ah, un-unleashed."
He realizes his time allotted is running out fast. He puffs out his cheeks and exhales as his eyes widen. He's taken on way more than he can chew, and it doesn't help that he's overly verbose. "A-anyway, they'll be going toe-to-toe with one Buzz Armstrong and one Dungeon Master. I-I must admit that my knowledge of these gentlemen is limited to them both being fascinated by parallel forms of fantasy: one fixated on sailing the endless black seas of outer space, the other deluded by the high fantasy exploits of wizards and warriors. Un-untested grapplers against a rough and tumble specialist in the Rising Sun's strong style, paired with a veritable toughs-as-nails veteran of the, ah, the so-called sport of kings, and it seems like, ah, a foregone conclusion, don't you think?"
Numbers sports a sincere smile. But suddenly, it dawns on him:
"O-oh! Oh. That's right, my god. I'm to convince you, the fans of the Chill show why the team I'll be rooting for is not only, ah, be-better than Armstrong and Master, but also Mr. Maleek Raheem and Ms.... Miss... Mrs.?! Salvatore. Wellllllll..." He thinks about the situation briefly, then snaps his fingers. "Of course! Quite simply, they're far too intertwined with their own, ah, if you'll allow me to, ah, say... baby mama drama, as the kids say, to be of much use to the good hard-working folks who tune in to watch the first of only four Chills this year. So, ah, that's them out of the running, and, ah, I'm sure I-I've already convinced you of the untestedness of-"
And with that, the video cuts out; the cameraman's battery has just died.
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