Post by Lord Hastings on Jul 26, 2009 21:06:29 GMT -5
Donovan walks into the local Ticketmaster Boutique, his cloak billowing behind him. He takes a sip from a bottle of water. The manager jogs up to him.
Manager: Mr. Hastings, I'm so glad you're here.
Hastings: Lord.
Manager: Yes, sorry. Anyway, we appreciate you making this appearance. Ticket sales always spike a bit when we have someone here in person.
Hastings: Yes, of course. You have a handler for me?
Manager: Pardon?
Hastings: I need to be handled.
Manager: Yes, of course you do. We...um...well, I don't think we-
Hastings: He'll do.
Donovan points at a guy standing at the ticket booth.
Manager: He needs to work the booth.
Hastings: I must be handled! Come, patsy!
Donovan snaps his fingers. The manager sighs and gestures for the ticket seller to help Donovan.
Manager: Do whatever he needs.
Handler: Yes, sir.
The handler leads Hastings to a table as the manager goes behind the booth. A line of people wait a few feet away.
Handler: This is where you'll be giving autographs.
Hastings: Signing autographs?
Handler: Um, yeah. Isn't that why you're here?
Hastings: That's for chumps. Plus I could get a hand cramp or a papercut or something. Anyway, just meeting me is an experience in itself.
Handler: Can't argue with that.
Donovan stands in front of the table.
Hastings: Your Lord will be with you in a moment! Please form two lines! Bitches to my left for hugs, dudes to my right for high-fives!
The manager's mouth drops open, and he buries his face in his hands.
Hastings: The first peasant may step forward.
A teenager walks up.
Teen: I-
Hastings: AH!
Donovan taps his own extended palm. The teen looks confused a moment, and hesitantly puts out his own, which Donovan high-fives.
Hastings: Thank you, next.
The teen lowers his head and walks away.
Handler: Sir, I do believe you will have to speak with them.
Hastings: Stop it.
Handler: Seriously.
Hastings: What kind of Mickey Mouse operation are you running here? I'm letting them touch me, that isn't enough?
Handler: If you signed autographs like we wanted you to do, you wouldn't have to.
Hastings: Fine, I'll talk to them. May the next knave step forth.
A college aged kid walks up, and gets a high five.
CK: Loved what you guys did to Killswitch!
Hastings: Indeed, that was a monumental moment in the history of your Lord.
The kid walks away with a smile.
Hastings: We killed a switch?
Handler: Killswitch. That's his name.
Donovan gives him a blank stare.
Hastings: Who?
Handler: He was the self-proclaimed Canadian Champion.
Hastings: They let Canadians into GIW now? Geeze, they'll fucking hire anybody, won't they.
Handler: You were there when the whole roster beat him up at the end of Sentinel.
Hastings: Is that what was going on? I was looking for my cloak, I left it at ringside.
Donovan stares ahead for a moment, lost in thought.
Hastings: Okay, let's have a bitch.
A young woman walks up and gives him a hug.
Girl: I just wanted to let you know, you can be my Chief Nigga anytime you want.
Hastings: Your Lord will indeed be the Chief Nigga. This trifling tag match to decide our entrance order is nay but a formality. It's not as though my opponents have much of a chance, anyway. Savana and the Auteur will be struggling with their papercuts and cramped hands. Prescott will be busy getting down with the Brown. And whoever else is in the match will be equally of little consequence.
Handler: You don't know who else is in the match?
Hastings: I couldn't be bothered to read the whole card.
Handler: How'd you get the team on top, the team on the bottom, and miss the middle?
Hastings: Look, the bloody point is that it doesn't matter who I'm facing, does it? I'm going to be the fucking Chief Nigga. It is inevitable.
Girl: So can I give you my number?
Hastings: Are you still here? I'll bet those legs walk as good as they spread, take advantage of it and take a hike.
She storms off in a huff.
Handler: These people aren't buying tickets if they leave angry.
Hastings: You pay me the same regardless, so what the fuck do I care.
Handler: We should have tried to get Boolz.
Hastings: Or you could have a Red Bull and a smile and shut the fuck up. Next bitch!
The next bitch walks up.
Next Bitch: I just wanted to say, Calypso didn't deserve you anyway. You're better off without her.
She leans in for a hug, but Donovan takes a step directly backwards. He stares at her coldly, looks at the Handler, and walks away. The manager rushes out from behind the booth.
Manager: He's leaving?
Handler: Trust me, we're better off...
Manager: Mr. Hastings, I'm so glad you're here.
Hastings: Lord.
Manager: Yes, sorry. Anyway, we appreciate you making this appearance. Ticket sales always spike a bit when we have someone here in person.
Hastings: Yes, of course. You have a handler for me?
Manager: Pardon?
Hastings: I need to be handled.
Manager: Yes, of course you do. We...um...well, I don't think we-
Hastings: He'll do.
Donovan points at a guy standing at the ticket booth.
Manager: He needs to work the booth.
Hastings: I must be handled! Come, patsy!
Donovan snaps his fingers. The manager sighs and gestures for the ticket seller to help Donovan.
Manager: Do whatever he needs.
Handler: Yes, sir.
The handler leads Hastings to a table as the manager goes behind the booth. A line of people wait a few feet away.
Handler: This is where you'll be giving autographs.
Hastings: Signing autographs?
Handler: Um, yeah. Isn't that why you're here?
Hastings: That's for chumps. Plus I could get a hand cramp or a papercut or something. Anyway, just meeting me is an experience in itself.
Handler: Can't argue with that.
Donovan stands in front of the table.
Hastings: Your Lord will be with you in a moment! Please form two lines! Bitches to my left for hugs, dudes to my right for high-fives!
The manager's mouth drops open, and he buries his face in his hands.
Hastings: The first peasant may step forward.
A teenager walks up.
Teen: I-
Hastings: AH!
Donovan taps his own extended palm. The teen looks confused a moment, and hesitantly puts out his own, which Donovan high-fives.
Hastings: Thank you, next.
The teen lowers his head and walks away.
Handler: Sir, I do believe you will have to speak with them.
Hastings: Stop it.
Handler: Seriously.
Hastings: What kind of Mickey Mouse operation are you running here? I'm letting them touch me, that isn't enough?
Handler: If you signed autographs like we wanted you to do, you wouldn't have to.
Hastings: Fine, I'll talk to them. May the next knave step forth.
A college aged kid walks up, and gets a high five.
CK: Loved what you guys did to Killswitch!
Hastings: Indeed, that was a monumental moment in the history of your Lord.
The kid walks away with a smile.
Hastings: We killed a switch?
Handler: Killswitch. That's his name.
Donovan gives him a blank stare.
Hastings: Who?
Handler: He was the self-proclaimed Canadian Champion.
Hastings: They let Canadians into GIW now? Geeze, they'll fucking hire anybody, won't they.
Handler: You were there when the whole roster beat him up at the end of Sentinel.
Hastings: Is that what was going on? I was looking for my cloak, I left it at ringside.
Donovan stares ahead for a moment, lost in thought.
Hastings: Okay, let's have a bitch.
A young woman walks up and gives him a hug.
Girl: I just wanted to let you know, you can be my Chief Nigga anytime you want.
Hastings: Your Lord will indeed be the Chief Nigga. This trifling tag match to decide our entrance order is nay but a formality. It's not as though my opponents have much of a chance, anyway. Savana and the Auteur will be struggling with their papercuts and cramped hands. Prescott will be busy getting down with the Brown. And whoever else is in the match will be equally of little consequence.
Handler: You don't know who else is in the match?
Hastings: I couldn't be bothered to read the whole card.
Handler: How'd you get the team on top, the team on the bottom, and miss the middle?
Hastings: Look, the bloody point is that it doesn't matter who I'm facing, does it? I'm going to be the fucking Chief Nigga. It is inevitable.
Girl: So can I give you my number?
Hastings: Are you still here? I'll bet those legs walk as good as they spread, take advantage of it and take a hike.
She storms off in a huff.
Handler: These people aren't buying tickets if they leave angry.
Hastings: You pay me the same regardless, so what the fuck do I care.
Handler: We should have tried to get Boolz.
Hastings: Or you could have a Red Bull and a smile and shut the fuck up. Next bitch!
The next bitch walks up.
Next Bitch: I just wanted to say, Calypso didn't deserve you anyway. You're better off without her.
She leans in for a hug, but Donovan takes a step directly backwards. He stares at her coldly, looks at the Handler, and walks away. The manager rushes out from behind the booth.
Manager: He's leaving?
Handler: Trust me, we're better off...
