Post by Moss Works Jericho's Schedule on Aug 12, 2009 14:07:18 GMT -5
Are you watching closely?
Moss Edwards walks through his living room, double-checking for anything that might be amiss. He wanders around the corner, but our camera stays hunkered in the corner so we can only just make out that there is a voice coming from that area of the apartment. Moss replies to the muffled sound. “I told you, I don’t know how it got there. I know who put it there, and I can guess how he got into the room. But past that I have no idea….yes, I am aware that it’s bigger than the door. But your job is to figure out how to get it back through…Have you not heard that I’m the number one contender for the unified title? The single biggest match of my career is less than a month away, and you expect me to risk throwing out my back? Do your job, make it disappear.”
Every great magic trick consists of three parts or acts.
Moss wanders through the small kitchen area, picking up cans of taurine-enhanced beverages and eying them with more than a hint of disgust. He calls out, seemingly to no one in particular. “Grace!”
Immediately, his lovely assistant appears by his side, 7-11 cup firmly in hand. A keen eye may notice sharpied-on facial hair adorning the blonde bimbo’s face. “Yes sir?”
Moss jumps a slight bit at this sudden appearance. “Oh, you decided to actually be in the place I expected you, I forgot how that system used to work. I need a phone number.”
With her free hand, she produces her Palm. “For?”
“Randy Boolzian. To discuss our match. Get a game plan in place. No more, no less.”
The first part is called the Pledge. The magician shows you something ordinary.
Moss is in a production meeting. The man at the head of the table is constantly sweating, regardless of the temperature. His all-natural hair looks like the cheapest toupee available. His shirts are never fully buttoned, allowing his Scott Hall chest hair to peek out. He even has a bushy moustache. In short, this man could only ever really have one career path.
He has praised Moss for bringing a fresh perspective to two scripts in the last five days. He’s been impressed, but warns Moss not to push TOO far, everyone knows where the camera ultimately needs to stay pointed at. But if those Pirates bastards can get artsy, why not us?
Moss is in the midst of explaining a scene that he wants to shoot through the use of a nanny-cam, which of course is a small remote operated camera that can be hid in common objects like a teddy bear. Of course, this particular bear would be getting an unusually front close seat to the performance. “Then just for hygiene’s sake, we’ll burn the bear.”
There’s a call from Magnum’s secretary. She says there are people here to talk to Moss, so our hero excuses himself.
The second act is called the Turn. The magician takes something ordinary and makes it do something extraordinary.
These men are nearly identically dressed. Gray suits. Skinny red ties. Crew cuts and thick rimmed glasses. All holding briefcases. They are legion.
The least gaunt of the men steps forward. “Moss Edwards?”
Our hero nods slowly. “To some people.”
“We represent The Headliner, Travis Roberts. And in that way, we represent the best interests of Global Impact Wrestling. We understand that you have been involved in the production of…filmed adult erotica?”
Moss looks at the secretary, who simply shrugs. “I’ve been making a little bit extra money on the side, seems little harm in that, right?”
“It has come to our attention that you have been using a fake name for this enterprise.”
Moss folds his arms across his chest and states matter-of-factly, “It’s a very common thing in this industry to use pseudonyms. After all, I’m still a major Hollywood player, or I will be after I’ve lived down certain miscommunications, I can’t have my own real name dragged through the mud.”
“That may be, but in this particular case, you chose the name of Travis Roberts, which we believe you did with malicious intent, so we are asking to you cease and desist. We would forego legal fees if you simply issue an apology to Mr Roberts. And of course, quit using his name.”
Moss nods thoughtfully. “Using his name, eh? That’s quite an ego. How’s that old ditty go, you’re so vain…”
The secretary starts to sing. “You probly think this song is about you, don’t you, don’t you?”
“It seems to be a pretty common name, to me, I was just picking at random, really. But I could see his point, that would be an unfortunate coincidence, although I think there’s actually something missing here. Nancy, if you could quit reliving the 70s and fetch me a laptop and a copy of GI Ho: Rise of The Trouser Cobra?” Moss turns back to the lawyers. “We managed to work wonders with miniatures in this one. Of course, you can’t scale down fire, but let’s face it, the consumer isn’t exactly going to be reviewing our special effects, so sometimes you just have to let things go, you know?”
Nancy places the laptop on the coffee table and Moss beckons the nervous lawyers to gather round. The appropriately jingoistic theme song plays, the titles and actors’ names begin to fade in and out. Then the credit in question. Directed by Travis P. Roberts. Moss smiles to the lawyers. “Now, I might be mistaken, but Unified Champion Travis Roberts never goes by a middle initial. In fact, I don’t even know WHAT his middle name is, and I highly doubt that is the same as my nom de plume, Percival. To alleviate confusion, if you wish, I could start USING the full name Percival instead of the P. Directed by Travis Percival Roberts, that still has a ring to it.”
The lawyers look to each other grumpily and slowly rise from the couch, except for one who really was excited to get to watch porn in the middle of the day and looks very sad when Moss shuts the laptop. They shuffle out in a line, business-suited lemmings who might as well jump off a cliff rather than face The Champion after their failure.
Now you’re looking for the secret…but you won’t find it, because of course you’re not really looking.
Grace holds her hooks and tries to fake a smile for Old Lady Levene, who is just reaching the hour-mark of the story of how she met her late husband. “Now Mr Levene, god bless his soul, you would never have known it from looking at him, but HE. COULD. DANCE. We would go make all the sailors and dock rats jealous every other Thursday. Does anyone ever take those long legs out dancing?”
Grace is slow to react, having been singing ‘Badger Badger Badger’ in her head which caused her to miss the question, but she plays it off as wistfulness. “Moss and I have to work so hard, every day, that I just don’t have the time to go out dancing, ma’am.”
The grandma peers over her glasses. “Working on what?”
Grace jumps back onto the party line. “We just care too much. We want to make every match matter. We want to make the people happy. We just, we care too much. About the company. And about the fans.”
“Dear, you have to take time for yourself. I know that I should probably spend every waking minute watching over Tate, because the Lord above did not bless that boy with the wits of a slug, but I learned long ago, that if you don’t take care of yourself, you can’t take care of anybody else. You need to find what makes you happy dear. Don’t forget, you need to close off that stitch before you start the next row. Good. Now, after Mister Levene’s first heart attack…”
As the old woman starts on the next part her of slog down memory line, Grace tries to picture what makes her happy.
You don’t really want to know. You want to be fooled. But you wouldn’t clap yet.
Two modern-day gladiators catch their breath in the gorilla position of the Global Impact Arena. They are victorious, but only the lovely blonde standing betwixt them is trying to celebrate. The two simply share uneasy glances. Randy speaks first. “You punched me.”
Moss gestures to his own face. “I was poked in the eye, I could have suffered a scratched retina. I was trying to defend myself while I assessed the damage and your face got in the way. You knocked me off the ropes and made me look like an idiot.”
Randy smiles at the easy set-up. “You don’t need my help there.” He turns to Grace. “Bazing!”
Moss doesn’t bother turning towards his assistant. “Don’t encourage him Miss Harding.” The silence between their glares grows. Finally, Moss puts a begrudging hand forward and Randy takes it. The Red Bull Icon turns to head towards his locker room. Moss speaks up. “How’d you do it?”
Randy turns back towards him. Moss- “The machine. How’d you do it?”
Randy shrugs. “There were two of us.” He disappears down the hall, self-satisfied.
Because it’s not enough to make something disappear…
The Roc---CockStar machine still sits in the shower. A shadow appears on the curtain, it’s brushed aside and we see Moss….and his axe.
He brings the implement crashing into the plexiglass front of the machine, then again, and again, and again. Cans begin to fall forward, some of them opening as they hit the floor and coating the tub and wall with the horrific, foul-tasting science experiment within.
Grace steps into the room with a chainsaw in hand. “Let’s not tell Grandma about this.”
“Agreed.”
You have to bring it back.
Randy steps into his locker room. Grace Harding sits in front of his TV, controller in hand. Underneath her is apparently a steel bar and plexisheet bull sculpture, although the amateurish quality of the welding and construction make this debatable. What is very clear is the Rock Star cans that fill the insides of the cage like structure, and also make up a very phallic outgrowth.
BoolZ takes the scene all in for a moment.
“Where’s my couch?”
Moss Edwards walks through his living room, double-checking for anything that might be amiss. He wanders around the corner, but our camera stays hunkered in the corner so we can only just make out that there is a voice coming from that area of the apartment. Moss replies to the muffled sound. “I told you, I don’t know how it got there. I know who put it there, and I can guess how he got into the room. But past that I have no idea….yes, I am aware that it’s bigger than the door. But your job is to figure out how to get it back through…Have you not heard that I’m the number one contender for the unified title? The single biggest match of my career is less than a month away, and you expect me to risk throwing out my back? Do your job, make it disappear.”
Every great magic trick consists of three parts or acts.
Moss wanders through the small kitchen area, picking up cans of taurine-enhanced beverages and eying them with more than a hint of disgust. He calls out, seemingly to no one in particular. “Grace!”
Immediately, his lovely assistant appears by his side, 7-11 cup firmly in hand. A keen eye may notice sharpied-on facial hair adorning the blonde bimbo’s face. “Yes sir?”
Moss jumps a slight bit at this sudden appearance. “Oh, you decided to actually be in the place I expected you, I forgot how that system used to work. I need a phone number.”
With her free hand, she produces her Palm. “For?”
“Randy Boolzian. To discuss our match. Get a game plan in place. No more, no less.”
The first part is called the Pledge. The magician shows you something ordinary.
Moss is in a production meeting. The man at the head of the table is constantly sweating, regardless of the temperature. His all-natural hair looks like the cheapest toupee available. His shirts are never fully buttoned, allowing his Scott Hall chest hair to peek out. He even has a bushy moustache. In short, this man could only ever really have one career path.
He has praised Moss for bringing a fresh perspective to two scripts in the last five days. He’s been impressed, but warns Moss not to push TOO far, everyone knows where the camera ultimately needs to stay pointed at. But if those Pirates bastards can get artsy, why not us?
Moss is in the midst of explaining a scene that he wants to shoot through the use of a nanny-cam, which of course is a small remote operated camera that can be hid in common objects like a teddy bear. Of course, this particular bear would be getting an unusually front close seat to the performance. “Then just for hygiene’s sake, we’ll burn the bear.”
There’s a call from Magnum’s secretary. She says there are people here to talk to Moss, so our hero excuses himself.
The second act is called the Turn. The magician takes something ordinary and makes it do something extraordinary.
These men are nearly identically dressed. Gray suits. Skinny red ties. Crew cuts and thick rimmed glasses. All holding briefcases. They are legion.
The least gaunt of the men steps forward. “Moss Edwards?”
Our hero nods slowly. “To some people.”
“We represent The Headliner, Travis Roberts. And in that way, we represent the best interests of Global Impact Wrestling. We understand that you have been involved in the production of…filmed adult erotica?”
Moss looks at the secretary, who simply shrugs. “I’ve been making a little bit extra money on the side, seems little harm in that, right?”
“It has come to our attention that you have been using a fake name for this enterprise.”
Moss folds his arms across his chest and states matter-of-factly, “It’s a very common thing in this industry to use pseudonyms. After all, I’m still a major Hollywood player, or I will be after I’ve lived down certain miscommunications, I can’t have my own real name dragged through the mud.”
“That may be, but in this particular case, you chose the name of Travis Roberts, which we believe you did with malicious intent, so we are asking to you cease and desist. We would forego legal fees if you simply issue an apology to Mr Roberts. And of course, quit using his name.”
Moss nods thoughtfully. “Using his name, eh? That’s quite an ego. How’s that old ditty go, you’re so vain…”
The secretary starts to sing. “You probly think this song is about you, don’t you, don’t you?”
“It seems to be a pretty common name, to me, I was just picking at random, really. But I could see his point, that would be an unfortunate coincidence, although I think there’s actually something missing here. Nancy, if you could quit reliving the 70s and fetch me a laptop and a copy of GI Ho: Rise of The Trouser Cobra?” Moss turns back to the lawyers. “We managed to work wonders with miniatures in this one. Of course, you can’t scale down fire, but let’s face it, the consumer isn’t exactly going to be reviewing our special effects, so sometimes you just have to let things go, you know?”
Nancy places the laptop on the coffee table and Moss beckons the nervous lawyers to gather round. The appropriately jingoistic theme song plays, the titles and actors’ names begin to fade in and out. Then the credit in question. Directed by Travis P. Roberts. Moss smiles to the lawyers. “Now, I might be mistaken, but Unified Champion Travis Roberts never goes by a middle initial. In fact, I don’t even know WHAT his middle name is, and I highly doubt that is the same as my nom de plume, Percival. To alleviate confusion, if you wish, I could start USING the full name Percival instead of the P. Directed by Travis Percival Roberts, that still has a ring to it.”
The lawyers look to each other grumpily and slowly rise from the couch, except for one who really was excited to get to watch porn in the middle of the day and looks very sad when Moss shuts the laptop. They shuffle out in a line, business-suited lemmings who might as well jump off a cliff rather than face The Champion after their failure.
Now you’re looking for the secret…but you won’t find it, because of course you’re not really looking.
Grace holds her hooks and tries to fake a smile for Old Lady Levene, who is just reaching the hour-mark of the story of how she met her late husband. “Now Mr Levene, god bless his soul, you would never have known it from looking at him, but HE. COULD. DANCE. We would go make all the sailors and dock rats jealous every other Thursday. Does anyone ever take those long legs out dancing?”
Grace is slow to react, having been singing ‘Badger Badger Badger’ in her head which caused her to miss the question, but she plays it off as wistfulness. “Moss and I have to work so hard, every day, that I just don’t have the time to go out dancing, ma’am.”
The grandma peers over her glasses. “Working on what?”
Grace jumps back onto the party line. “We just care too much. We want to make every match matter. We want to make the people happy. We just, we care too much. About the company. And about the fans.”
“Dear, you have to take time for yourself. I know that I should probably spend every waking minute watching over Tate, because the Lord above did not bless that boy with the wits of a slug, but I learned long ago, that if you don’t take care of yourself, you can’t take care of anybody else. You need to find what makes you happy dear. Don’t forget, you need to close off that stitch before you start the next row. Good. Now, after Mister Levene’s first heart attack…”
As the old woman starts on the next part her of slog down memory line, Grace tries to picture what makes her happy.
You don’t really want to know. You want to be fooled. But you wouldn’t clap yet.
Two modern-day gladiators catch their breath in the gorilla position of the Global Impact Arena. They are victorious, but only the lovely blonde standing betwixt them is trying to celebrate. The two simply share uneasy glances. Randy speaks first. “You punched me.”
Moss gestures to his own face. “I was poked in the eye, I could have suffered a scratched retina. I was trying to defend myself while I assessed the damage and your face got in the way. You knocked me off the ropes and made me look like an idiot.”
Randy smiles at the easy set-up. “You don’t need my help there.” He turns to Grace. “Bazing!”
Moss doesn’t bother turning towards his assistant. “Don’t encourage him Miss Harding.” The silence between their glares grows. Finally, Moss puts a begrudging hand forward and Randy takes it. The Red Bull Icon turns to head towards his locker room. Moss speaks up. “How’d you do it?”
Randy turns back towards him. Moss- “The machine. How’d you do it?”
Randy shrugs. “There were two of us.” He disappears down the hall, self-satisfied.
Because it’s not enough to make something disappear…
The Roc---CockStar machine still sits in the shower. A shadow appears on the curtain, it’s brushed aside and we see Moss….and his axe.
He brings the implement crashing into the plexiglass front of the machine, then again, and again, and again. Cans begin to fall forward, some of them opening as they hit the floor and coating the tub and wall with the horrific, foul-tasting science experiment within.
Grace steps into the room with a chainsaw in hand. “Let’s not tell Grandma about this.”
“Agreed.”
You have to bring it back.
Randy steps into his locker room. Grace Harding sits in front of his TV, controller in hand. Underneath her is apparently a steel bar and plexisheet bull sculpture, although the amateurish quality of the welding and construction make this debatable. What is very clear is the Rock Star cans that fill the insides of the cage like structure, and also make up a very phallic outgrowth.
BoolZ takes the scene all in for a moment.
“Where’s my couch?”
