Post by Kurt Burton: Script Doctor! on Aug 24, 2006 17:32:44 GMT -5
The light floods from the windows of the sprawling Victorian. Shadows dance on the grounds outside as the mass of people mosh to the rhythm of the pounding riffs. The coupe pulls up the driveway, the heap sticking out like a sore thumb in its posh surroundings. It chitties past many drunken bodies sprawled through the yard, as it bang bangs up the hill towards its parking spot. The owner steps out, a conservatively dressed woman, with her hair tied up in a bun. She double checks her appearance, straightening her skirt and blazer. She looks at the house, and pulls out a card from her pocket. She looks at the card, “1983 Wilson Place” it reads. She shrugs, this is the right house. The click of her heels is nearly drowned out by the abrasive rock as she walks toward the door. She looks around, as though not believing she is in the right place. She reaches the door, and cautiously rings the doorbell. She waits, anxiously shuffling her feet. There is no reply, so she rings again.
The door flies open, and the music slams against her like a ton of bricks. Already she perceives the scope of the party, with at least two hundred metalheads pressed from wall to wall. A young woman in cat ears, and a see through pink shirt opens the door. She studies the girl, what she would call a travesty of fashion. The bright blue bra clashing with her top, the leather pants to snug to possibly be comfortable. The tall heels of her stripper boots, adding at least another six inches to her height. She realized who it was from her study of the inactive roster… it was Kat Hamilton.
Kat: Sorry toots. I never thought I’d say this, but we have enough strippers. Nice though, I like the Librarian look. [/i]
The woman is taken aback. She stutters her response.
Woman: I am not a stripper. I am Farah Tiegs, from WFWF magazine. Kurt Burton arranged our meeting. [/i]
Kat: Oh, you’re the reporter chick. Come on in. [/i]
Kat takes a step back, motioning the woman through the door. Farah steps through, the look on her face can only be interpreted one way, what did I get myself into. Kat takes her by the wrist, directing her where to go. She takes her back into the bowels of the carnage, as they walk, a bottle of Rolling Rock nearly drops on her head, shattering on the floor next to her. She looks up to see Manny hanging from the chandelier, Perplexed.
Manny: Where’s my beer? Ahhh… meeses! [/i]
Farah continues squeezing through the crowd, countless hands wandering where they do not belong, until finally, Kat brings her to a heavy oak door.
Kat: He’s right in here. [/i]
She grabs the frightened woman by her collar, and pulls Farah close.
Kat: I think you’re a cool chick, but touch him, and I’ll give you a tassel twist you’ll never forget. Got it? [/i]
She lets her go, and saunters back into the party. Farah collects herself, and places her hand on the ornate doorknob. As she opens the door, she finds a study, with only one man sitting in it. Kurt is sipping on Brandy directly from the elegant decanter. A joint in his other hand, and dressed in a sleek silk robe, he appears as the heavy metal version of Hef. She steps into the study cautiously.
Kurt: Ahh… you must be the reporter. Sarah? [/i]
Farah: Farah. [/i]
Kurt: One letter off. Not bad, considering this is my fifth. [/i]
He holds up the joint.
Kurt: Mind if I smoke? [/i]
Farah: Actually I do. [/i]
Kurt: OK. [/i]
He takes another long puff off of the joint, and holds it in his hand, the smoke drifting off the paper and dancing towards the elevated ceiling. She sighs, and takes a seat on the couch opposite from him.
Kurt: You want a drink? Brandy, scotch, water? [/i]
Farah: I’ll take a water. [/i]
Kurt grabs a glass off of the table next to him, and reaches under it, pulling out a water decanter. He pours her a drink which overflows.
Kurt: Crap! Well, you going to come get it. [/i]
Farah walks from the couch, and takes the glass from his hand, she returns to her seat. They both stare at each other. She shuffles around in her seat awkwardly, as he focuses in on her.
Kurt: Well, did you come here to interview me, or bask in my glory. [/i]
Farah: Umm… yes. [/i]
She pulls a tape recorder out of her pocket and presses record.
Farah: So, you are going into Superbrawl as Orgy champion… do you have any apprehensions leading up to your fight. [/i]
Kurt: Yes…. I do find you very attractive and you may slob my knob anytime you like. [/i]
Farah: That was not the question I asked. [/i]
Kurt: I know, but that was such a dumb question. I figured I’d answer the one you’d really like to know. But, yes, I do have one worry. I’m afraid that at Superbrawl, The Revolution may just humiliate the Backyard Boyz so much that they’ll drop out of the game, just like so many others I’ve faced. I mean it hurts. Do you know how it feels to be so damn good at something, that everyone just quits. I feel like the black kid on the basketball court at an all white school. [/i]
He begins to sob.
Kurt: No one wants to play with me, cuz they know I’ll dominate them. I mean, it’s not fair. It just isn’t fair. [/i]
He slams his hand down on the table by his chair, and soon his sobs turn to his hideous cackle.
Kurt: But that is pretty much my only fear. [/i]
Farah: Now it appears that you are throwing some sort of party? [/i]
Kurt: Indeed. It’s a celebration, for a successful title defense. At Superbrawl, we manhandle our opponents, and walk away successfully retaining our orgy titles. [/i]
Farah: What about your opponents, do they give you no pause at all? [/i]
Kurt: My opponents do give me pause. Every time I see them fight, I pause and wonder, how did two dip****s like Shields and OKAMA get signed in this organization? I mean, they have to be two of the worst athletes I have ever seen. And his name OKAMA? What the f*** is with all the initials? He cannot possibly have five names, unless those names are Overrated Kid Ass Mongering Aphid. [/i]
Farah: What? [/i]
Kurt: Aphid… it’s a little bug, a little creepy nasty little bug. Which is exactly what OKAMA is, and is exactly what I’ll’ squish him like. And Shields, he has some talent. He has beaten my partner once, maybe twice. I don’t know. But this is a tag team match, and every machine is only as efficient as it’s weakest link. [/i]
Farah: Don’t you mean every machine is as good as its loosest part, or every chain is as strong as its weakest link. [/i]
Kurt: I mean exactly what I said. Don’t correct me. Just ask your stupid questions, and let’s move on with our lives, ok? [/i]
Farah: Fine. [/i]
She takes a sip of her water, as Kurt takes another puff off his joint.
Kurt: They’re called the Backyard Boyz for God’s sake. I can only think of one name more ignorant sounding… the Anointed Ones. I mean, neither really measure up to the Revolution. Not in coolness of names, not in sheer athletic ability. In the Revolution, we have the master of mayhem, the meister of mean, the sultan of the Satanic… and there’s me to boot, you’re resident metal god. And now, we have a third man, and with this third man, we will destroy all those who stand in our path. Not Shields, not OKAMA, hell, not even God himself could hope to stop us. And we will not stop until every belt in this organization rests on the waist of one of our members. [/i]
Farah looks around at the neat, elegant abode.
Farah: This strikes me as rather odd, from what I understood, you lived in a dilapidated one bedroom in Cincinnati. Yet, this is a very elegant house, nearly a mansion. [/i]
Kurt: Are you suggesting this is not my house? [/i]
Farah: Yes. [/i]
Kurt looks around. His eyes grow wide as he feigns shock and surprise.
Kurt: Oh My GOD! This is not my house! But, who’s house is it. [/i]
He reaches for a picture frame from the nearby table. He grasps it, bringing it almost to contact with his eye. He studies it for a moment, and then turns it towards Farah. The picture is of a happy family, a mom, dad, and high school student.
Kurt: Look at these parents, these are not my parents. And that young boy is not my brother. Could it be, is it possible. Yes, I’d recognize those pretentious smirks anywhere. Those are Christian Shield’s parents. This must be their house. They must be on a flight right now to see their son get his ass kicked. [/i]
Farah lets loose a laugh. She laughs, and giggles, ending in a snort.
Farah: Is it hot in here or is it just me. [/i]
Kurt: That’s just the X I put in your water. [/i]
Farah: What? [/i]
Kurt: Well, they say that you should always be relaxed when you take it, and, well, you kind of looked like an uptight prude, so I figured I shouldn’t tell you. Didn’t want you all freaking out and dying on me. Don’t worry though, no one will take advantage of you, except maybe Kat. And I’ll watch that. [/i]
Farah: Umm… I hope you will. [/i]
Kurt walks over to her, and reaches behind her the sofa. He pulls out a tank top and a thong.
Kurt: Now, we’re having chocolate pudding wrestling in the Shields dining room in just a minute. You can’t miss it, it’s the room with the huge expensive oriental rug. Why don’t you meet us there dressed to compete. I might just show you a move or two. [/i]
She giggles, as he walks out of the room.
Kurt: Can I have everyone’s attention. I remind you once again, if you see anything really expensive, feel free to break it. [/i][/b]
The door flies open, and the music slams against her like a ton of bricks. Already she perceives the scope of the party, with at least two hundred metalheads pressed from wall to wall. A young woman in cat ears, and a see through pink shirt opens the door. She studies the girl, what she would call a travesty of fashion. The bright blue bra clashing with her top, the leather pants to snug to possibly be comfortable. The tall heels of her stripper boots, adding at least another six inches to her height. She realized who it was from her study of the inactive roster… it was Kat Hamilton.
Kat: Sorry toots. I never thought I’d say this, but we have enough strippers. Nice though, I like the Librarian look. [/i]
The woman is taken aback. She stutters her response.
Woman: I am not a stripper. I am Farah Tiegs, from WFWF magazine. Kurt Burton arranged our meeting. [/i]
Kat: Oh, you’re the reporter chick. Come on in. [/i]
Kat takes a step back, motioning the woman through the door. Farah steps through, the look on her face can only be interpreted one way, what did I get myself into. Kat takes her by the wrist, directing her where to go. She takes her back into the bowels of the carnage, as they walk, a bottle of Rolling Rock nearly drops on her head, shattering on the floor next to her. She looks up to see Manny hanging from the chandelier, Perplexed.
Manny: Where’s my beer? Ahhh… meeses! [/i]
Farah continues squeezing through the crowd, countless hands wandering where they do not belong, until finally, Kat brings her to a heavy oak door.
Kat: He’s right in here. [/i]
She grabs the frightened woman by her collar, and pulls Farah close.
Kat: I think you’re a cool chick, but touch him, and I’ll give you a tassel twist you’ll never forget. Got it? [/i]
She lets her go, and saunters back into the party. Farah collects herself, and places her hand on the ornate doorknob. As she opens the door, she finds a study, with only one man sitting in it. Kurt is sipping on Brandy directly from the elegant decanter. A joint in his other hand, and dressed in a sleek silk robe, he appears as the heavy metal version of Hef. She steps into the study cautiously.
Kurt: Ahh… you must be the reporter. Sarah? [/i]
Farah: Farah. [/i]
Kurt: One letter off. Not bad, considering this is my fifth. [/i]
He holds up the joint.
Kurt: Mind if I smoke? [/i]
Farah: Actually I do. [/i]
Kurt: OK. [/i]
He takes another long puff off of the joint, and holds it in his hand, the smoke drifting off the paper and dancing towards the elevated ceiling. She sighs, and takes a seat on the couch opposite from him.
Kurt: You want a drink? Brandy, scotch, water? [/i]
Farah: I’ll take a water. [/i]
Kurt grabs a glass off of the table next to him, and reaches under it, pulling out a water decanter. He pours her a drink which overflows.
Kurt: Crap! Well, you going to come get it. [/i]
Farah walks from the couch, and takes the glass from his hand, she returns to her seat. They both stare at each other. She shuffles around in her seat awkwardly, as he focuses in on her.
Kurt: Well, did you come here to interview me, or bask in my glory. [/i]
Farah: Umm… yes. [/i]
She pulls a tape recorder out of her pocket and presses record.
Farah: So, you are going into Superbrawl as Orgy champion… do you have any apprehensions leading up to your fight. [/i]
Kurt: Yes…. I do find you very attractive and you may slob my knob anytime you like. [/i]
Farah: That was not the question I asked. [/i]
Kurt: I know, but that was such a dumb question. I figured I’d answer the one you’d really like to know. But, yes, I do have one worry. I’m afraid that at Superbrawl, The Revolution may just humiliate the Backyard Boyz so much that they’ll drop out of the game, just like so many others I’ve faced. I mean it hurts. Do you know how it feels to be so damn good at something, that everyone just quits. I feel like the black kid on the basketball court at an all white school. [/i]
He begins to sob.
Kurt: No one wants to play with me, cuz they know I’ll dominate them. I mean, it’s not fair. It just isn’t fair. [/i]
He slams his hand down on the table by his chair, and soon his sobs turn to his hideous cackle.
Kurt: But that is pretty much my only fear. [/i]
Farah: Now it appears that you are throwing some sort of party? [/i]
Kurt: Indeed. It’s a celebration, for a successful title defense. At Superbrawl, we manhandle our opponents, and walk away successfully retaining our orgy titles. [/i]
Farah: What about your opponents, do they give you no pause at all? [/i]
Kurt: My opponents do give me pause. Every time I see them fight, I pause and wonder, how did two dip****s like Shields and OKAMA get signed in this organization? I mean, they have to be two of the worst athletes I have ever seen. And his name OKAMA? What the f*** is with all the initials? He cannot possibly have five names, unless those names are Overrated Kid Ass Mongering Aphid. [/i]
Farah: What? [/i]
Kurt: Aphid… it’s a little bug, a little creepy nasty little bug. Which is exactly what OKAMA is, and is exactly what I’ll’ squish him like. And Shields, he has some talent. He has beaten my partner once, maybe twice. I don’t know. But this is a tag team match, and every machine is only as efficient as it’s weakest link. [/i]
Farah: Don’t you mean every machine is as good as its loosest part, or every chain is as strong as its weakest link. [/i]
Kurt: I mean exactly what I said. Don’t correct me. Just ask your stupid questions, and let’s move on with our lives, ok? [/i]
Farah: Fine. [/i]
She takes a sip of her water, as Kurt takes another puff off his joint.
Kurt: They’re called the Backyard Boyz for God’s sake. I can only think of one name more ignorant sounding… the Anointed Ones. I mean, neither really measure up to the Revolution. Not in coolness of names, not in sheer athletic ability. In the Revolution, we have the master of mayhem, the meister of mean, the sultan of the Satanic… and there’s me to boot, you’re resident metal god. And now, we have a third man, and with this third man, we will destroy all those who stand in our path. Not Shields, not OKAMA, hell, not even God himself could hope to stop us. And we will not stop until every belt in this organization rests on the waist of one of our members. [/i]
Farah looks around at the neat, elegant abode.
Farah: This strikes me as rather odd, from what I understood, you lived in a dilapidated one bedroom in Cincinnati. Yet, this is a very elegant house, nearly a mansion. [/i]
Kurt: Are you suggesting this is not my house? [/i]
Farah: Yes. [/i]
Kurt looks around. His eyes grow wide as he feigns shock and surprise.
Kurt: Oh My GOD! This is not my house! But, who’s house is it. [/i]
He reaches for a picture frame from the nearby table. He grasps it, bringing it almost to contact with his eye. He studies it for a moment, and then turns it towards Farah. The picture is of a happy family, a mom, dad, and high school student.
Kurt: Look at these parents, these are not my parents. And that young boy is not my brother. Could it be, is it possible. Yes, I’d recognize those pretentious smirks anywhere. Those are Christian Shield’s parents. This must be their house. They must be on a flight right now to see their son get his ass kicked. [/i]
Farah lets loose a laugh. She laughs, and giggles, ending in a snort.
Farah: Is it hot in here or is it just me. [/i]
Kurt: That’s just the X I put in your water. [/i]
Farah: What? [/i]
Kurt: Well, they say that you should always be relaxed when you take it, and, well, you kind of looked like an uptight prude, so I figured I shouldn’t tell you. Didn’t want you all freaking out and dying on me. Don’t worry though, no one will take advantage of you, except maybe Kat. And I’ll watch that. [/i]
Farah: Umm… I hope you will. [/i]
Kurt walks over to her, and reaches behind her the sofa. He pulls out a tank top and a thong.
Kurt: Now, we’re having chocolate pudding wrestling in the Shields dining room in just a minute. You can’t miss it, it’s the room with the huge expensive oriental rug. Why don’t you meet us there dressed to compete. I might just show you a move or two. [/i]
She giggles, as he walks out of the room.
Kurt: Can I have everyone’s attention. I remind you once again, if you see anything really expensive, feel free to break it. [/i][/b]
