Post by Deleted on Nov 1, 2013 22:53:18 GMT -5
There comes a point in a young man's life when he must choose to reflect upon the past before he can effectively proceed with his present-day agenda. The reason? Well, it ain't for the tales of promiscuity, those bitches who missed their periods or so they claimed whilst attempting to blackmail a Godfather who cannot be blackmailed. They were summarily "dealt with" as unruly bitches are. None of this is what prompts Bobby Cairo to sit down with Hank Brown and discuss the events of his recent past. No, no. Life experience provides us with lessons to be learned, to be shared, to be expounded upon just as Einstein enlightened the masses with his "Theory of the Relativity" or somesuch intrigue.
Cairo, for your benefit in addition to his own, has agreed to this interview with the Hankster. There are certain things that the viewers need to understand about Cairo. There are certain things that Cairo's opponents need to understand about Cairo. There are certain things that Cairo needs to understand about Cairo. The first thing that we can understand about Cairo, as we set our sights upon the tag title contender, is that he's wearing one hell of a fur coat. I mean this thing is balls-out, wooly mammoth-looking, ain't no Prada or Gucci-flavored, prehistoric creature-kinda, caveman scalped the shit out the sumbitch and skinned its ass to make this-a fur coat.
Cairo sits in his director's chair on the set of "Five Good Minutes with Hank Brown", looking puffed up to brave the Siberian elements with absolutely no explanation as for the reason why. Hank, in contrast, is wearing a tweed jacket, dockers and penny loafers. Typical doofus attire for the professional middle-aged Caucasian male.
Hank: Well, goddamn, Bobby. You came dressed to impress today. What's the dealy yo? We're on a soundstage in L.A. Was all of this really necessary?
Hank gestures toward the garish clothing and articulates a chuckle. Cairo is typically nonplussed.
Cairo: You talk shit about my threads, Hank Brown? I scalpel your insides like I did to the former President, man by the name of George W.?
Hank's eyes widen, heart sinks, perspiration drips from forehead and ballsack. His throat is cleared into jacket sleeve.
Hank: So that's where his body went? No, no. No, no. I'm quite alright, walrus-man.
Cairo pats the fur of his coat as if he were stroking a fine poon such as Jessica Biel or Jessica Biel's twin sister named Jessica Alba, the mulatto version.
Cairo: This coat was gifted to me by a fair-skinned Asgardian princess, name of Zoila. She tells me this coat is made from the fur of Fenrir, an old Norse demon-wolf who ate my tag team partner. Of course, old boy Odin got his heat back, kicked the wolf in its cock, and jobber-killed the maw-fucka with the Mark of Odin.
Hank guffaws, slapping kneecaps and baby girl's asses as they walk by in Catholic schoolgirl outfits.
Hank: Sounds like it was one hell of a match!
Hank pokes her hind quarters. Receives a back-handed slap for his efforts. Still has a boner.
Cairo: Yeah, this was pre-WCF stuff. Back then you had the authentic fights to the death between the great heroes and villains of the true Viking lore, not this Barbie doll fashion show bullshit dressed up as a wannabe Texas Chainsaw Massacre on Elm Street vibe that you get from Sarah Twilight and minions.
Hank studies his hand-scribbled notes, still distracted by baby girl's hind quarters.
Hank: You describe minions, and the example of this was witnessed in the main event of Helloween--
Cairo raises his clenched fist, the fist to fight the power, to fist the poon, to dislodge the jaw from its skull and bone encasement, to interrupt the white noise of one Hank Brown.
Cairo: Helloween was a disgrace, Hank Brown. Pure apathy toward the untarnished spirit of genuine competition. I've been in this sport for nearly eight years and I've hardly seen anything that disgustipating since Torture was World Champion.
Hank: Torture whom you despise.
Cairo: To the death, and it will be his. Helloween was the personification of megalomaniacism run amok in this company. Explain to me this, if you can, Hank of the Talking Head-variety without the intellect to support your words: How is it that S-PAC, the reigning tag team champions, have yet to defend those belts since being gifted them by Sarah Titlamp? I'm not talking about jobber squashes on Wednesday Night, I'm referring to actual title defenses against qualified challengers, i.e. The Thickness and, uh... well... The Thickness?
Hank: I think you hit the nail on the head, Bobby. There is a master-minion relationship--
Cairo taps his kneecap and raps upon his noggin, indicating that Hank has hit the nail precisely upon its head.
Cairo: Thank you, Hankford! Now your brain modules are firing up. A stunning achievement on your behalf.
Cairo wipes the overflow of Danish beer from his mouth, using the back of his hand. The same back-hand is slapped upon the school girl's bosom, knee-high socks showcasing supple thighs and riding up the asshole. This will be smashed, after the Cairo mind-flow that spews forth.
Cairo: This shadowy, fly-by-night outfit known as "Savage Political Action Committee" has been ducking The Thickness from the very beginning, since our very formulation in this company. You know, when I think about S-PAC's history of cowardice it prompts me to take a trip down memory lane. It jostles my brain cells, causes me to reflect upon The Thickness's achievements in the face of seemingly overwhelming odds, the unrelenting manner in which we've defeated every obstacle in our path, from day one, no if's and's or but's.
Cairo clears some phlegm from his throat, chugs more beer.
Cairo: Once upon a time, tinpot dictators ruled with an iron fist in third world cesspools known as Papua New Guinea, Egypt, Somalia and Chicago. The Thickness snuffed out that nonsense real quick, with silver bullets in our six-shooters and the sweat of grit upon our brows. Real men puttin in real work. No questions asked. No little boy games. No bullshit. King Jimmy Dean? Adios, motherfucker. That nigga dead!
Cairo's eyes grow wide as he stares into the camera, feigning "shock and awe" much like a Cheney administration.
Cairo: We set up shop in New Guinea, rebranded that shit in its new context, proper context as Poon Guinea, the one and only, the indefameable and impregnable. Bob Cairo, Odin Balfore, Zombie Mac and the Thousand Thick-ni Army. We did what Barry Oak, the urban American president, A.K.A. House Negro, claimed was impossible. You're welcome, Barry. We did your job for you. Again. Bleeding heart dipshit. This ain't no limp-wristed liberal hand-wringing. This is Communism, pure and simple! The Thickness way! Smash the poon, snort the blow, drop the jobber on his motherfucking head!
Cairo jumps to his feet and raises his arms to the ceiling in all of their furry glory, channeling the power of Asgard, channeling the power of Poon Guinea, feasting upon the poon inside of his deranged mind, never yielding to a master, never bowing to so-called kings and queens. The schoolgirls and cheerleaders that occupy the soundstage appear both terrified and aroused. Cairo collects himself, reassures the poon that they will be smashed once business has been tended to. He sits down, straightens his coat, drinks more beer. Belches loudly and farts even louder. It's one of those church pew farts that echoes in the rafters on a brisk autumn morning. Hank Brown crinkles his nose. The schoolgirls and cheerleaders just about die laughing. Cairo pays none of them any mind. No mind at all. It's his time to reflect. The rest of these bitches is just people. Not his people mind you. Just poon for the slaying, like insolent little dragons, the kind you might imagine with their radioactive ways.
Cairo: Let me tell the people something about S-PAC. Let me divulge an apparent secret, because there's a lot that is not allowed to be stated by non-Cairo individuals. Here it is, and it's this: S-PAC does not represent unbridled communism in its purest and most innocent form. They represent the greed and wanton of cut-throat capitalism. You can see it in the way that they interact among themselves and their master, the Sarah Twitching Thing. Sarah opens the purse strings, tosses the cabbage. S-PAC scatters, plastic bags caught in a stiff wind, chasing the Yankee dollar, limbs strewn about and distorted, voices projecting silly words and thoughts. They're not even human beings. They're parodies of grown men. Facsimiles of teenage girls that get hooked on the Justin Bieber crackpipe.
Cairo digests his hearty lasagna meal that was consumed for lunch. He scans his eyes about the soundstage. Studies the host, Hank Brown, but looks away, dissatisfied with this individual. Cairo sighs and frowns a great deal. His brow is furrowed and folding, as playing cards prepared to be shuffled and dealt.
Cairo: Sad shit. Real sad shit. It goes without necessity of stating that The Thickness opposes this conduct most adamantly. In fact, I cannot even fathom what possesses individuals to mutate their minds, bodies and souls in such a fashion. It saddens me. Yes it does. But do you know what else it does? It makes me a very angry young man. It causes me to hate the members of S-PAC, not merely as a collective but as the bought-and-"paid for" little slaves that they are. Scott Savage? I'd slit his throat. Waylon Cash? Disemboweled with entrails hanging from a tree. John Gable? Entire family slaughtered without regard for anything human or decent. Benjamin Atreyu? Boiled in a piping hot cauldron of Dinty Moore beef stew.
Hank Brown cries out in horror.
Hank: But no! No! God, no! Godfather, no! Not the Dinty Moore! Anything but the Dinty Moore!
Cairo dismisses Hank's protestations with a simple jerking of wrist and connected hand. The fluids transition from can to mouth. Talking about Danish beer, y'all.
Cairo: Fuck 'em. S-PAC niggas ain't shit. I got more respect for Sarah Turnkey's supposed untapped virgin cunt, and that ain't much. Hank? Speak it how it is. Tell these people the truth. Don't lie to your public, motherfucker! You sit there on your little stool, with your boom mic propping up strained vocal chords and shot brain cells, and you tell fairytales of greatness about Dub See Eff "supah-stahs" that ain't worth the pot to piss in! Roll back the tape, erase the lies, correct your language, sit up straight to improve your posture, and project your voice with truths about the bullshits of modern WCF!
Cairo motions to the ocean of internet and television viewers who are presently witnessing the spectacle of his wisdom, the droves of supporters AND critics who watch this broadcast across the world on formats both traditional and otherwise. Telepathy IS a real thing, at least for Thickness supporters in Nepal. Even Hank Brown is taken aback by the swell in audience that his humble (tumbled) show has received, the swell from the thickness, the swell from The Godfather, casting record viewership and moist vaginas in one fell swoop. Logan knows nothing about it. Too busy chasing the "man-o-kin", name of Lilith.
Cairo: Why do you fear, Hank? Oh, but wait, I know why. You can't speak the truth in this day and age without becoming a target! Speak your mind and you're likely to catch a bullet to the dome! You know something, Hankford "King of the Crawfish Tackle Box"? Bobby Cairo don't give a shit. I take one look at S-PAC and I feel the hatred, oh yes I do. But do you know something? The hatred sometimes parts way for an even greater emotion. Because once in a while, just once upon a blue moon, I look at S-PAC and I feel the laughter rising in my esophagus like jizz from the thickness. Do you know what gets me going? It's when they say S-PAC is "championship quality". Haha-motherfucking-HA! That gets these ol' sides splitting, Charlie.
Cairo is actually NOT laughing. In fact he's glaring into the camera's lens and frothing at the mouth like a rabies victim. Hank Brown has no comment. The poon in the room is moist yet frightened, uncertain as to where it should move. So it doesn't. It watches, listens and tries not to make a sound.
Cairo: S-PAC is "championship quality" in a day and age when championships mean less than dirt. Well, all golly gee to S-PAC! Glory, glory chicken cacciatore!
Cairo claps his hands like the Sunday moanin' preacher and smiles just as nuts. Cairo busts out some Travolta dance moves from Saturday Night Fever and now the poon is really swoonin'.
Cairo: They say S-PAC is tough? They say S-PAC is great? They say S-PAC is Hall of Fame? Nah, bitch. S-PAC is just another turdblock for The Thickness, hardly the first and doubtful the last, easily dismissed by the true power brokers of tag team dominance, Odin Balfore and Goddaddy Cairo.
Memory dust imparts itself to Cairo's brain. Cairo smiles, wickedly, like that same Preacher Man receiving his instructions from the Lord Above... or Below. Oh yes, there is an air of menace. Cairo is never the nice man, hardly the kind man, simply a cold-blooded killer with the morals of a crocodile. And like the crocodile, Cairo must feast upon his victims or suffer the barren stomach of the warm and cuddly kind. Kill or die. That's the nature of this business, this world, this plane of existence. Scott Savage, supposed architect of S-PAC, cannot understand this. Wasn't blessed with the burden of being a true and defiant leader, nor the infamy of a man who stands and walks upon his own two feet without regard for the cynic, regard for the puppetmaster, regard for them Yankee bucks. "To die on one's feet is superior to living on one's knees." Interesting stratagem, honky. However, Cairo ain't dyin and he ain't fallin to the floor.
Think back. Allow your memory to expand with images and words, just as Cairo is doing. Flex your brain muscles. Flex 'em like the thickness. Can you remember? July of Twenty-Thirteen... Stars exploded in the Milky Way. Bitches shook their shit for lack of adequate words to say. God met The All-Father. They laughed. They smashed the poon. They snorted the blow. They executed Nicki Minaj gangland-style. The Thickness was born. BOOM! Oh what the fuck was that? A lighting rig just exploded!
Hank: Holy fuck, my word and lord!
Hank fumbles from his seat like a football from the hands of a Jacksonville Jaguar. Cairo raises an eyebrow and irks questioningly at Hank. "You done yet, brah?" he seems to be asking. Hank sheepishly brushes his person and stumbles upward to his seat, struggling to avoid another tumble in his frazzled state of mind.
Cairo: I founded The Thickness with my friend and collaborator Odin Balfore to challenge the status quo. We were tired of the bullshit. We saw Sarah Twilight disrespecting the World's Heavyweight Championship, pretending to be a fighter for gender equality and all of this other nonsense, struggling to beat washed up bag-o-bones challengers such as Skyler Striker plus the mid-card irrespectability of Jeff Purse. We witnessed such monstrosity and our stomachs turned as if invaded by a foul baked ziti. Then you had this what's-her-name--
Hank's brain is finally clicking into place. Cairo is leading him, for sure, but Hank is allowing himself to be led by the superior intellect of The Godfather.
Hank: Erica Price?
Cairo: The one and only Erica Price. Can you believe I gave that motherfucker the keys to the castle?
Yes, yes, YES! Hank's brain is pulsing! The stupor of ignorance is lifting! He rifles through his notes and BANG-BOOM! finds the information that he craves.
Hank: In fact, you claimed to have broken Jonny Fly's hand and forced him to sell WCF to Price?
Cairo: All of which is true, that's exactly how it went down. Listen, Hank, I found it to be bluntly obvious that Fly lacked the focus and passion to guide WCF at that point in time. You will understand that I had been away on my business, traveling the world, planning The Thickness itinerary before there even was a Thickness, and I see Jonny Fly on my television screen with jobbers such as Skyler Striker, Jeff Purse and Brad Kane, claiming to represent Pantheon interests? NO! BUT NO! This is not The Godfather way! I wanted to fucking ram this fist through Jonny Fly's skull, I swear to Odin. I was so angry that I just--
Cairo has to break out in laughter. He has to do it otherwise he's going to explode in a bubonic rage. This is anger management at its finest, folks.
Cairo: Listen... to put it mildly, I was not pleased with Fly's performance. And yes, I forced him to sell WCF. I forced his hand, quite literally, by breaking his hand with the strength of my Herculean grip. I'm not down with the bullshit, Hank. You know this to be true, my nigga.
Hank, not wanting to dwell upon this article...
Hank: And yes I do, but to move along to the fallout from your decision, the power was transitioned from Johnson Fly--er, Jonny Fly to Eric Price.
Cairo shakes his head, face laned with images of amusement, embarrassment and sheer disbelief.
Cairo: Don't you understand the power within these hands, Hank? Oh, Godfather, if I could just... if I could impart my intellect inside of Eric Price's skull this would have worked out perfectly. Bravado would've been the biggest success in WCF history.
Hank is cautious to tread down this path, understanding that Cairo is highly charged at the present time.
Hank: Were you involved in the decision to recruit Sarah Twilight?
Cairo scowls at Hank, practically threatening to kill him.
Cairo: You seriously asked me that question, Hank?
Hank: I'm doing my job, Governor. I know the answer, in my heart of hearts, but these people who are watching us today might need clarification.
Hank's implication seems reasonable. Cairo accommodates him.
Cairo: I was not involved in Eric Price's decision to recruit Sarah Twilight into Bravado. I was not even made aware of his decision until their partnership was revealed on WCF programming for the world to see. How's that for respect? How's that for gratitude? Eric Price goes and aligns MY GROUP, MY BRAINCHILD with one of my most hated enemies? Absolutely deplorable.
Hank: You formed The Thickness as a reaction to these events?
Cairo: Technically, The Thickness had been a plan in motion for some months, perhaps a year or more. I don't recall the precise timeframe as I drink a great many beverages and inhale a great many powders. I can tell you that the immediate and unquestionable disaster of EPPW and Bravado hastened the need for The Thickness to arrive in WCF and clean up the nonsense.
Hank: The Thickness is not merely a wrestling faction, as global news reports will assuredly pronounce?
Cairo: Correct, Henryhank. The Thickness is not mere wrestling faction, nor paramilitary organization, nor political party, nor government body. We embody each of these qualities and a great many more.
Hank: In fact, your forces have overthrown federal and municipal governments while laying the smack down on competition within the WCF ring?
Cairo: Truthful statements on your behalf, Hank. I said it before: King Jimmy Dean? Deceased. Papua New Guinea? Now Poon Guinea. A third world shithole has been transformed into a tropical paradise off the coast of Australia with Popeyes restaurants on every city block and bitches wearing bikinis and high heels that were previously festering in tattered rags. This is the difference that The Thickness makes. We galvanized Poon Guinea, brought it to prominence.
Hank: In addition, your group recently seized control of the global sex trade by way of victorious military campaign against Barry Oak and Hitler's Angels?
Cairo: As you know, this is also very true. We trekked to Chicago. Defeated the motorcycle-based forces of Night Rider and Denise D'Evil, known as Hitler's Angels. We buried them, in figurative and literal context. We fire-bombed Chicago. We rebranded the Windy City in its proper and correct form, now understood to be Pooncago. We have harnessed the power of Un-Yun--
Hank interjects with pinky finger raised.
Hank: Also known as Fun-Yun.
Cairo: Also known as Chimi-muthafuckin-changa. What's your point, Hank?
Hank: Are you gentlemen getting a little too big for your britches? Papua New Guinea becomes Poon Guinea. Solomon Islands become the Solopoon Islands. Egypt becomes Poongypt. Somalia becomes Poonmalia. Uh, Chicago becomes Pooncago. What's next? The whole of the Americas becomes Poonmerica?
Cairo waves it off. Hank is incorrect.
Cairo: The whole of the world becomes Planet Poon.
Hank nods with comprehension.
Hank: OK, even more ambitious. How about winning these tag titles, Bobby?
Cairo: Hank, don't take a bastardly tone with me. I'm not even going to threaten you, because you already understand the consequences of your activity.
Hank adjusts the clipboard in his lap, attempting to shield the boner that he's sporting for that same damn schoolgirl.
Hank: In this whole overview of recent events, we've barely touched upon The Thickness as a tag team, their quest to capture the belts from S-PAC. You've certainly expressed disdain for that group and their supposed master, Sarah Tittie-boom--er, Twilight, Sarah Twilight as it were expressed. But you're not currently booked to face S-PAC. No, sir. You're scheduled to tangle with Justice and the Young Militia on Slam for the tag title contendership.
Cairo appears barely interested in this line of dialog, instead playing with his fingernails and adjusting the crotch of his leather pants.
Cairo: Hank, all of this is understood by myself and the world at large. May you arrive to your point before you receive my epic thrashing? I have Foo Fighters CDs to listen to, my man.
Hank is now enraged. He throws his glasses to the floor and stomps on them before receiving a swift kick from Cairo that knocks him back into his seat.
Hank: But what do you hope to accomplish in this match? Tell us your thoughts about your opponents. PLEASE!
Cairo shrugs his shoulders, consolidating the majority of his focus on digging his fingers into the ass crack of a Latina-flavored cheerleader.
Cairo: Please, Hank. Spare us all from your melodrama. You got questions? You want answers? I'm not anti-Justice. Don't hate the young men. At all, to be honest. I've listened to what they've said in their promos the last couple of weeks and a lot of it makes sense. I can't speak for The All-Father, but The Godfather sympathizes with Justice. To a degree. Much like Justice, I hold Sarah Twilight in no great place of reverence. I also view Lilith as a worthless little turd-monkey who is better off dead. This seems to place me in line with their beliefs. Do I respect Justice? Again I say, to a degree. They are good wrestlers, they have a burning desire to win, an even greater desire to protect their families from those who would bring harm. All good qualities. Can't knock them for any of that.
Hank: You won't criticize Justice?
Cairo: I have no real desire to do so. And why should I? They haven't crawled under my skin and laid hateful little nesting eggs like S-PAC.
Hank fingers her taco.
Hank: Addressing the six-hundred pound pink elephant in the room, let me ask you this: Are you at all concerned about the presence of S-PAC during the match? After all Sarah Twilight has named Waylon Cash the guest referee, John Gable the guest timekeeper, and Benjamin Atreyu the guest ring announcer. Does any of that unnerve you, Governor?
Cairo clears his throat after wolfing down a handful of Cheese Nips.
Cairo: Of course, Hank.
Hank: Really?
Cairo: Well yeah. I know for a fact that Waylon Cash can't count to three, so that's a problem right there.
Hank's eyeballs contract a spasm. They settle. He cranes his hand. Doodles a picture of a nude Chinese girl, age eighteen. This is Hank's standard coping mechanism when he feels that an interview subject is toying with him. Hank is calm. Hank is collected. It's been a rollercoaster ride that's for sure.
Hank: Ha-HA!
Cairo: Hank, allow me to explain something to you. The entire world understands that dunderheaded Sarah Twerpskirt is "rewarding" S-PAC for their subservience by affording them the opportunity to hand-pick their opponents. We've seen them squash JT Jones and Sam Bottomshorts on Wednesday Night and now their plan is to "influence" the outcome of Sunday Night's tag contendership match. What do I think about it? Well, gee Hank, it seems to be out of my hands.
Hank's expression perks considerably, melded with confusion.
Hank: So, you acknowledge that you cannot control the outcome of Sunday's match?
Hank senses a trap. This doesn't feel right. Cairo suddenly appears patient, at ease and attentive. He smiles. Bobby Cairo is an evil man and that's an evil smile.
Hank: You have a plan, don't you? You've secreted some kind of plan to thwart S-PAC and their efforts to--
Cairo: Nope.
Hank: Yes, you have!
The smile upon Cairo's face is irrefutable.
Cairo: All I can tell you, Hank, is that I am not conceding one damned thing to S-PAC, Sarah Tit-stand, or any of these other flailing, dog collar-wearing, floor-bound clowns who wish to usurp The Thickness. S-PAC will attempt to place themselves in an advantageous position by influencing the outcome of Sunday's tag contendership bout. They will fail. I explained to you then as I will explain to you now: The Thickness will roll into Salt Lake City as the number one contenders to the WCF Tag Team Championship. We will roll out of Salt Lake City with this same distinction upon our skulls. Black beamer of death transporting us to the next arena for the next beatdown of unworthy adversaries.
Hank throws his hands into the air, spiral notebook and clipboard sent flying. Clearly the man is flummoxed by these proceedings. Taut, tense, contentious. Bobby Cairo.
Cairo: Do you have further questions or shall I depart? I have a busy diplomatic schedule to which I must attend, Hankward.
Hank: Now you listen hear, you little shit--!
Cairo throttles Hank with an uppercut. Hank's lights are nearly turned out, but Cairo was gentle with his manhandling, in reality barely touching Hank's chin.
Cairo: Put a steak on it and take some Oxycontin. You'll be fine.
Hank: Thank you. I'm sorry. I lost my cool and--
Cairo waves off his explanation.
Cairo: It happens. You've had a long day and I haven't been easy on you. Let's just get this over with...
Cairo glances into the palm of his hand. A plane ticket to Connecticut. Bobby Cairo is going home? He checks his iPod: "Say It Ain't So" by Weezer is queued up and ready to be cranked.
Hank: I'm not trying to badger you with my persistence, Bobby.
Cairo: Understood, Hank. We've been through this rodeo together for almost a decade.
Hank: On and off.
Hank isdrawing scribbling allusions to Cairo's extended absences from WCF.
Cairo: I didn't grant you exclusive interviews when I was seeking political office?
Hank bites down on his tongue like it's bratwurst.
Hank: Fine. Your thoughts on the Young Militia?
Bobby laughs because, really, what else can one do when questioned about anything Adam Young-related?
Cairo: I have no thoughts on the Young Militia. They are not relevant to the proceedings and thus I will not comment on them.
Hank: Not relevant to the proceedings? With all due respect, Governor, they are participants in the tag contendership match.
Cairo: Actually, Hank, they are mere victims of unyielding massacre and bloodshed. Nothing to concern ourselves with.
Hank: "Ourselves" referring to Odin and yourself?
Cairo: Odin, myself, you, the members of Justice, the man in the moon, Barry Oak, the horse with no name, and the boy named Sue.
Hank: Point taken.
Hank studies Cairo, sensing that a yearning lies beneath Bobby's icy cool professional hitman exterior.
Hank: You're OK, Bobby?
Cairo, whose gaze had been drifting, glances at Hank.
Cairo: OK? Like the computer from a band called Radiohead?
Hank: Enough with the riddles, Bobby. What's on your mind?
Cairo had been watching promos recently, for the group called Justice. He had been thinking about the members of Justice. Observing how they appeared to be a close-knit family. Family took center in Bobby Cairo's mind. Family. In thinking about the recent past, Cairo noted that none of his hedonistic explorations and caravans of liberation had truly satisfied him. None of them had taken him home. Home is what he yearned for. A tear touches Bobby Cairo's eye. His good eye. His killing eye. It drops upon the plane ticket. Hank Brown does not notice. He couldn't. His focus is on digging for the "scoop", not seeing. Seeing, as human beings sometimes do, when they allow themselves.
Cairo: Sometimes... sometimes even the ruler of the world has to go home, Hank.
Hank furrows his brow, seemingly angry, perhaps at Cairo... perhaps at his own inability to understand.
Hank: Home?
The word floats from Hank's mouth, and stops dead in its tracks. Cairo rises from his seat and walks away, showing no ambition toward smashing the surrounding poon, but they follow in his stead all the same. And they will be smashed. And Hank Brown will go home alone tonight.
Hank: Home?
Yes, Hank. Home. Cue the Weezer.
Cairo, for your benefit in addition to his own, has agreed to this interview with the Hankster. There are certain things that the viewers need to understand about Cairo. There are certain things that Cairo's opponents need to understand about Cairo. There are certain things that Cairo needs to understand about Cairo. The first thing that we can understand about Cairo, as we set our sights upon the tag title contender, is that he's wearing one hell of a fur coat. I mean this thing is balls-out, wooly mammoth-looking, ain't no Prada or Gucci-flavored, prehistoric creature-kinda, caveman scalped the shit out the sumbitch and skinned its ass to make this-a fur coat.
Cairo sits in his director's chair on the set of "Five Good Minutes with Hank Brown", looking puffed up to brave the Siberian elements with absolutely no explanation as for the reason why. Hank, in contrast, is wearing a tweed jacket, dockers and penny loafers. Typical doofus attire for the professional middle-aged Caucasian male.
Hank: Well, goddamn, Bobby. You came dressed to impress today. What's the dealy yo? We're on a soundstage in L.A. Was all of this really necessary?
Hank gestures toward the garish clothing and articulates a chuckle. Cairo is typically nonplussed.
Cairo: You talk shit about my threads, Hank Brown? I scalpel your insides like I did to the former President, man by the name of George W.?
Hank's eyes widen, heart sinks, perspiration drips from forehead and ballsack. His throat is cleared into jacket sleeve.
Hank: So that's where his body went? No, no. No, no. I'm quite alright, walrus-man.
Cairo pats the fur of his coat as if he were stroking a fine poon such as Jessica Biel or Jessica Biel's twin sister named Jessica Alba, the mulatto version.
Cairo: This coat was gifted to me by a fair-skinned Asgardian princess, name of Zoila. She tells me this coat is made from the fur of Fenrir, an old Norse demon-wolf who ate my tag team partner. Of course, old boy Odin got his heat back, kicked the wolf in its cock, and jobber-killed the maw-fucka with the Mark of Odin.
Hank guffaws, slapping kneecaps and baby girl's asses as they walk by in Catholic schoolgirl outfits.
Hank: Sounds like it was one hell of a match!
Hank pokes her hind quarters. Receives a back-handed slap for his efforts. Still has a boner.
Cairo: Yeah, this was pre-WCF stuff. Back then you had the authentic fights to the death between the great heroes and villains of the true Viking lore, not this Barbie doll fashion show bullshit dressed up as a wannabe Texas Chainsaw Massacre on Elm Street vibe that you get from Sarah Twilight and minions.
Hank studies his hand-scribbled notes, still distracted by baby girl's hind quarters.
Hank: You describe minions, and the example of this was witnessed in the main event of Helloween--
Cairo raises his clenched fist, the fist to fight the power, to fist the poon, to dislodge the jaw from its skull and bone encasement, to interrupt the white noise of one Hank Brown.
Cairo: Helloween was a disgrace, Hank Brown. Pure apathy toward the untarnished spirit of genuine competition. I've been in this sport for nearly eight years and I've hardly seen anything that disgustipating since Torture was World Champion.
Hank: Torture whom you despise.
Cairo: To the death, and it will be his. Helloween was the personification of megalomaniacism run amok in this company. Explain to me this, if you can, Hank of the Talking Head-variety without the intellect to support your words: How is it that S-PAC, the reigning tag team champions, have yet to defend those belts since being gifted them by Sarah Titlamp? I'm not talking about jobber squashes on Wednesday Night, I'm referring to actual title defenses against qualified challengers, i.e. The Thickness and, uh... well... The Thickness?
Hank: I think you hit the nail on the head, Bobby. There is a master-minion relationship--
Cairo taps his kneecap and raps upon his noggin, indicating that Hank has hit the nail precisely upon its head.
Cairo: Thank you, Hankford! Now your brain modules are firing up. A stunning achievement on your behalf.
Cairo wipes the overflow of Danish beer from his mouth, using the back of his hand. The same back-hand is slapped upon the school girl's bosom, knee-high socks showcasing supple thighs and riding up the asshole. This will be smashed, after the Cairo mind-flow that spews forth.
Cairo: This shadowy, fly-by-night outfit known as "Savage Political Action Committee" has been ducking The Thickness from the very beginning, since our very formulation in this company. You know, when I think about S-PAC's history of cowardice it prompts me to take a trip down memory lane. It jostles my brain cells, causes me to reflect upon The Thickness's achievements in the face of seemingly overwhelming odds, the unrelenting manner in which we've defeated every obstacle in our path, from day one, no if's and's or but's.
Cairo clears some phlegm from his throat, chugs more beer.
Cairo: Once upon a time, tinpot dictators ruled with an iron fist in third world cesspools known as Papua New Guinea, Egypt, Somalia and Chicago. The Thickness snuffed out that nonsense real quick, with silver bullets in our six-shooters and the sweat of grit upon our brows. Real men puttin in real work. No questions asked. No little boy games. No bullshit. King Jimmy Dean? Adios, motherfucker. That nigga dead!
Cairo's eyes grow wide as he stares into the camera, feigning "shock and awe" much like a Cheney administration.
Cairo: We set up shop in New Guinea, rebranded that shit in its new context, proper context as Poon Guinea, the one and only, the indefameable and impregnable. Bob Cairo, Odin Balfore, Zombie Mac and the Thousand Thick-ni Army. We did what Barry Oak, the urban American president, A.K.A. House Negro, claimed was impossible. You're welcome, Barry. We did your job for you. Again. Bleeding heart dipshit. This ain't no limp-wristed liberal hand-wringing. This is Communism, pure and simple! The Thickness way! Smash the poon, snort the blow, drop the jobber on his motherfucking head!
Cairo jumps to his feet and raises his arms to the ceiling in all of their furry glory, channeling the power of Asgard, channeling the power of Poon Guinea, feasting upon the poon inside of his deranged mind, never yielding to a master, never bowing to so-called kings and queens. The schoolgirls and cheerleaders that occupy the soundstage appear both terrified and aroused. Cairo collects himself, reassures the poon that they will be smashed once business has been tended to. He sits down, straightens his coat, drinks more beer. Belches loudly and farts even louder. It's one of those church pew farts that echoes in the rafters on a brisk autumn morning. Hank Brown crinkles his nose. The schoolgirls and cheerleaders just about die laughing. Cairo pays none of them any mind. No mind at all. It's his time to reflect. The rest of these bitches is just people. Not his people mind you. Just poon for the slaying, like insolent little dragons, the kind you might imagine with their radioactive ways.
Cairo: Let me tell the people something about S-PAC. Let me divulge an apparent secret, because there's a lot that is not allowed to be stated by non-Cairo individuals. Here it is, and it's this: S-PAC does not represent unbridled communism in its purest and most innocent form. They represent the greed and wanton of cut-throat capitalism. You can see it in the way that they interact among themselves and their master, the Sarah Twitching Thing. Sarah opens the purse strings, tosses the cabbage. S-PAC scatters, plastic bags caught in a stiff wind, chasing the Yankee dollar, limbs strewn about and distorted, voices projecting silly words and thoughts. They're not even human beings. They're parodies of grown men. Facsimiles of teenage girls that get hooked on the Justin Bieber crackpipe.
Cairo digests his hearty lasagna meal that was consumed for lunch. He scans his eyes about the soundstage. Studies the host, Hank Brown, but looks away, dissatisfied with this individual. Cairo sighs and frowns a great deal. His brow is furrowed and folding, as playing cards prepared to be shuffled and dealt.
Cairo: Sad shit. Real sad shit. It goes without necessity of stating that The Thickness opposes this conduct most adamantly. In fact, I cannot even fathom what possesses individuals to mutate their minds, bodies and souls in such a fashion. It saddens me. Yes it does. But do you know what else it does? It makes me a very angry young man. It causes me to hate the members of S-PAC, not merely as a collective but as the bought-and-"paid for" little slaves that they are. Scott Savage? I'd slit his throat. Waylon Cash? Disemboweled with entrails hanging from a tree. John Gable? Entire family slaughtered without regard for anything human or decent. Benjamin Atreyu? Boiled in a piping hot cauldron of Dinty Moore beef stew.
Hank Brown cries out in horror.
Hank: But no! No! God, no! Godfather, no! Not the Dinty Moore! Anything but the Dinty Moore!
Cairo dismisses Hank's protestations with a simple jerking of wrist and connected hand. The fluids transition from can to mouth. Talking about Danish beer, y'all.
Cairo: Fuck 'em. S-PAC niggas ain't shit. I got more respect for Sarah Turnkey's supposed untapped virgin cunt, and that ain't much. Hank? Speak it how it is. Tell these people the truth. Don't lie to your public, motherfucker! You sit there on your little stool, with your boom mic propping up strained vocal chords and shot brain cells, and you tell fairytales of greatness about Dub See Eff "supah-stahs" that ain't worth the pot to piss in! Roll back the tape, erase the lies, correct your language, sit up straight to improve your posture, and project your voice with truths about the bullshits of modern WCF!
Cairo motions to the ocean of internet and television viewers who are presently witnessing the spectacle of his wisdom, the droves of supporters AND critics who watch this broadcast across the world on formats both traditional and otherwise. Telepathy IS a real thing, at least for Thickness supporters in Nepal. Even Hank Brown is taken aback by the swell in audience that his humble (tumbled) show has received, the swell from the thickness, the swell from The Godfather, casting record viewership and moist vaginas in one fell swoop. Logan knows nothing about it. Too busy chasing the "man-o-kin", name of Lilith.
Cairo: Why do you fear, Hank? Oh, but wait, I know why. You can't speak the truth in this day and age without becoming a target! Speak your mind and you're likely to catch a bullet to the dome! You know something, Hankford "King of the Crawfish Tackle Box"? Bobby Cairo don't give a shit. I take one look at S-PAC and I feel the hatred, oh yes I do. But do you know something? The hatred sometimes parts way for an even greater emotion. Because once in a while, just once upon a blue moon, I look at S-PAC and I feel the laughter rising in my esophagus like jizz from the thickness. Do you know what gets me going? It's when they say S-PAC is "championship quality". Haha-motherfucking-HA! That gets these ol' sides splitting, Charlie.
Cairo is actually NOT laughing. In fact he's glaring into the camera's lens and frothing at the mouth like a rabies victim. Hank Brown has no comment. The poon in the room is moist yet frightened, uncertain as to where it should move. So it doesn't. It watches, listens and tries not to make a sound.
Cairo: S-PAC is "championship quality" in a day and age when championships mean less than dirt. Well, all golly gee to S-PAC! Glory, glory chicken cacciatore!
Cairo claps his hands like the Sunday moanin' preacher and smiles just as nuts. Cairo busts out some Travolta dance moves from Saturday Night Fever and now the poon is really swoonin'.
Cairo: They say S-PAC is tough? They say S-PAC is great? They say S-PAC is Hall of Fame? Nah, bitch. S-PAC is just another turdblock for The Thickness, hardly the first and doubtful the last, easily dismissed by the true power brokers of tag team dominance, Odin Balfore and Goddaddy Cairo.
Memory dust imparts itself to Cairo's brain. Cairo smiles, wickedly, like that same Preacher Man receiving his instructions from the Lord Above... or Below. Oh yes, there is an air of menace. Cairo is never the nice man, hardly the kind man, simply a cold-blooded killer with the morals of a crocodile. And like the crocodile, Cairo must feast upon his victims or suffer the barren stomach of the warm and cuddly kind. Kill or die. That's the nature of this business, this world, this plane of existence. Scott Savage, supposed architect of S-PAC, cannot understand this. Wasn't blessed with the burden of being a true and defiant leader, nor the infamy of a man who stands and walks upon his own two feet without regard for the cynic, regard for the puppetmaster, regard for them Yankee bucks. "To die on one's feet is superior to living on one's knees." Interesting stratagem, honky. However, Cairo ain't dyin and he ain't fallin to the floor.
Think back. Allow your memory to expand with images and words, just as Cairo is doing. Flex your brain muscles. Flex 'em like the thickness. Can you remember? July of Twenty-Thirteen... Stars exploded in the Milky Way. Bitches shook their shit for lack of adequate words to say. God met The All-Father. They laughed. They smashed the poon. They snorted the blow. They executed Nicki Minaj gangland-style. The Thickness was born. BOOM! Oh what the fuck was that? A lighting rig just exploded!
Hank: Holy fuck, my word and lord!
Hank fumbles from his seat like a football from the hands of a Jacksonville Jaguar. Cairo raises an eyebrow and irks questioningly at Hank. "You done yet, brah?" he seems to be asking. Hank sheepishly brushes his person and stumbles upward to his seat, struggling to avoid another tumble in his frazzled state of mind.
Cairo: I founded The Thickness with my friend and collaborator Odin Balfore to challenge the status quo. We were tired of the bullshit. We saw Sarah Twilight disrespecting the World's Heavyweight Championship, pretending to be a fighter for gender equality and all of this other nonsense, struggling to beat washed up bag-o-bones challengers such as Skyler Striker plus the mid-card irrespectability of Jeff Purse. We witnessed such monstrosity and our stomachs turned as if invaded by a foul baked ziti. Then you had this what's-her-name--
Hank's brain is finally clicking into place. Cairo is leading him, for sure, but Hank is allowing himself to be led by the superior intellect of The Godfather.
Hank: Erica Price?
Cairo: The one and only Erica Price. Can you believe I gave that motherfucker the keys to the castle?
Yes, yes, YES! Hank's brain is pulsing! The stupor of ignorance is lifting! He rifles through his notes and BANG-BOOM! finds the information that he craves.
Hank: In fact, you claimed to have broken Jonny Fly's hand and forced him to sell WCF to Price?
Cairo: All of which is true, that's exactly how it went down. Listen, Hank, I found it to be bluntly obvious that Fly lacked the focus and passion to guide WCF at that point in time. You will understand that I had been away on my business, traveling the world, planning The Thickness itinerary before there even was a Thickness, and I see Jonny Fly on my television screen with jobbers such as Skyler Striker, Jeff Purse and Brad Kane, claiming to represent Pantheon interests? NO! BUT NO! This is not The Godfather way! I wanted to fucking ram this fist through Jonny Fly's skull, I swear to Odin. I was so angry that I just--
Cairo has to break out in laughter. He has to do it otherwise he's going to explode in a bubonic rage. This is anger management at its finest, folks.
Cairo: Listen... to put it mildly, I was not pleased with Fly's performance. And yes, I forced him to sell WCF. I forced his hand, quite literally, by breaking his hand with the strength of my Herculean grip. I'm not down with the bullshit, Hank. You know this to be true, my nigga.
Hank, not wanting to dwell upon this article...
Hank: And yes I do, but to move along to the fallout from your decision, the power was transitioned from Johnson Fly--er, Jonny Fly to Eric Price.
Cairo shakes his head, face laned with images of amusement, embarrassment and sheer disbelief.
Cairo: Don't you understand the power within these hands, Hank? Oh, Godfather, if I could just... if I could impart my intellect inside of Eric Price's skull this would have worked out perfectly. Bravado would've been the biggest success in WCF history.
Hank is cautious to tread down this path, understanding that Cairo is highly charged at the present time.
Hank: Were you involved in the decision to recruit Sarah Twilight?
Cairo scowls at Hank, practically threatening to kill him.
Cairo: You seriously asked me that question, Hank?
Hank: I'm doing my job, Governor. I know the answer, in my heart of hearts, but these people who are watching us today might need clarification.
Hank's implication seems reasonable. Cairo accommodates him.
Cairo: I was not involved in Eric Price's decision to recruit Sarah Twilight into Bravado. I was not even made aware of his decision until their partnership was revealed on WCF programming for the world to see. How's that for respect? How's that for gratitude? Eric Price goes and aligns MY GROUP, MY BRAINCHILD with one of my most hated enemies? Absolutely deplorable.
Hank: You formed The Thickness as a reaction to these events?
Cairo: Technically, The Thickness had been a plan in motion for some months, perhaps a year or more. I don't recall the precise timeframe as I drink a great many beverages and inhale a great many powders. I can tell you that the immediate and unquestionable disaster of EPPW and Bravado hastened the need for The Thickness to arrive in WCF and clean up the nonsense.
Hank: The Thickness is not merely a wrestling faction, as global news reports will assuredly pronounce?
Cairo: Correct, Henryhank. The Thickness is not mere wrestling faction, nor paramilitary organization, nor political party, nor government body. We embody each of these qualities and a great many more.
Hank: In fact, your forces have overthrown federal and municipal governments while laying the smack down on competition within the WCF ring?
Cairo: Truthful statements on your behalf, Hank. I said it before: King Jimmy Dean? Deceased. Papua New Guinea? Now Poon Guinea. A third world shithole has been transformed into a tropical paradise off the coast of Australia with Popeyes restaurants on every city block and bitches wearing bikinis and high heels that were previously festering in tattered rags. This is the difference that The Thickness makes. We galvanized Poon Guinea, brought it to prominence.
Hank: In addition, your group recently seized control of the global sex trade by way of victorious military campaign against Barry Oak and Hitler's Angels?
Cairo: As you know, this is also very true. We trekked to Chicago. Defeated the motorcycle-based forces of Night Rider and Denise D'Evil, known as Hitler's Angels. We buried them, in figurative and literal context. We fire-bombed Chicago. We rebranded the Windy City in its proper and correct form, now understood to be Pooncago. We have harnessed the power of Un-Yun--
Hank interjects with pinky finger raised.
Hank: Also known as Fun-Yun.
Cairo: Also known as Chimi-muthafuckin-changa. What's your point, Hank?
Hank: Are you gentlemen getting a little too big for your britches? Papua New Guinea becomes Poon Guinea. Solomon Islands become the Solopoon Islands. Egypt becomes Poongypt. Somalia becomes Poonmalia. Uh, Chicago becomes Pooncago. What's next? The whole of the Americas becomes Poonmerica?
Cairo waves it off. Hank is incorrect.
Cairo: The whole of the world becomes Planet Poon.
Hank nods with comprehension.
Hank: OK, even more ambitious. How about winning these tag titles, Bobby?
Cairo: Hank, don't take a bastardly tone with me. I'm not even going to threaten you, because you already understand the consequences of your activity.
Hank adjusts the clipboard in his lap, attempting to shield the boner that he's sporting for that same damn schoolgirl.
Hank: In this whole overview of recent events, we've barely touched upon The Thickness as a tag team, their quest to capture the belts from S-PAC. You've certainly expressed disdain for that group and their supposed master, Sarah Tittie-boom--er, Twilight, Sarah Twilight as it were expressed. But you're not currently booked to face S-PAC. No, sir. You're scheduled to tangle with Justice and the Young Militia on Slam for the tag title contendership.
Cairo appears barely interested in this line of dialog, instead playing with his fingernails and adjusting the crotch of his leather pants.
Cairo: Hank, all of this is understood by myself and the world at large. May you arrive to your point before you receive my epic thrashing? I have Foo Fighters CDs to listen to, my man.
Hank is now enraged. He throws his glasses to the floor and stomps on them before receiving a swift kick from Cairo that knocks him back into his seat.
Hank: But what do you hope to accomplish in this match? Tell us your thoughts about your opponents. PLEASE!
Cairo shrugs his shoulders, consolidating the majority of his focus on digging his fingers into the ass crack of a Latina-flavored cheerleader.
Cairo: Please, Hank. Spare us all from your melodrama. You got questions? You want answers? I'm not anti-Justice. Don't hate the young men. At all, to be honest. I've listened to what they've said in their promos the last couple of weeks and a lot of it makes sense. I can't speak for The All-Father, but The Godfather sympathizes with Justice. To a degree. Much like Justice, I hold Sarah Twilight in no great place of reverence. I also view Lilith as a worthless little turd-monkey who is better off dead. This seems to place me in line with their beliefs. Do I respect Justice? Again I say, to a degree. They are good wrestlers, they have a burning desire to win, an even greater desire to protect their families from those who would bring harm. All good qualities. Can't knock them for any of that.
Hank: You won't criticize Justice?
Cairo: I have no real desire to do so. And why should I? They haven't crawled under my skin and laid hateful little nesting eggs like S-PAC.
Hank fingers her taco.
Hank: Addressing the six-hundred pound pink elephant in the room, let me ask you this: Are you at all concerned about the presence of S-PAC during the match? After all Sarah Twilight has named Waylon Cash the guest referee, John Gable the guest timekeeper, and Benjamin Atreyu the guest ring announcer. Does any of that unnerve you, Governor?
Cairo clears his throat after wolfing down a handful of Cheese Nips.
Cairo: Of course, Hank.
Hank: Really?
Cairo: Well yeah. I know for a fact that Waylon Cash can't count to three, so that's a problem right there.
Hank's eyeballs contract a spasm. They settle. He cranes his hand. Doodles a picture of a nude Chinese girl, age eighteen. This is Hank's standard coping mechanism when he feels that an interview subject is toying with him. Hank is calm. Hank is collected. It's been a rollercoaster ride that's for sure.
Hank: Ha-HA!
Cairo: Hank, allow me to explain something to you. The entire world understands that dunderheaded Sarah Twerpskirt is "rewarding" S-PAC for their subservience by affording them the opportunity to hand-pick their opponents. We've seen them squash JT Jones and Sam Bottomshorts on Wednesday Night and now their plan is to "influence" the outcome of Sunday Night's tag contendership match. What do I think about it? Well, gee Hank, it seems to be out of my hands.
Hank's expression perks considerably, melded with confusion.
Hank: So, you acknowledge that you cannot control the outcome of Sunday's match?
Hank senses a trap. This doesn't feel right. Cairo suddenly appears patient, at ease and attentive. He smiles. Bobby Cairo is an evil man and that's an evil smile.
Hank: You have a plan, don't you? You've secreted some kind of plan to thwart S-PAC and their efforts to--
Cairo: Nope.
Hank: Yes, you have!
The smile upon Cairo's face is irrefutable.
Cairo: All I can tell you, Hank, is that I am not conceding one damned thing to S-PAC, Sarah Tit-stand, or any of these other flailing, dog collar-wearing, floor-bound clowns who wish to usurp The Thickness. S-PAC will attempt to place themselves in an advantageous position by influencing the outcome of Sunday's tag contendership bout. They will fail. I explained to you then as I will explain to you now: The Thickness will roll into Salt Lake City as the number one contenders to the WCF Tag Team Championship. We will roll out of Salt Lake City with this same distinction upon our skulls. Black beamer of death transporting us to the next arena for the next beatdown of unworthy adversaries.
Hank throws his hands into the air, spiral notebook and clipboard sent flying. Clearly the man is flummoxed by these proceedings. Taut, tense, contentious. Bobby Cairo.
Cairo: Do you have further questions or shall I depart? I have a busy diplomatic schedule to which I must attend, Hankward.
Hank: Now you listen hear, you little shit--!
Cairo throttles Hank with an uppercut. Hank's lights are nearly turned out, but Cairo was gentle with his manhandling, in reality barely touching Hank's chin.
Cairo: Put a steak on it and take some Oxycontin. You'll be fine.
Hank: Thank you. I'm sorry. I lost my cool and--
Cairo waves off his explanation.
Cairo: It happens. You've had a long day and I haven't been easy on you. Let's just get this over with...
Cairo glances into the palm of his hand. A plane ticket to Connecticut. Bobby Cairo is going home? He checks his iPod: "Say It Ain't So" by Weezer is queued up and ready to be cranked.
Hank: I'm not trying to badger you with my persistence, Bobby.
Cairo: Understood, Hank. We've been through this rodeo together for almost a decade.
Hank: On and off.
Hank is
Cairo: I didn't grant you exclusive interviews when I was seeking political office?
Hank bites down on his tongue like it's bratwurst.
Hank: Fine. Your thoughts on the Young Militia?
Bobby laughs because, really, what else can one do when questioned about anything Adam Young-related?
Cairo: I have no thoughts on the Young Militia. They are not relevant to the proceedings and thus I will not comment on them.
Hank: Not relevant to the proceedings? With all due respect, Governor, they are participants in the tag contendership match.
Cairo: Actually, Hank, they are mere victims of unyielding massacre and bloodshed. Nothing to concern ourselves with.
Hank: "Ourselves" referring to Odin and yourself?
Cairo: Odin, myself, you, the members of Justice, the man in the moon, Barry Oak, the horse with no name, and the boy named Sue.
Hank: Point taken.
Hank studies Cairo, sensing that a yearning lies beneath Bobby's icy cool professional hitman exterior.
Hank: You're OK, Bobby?
Cairo, whose gaze had been drifting, glances at Hank.
Cairo: OK? Like the computer from a band called Radiohead?
Hank: Enough with the riddles, Bobby. What's on your mind?
Cairo had been watching promos recently, for the group called Justice. He had been thinking about the members of Justice. Observing how they appeared to be a close-knit family. Family took center in Bobby Cairo's mind. Family. In thinking about the recent past, Cairo noted that none of his hedonistic explorations and caravans of liberation had truly satisfied him. None of them had taken him home. Home is what he yearned for. A tear touches Bobby Cairo's eye. His good eye. His killing eye. It drops upon the plane ticket. Hank Brown does not notice. He couldn't. His focus is on digging for the "scoop", not seeing. Seeing, as human beings sometimes do, when they allow themselves.
Cairo: Sometimes... sometimes even the ruler of the world has to go home, Hank.
Hank furrows his brow, seemingly angry, perhaps at Cairo... perhaps at his own inability to understand.
Hank: Home?
The word floats from Hank's mouth, and stops dead in its tracks. Cairo rises from his seat and walks away, showing no ambition toward smashing the surrounding poon, but they follow in his stead all the same. And they will be smashed. And Hank Brown will go home alone tonight.
Hank: Home?
Yes, Hank. Home. Cue the Weezer.
"Oh yeah.
All right.
Somebody's Heiney is crownin' my icebox.
Somebody's cold one is givin' me chills.
Guess I'll just close my eyes.
Oh yeah.
All right.
Feels good.
Inside."
All right.
Somebody's Heiney is crownin' my icebox.
Somebody's cold one is givin' me chills.
Guess I'll just close my eyes.
Oh yeah.
All right.
Feels good.
Inside."