Post by epitomeofcool on Oct 3, 2011 3:15:59 GMT -5
Part 1
The Book Of Cool: Chapter III
The scene opens with a shot of the bottoms of a pair of size 11 all black Air Jordan's, untied but still on the feet of a person sprawled out across the bed in the middle of a cheap hotel room in Reading, Pennsylvania. The camera pulls back to reveal that person is Aaron Miles, "The Epitome Of Cool", still dressed in the clothes he wore last night when he went out on the town: dark blue jeans, white dress shirt still as smooth as it was when he pulled it from his suitcase and a pair of dark sunglasses half hanging off his face. The camera pans off to the left to the alarm clock on the table beside the bed. 10:29. As the numbers switch over to 10:30, Aaron's cell phone goes off, filling the room with the sound of the opening to Screaming Jay Hawkins "I Am The Cool". After ignoring the phone for the better part of a minute, a groggy Aaron lifts his head, reaches over the phone and grabs it. He hits the button for speakerphone and sets the phone on the bed beside him as he lays his head back down.
Aaron Miles: Yeah?
Woman's Voice: Is this Aaron?
Aaron Miles: 'Tis me.
Woman's Voice: This is Allison. We met at the bar last night.
Aaron Miles: You're gonna have to be a little more specific.
Woman's Voice: Blonde...tight black dress...c-cup.
Aaron Miles: Uhh..still not ringing a bell.
Woman's Voice: We made out in the women's bathroom. You said my tits were god's greatest gift since internet porn.
Aaron Miles: Well that certainly sounds like me. But it's still not ringing a bell.
Woman's Voice: Then we went back to your hotel room and made love. I even let you in the back door.
Aaron Miles: Oh yeah, Audrey. How are you?
Woman's Voice: IT'S ALLISON YOU BASTARD! I can't believe I gave you my v-card.
*CLICK*
Aaron Miles: If she's this mad now, wait until she finds out that homeless guy I paid to sleep with her had the clap.
Aaron pulls the blankets up over his head and only seconds later he's drifted off to sleep. The scene slowly fades out.
A Bit Later (let's say an hour and a half)
The scene fades back in on the door to the bathroom as it opens. Aaron walks out wearing only a towel around his waist, water dripping from his body and his hair still spiked up. He walks over to his duffel bag and rummages through it looking for something to wear when his phone rings. He hits the button for speakerphone and continues to search for clothing.
Aaron Miles: Yeah?
Hank Brown: Aaron, this is Hank Brown from WCF.
Aaron Miles: What can I do for you Hank?
Hank Brown: Well hello to you to. I was just calling to remind you that your town car which will bring you to the arena will be arriving at 4pm. Make sure you are outside waiting for it or it will leave you behind.
Aaron Miles: No worries, I'll be there. By the way, what's up with the company putting me up in this tiny shit hole of a hotel. I barely had enough water pressure to get the shampoo out of my hair.
Hank Brown: Well, uhh, you see, financially we can't really afford fancy accommodations for everyone on the roster.
Aaron Miles: Well shit Hank, a cardboard box behind a porno store would be fancier than this dump. At least there I wouldn't have to listen to rats humping through the walls.
Hank Brown: How do you know they were rats?
Aaron Miles: Because one stuck his head through the wall and asked me to quit ruining the mood. Jesus Hank, I was being sarcastic.
Hank Brown: Oh, well all right then. Bye.
*CLICK*
Aaron looks down at his phone and shakes his head. He then pulls a pair of jeans from his bag and lets the towel fall to the floor, exposing his glorious glutious to the camera as the scene fades out.
Later That Night
The scene fades back in with a shot of the inside of a bar in downtown Reading. Aaron is sitting on a bar stool next to an attractive blonde, a drink in hand. The woman, obviously inebriated, places her hand on Aaron's knee and leans in to whisper something into his ear. Aaron nods in agreement and she smiles. She then stands up and clumsily staggers toward the ladies room. Aaron finishes off his drink and then signals the bartender for another.
Female Bartender: You do know I'm not going to serve her any more drinks, right.
Aaron flashes the bartender his pearly white smile.
Aaron Miles: Does it really look like you need to?
Female Bartender: What it looks like is another douchebag getting an unsuspecting girl drunk so he can hump her and run.
Aaron Miles: So you've heard of my work before?
Female Bartender: You make me sick.
The bartender walks off, leaving Aaron without a drink.
Aaron Miles: What'd I say?
Aaron looks over toward the bathrooms and sees the blonde stumbling through the door.
Aaron Miles: Oh well, time for the real show.
Aaron places a fifty cent tip on the bar and then grabs his coat and heads for the door. He looks around and spots a nearby homeless man that's about his height.
Aaron Miles: How'd you like to make fifty bucks and get laid.
Homeless Man: Hey now, I might be hard up for cash but I got my principles.
Aaron Miles: Let me explain.
The scene fades out as Aaron discusses his plan with the homeless man. In the background, the attractive blonde exits the bar looking for Aaron.
Part 1-b
The Epilogue
The attractive blonde wakes up the next morning with a horrible headache. She lifts her head from the pillow and realizes that she's in a hotel room and not her own bedroom. She then realizes that she's nude under the blankets.
Attractive Blonde: Oh god.
Male Voice: I sure heard that plenty of times last night.
The now frightened blonde spins her head around and nearly falls out of bed as she sees a dirty, elderly man laying naked in the bed beside her.
Male Voice: What say you and I do that all over again.
The epilogue ends abruptly.
Part 2
The Letter
The scene opens up with a shot of white board set up by itself in the middle of an empty room. Taped to the front of it are three sheets of paper, each with writing on them. The cameraman moves closer and zooms in on the first.
Dear So Called "Front Runners",
To each of you I ask a simple question: What is it that makes you so sure that you are guaranteed to win the WAR Match? Is it stupidity? Is it selective hearing or sight? Or could it be as simple as that you simply have lost your grip on reality? To be labeled as a front runner to win anything by anyone is like putting a giant target on your back and wandering out onto a shooting range. But if you wish to live it up in your 15 minutes under the spotlight as people talk you up better than you can yourselves, then be my guest. Just don't expect any sympathy from anyone when that light shining on you is extinguished and you're left alone in the darkness wondering what the hell just happened.
Roy Speede, I find it so incredibly ironic that you would choose to don the uniform of a confederate soldier. I find it ironic because you, much like the South from the start, never truly had a chance in hell of winning the War. Even with the good lord on your side, you were destined to fail the moment your name was tossed into the mix. And I don't care how many preachers and priests you talk to about your past, and I don't care how much they forgive you for your sins, in my eyes a hypocrite is always a hypocrite and they need exposed.
You put some of the roster on blast for their sins, but lets talk about you and your sins Roy. Greed Lust and Envy. Roy you talk about how Brad Kane, Oblivion and D-Day are such big sinners for the things that they want, but in reality you want the same exact things as them. You want to win. You want that WCF World Title. You want to be recognized as the best. Hell we all want those things just as bad as Kane, Oblivion and D-Day do. And if you say you don't want them, then what in the hell are you doing here? As for Envy it's obvious to the world that you're jealous of anyone that gets even a seconds worth of the spotlight that you so greedily gobble up, despite the fact that you're 15 minutes were up 2 minutes after it started. You're jealous of the fact that so many people have out shined you since the day you first signed with WCF, and it eats you alive knowing that you can't do a thing about it. And after WAR, you're going to be jealous of me as you're forced to watch as I lift that WCF World Title above my head after I win the WAR Match. Sloth. You're lazy when it comes to doing your homework before matches. If you had, you would have known that I would jump all over your promos and expose each and every single thing that I saw as a weakness. Next time Roy, do your homework and I won't have to make you look like the rookie.
And finally, even though it isn't a sin, it should be. Stupidity. I love how you spent so much time and energy blasting out insults aimed toward two men, Seth Lerch and Creeping Death, neither of whom are even in the WAR Match, and one of whom who isn't even with this company anymore. I can't believe I'm actually offering you advice, but right now what you need to be worrying about isn't the backstage politics, it's your priorities. You're in the biggest match of your little career and you're going to spend time worrying about how the company used to be run? Tell you what, screw my advice and keep your head out of the game. It'll make it that much easier for me to shut you the fuck up.
Oblivion, I seriously have to know what the hell are you trying to accomplish by showing us your submissions for the next season of AFV? And that must be what you are trying to do, because there is no way that you can honestly expect for anyone to take you seriously when all you do is scream in what sounds like a mix of broken English and the ramblings of an autistic with tourettes. Oh, and what the hell is up with you surrounding yourself with costumed midgets and a "man-pet"? Are you supposed to be some kind of closet homosexual with an S&M fetish turned wrestler? Jesus Christ, I never thought I'd have to share a ring with a circus freak show.
I have but one simple question for you, Brad Kane, and that is: Why should I give a fuck? So you did some impressive shit in the past, congratulations. Feel free to join the club with Logan, Odin and the rest of the has beens still living in the past, talking up their exploits to anyone that will spare them a minute of their time. You really think that rattling off a list of every one of your accomplishments is going to impress me? Here's a cookie. Stuff it down your gullet and kindly shut the fuck up. I don't care about what you did last month. Or last year. Or five years ago. Or even ten years ago. I honestly give as much of a fuck about your past accomplishments as a retard does anything that isn't shiny. But don't be mad bro, I'm sure somewhere in this world there's still one internet mark that still cares about Brad Kane.
Finally, Johnny Reb. Johnny, you can have all the motivation in the world, perfect timing with each hold you place and maneuver you execute, and you can spend all the time in world preparing, but in the end none of it will matter when reality bitch slaps you in the face in the form of me knocking your ass to the mat and pinning you. 1-2-3. And as for your war cry of Deo Vindice, your God's vindication on me is about the only thing that is going to be able to stop me from winning this match and the WCF World Title. Guess it's a good thing I never bought into all that religion bullshit.
The cameraman then pans to the right and comes to a stop on the second piece of paper.
Dear Rest Of The Pack,
The world looks upon you as being nothing more than a few fillers thrown into the mix to make the match seem more interesting. And those people would be right. Honestly, once you look at the list of entrants after myself and the "front runners", the names are a who's who of future endeavors. Starting with Switches The Clown.
So what, now we're taking a trip down memory lane all the way back to professional wrestling in the late 80's and early 90's? Switches The Clown. Really? A wrestling clown? Somebody please verify that this guy is actually a wrestler for me, because the first time I took a look at his picture I thought he was more of the type to be seen outside of an elementary school, standing in front of a white van holding a sign that reads "Free Popsicles and Back Rubs." And by the way, who the hell in today's world is still afraid of clowns? There was only ever one clown to truly fear, and that was Pennywise from It. And this balding, rancid smelling, pervo looking Krusty knock-off is certainly no Pennywise.
Apparently a cat's gotten hold of the tongue of Mr. Wright, because I haven't heard a peep from him since the day he signed with WCF. He must have taken a look in the mirror and realized that his cocky tough guy persona wasn't going to work the moment the crowd realized he couldn't pull off a decent move, let alone come up with an original name for one. Oh well, after he no shows the PPV out of fear of embarrassment, we'll only have to wait a week before another Eric Wright is hired, sans the predictably lame name.
And speaking of lame, do I even need to mention Kamikaze? If there were ever a person more in need of one of my classes it would be this guy. I mean, he openly admitted he wanted nothing to do with the WAR Match because he wasn't ready for such a challenge. What kind of person, no, what kind of man, puts his cowardice out there for the world to see like that. That's like walking into a prison shower, dropping the soap and then exclaiming "Oh no, I better reach down and get that."
The cameraman then pans to the right and comes to a stop on the final piece of paper.
Dear Casper Blackheart, Adam Young, Michael Nirvana, Ryan Blake, Kaylyn James Evans and Hope Dudley, (aka "The Fillers"),
I'd like to thank each one of you in advance for supplying me with your bodies to use as my own personal heavy bag. No, seriously, a WAR Match without the random collection of no talent, two bit hacks would be like sex with a fleshlight. It's good, but just not the same. So good luck, and here's hoping that you make it past the first five minutes.
The scene then slowly fades to black.
The Book Of Cool: Chapter III
The scene opens with a shot of the bottoms of a pair of size 11 all black Air Jordan's, untied but still on the feet of a person sprawled out across the bed in the middle of a cheap hotel room in Reading, Pennsylvania. The camera pulls back to reveal that person is Aaron Miles, "The Epitome Of Cool", still dressed in the clothes he wore last night when he went out on the town: dark blue jeans, white dress shirt still as smooth as it was when he pulled it from his suitcase and a pair of dark sunglasses half hanging off his face. The camera pans off to the left to the alarm clock on the table beside the bed. 10:29. As the numbers switch over to 10:30, Aaron's cell phone goes off, filling the room with the sound of the opening to Screaming Jay Hawkins "I Am The Cool". After ignoring the phone for the better part of a minute, a groggy Aaron lifts his head, reaches over the phone and grabs it. He hits the button for speakerphone and sets the phone on the bed beside him as he lays his head back down.
Aaron Miles: Yeah?
Woman's Voice: Is this Aaron?
Aaron Miles: 'Tis me.
Woman's Voice: This is Allison. We met at the bar last night.
Aaron Miles: You're gonna have to be a little more specific.
Woman's Voice: Blonde...tight black dress...c-cup.
Aaron Miles: Uhh..still not ringing a bell.
Woman's Voice: We made out in the women's bathroom. You said my tits were god's greatest gift since internet porn.
Aaron Miles: Well that certainly sounds like me. But it's still not ringing a bell.
Woman's Voice: Then we went back to your hotel room and made love. I even let you in the back door.
Aaron Miles: Oh yeah, Audrey. How are you?
Woman's Voice: IT'S ALLISON YOU BASTARD! I can't believe I gave you my v-card.
*CLICK*
Aaron Miles: If she's this mad now, wait until she finds out that homeless guy I paid to sleep with her had the clap.
Aaron pulls the blankets up over his head and only seconds later he's drifted off to sleep. The scene slowly fades out.
A Bit Later (let's say an hour and a half)
The scene fades back in on the door to the bathroom as it opens. Aaron walks out wearing only a towel around his waist, water dripping from his body and his hair still spiked up. He walks over to his duffel bag and rummages through it looking for something to wear when his phone rings. He hits the button for speakerphone and continues to search for clothing.
Aaron Miles: Yeah?
Hank Brown: Aaron, this is Hank Brown from WCF.
Aaron Miles: What can I do for you Hank?
Hank Brown: Well hello to you to. I was just calling to remind you that your town car which will bring you to the arena will be arriving at 4pm. Make sure you are outside waiting for it or it will leave you behind.
Aaron Miles: No worries, I'll be there. By the way, what's up with the company putting me up in this tiny shit hole of a hotel. I barely had enough water pressure to get the shampoo out of my hair.
Hank Brown: Well, uhh, you see, financially we can't really afford fancy accommodations for everyone on the roster.
Aaron Miles: Well shit Hank, a cardboard box behind a porno store would be fancier than this dump. At least there I wouldn't have to listen to rats humping through the walls.
Hank Brown: How do you know they were rats?
Aaron Miles: Because one stuck his head through the wall and asked me to quit ruining the mood. Jesus Hank, I was being sarcastic.
Hank Brown: Oh, well all right then. Bye.
*CLICK*
Aaron looks down at his phone and shakes his head. He then pulls a pair of jeans from his bag and lets the towel fall to the floor, exposing his glorious glutious to the camera as the scene fades out.
Later That Night
The scene fades back in with a shot of the inside of a bar in downtown Reading. Aaron is sitting on a bar stool next to an attractive blonde, a drink in hand. The woman, obviously inebriated, places her hand on Aaron's knee and leans in to whisper something into his ear. Aaron nods in agreement and she smiles. She then stands up and clumsily staggers toward the ladies room. Aaron finishes off his drink and then signals the bartender for another.
Female Bartender: You do know I'm not going to serve her any more drinks, right.
Aaron flashes the bartender his pearly white smile.
Aaron Miles: Does it really look like you need to?
Female Bartender: What it looks like is another douchebag getting an unsuspecting girl drunk so he can hump her and run.
Aaron Miles: So you've heard of my work before?
Female Bartender: You make me sick.
The bartender walks off, leaving Aaron without a drink.
Aaron Miles: What'd I say?
Aaron looks over toward the bathrooms and sees the blonde stumbling through the door.
Aaron Miles: Oh well, time for the real show.
Aaron places a fifty cent tip on the bar and then grabs his coat and heads for the door. He looks around and spots a nearby homeless man that's about his height.
Aaron Miles: How'd you like to make fifty bucks and get laid.
Homeless Man: Hey now, I might be hard up for cash but I got my principles.
Aaron Miles: Let me explain.
The scene fades out as Aaron discusses his plan with the homeless man. In the background, the attractive blonde exits the bar looking for Aaron.
Part 1-b
The Epilogue
The attractive blonde wakes up the next morning with a horrible headache. She lifts her head from the pillow and realizes that she's in a hotel room and not her own bedroom. She then realizes that she's nude under the blankets.
Attractive Blonde: Oh god.
Male Voice: I sure heard that plenty of times last night.
The now frightened blonde spins her head around and nearly falls out of bed as she sees a dirty, elderly man laying naked in the bed beside her.
Male Voice: What say you and I do that all over again.
The epilogue ends abruptly.
Part 2
The Letter
The scene opens up with a shot of white board set up by itself in the middle of an empty room. Taped to the front of it are three sheets of paper, each with writing on them. The cameraman moves closer and zooms in on the first.
Dear So Called "Front Runners",
To each of you I ask a simple question: What is it that makes you so sure that you are guaranteed to win the WAR Match? Is it stupidity? Is it selective hearing or sight? Or could it be as simple as that you simply have lost your grip on reality? To be labeled as a front runner to win anything by anyone is like putting a giant target on your back and wandering out onto a shooting range. But if you wish to live it up in your 15 minutes under the spotlight as people talk you up better than you can yourselves, then be my guest. Just don't expect any sympathy from anyone when that light shining on you is extinguished and you're left alone in the darkness wondering what the hell just happened.
Roy Speede, I find it so incredibly ironic that you would choose to don the uniform of a confederate soldier. I find it ironic because you, much like the South from the start, never truly had a chance in hell of winning the War. Even with the good lord on your side, you were destined to fail the moment your name was tossed into the mix. And I don't care how many preachers and priests you talk to about your past, and I don't care how much they forgive you for your sins, in my eyes a hypocrite is always a hypocrite and they need exposed.
You put some of the roster on blast for their sins, but lets talk about you and your sins Roy. Greed Lust and Envy. Roy you talk about how Brad Kane, Oblivion and D-Day are such big sinners for the things that they want, but in reality you want the same exact things as them. You want to win. You want that WCF World Title. You want to be recognized as the best. Hell we all want those things just as bad as Kane, Oblivion and D-Day do. And if you say you don't want them, then what in the hell are you doing here? As for Envy it's obvious to the world that you're jealous of anyone that gets even a seconds worth of the spotlight that you so greedily gobble up, despite the fact that you're 15 minutes were up 2 minutes after it started. You're jealous of the fact that so many people have out shined you since the day you first signed with WCF, and it eats you alive knowing that you can't do a thing about it. And after WAR, you're going to be jealous of me as you're forced to watch as I lift that WCF World Title above my head after I win the WAR Match. Sloth. You're lazy when it comes to doing your homework before matches. If you had, you would have known that I would jump all over your promos and expose each and every single thing that I saw as a weakness. Next time Roy, do your homework and I won't have to make you look like the rookie.
And finally, even though it isn't a sin, it should be. Stupidity. I love how you spent so much time and energy blasting out insults aimed toward two men, Seth Lerch and Creeping Death, neither of whom are even in the WAR Match, and one of whom who isn't even with this company anymore. I can't believe I'm actually offering you advice, but right now what you need to be worrying about isn't the backstage politics, it's your priorities. You're in the biggest match of your little career and you're going to spend time worrying about how the company used to be run? Tell you what, screw my advice and keep your head out of the game. It'll make it that much easier for me to shut you the fuck up.
Oblivion, I seriously have to know what the hell are you trying to accomplish by showing us your submissions for the next season of AFV? And that must be what you are trying to do, because there is no way that you can honestly expect for anyone to take you seriously when all you do is scream in what sounds like a mix of broken English and the ramblings of an autistic with tourettes. Oh, and what the hell is up with you surrounding yourself with costumed midgets and a "man-pet"? Are you supposed to be some kind of closet homosexual with an S&M fetish turned wrestler? Jesus Christ, I never thought I'd have to share a ring with a circus freak show.
I have but one simple question for you, Brad Kane, and that is: Why should I give a fuck? So you did some impressive shit in the past, congratulations. Feel free to join the club with Logan, Odin and the rest of the has beens still living in the past, talking up their exploits to anyone that will spare them a minute of their time. You really think that rattling off a list of every one of your accomplishments is going to impress me? Here's a cookie. Stuff it down your gullet and kindly shut the fuck up. I don't care about what you did last month. Or last year. Or five years ago. Or even ten years ago. I honestly give as much of a fuck about your past accomplishments as a retard does anything that isn't shiny. But don't be mad bro, I'm sure somewhere in this world there's still one internet mark that still cares about Brad Kane.
Finally, Johnny Reb. Johnny, you can have all the motivation in the world, perfect timing with each hold you place and maneuver you execute, and you can spend all the time in world preparing, but in the end none of it will matter when reality bitch slaps you in the face in the form of me knocking your ass to the mat and pinning you. 1-2-3. And as for your war cry of Deo Vindice, your God's vindication on me is about the only thing that is going to be able to stop me from winning this match and the WCF World Title. Guess it's a good thing I never bought into all that religion bullshit.
The cameraman then pans to the right and comes to a stop on the second piece of paper.
Dear Rest Of The Pack,
The world looks upon you as being nothing more than a few fillers thrown into the mix to make the match seem more interesting. And those people would be right. Honestly, once you look at the list of entrants after myself and the "front runners", the names are a who's who of future endeavors. Starting with Switches The Clown.
So what, now we're taking a trip down memory lane all the way back to professional wrestling in the late 80's and early 90's? Switches The Clown. Really? A wrestling clown? Somebody please verify that this guy is actually a wrestler for me, because the first time I took a look at his picture I thought he was more of the type to be seen outside of an elementary school, standing in front of a white van holding a sign that reads "Free Popsicles and Back Rubs." And by the way, who the hell in today's world is still afraid of clowns? There was only ever one clown to truly fear, and that was Pennywise from It. And this balding, rancid smelling, pervo looking Krusty knock-off is certainly no Pennywise.
Apparently a cat's gotten hold of the tongue of Mr. Wright, because I haven't heard a peep from him since the day he signed with WCF. He must have taken a look in the mirror and realized that his cocky tough guy persona wasn't going to work the moment the crowd realized he couldn't pull off a decent move, let alone come up with an original name for one. Oh well, after he no shows the PPV out of fear of embarrassment, we'll only have to wait a week before another Eric Wright is hired, sans the predictably lame name.
And speaking of lame, do I even need to mention Kamikaze? If there were ever a person more in need of one of my classes it would be this guy. I mean, he openly admitted he wanted nothing to do with the WAR Match because he wasn't ready for such a challenge. What kind of person, no, what kind of man, puts his cowardice out there for the world to see like that. That's like walking into a prison shower, dropping the soap and then exclaiming "Oh no, I better reach down and get that."
The cameraman then pans to the right and comes to a stop on the final piece of paper.
Dear Casper Blackheart, Adam Young, Michael Nirvana, Ryan Blake, Kaylyn James Evans and Hope Dudley, (aka "The Fillers"),
I'd like to thank each one of you in advance for supplying me with your bodies to use as my own personal heavy bag. No, seriously, a WAR Match without the random collection of no talent, two bit hacks would be like sex with a fleshlight. It's good, but just not the same. So good luck, and here's hoping that you make it past the first five minutes.
Sincerely,
"The Epitome Of Cool" Aaron Miles
"The Epitome Of Cool" Aaron Miles
The scene then slowly fades to black.
