Post by Deleted on Nov 24, 2011 17:16:42 GMT -5
Filed Under: Feast Of Famine (Or, "A Belfast Thanksgiving")
A single white 50-watt lightbulb blinks to life. A small cloud of dust particles are instantly illuminated by the light before they dissipate into the atmosphere of the room, and any lungs in the vicinity. A thin metal chain dangles from the ceiling beside the bulb, swaying to and fro before it comes to a halt. Our perspective zooms out, giving us a more comprehensive view of the room. We see plain white plaster walls, faded pumpkin-colored carpeting and unremarkable furnishings. This is the modest, even crude interior of a rural North Dakota residence.
We find ourselves in what is unmistakeably the dining area of the home, what with its admittedly sturdy mahogany table, a turkey gobbler centerpiece and two matching wooden chairs positioned at opposite ends of the table. Our perspective shifts just a tad as we're drawn to an image that hangs upon the wall, a portrait of the Russian mystic Rasputin. The piece easily distinguishes itself from the rest of the home's blasé decor, but what does it tell us? Could it represent a sign of intellect that most would not credit to the owner of such a shoddy home, a lesson to not judge a book by its cover? Or perhaps it symbolizes a more express interest in the occult?
Before we can delve too deeply into the matter, our train of thought is interrupted by the clatter of plates being placed onto the dinner table. It is time for supper as our perspective shifts back to the dimly lit dining room. A Caucasian male, approximately in his late-twenties or early-thirties, is sitting in one of the chairs at the table. The man has long black hair and a bushy black beard. He's wearing a black T-shirt featuring the cover of The Cult's 1985 album "Love", a pair of faded blue jeans and black Dickies boots. This man, of course, is Jam Willy Jesus. Seated in the chair opposite Jam Willy, at the other end of the table, is... a large plush brown teddy bear. The bear's head easily rises above the edge of the table, clearing it by several inches and giving it a clear view of the proceedings.
On the table in front of them sit two plates of macaroni and cheese. Next to Jam Willy's plate is a half-drank bottle of Jägermeister. Next to what is apparently the bear's plate is a glass of milk, filled three-quarters to the top. Jam Willy lifts a forkful of macaroni into his mouth and chomps down upon it, hunger giving way to a satisfactory grin. Jam Willy eats a couple more forkfuls of the macaroni and then glances at the bear that sits across from him. A look of concern quickly finds its way to Jam Willy's hairy mug.
Jam Willy: "Why aren't you eating, Walter? You love Kraft. It's the cheesiest."
Walter, the apparent name of the stuffed brown bear, is predictably non-responsive. Jam Willy places his fork down onto a napkin. He rises out of his chair and does a little shuffle as he begins to recite a popular Kraft commercial jingle from yesteryear.
Jam Willy: "I want the blues, Kraft Macaroni & Cheese... The blue-box blues!"
Jam Willy hums a portion of the jingle's instrumentation before returning to his sing-song rendition of the lyrics.
Jam Willy: "Well, if daddy wants to please me, he's only got to cheese me... I got the blues!"
Jam Willy does a spin and then takes a bow. Walter does not budge. Not even a smile. Jam Willy sighs and takes his seat again.
Jam Willy: "I know it ain't near as good as the macaroni mama used to make, but it tastes pretty goddamn good to me. Besides, beggars can't be choosers. You know that, Walter. Hey, you want I should fry up some hot dogs and chop them up into your macaroni? Them Ballpark Angus franks was on discount this week. I picked up two packs."
Jam Willy nods reassuringly to Walter, trying to coax a response. Still, there is no reply from Walter. It's almost as if he's an inanimate object. Jam Willy looks down at his dinner plate and stares at it for a few moments before speaking again.
Jam Willy: "OK, I know what this is about, and it ain't the food. I'm going to address the eight-hundred pound gorilla in the room, Walter. I know that you ain't crazy about me wrasslin'. I know that you're afraid that I'm gonna get hurt, but damn it... one of us has to earn a livin'. We got bills to pay, man. I know we ain't livin' in the lap of luxury, but we got a roof over our heads. It's not like you can go back to doing your dancing bear routine at the circus. Not after your accident."
Walter stares glumly at Jam Willy, clearly reliving the horror of that day in his plush bear mind.
Jam Willy: "With my criminal record it ain't exactly easy for me to find work, especially in this economy. Wrasslin' IS the answer, Walter. It's gonna make us wealthy. Maybe not at first, but in due time we're gonna be rollin' in it, like the white man. I can feel it in my bones, and you know that my bones never lie, Walter."
Walter still does not reply to Jam Willy's course of dialog. Jam Willy, for his part, shoves a forkful of Kraft macaroni down his gullet.
Jam Willy: "If you have any other ideas then I'm all ears, but we've been over this before and, frankly, it's my choice to make. I respect your opinion and all, but I cannot let you run my life and make these kinds of decisions for me."
We see a close-up of Walter's eyes. The rage seethes behind those big black plastic eyes of his, just waiting to explode. We zoom out and see that Walter's plate of macaroni has suddenly been strewn upon the floor. Bits of cheesy noodles and sauce are clumped upon pumpkin-colored carpet.
Jam Willy: "Oh, that's very mature, Walter! Just throw your food on the floor, like we got macaroni to waste! It's the holidays, man! Take a break! Give it a rest!"
Jam Willy realizes that he's yelling and he catches himself. He places his fork upon his napkin once again and flashes sympathetic eyes toward Walter.
Jam Willy: "Look... this is our chance to get us a slice of that American pie. I can do this work too. Grown men, and even some women, brutalizin' each other in pursuit of the almighty dollar? That's my kinda racket, man! Think about it -- when have you ever known me to come up on the wrong end of an ass-whomping, Walter? It ain't never happened and it ain't never goin' to!"
Jam Willy emphatically pounds that mahogany dinner table with a clenched fist. Walter is scolding with his eyes, but it's too late... Jam Willy's mind has been made up. Jam Willy digs into his macaroni, while Walter just sits there with a despondent look upon his face.
----------
THE INTERMISSION...
HAPPY THANKSGIVIN', Y'ALL!!
----------
Jam Willy is now seated in an upholstered reclining chair in the living room area of his residence. The lights in the room are turned out, but the light blue glow of the television is reflecting upon Jam Willy's face, slightly illuminating him. Despite the TV being turned on, Jam Willy doesn't appear to be watching anything. At least not so much as we're watching him.
Jam Willy: "They say that WCF stands for Wrasslin' Championship Federation. Well I didn't come to WCF to wrassle or even win championships. I came here to fight because that's what I've been doin' my entire life since my daddy, that bastard, squirted me out his nutsack. I came here to fight and I came here to earn my keep. That's what a man does. And for all those who are curious, I want y'all to know this: It ain't no happenstance that Jam Willy should arrive in WCF out of all them fancy wrasslin' companies 'cross the deep blue yonder. I've been checkin' out the lay of the land in WCF for quite some time now, keepin' my eyes attuned from afar. It seems to me like WCF is a place that I can really sink my feet into and, hell, I intend to lay down some roots and make the place my home. Home... now that's a novel concept."
Jam Willy sighs uneasily. He looks a tad downtrodden but that quickly changes as his eyes perk up and the tone in his voice becomes ever more assertive.
Jam Willy: "All my life I've been called the drunk, the junkie, the burn out, the dead beat, the drifter. Now It's time for Jam Willy to establish hisself and get his respect. If that means that I have to can opener another man's cranium to prove my worth, then so damn be it. I'm more than equipped to handle the task. Make no mistake about it: What I lack in professional wrasslin' experience I make up for in real world combat experience. Now I ain't proud of everythin' I done, but it done served its purpose. Seth Lerch has welcomed me into WCF with open arms in spite of my past indiscretions, or perhaps even because of 'em. I can't say that I trust Seth. He strikes me as a kinky gay Hollywood S&M guru, at least too much of one for my taste. Having said that, I appreciate the opportunity the man has given me and I will not fuck it up. Unlike Seth, not everyone in WCF has been quite so hospitable to ol' Jam Willy. I speak, of course, about the man they call Switches the Clown."
A sense of utter disdain permeates Jam Willy's visage.
Jam Willy: "Switches, I don't think that you can wrap your brain around what I'm tryin' to accomplish here. I don't think you can understand it at all, man. You have no idea what it's like to be in my position, livin' a lifestyle of abject poverty for so many years and then finally, FINALLY bein' given the opportunity to make something of yourself. You have no idea what that's like. You couldn't. You've been livin' that high-falutin', rootin'-tootin' lifestyle as America's favorite TV clown for too damn long. You've lost touch with the common man. I am that common man, Switches. Hell, I'm a slab of Americana. I got problems. I'm broke. No girl. No family. I live in a shitty apartment. My truck needs a new muffler, new carburetor, new brakes, hell... I need a new truck! These teeth... man, I ain't been to a dentist in fourteen years. Four-teen YEARS! You gotta feel the hunger that's percolatin' inside my veins, man! I think you do feel it though..."
Jam Willy sneers wickedly, the feeling of indomitable power and fury rising up inside of him.
Jam Willy: "I think that Switches has grown desperate because he senses that his time in the limelight is nearing its end. Switches looks at Jam Willy and he sees an incantation of something greater than he could ever be. Shit, did I say incantation? I meant incarnation, but let's roll with that slip of the tongue because it strikes me as being apropos. Let's say that Jam Willy IS an incantation, or a black magic spell that's been cast upon the Wrasslin' Championship Federation for the purpose of eradicatin' Switches the Clown from existence, an' such. What would you do to stop me, you grease-painted monkey man? What CAN you do to stop me? All of the reckonin' an' reasonin' under the bluest of gray skies won't help you now, Switches."
Teeth gritted, fists clenched... Jam Willy means business.
Jam Willy: "You sealed your fate when you showered me in insolence and disrespect on Sunday Night Slam. You might as well have been showerin' me in a noxious combination of urine and diarrhea. On Sunday night I signed my contract to become a member of the WCF roster. It was s'pose to be a night of jubilant celebration for a young man from North Dakota who had never been to the big show before. You made the decision to interrupt that special moment and jus' piss and shit all over it. You got off on pickin' on the new kid. Thought you could run me out of town before I ever signed my name on the dotted line. That's what you was angling for because that's the kind of desperate coward that you are, Switches. Unfortunately for you, Jam Willy ain't the kind of man who backs down from a fight. I ain't sayin' that I got a short fuse and I'll just throw down at the drop of a hat for no good reason, but what you did--"
Jam Willy suddenly switches on the light that stands next to his recliner. We witness Jam Willy's body twitching and spasming, contorting like a man who's making romance in kinky new positions, while the hate wells up inside of him. Jam Willy twists and turns, even bounds upon his chair, before climaxing in a full-on shudderfuck. Jam Willy's eyes roll back in his head as a wet spot spreads across the crotch of his jeans.
Jam Willy: "...It made me a very angry man, Switches. This work that I must do, this work that you have compelled me to do, is gruesome work. Unfathomable, even, for the average mind. You and I are walking upon a mind-field of insanity, Switches. You might think you know the lay of the land, but I am the master and keeper of this domain. You're stepping into Jam Willy's world on Sunday night, Aftermath, pay-per-view sty-lee. You're gonna be a VERY sad clown, Mr. Switches..."
Jam Willy sneers at cha, and in the blink of an eye the scene fades to black.
A single white 50-watt lightbulb blinks to life. A small cloud of dust particles are instantly illuminated by the light before they dissipate into the atmosphere of the room, and any lungs in the vicinity. A thin metal chain dangles from the ceiling beside the bulb, swaying to and fro before it comes to a halt. Our perspective zooms out, giving us a more comprehensive view of the room. We see plain white plaster walls, faded pumpkin-colored carpeting and unremarkable furnishings. This is the modest, even crude interior of a rural North Dakota residence.
We find ourselves in what is unmistakeably the dining area of the home, what with its admittedly sturdy mahogany table, a turkey gobbler centerpiece and two matching wooden chairs positioned at opposite ends of the table. Our perspective shifts just a tad as we're drawn to an image that hangs upon the wall, a portrait of the Russian mystic Rasputin. The piece easily distinguishes itself from the rest of the home's blasé decor, but what does it tell us? Could it represent a sign of intellect that most would not credit to the owner of such a shoddy home, a lesson to not judge a book by its cover? Or perhaps it symbolizes a more express interest in the occult?
Before we can delve too deeply into the matter, our train of thought is interrupted by the clatter of plates being placed onto the dinner table. It is time for supper as our perspective shifts back to the dimly lit dining room. A Caucasian male, approximately in his late-twenties or early-thirties, is sitting in one of the chairs at the table. The man has long black hair and a bushy black beard. He's wearing a black T-shirt featuring the cover of The Cult's 1985 album "Love", a pair of faded blue jeans and black Dickies boots. This man, of course, is Jam Willy Jesus. Seated in the chair opposite Jam Willy, at the other end of the table, is... a large plush brown teddy bear. The bear's head easily rises above the edge of the table, clearing it by several inches and giving it a clear view of the proceedings.
On the table in front of them sit two plates of macaroni and cheese. Next to Jam Willy's plate is a half-drank bottle of Jägermeister. Next to what is apparently the bear's plate is a glass of milk, filled three-quarters to the top. Jam Willy lifts a forkful of macaroni into his mouth and chomps down upon it, hunger giving way to a satisfactory grin. Jam Willy eats a couple more forkfuls of the macaroni and then glances at the bear that sits across from him. A look of concern quickly finds its way to Jam Willy's hairy mug.
Jam Willy: "Why aren't you eating, Walter? You love Kraft. It's the cheesiest."
Walter, the apparent name of the stuffed brown bear, is predictably non-responsive. Jam Willy places his fork down onto a napkin. He rises out of his chair and does a little shuffle as he begins to recite a popular Kraft commercial jingle from yesteryear.
Jam Willy: "I want the blues, Kraft Macaroni & Cheese... The blue-box blues!"
Jam Willy hums a portion of the jingle's instrumentation before returning to his sing-song rendition of the lyrics.
Jam Willy: "Well, if daddy wants to please me, he's only got to cheese me... I got the blues!"
Jam Willy does a spin and then takes a bow. Walter does not budge. Not even a smile. Jam Willy sighs and takes his seat again.
Jam Willy: "I know it ain't near as good as the macaroni mama used to make, but it tastes pretty goddamn good to me. Besides, beggars can't be choosers. You know that, Walter. Hey, you want I should fry up some hot dogs and chop them up into your macaroni? Them Ballpark Angus franks was on discount this week. I picked up two packs."
Jam Willy nods reassuringly to Walter, trying to coax a response. Still, there is no reply from Walter. It's almost as if he's an inanimate object. Jam Willy looks down at his dinner plate and stares at it for a few moments before speaking again.
Jam Willy: "OK, I know what this is about, and it ain't the food. I'm going to address the eight-hundred pound gorilla in the room, Walter. I know that you ain't crazy about me wrasslin'. I know that you're afraid that I'm gonna get hurt, but damn it... one of us has to earn a livin'. We got bills to pay, man. I know we ain't livin' in the lap of luxury, but we got a roof over our heads. It's not like you can go back to doing your dancing bear routine at the circus. Not after your accident."
Walter stares glumly at Jam Willy, clearly reliving the horror of that day in his plush bear mind.
Jam Willy: "With my criminal record it ain't exactly easy for me to find work, especially in this economy. Wrasslin' IS the answer, Walter. It's gonna make us wealthy. Maybe not at first, but in due time we're gonna be rollin' in it, like the white man. I can feel it in my bones, and you know that my bones never lie, Walter."
Walter still does not reply to Jam Willy's course of dialog. Jam Willy, for his part, shoves a forkful of Kraft macaroni down his gullet.
Jam Willy: "If you have any other ideas then I'm all ears, but we've been over this before and, frankly, it's my choice to make. I respect your opinion and all, but I cannot let you run my life and make these kinds of decisions for me."
We see a close-up of Walter's eyes. The rage seethes behind those big black plastic eyes of his, just waiting to explode. We zoom out and see that Walter's plate of macaroni has suddenly been strewn upon the floor. Bits of cheesy noodles and sauce are clumped upon pumpkin-colored carpet.
Jam Willy: "Oh, that's very mature, Walter! Just throw your food on the floor, like we got macaroni to waste! It's the holidays, man! Take a break! Give it a rest!"
Jam Willy realizes that he's yelling and he catches himself. He places his fork upon his napkin once again and flashes sympathetic eyes toward Walter.
Jam Willy: "Look... this is our chance to get us a slice of that American pie. I can do this work too. Grown men, and even some women, brutalizin' each other in pursuit of the almighty dollar? That's my kinda racket, man! Think about it -- when have you ever known me to come up on the wrong end of an ass-whomping, Walter? It ain't never happened and it ain't never goin' to!"
Jam Willy emphatically pounds that mahogany dinner table with a clenched fist. Walter is scolding with his eyes, but it's too late... Jam Willy's mind has been made up. Jam Willy digs into his macaroni, while Walter just sits there with a despondent look upon his face.
----------
THE INTERMISSION...
HAPPY THANKSGIVIN', Y'ALL!!
----------
Jam Willy is now seated in an upholstered reclining chair in the living room area of his residence. The lights in the room are turned out, but the light blue glow of the television is reflecting upon Jam Willy's face, slightly illuminating him. Despite the TV being turned on, Jam Willy doesn't appear to be watching anything. At least not so much as we're watching him.
Jam Willy: "They say that WCF stands for Wrasslin' Championship Federation. Well I didn't come to WCF to wrassle or even win championships. I came here to fight because that's what I've been doin' my entire life since my daddy, that bastard, squirted me out his nutsack. I came here to fight and I came here to earn my keep. That's what a man does. And for all those who are curious, I want y'all to know this: It ain't no happenstance that Jam Willy should arrive in WCF out of all them fancy wrasslin' companies 'cross the deep blue yonder. I've been checkin' out the lay of the land in WCF for quite some time now, keepin' my eyes attuned from afar. It seems to me like WCF is a place that I can really sink my feet into and, hell, I intend to lay down some roots and make the place my home. Home... now that's a novel concept."
Jam Willy sighs uneasily. He looks a tad downtrodden but that quickly changes as his eyes perk up and the tone in his voice becomes ever more assertive.
Jam Willy: "All my life I've been called the drunk, the junkie, the burn out, the dead beat, the drifter. Now It's time for Jam Willy to establish hisself and get his respect. If that means that I have to can opener another man's cranium to prove my worth, then so damn be it. I'm more than equipped to handle the task. Make no mistake about it: What I lack in professional wrasslin' experience I make up for in real world combat experience. Now I ain't proud of everythin' I done, but it done served its purpose. Seth Lerch has welcomed me into WCF with open arms in spite of my past indiscretions, or perhaps even because of 'em. I can't say that I trust Seth. He strikes me as a kinky gay Hollywood S&M guru, at least too much of one for my taste. Having said that, I appreciate the opportunity the man has given me and I will not fuck it up. Unlike Seth, not everyone in WCF has been quite so hospitable to ol' Jam Willy. I speak, of course, about the man they call Switches the Clown."
A sense of utter disdain permeates Jam Willy's visage.
Jam Willy: "Switches, I don't think that you can wrap your brain around what I'm tryin' to accomplish here. I don't think you can understand it at all, man. You have no idea what it's like to be in my position, livin' a lifestyle of abject poverty for so many years and then finally, FINALLY bein' given the opportunity to make something of yourself. You have no idea what that's like. You couldn't. You've been livin' that high-falutin', rootin'-tootin' lifestyle as America's favorite TV clown for too damn long. You've lost touch with the common man. I am that common man, Switches. Hell, I'm a slab of Americana. I got problems. I'm broke. No girl. No family. I live in a shitty apartment. My truck needs a new muffler, new carburetor, new brakes, hell... I need a new truck! These teeth... man, I ain't been to a dentist in fourteen years. Four-teen YEARS! You gotta feel the hunger that's percolatin' inside my veins, man! I think you do feel it though..."
Jam Willy sneers wickedly, the feeling of indomitable power and fury rising up inside of him.
Jam Willy: "I think that Switches has grown desperate because he senses that his time in the limelight is nearing its end. Switches looks at Jam Willy and he sees an incantation of something greater than he could ever be. Shit, did I say incantation? I meant incarnation, but let's roll with that slip of the tongue because it strikes me as being apropos. Let's say that Jam Willy IS an incantation, or a black magic spell that's been cast upon the Wrasslin' Championship Federation for the purpose of eradicatin' Switches the Clown from existence, an' such. What would you do to stop me, you grease-painted monkey man? What CAN you do to stop me? All of the reckonin' an' reasonin' under the bluest of gray skies won't help you now, Switches."
Teeth gritted, fists clenched... Jam Willy means business.
Jam Willy: "You sealed your fate when you showered me in insolence and disrespect on Sunday Night Slam. You might as well have been showerin' me in a noxious combination of urine and diarrhea. On Sunday night I signed my contract to become a member of the WCF roster. It was s'pose to be a night of jubilant celebration for a young man from North Dakota who had never been to the big show before. You made the decision to interrupt that special moment and jus' piss and shit all over it. You got off on pickin' on the new kid. Thought you could run me out of town before I ever signed my name on the dotted line. That's what you was angling for because that's the kind of desperate coward that you are, Switches. Unfortunately for you, Jam Willy ain't the kind of man who backs down from a fight. I ain't sayin' that I got a short fuse and I'll just throw down at the drop of a hat for no good reason, but what you did--"
Jam Willy suddenly switches on the light that stands next to his recliner. We witness Jam Willy's body twitching and spasming, contorting like a man who's making romance in kinky new positions, while the hate wells up inside of him. Jam Willy twists and turns, even bounds upon his chair, before climaxing in a full-on shudderfuck. Jam Willy's eyes roll back in his head as a wet spot spreads across the crotch of his jeans.
Jam Willy: "...It made me a very angry man, Switches. This work that I must do, this work that you have compelled me to do, is gruesome work. Unfathomable, even, for the average mind. You and I are walking upon a mind-field of insanity, Switches. You might think you know the lay of the land, but I am the master and keeper of this domain. You're stepping into Jam Willy's world on Sunday night, Aftermath, pay-per-view sty-lee. You're gonna be a VERY sad clown, Mr. Switches..."
Jam Willy sneers at cha, and in the blink of an eye the scene fades to black.
