Post by Deleted on Dec 3, 2011 0:32:42 GMT -5
Filed Under: Cause For Casualty (Or, "A Long Walk Off A Belfast Pier")
An African-American male's fearful, frenzied voice calls out in the heart of the North Dakota night.
Man: "You didn't have to kill him, Willy! What the fuck were you thinkin', mahn!?"
We see the face of the young black male, his goatee and his reasonably maintained afro-style haircut. The man's face and body are being illuminated by a combination of moonglow and the tail lights of a 1978 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am. Jam Willy Jesus grunts as he lifts a body, which has been wrapped in a blue tarp and tied with rope, from the trunk of the old, blue Trans Am. The engine of the vehicle is running, its tail and head lights turned on, the radio blasting with heavy metal music, while fumes are pumped from the tailpipe of the car in a billowing cloud of smoke.
Jam Willy is wearing a flannel hunting jacket, blue jeans and Timberland boots. His companion is similarly dressed, save for a North Dakota University Fighting Sioux sweatshirt instead of a hunting jacket. This Jam Willy looks a few years younger than the one that we have seen on WCF television. His long black hair is shorter and his beard is less grizzled, though still plainly visible. Jam Willy keeps his focus on the dead body in front of him as he responds to the young black male who is standing beside him, his breath visible in the cold night air as he speaks.
Jam Willy: "He burned my macaroni and he did not apologize. You know how I feel about my macaroni, Dale. And did you hear that snide remark that he made about my mama?"
Jam Willy rests the body on the edge of the trunk for a moment as he turns toward Dale and looks him in his eyes.
Jam Willy: "You KNOW how I feel about my mama, Dale. When I was a boy, my mama slaved day and night, and night and day to earn a paycheck. Do you know why she did it? She did it to put macaroni on my dinner plate. She did all that while my daddy was out neglectin' his responsibilities. He was too busy gettin' drunk and fuckin' whores, that miserable piece of..."
Jam Willy lets his mind and his eyes drift aimlessly for a moment, until they once again lock onto the wrapped-up body that he's holding in his hands.
Jam Willy: "So yes, I did have to kill this man, Dale. Now are you gonna act like a chicken-shit coward and stand there holdin' yer dick, or are ya gonna help me dump this motherfucker off this bridge?"
Dale reluctantly cedes to Jam Willy's ultimatum and helps him lift the body out of the trunk of the car. Together they carry the body over toward the railing on the side of the road, and dump the body over the railing. A loud splash can be heard as the body hits the water far below. A quick glance over the railing allows us to see the body sinking into the depths of a river, lighted only by the dim glow of the moon, before the blue tarp and body contained within disappear into the dark depths of the river.
Jam Willy brushes his hands together and nods his head, an indifferent expression on his face. He did not enjoy the work that he just did, but clearly he regards it as work that must be done. Dale looks very uneasy, as if he's just seen a ghost, perhaps worried that he's going to spend the rest of his life behind bars. Jam Willy clearly does not share Dale's concerns as he slams the truck of the car shut and walks over to the driver's side door of the Trans Am. Jam Willy casts a glance over to Dale. Willy opens the door and then calls out to Dale over the loud metal-style music.
Jam Willy: "Are you comin' with me or walkin' home?"
Dale lets out a burdened sigh. The young, black male shakes his head and walks over to the passenger's side door. He hesitates for a moment before opening the door and sitting down inside the car. Jam Willy sits down behind the wheel and slams his door shut. Within moments the tires peel out on the paved asphalt and the American muscle car speeds off into the night, the music still blaring on the radio.
Voice On Radio: "Well, the skyscrapers look like gravestones, yeaaah, from out here..."
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We see an exterior shot of a prototypical American diner with a few vehicles parked out front: Pick-up trucks, SUV's, sedans, motorcycles and the like. We know that it is early morning because the sun is just starting to peek out from the horizon and illuminate the scenery. The diner is nothing fancy, just the kind of place that you get your eat-on when you're in a hurry and on a budget.
Inside of the diner we see Jam Willy Jesus, the present day Jam Willy that we recognize from WCF television, seated alone at a booth. Jam Willy's face looks worse for wear, undoubtedly a result of his match against Switches the Clown at the Aftermath pay-per-view. Jam Willy's face is covered with cuts and bruises. He also has a black eye.
Now, as some of you might realize, Jam Willy earned the victory at Aftermath over Switches by disqualification, but he earned it the hard way and, frankly speaking, Jam Willy doesn't look much like a winner based on his physical condition. His facial expression does not look like that of a man who is basking in the afterglow of victory either. He is downtrodden, to say the least. To set the scene just a bit, Jam Willy is wearing a coonskin jacket, a Nuclear Assault T-shirt and presumably his trademark blue jeans and black Dickies boots below all of that, though his lower half is obscured by the table.
Jam Willy: "You will have to excuse Jam Willy for the tardiness of his promo this week. It's not that I wanted to keep y'all waiting, but who else was going to tell my story for me? It's been a tough week for Jam Willy. I thought that WCF was ALL about the honor and integrity of competition. Sure, a mental patient or escaped convict could earn the victory every now and again, but what did that matter? WCF was a sporting event like the NBA or NFL. Surely a ruffian with a primitive concept of achievement could not prevail... or could he? And sure, I came out on top in my match against Switches via disqualification, but what does that mean when you're being choked unconscious by a man who does not respect the rules of competition? Let me explain it to you in a way that you can understand, since I am not exactly an inbred hillbilly. NOT EXACTLY, haha. I would like to tell you fine folks, the WCF fans, a story..."
Jam Willy strokes his bearded chin as he prepares to regale the girls and boys in the viewing audience with a tale from yesteryear.
Jam Willy: "A few years back, in a diner similar to this one, I sat down for a dinner of macaroni and cheese. Upon being served my order, I was horrified to see that my mac and cheese had been burned to a blackened crisp under the careless watch of a, frankly, inept cook. As some of you might know, I'm not from Cajun country. I'm from North Dakota."
Jam Willy appears to be nonplussed. Although it might be understood that WCF competitors live in the lap of luxury, Jam Willy is proof that most are living below that poverty line of Americans who are struggling to make a living.
Jam Willy: "As such, I did not hesitate to walk straight into the kitchen in that diner and walk right up to that cook and demand that he rectify the situation with a fresh plate of unburnt macaroni at no additional cost to me, the consumer. That man... well, the motherfucker spit in my face, literally and figuratively. He cursed me out for storming into 'his' kitchen. He blamed me for the fact that he had screwed up my macaroni. He... he insulted my dear mother."
Jam Willy appears dumfounded that a low-rent cook at a white-trash diner would launch such an attack, and yet this fellow had done so...
Jam Willy: "I felt denigrated, to say the least. Do you know what I did as a result of that man's verbal onslaught? That night I staked out that very diner. I waited for the cook to get off his shift and when I saw him walking out to his car, that's when I made my move. My friend Dale tried to dissuade me, but my mind had already been made up."
Jam Willy appears... shall we say, distressed, but not in such a way that he appears legitimately remorseful regarding his course of action. Jam Willy is in confessional mode, and as such he is confessing to his sins, regardless of whether he views them as such.
Jam Willy: "I mean, I'm not exactly the murderin' type but I'll be honest: I bludgeoned him, the cook, in the back of the head with a vehicle-jack. I, uh... I just hit the motherfucker with it again and again and again. His screams and pleas for mercy meant absolutely nothin' to me. Why would they? You don't insult a man's mama and then expect him to call off the dogs when the goin' gets rough. I beat that man to death, rolled him up in a tarp and, along with my friend Dale, dumped the mofo off a bridge. That was a, uh, North Dakota bridge, not the Brooklyn Bridge an' such that you might have seen in Martin Scorcese pictures."
Jam Willy takes a deep breath, a bit of a burdened breath, but he did his time and now he's out of prison so... why be hassled by it all?
Jam Willy: "Yep, that was a diner very similar to this one."
Now, the diners all around Jam Willy that aren't necessarily familiar with WCF programming have taken heed to his words. They're lookin' like "WTF is this dude talkin' about? Is he gonna kill me and my family and dump our bodies at the bottom of a river?" The answer is "Of course not!" but how can they know that? They're just ignorant bystanders. They have no knowledge of these promo-related proceedings and the WCF for which they stand.
Jam Willy: "My point about all this? When somebody crosses me I never forget it. I hold grudges like Khomeini holds grudges. At Aftermath, a pay-per-view that the masses ordered expectin' to see top-notch grapplin'-sports action, I squared off against the man known as Switches the Clown. We had ourselves a back-and-forth match... and what it came down to? Switches had me locked in that damn Smileyo’matic. Yessir, it looked for all the world like Switches had Jam Willy down to the last fiber of his bein'. It looked like my arm would drop for the third time after referee Zip Wingdinger had seen it drop for two. There was only one problem for Switches the Clown: There was no way in hell that Jam Willy was goin' down for the count. Not only did I keep my arm up when Switches tried to put me to sleep, but I reached out and grabbed the ring-rope, forcin' a break of said submission hold."
Jam Willy sneers his battered face in remembrance of rules that were not honored by a certain clown.
Jam Willy: "When I reached out and grabbed the ropes. you knew that you were beat, Switches. You knew that despite your best efforts you could not keep me down. What did you do? You took the path of the coward. Now me... me? If the magic clown shoe was on the other foot? I would never hold a Smileyo’matic on a man after the referee said break. It's a matter of principle. Jam Willy fights with honor and pride, or at least he did before this whole matter at Aftermath, and its precedent at Slam when Switches attacked Jam Willy without any kind of provocation. As far as Jam Willy is concerned, all bets are off. This situation between you and I has quickly become a battle for survival and any notion of nobility gets tossed out the window when survival is at stake."
Jam Willy swivels his head to the side and acknowledges the big-tittied waitress that took his order moments before this promo began.
Jam Willy: "I will track you down, Switches. I will track you down like a bloodhound and I will beat you like ya owe me pot money. You understand what I'm sayin', homie? Ya done fucked up cuz ya didn't kill Jam Willy when ya had the chance. This ain't ovah, muthafucka. Not by a long shot."
Jam Willy shakes his head in disdain of the clown that has caused him so much grief in recent times.
Jam Willy: "The truth is that I arrived here in Reading, PA a few days early in hope of finding that interminable clown. I told y'all when I first arrived in WCF that I wasn't interested in wrasslin'. I brought the fight to Switches because that's what Jam Willy do. I'm like an orangutan when I cut loose. You smell me, cuz? And Switches? He proved beyond any doubt that he is precisely the coward the I proclaimed him to be. So what it do, Switches? Where you at? Come and get cha ass-whoopin' like a man cuz if ya don't Jam Willy is gonna find ya and whoop that ass double-time."
Just in time to conclude Jam Willy's anti-Switches diatribe, the aforementioned big-tittied waitress arrives with Willy's order en tow: A stack of flapjacks, a big plate of scrambled eggs, three-to-four servings of hash browns and sausage links, and a big pot of coffee. The waitress turns away after placing the food down onto the table, but Jam Willy doesn't let her get away that easily. Jam Willy pinches the young lady's bottom and gives her a firm smack across her ass cheeks.
Jam Willy: "Ya-ya-hee-haw! You lookin' good, honey! Why don't you ride on Jam Willy's lap and sing him happy birthday!?"
The waitress, fair-skinned, brunette-haired and D-cupped, swallows her pride, turns on the heel of her white, flat shoes and walks away. Jam Willy appears saddened by her decision but he soon recovers.
Jam Willy: "I thought she could have been my bride, but it seems that this was not to be."
Jam Willy draws his attention away from the waitress by picking up a bottle of ketchup and, quite literally, drawing a face on his scrambled eggs. It quickly becomes apparent to us, the viewers, that this sad, dopey, roundish-looking face with its glazed eyes and homicidal demeanor belongs to none other than Switches the Clown. Jam Willy proves himself to be Picasso with a bottle of Heinz before picking up a metal breakfast fork from the table.
Jam Willy: "Die, muthafucka, die!"
Jam Willy digs a fork into the ketchup-slathered face that sits upon his eggs and rips a good quarter of the eggs off his breakfast plate before shoving them down his throat, eagerly chopping down upon them if they were Switches' fleshy face itself.
Jam Willy: "Mmmm.... now that's good clown. Oh yes, Switches, I will eat you alive. Whether you be breakfast, lunch, dinner or even brunch... I will feast upon your flesh like the natives in Cannibal Holocaust. You picked the wrong working-class North Dakotan to fuck with, that's for damn sure."
Jam Willy napkins his mouth with the quad-corner of a paper wiping device and glares straight into your eye-line.
Jam Willy: "You folks that are watching this at home might think I'm distracted. Even my scheduled opponents for Slam might think that I don't got a doggone clue as to what's goin' on on Sunday, but fuck that. I can't claim to know a whole helluva lot about either of the men that I'm booked against on Slam. In truth I don't spend much time scouting my opponents. I learn the basics about 'em and that's it. The truth that's been self-evident to me through the years: Either ya have what it takes to hang with Jam Willy or ya don't. If ya don't then it's easy pickins for the J man. If ya do... well then we might have somethin' special happenin' in that ring."
Jam Willy slices off a slab of hash brown with his fork and then lifts it into his mouth, where it is promptly gobbled.
Jam Willy: "I got a good feelin' about you, Night Rider. I heard ya done put in time in that there ACW. Twas a fine wrasslin' company that produced many top stars. You got yourself a solid pedigree from what I can gather and, if I'm bein' a sportin' gent about it, I look forward to throwin' down with ya. It should be a helluva fight between you and I."
Jam Willy proudly beams in light of the brawl to come between he and Night Rider.
Jam Willy: "I want you to know that, despite any animosity that I done expressed about Switches, I got no bad blood towards you. Not a bit of ill will in the slightest. So long as you fight me straight-up and with honor, then I will hold no homicidal inclinations toward you as man nor foe. It's too early for me to say whether I respect ya. I won't know that until I fight ya, but I'm lookin' at cha like you a threat to my safety and security. I intend that as a compliment to you, sir, and frankly it's more than I can say about the third man in our little non-sexual ménage à trois."
Jam Willy scoffs and dismissively gestures with his hand in surmising any potential threat that could be posed by the third superstar who is slated to compete in his and Night Rider's match.
Jam Willy: "Tek? That's your name, right? I ain't impressed with you, son. There's losers, there's lovable losers, and then there's you. You're the bottom of the scrap heap. Why have you returned to WCF? Are you a masochist? Is gettin' dominated by your opponents in pro wrasslin' contests the way you get your jollies? If so then I can guarantee you that you will get your fill of dick-squirtin' material on Sunday night courtesy of this man, Jam Willy Jesus. I'm sure ol' Night Rider feels the same way about that issue. I'll make ya cum. Night Rider'll make ya cum. Your dick will get more joy than Jam Willy at a Vietnamese whorehouse. Now, iffin' supposin' you intend on perpetratin' some kinda aggression on Jam Willy..."
Jam Willy fork-lifts a sausage link into his mouth and chomps down upon it as if it were the cranial region of the man named Tek.
Jam Willy: "Then we're gonna have problems, you and I. You want to get cha rocks off, then I'll be happy to help. I'm into some kinky shit myself, but if you want to hurt Jam Willy then it will be the biggest mistake that you ever make. I'm in no mood for games, Tek. I don't view you as a threat and if you intend to present yourself as such, then I will dismiss you in short order, just as I dismiss this stack of flapjacks."
Jam Willy pours a plate-load of syrup upon the already buttery flapjacks and in one scoop, lifts the entire stack off of his plate with his fork and shoves them into his mouth and down his gullet. Jam Willy swallows without even chewing, like the great pythons and anacondas of jungle lore.
Jam Willy: "Ya understand what I'm sayin', Tek? Yes, I think you do, and I think you will stay far, far away from Night Rider and Jam Willy as these two men settle their differences like only grown men can do."
Jam Willy nods his head, affirming that only bad things will happen to Tek if he decides to interject himself into the proceedings.
Jam Willy: "Night Rider, like I said, you I am looking forward ta wranglin' with. I think that you and I have some things in common. We both love to fight. We both love our mama's. Sadly mine has... passed on to that sweet hereafter. I can only hope to join her someday, iffin' supposin' I believe that such a place even exists. I truly do wonder at times. And you, Night Rider, you ain't the only one that sees ghosts when he's been drinkin, brah. You get a couple liters of Jäger in me and I'll be shootin the shit with my mama and Rasputin in no time. Heh..."
Jam Willy lets out a frustrated sigh and he's lookin' like he wishes that pot of black coffee were a bottle of Jäger.
Jam Willy: "Yessir, we all have our demons. That's why we fight though, ain't it? We fight to overcome our troubled pasts and make a better future for ourselves and those that we care about... our loved ones. Me? I feel like there's only two people in this world that I'm fightin' for anymore. That's me an' Walter. I don't know much about what happened to Dale. He done disappeared after the pigs hauled me away to the slammer. Come to think of it... I'm not sure Dale ever really did exist outside of my vivid imagination. I mean frankly... I ain't never seen a black man in North Dakota, and I been livin' there my entire life."
Jam Willy nods matter of factly and pours hisself a cup of hot, black coffee.
Jam Willy: "Point bein' that although I might not have too many people in this world that I can count on or call my friends, I got the fightin' spirit of a man who got no interest in goin' back to prison. Dubya-see-eff is my chance to make a better life. It's my chance to legally exact homicidal revenge upon Switches, it's my chance to work my way up that pay-scale and finally start makin' some of that cheddah I've heard so much about... and it's a chance for me to show the world that Jam Willy Jesus ain't just the guru of the good times--"
Jam Willy looks you in the eye and he looks dead damn serious as he deadpans...
Jam Willy: "Jam Willy is a bad muthafucka."
Jam Willy winks at cha then gets ta diggin' into the remainder of his breakfast with the calculated fury of a jungle cat. Suddenly you feel light-headed -- ya pulse speeds up, ya eyes flutter to black before ya knew what hit cha, and ya head hits the corner of the table with a thud.
An African-American male's fearful, frenzied voice calls out in the heart of the North Dakota night.
Man: "You didn't have to kill him, Willy! What the fuck were you thinkin', mahn!?"
We see the face of the young black male, his goatee and his reasonably maintained afro-style haircut. The man's face and body are being illuminated by a combination of moonglow and the tail lights of a 1978 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am. Jam Willy Jesus grunts as he lifts a body, which has been wrapped in a blue tarp and tied with rope, from the trunk of the old, blue Trans Am. The engine of the vehicle is running, its tail and head lights turned on, the radio blasting with heavy metal music, while fumes are pumped from the tailpipe of the car in a billowing cloud of smoke.
Jam Willy is wearing a flannel hunting jacket, blue jeans and Timberland boots. His companion is similarly dressed, save for a North Dakota University Fighting Sioux sweatshirt instead of a hunting jacket. This Jam Willy looks a few years younger than the one that we have seen on WCF television. His long black hair is shorter and his beard is less grizzled, though still plainly visible. Jam Willy keeps his focus on the dead body in front of him as he responds to the young black male who is standing beside him, his breath visible in the cold night air as he speaks.
Jam Willy: "He burned my macaroni and he did not apologize. You know how I feel about my macaroni, Dale. And did you hear that snide remark that he made about my mama?"
Jam Willy rests the body on the edge of the trunk for a moment as he turns toward Dale and looks him in his eyes.
Jam Willy: "You KNOW how I feel about my mama, Dale. When I was a boy, my mama slaved day and night, and night and day to earn a paycheck. Do you know why she did it? She did it to put macaroni on my dinner plate. She did all that while my daddy was out neglectin' his responsibilities. He was too busy gettin' drunk and fuckin' whores, that miserable piece of..."
Jam Willy lets his mind and his eyes drift aimlessly for a moment, until they once again lock onto the wrapped-up body that he's holding in his hands.
Jam Willy: "So yes, I did have to kill this man, Dale. Now are you gonna act like a chicken-shit coward and stand there holdin' yer dick, or are ya gonna help me dump this motherfucker off this bridge?"
Dale reluctantly cedes to Jam Willy's ultimatum and helps him lift the body out of the trunk of the car. Together they carry the body over toward the railing on the side of the road, and dump the body over the railing. A loud splash can be heard as the body hits the water far below. A quick glance over the railing allows us to see the body sinking into the depths of a river, lighted only by the dim glow of the moon, before the blue tarp and body contained within disappear into the dark depths of the river.
Jam Willy brushes his hands together and nods his head, an indifferent expression on his face. He did not enjoy the work that he just did, but clearly he regards it as work that must be done. Dale looks very uneasy, as if he's just seen a ghost, perhaps worried that he's going to spend the rest of his life behind bars. Jam Willy clearly does not share Dale's concerns as he slams the truck of the car shut and walks over to the driver's side door of the Trans Am. Jam Willy casts a glance over to Dale. Willy opens the door and then calls out to Dale over the loud metal-style music.
Jam Willy: "Are you comin' with me or walkin' home?"
Dale lets out a burdened sigh. The young, black male shakes his head and walks over to the passenger's side door. He hesitates for a moment before opening the door and sitting down inside the car. Jam Willy sits down behind the wheel and slams his door shut. Within moments the tires peel out on the paved asphalt and the American muscle car speeds off into the night, the music still blaring on the radio.
Voice On Radio: "Well, the skyscrapers look like gravestones, yeaaah, from out here..."
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We see an exterior shot of a prototypical American diner with a few vehicles parked out front: Pick-up trucks, SUV's, sedans, motorcycles and the like. We know that it is early morning because the sun is just starting to peek out from the horizon and illuminate the scenery. The diner is nothing fancy, just the kind of place that you get your eat-on when you're in a hurry and on a budget.
Inside of the diner we see Jam Willy Jesus, the present day Jam Willy that we recognize from WCF television, seated alone at a booth. Jam Willy's face looks worse for wear, undoubtedly a result of his match against Switches the Clown at the Aftermath pay-per-view. Jam Willy's face is covered with cuts and bruises. He also has a black eye.
Now, as some of you might realize, Jam Willy earned the victory at Aftermath over Switches by disqualification, but he earned it the hard way and, frankly speaking, Jam Willy doesn't look much like a winner based on his physical condition. His facial expression does not look like that of a man who is basking in the afterglow of victory either. He is downtrodden, to say the least. To set the scene just a bit, Jam Willy is wearing a coonskin jacket, a Nuclear Assault T-shirt and presumably his trademark blue jeans and black Dickies boots below all of that, though his lower half is obscured by the table.
Jam Willy: "You will have to excuse Jam Willy for the tardiness of his promo this week. It's not that I wanted to keep y'all waiting, but who else was going to tell my story for me? It's been a tough week for Jam Willy. I thought that WCF was ALL about the honor and integrity of competition. Sure, a mental patient or escaped convict could earn the victory every now and again, but what did that matter? WCF was a sporting event like the NBA or NFL. Surely a ruffian with a primitive concept of achievement could not prevail... or could he? And sure, I came out on top in my match against Switches via disqualification, but what does that mean when you're being choked unconscious by a man who does not respect the rules of competition? Let me explain it to you in a way that you can understand, since I am not exactly an inbred hillbilly. NOT EXACTLY, haha. I would like to tell you fine folks, the WCF fans, a story..."
Jam Willy strokes his bearded chin as he prepares to regale the girls and boys in the viewing audience with a tale from yesteryear.
Jam Willy: "A few years back, in a diner similar to this one, I sat down for a dinner of macaroni and cheese. Upon being served my order, I was horrified to see that my mac and cheese had been burned to a blackened crisp under the careless watch of a, frankly, inept cook. As some of you might know, I'm not from Cajun country. I'm from North Dakota."
Jam Willy appears to be nonplussed. Although it might be understood that WCF competitors live in the lap of luxury, Jam Willy is proof that most are living below that poverty line of Americans who are struggling to make a living.
Jam Willy: "As such, I did not hesitate to walk straight into the kitchen in that diner and walk right up to that cook and demand that he rectify the situation with a fresh plate of unburnt macaroni at no additional cost to me, the consumer. That man... well, the motherfucker spit in my face, literally and figuratively. He cursed me out for storming into 'his' kitchen. He blamed me for the fact that he had screwed up my macaroni. He... he insulted my dear mother."
Jam Willy appears dumfounded that a low-rent cook at a white-trash diner would launch such an attack, and yet this fellow had done so...
Jam Willy: "I felt denigrated, to say the least. Do you know what I did as a result of that man's verbal onslaught? That night I staked out that very diner. I waited for the cook to get off his shift and when I saw him walking out to his car, that's when I made my move. My friend Dale tried to dissuade me, but my mind had already been made up."
Jam Willy appears... shall we say, distressed, but not in such a way that he appears legitimately remorseful regarding his course of action. Jam Willy is in confessional mode, and as such he is confessing to his sins, regardless of whether he views them as such.
Jam Willy: "I mean, I'm not exactly the murderin' type but I'll be honest: I bludgeoned him, the cook, in the back of the head with a vehicle-jack. I, uh... I just hit the motherfucker with it again and again and again. His screams and pleas for mercy meant absolutely nothin' to me. Why would they? You don't insult a man's mama and then expect him to call off the dogs when the goin' gets rough. I beat that man to death, rolled him up in a tarp and, along with my friend Dale, dumped the mofo off a bridge. That was a, uh, North Dakota bridge, not the Brooklyn Bridge an' such that you might have seen in Martin Scorcese pictures."
Jam Willy takes a deep breath, a bit of a burdened breath, but he did his time and now he's out of prison so... why be hassled by it all?
Jam Willy: "Yep, that was a diner very similar to this one."
Now, the diners all around Jam Willy that aren't necessarily familiar with WCF programming have taken heed to his words. They're lookin' like "WTF is this dude talkin' about? Is he gonna kill me and my family and dump our bodies at the bottom of a river?" The answer is "Of course not!" but how can they know that? They're just ignorant bystanders. They have no knowledge of these promo-related proceedings and the WCF for which they stand.
Jam Willy: "My point about all this? When somebody crosses me I never forget it. I hold grudges like Khomeini holds grudges. At Aftermath, a pay-per-view that the masses ordered expectin' to see top-notch grapplin'-sports action, I squared off against the man known as Switches the Clown. We had ourselves a back-and-forth match... and what it came down to? Switches had me locked in that damn Smileyo’matic. Yessir, it looked for all the world like Switches had Jam Willy down to the last fiber of his bein'. It looked like my arm would drop for the third time after referee Zip Wingdinger had seen it drop for two. There was only one problem for Switches the Clown: There was no way in hell that Jam Willy was goin' down for the count. Not only did I keep my arm up when Switches tried to put me to sleep, but I reached out and grabbed the ring-rope, forcin' a break of said submission hold."
Jam Willy sneers his battered face in remembrance of rules that were not honored by a certain clown.
Jam Willy: "When I reached out and grabbed the ropes. you knew that you were beat, Switches. You knew that despite your best efforts you could not keep me down. What did you do? You took the path of the coward. Now me... me? If the magic clown shoe was on the other foot? I would never hold a Smileyo’matic on a man after the referee said break. It's a matter of principle. Jam Willy fights with honor and pride, or at least he did before this whole matter at Aftermath, and its precedent at Slam when Switches attacked Jam Willy without any kind of provocation. As far as Jam Willy is concerned, all bets are off. This situation between you and I has quickly become a battle for survival and any notion of nobility gets tossed out the window when survival is at stake."
Jam Willy swivels his head to the side and acknowledges the big-tittied waitress that took his order moments before this promo began.
Jam Willy: "I will track you down, Switches. I will track you down like a bloodhound and I will beat you like ya owe me pot money. You understand what I'm sayin', homie? Ya done fucked up cuz ya didn't kill Jam Willy when ya had the chance. This ain't ovah, muthafucka. Not by a long shot."
Jam Willy shakes his head in disdain of the clown that has caused him so much grief in recent times.
Jam Willy: "The truth is that I arrived here in Reading, PA a few days early in hope of finding that interminable clown. I told y'all when I first arrived in WCF that I wasn't interested in wrasslin'. I brought the fight to Switches because that's what Jam Willy do. I'm like an orangutan when I cut loose. You smell me, cuz? And Switches? He proved beyond any doubt that he is precisely the coward the I proclaimed him to be. So what it do, Switches? Where you at? Come and get cha ass-whoopin' like a man cuz if ya don't Jam Willy is gonna find ya and whoop that ass double-time."
Just in time to conclude Jam Willy's anti-Switches diatribe, the aforementioned big-tittied waitress arrives with Willy's order en tow: A stack of flapjacks, a big plate of scrambled eggs, three-to-four servings of hash browns and sausage links, and a big pot of coffee. The waitress turns away after placing the food down onto the table, but Jam Willy doesn't let her get away that easily. Jam Willy pinches the young lady's bottom and gives her a firm smack across her ass cheeks.
Jam Willy: "Ya-ya-hee-haw! You lookin' good, honey! Why don't you ride on Jam Willy's lap and sing him happy birthday!?"
The waitress, fair-skinned, brunette-haired and D-cupped, swallows her pride, turns on the heel of her white, flat shoes and walks away. Jam Willy appears saddened by her decision but he soon recovers.
Jam Willy: "I thought she could have been my bride, but it seems that this was not to be."
Jam Willy draws his attention away from the waitress by picking up a bottle of ketchup and, quite literally, drawing a face on his scrambled eggs. It quickly becomes apparent to us, the viewers, that this sad, dopey, roundish-looking face with its glazed eyes and homicidal demeanor belongs to none other than Switches the Clown. Jam Willy proves himself to be Picasso with a bottle of Heinz before picking up a metal breakfast fork from the table.
Jam Willy: "Die, muthafucka, die!"
Jam Willy digs a fork into the ketchup-slathered face that sits upon his eggs and rips a good quarter of the eggs off his breakfast plate before shoving them down his throat, eagerly chopping down upon them if they were Switches' fleshy face itself.
Jam Willy: "Mmmm.... now that's good clown. Oh yes, Switches, I will eat you alive. Whether you be breakfast, lunch, dinner or even brunch... I will feast upon your flesh like the natives in Cannibal Holocaust. You picked the wrong working-class North Dakotan to fuck with, that's for damn sure."
Jam Willy napkins his mouth with the quad-corner of a paper wiping device and glares straight into your eye-line.
Jam Willy: "You folks that are watching this at home might think I'm distracted. Even my scheduled opponents for Slam might think that I don't got a doggone clue as to what's goin' on on Sunday, but fuck that. I can't claim to know a whole helluva lot about either of the men that I'm booked against on Slam. In truth I don't spend much time scouting my opponents. I learn the basics about 'em and that's it. The truth that's been self-evident to me through the years: Either ya have what it takes to hang with Jam Willy or ya don't. If ya don't then it's easy pickins for the J man. If ya do... well then we might have somethin' special happenin' in that ring."
Jam Willy slices off a slab of hash brown with his fork and then lifts it into his mouth, where it is promptly gobbled.
Jam Willy: "I got a good feelin' about you, Night Rider. I heard ya done put in time in that there ACW. Twas a fine wrasslin' company that produced many top stars. You got yourself a solid pedigree from what I can gather and, if I'm bein' a sportin' gent about it, I look forward to throwin' down with ya. It should be a helluva fight between you and I."
Jam Willy proudly beams in light of the brawl to come between he and Night Rider.
Jam Willy: "I want you to know that, despite any animosity that I done expressed about Switches, I got no bad blood towards you. Not a bit of ill will in the slightest. So long as you fight me straight-up and with honor, then I will hold no homicidal inclinations toward you as man nor foe. It's too early for me to say whether I respect ya. I won't know that until I fight ya, but I'm lookin' at cha like you a threat to my safety and security. I intend that as a compliment to you, sir, and frankly it's more than I can say about the third man in our little non-sexual ménage à trois."
Jam Willy scoffs and dismissively gestures with his hand in surmising any potential threat that could be posed by the third superstar who is slated to compete in his and Night Rider's match.
Jam Willy: "Tek? That's your name, right? I ain't impressed with you, son. There's losers, there's lovable losers, and then there's you. You're the bottom of the scrap heap. Why have you returned to WCF? Are you a masochist? Is gettin' dominated by your opponents in pro wrasslin' contests the way you get your jollies? If so then I can guarantee you that you will get your fill of dick-squirtin' material on Sunday night courtesy of this man, Jam Willy Jesus. I'm sure ol' Night Rider feels the same way about that issue. I'll make ya cum. Night Rider'll make ya cum. Your dick will get more joy than Jam Willy at a Vietnamese whorehouse. Now, iffin' supposin' you intend on perpetratin' some kinda aggression on Jam Willy..."
Jam Willy fork-lifts a sausage link into his mouth and chomps down upon it as if it were the cranial region of the man named Tek.
Jam Willy: "Then we're gonna have problems, you and I. You want to get cha rocks off, then I'll be happy to help. I'm into some kinky shit myself, but if you want to hurt Jam Willy then it will be the biggest mistake that you ever make. I'm in no mood for games, Tek. I don't view you as a threat and if you intend to present yourself as such, then I will dismiss you in short order, just as I dismiss this stack of flapjacks."
Jam Willy pours a plate-load of syrup upon the already buttery flapjacks and in one scoop, lifts the entire stack off of his plate with his fork and shoves them into his mouth and down his gullet. Jam Willy swallows without even chewing, like the great pythons and anacondas of jungle lore.
Jam Willy: "Ya understand what I'm sayin', Tek? Yes, I think you do, and I think you will stay far, far away from Night Rider and Jam Willy as these two men settle their differences like only grown men can do."
Jam Willy nods his head, affirming that only bad things will happen to Tek if he decides to interject himself into the proceedings.
Jam Willy: "Night Rider, like I said, you I am looking forward ta wranglin' with. I think that you and I have some things in common. We both love to fight. We both love our mama's. Sadly mine has... passed on to that sweet hereafter. I can only hope to join her someday, iffin' supposin' I believe that such a place even exists. I truly do wonder at times. And you, Night Rider, you ain't the only one that sees ghosts when he's been drinkin, brah. You get a couple liters of Jäger in me and I'll be shootin the shit with my mama and Rasputin in no time. Heh..."
Jam Willy lets out a frustrated sigh and he's lookin' like he wishes that pot of black coffee were a bottle of Jäger.
Jam Willy: "Yessir, we all have our demons. That's why we fight though, ain't it? We fight to overcome our troubled pasts and make a better future for ourselves and those that we care about... our loved ones. Me? I feel like there's only two people in this world that I'm fightin' for anymore. That's me an' Walter. I don't know much about what happened to Dale. He done disappeared after the pigs hauled me away to the slammer. Come to think of it... I'm not sure Dale ever really did exist outside of my vivid imagination. I mean frankly... I ain't never seen a black man in North Dakota, and I been livin' there my entire life."
Jam Willy nods matter of factly and pours hisself a cup of hot, black coffee.
Jam Willy: "Point bein' that although I might not have too many people in this world that I can count on or call my friends, I got the fightin' spirit of a man who got no interest in goin' back to prison. Dubya-see-eff is my chance to make a better life. It's my chance to legally exact homicidal revenge upon Switches, it's my chance to work my way up that pay-scale and finally start makin' some of that cheddah I've heard so much about... and it's a chance for me to show the world that Jam Willy Jesus ain't just the guru of the good times--"
Jam Willy looks you in the eye and he looks dead damn serious as he deadpans...
Jam Willy: "Jam Willy is a bad muthafucka."
Jam Willy winks at cha then gets ta diggin' into the remainder of his breakfast with the calculated fury of a jungle cat. Suddenly you feel light-headed -- ya pulse speeds up, ya eyes flutter to black before ya knew what hit cha, and ya head hits the corner of the table with a thud.
