Friday July 2, 2010
Polk Street- Sidewalk
Indianapolis, Indiana
6:12 AM Local Time
“You know, Dolores, if you smoke while you’re power walking, it kind of defeats the purpose.”
Dolores Weatherspoon looked over at her walking partner, her eyes narrowing. “So does eating three devil’s food snackcakes immediately after getting home, Petunia,” she shot back.
The other woman laughed, a most unpleasant sound to most ears, as the two women crossed the street, arms pumping as they continued their morning exercise. Immediately after stepping onto the opposite curb, Petunia stopped, looking at the lawn of the house in front of her. “Look at this, Dolores,” she said self-righteously. “The Allen’s lawn is at lest five inches in legnth, and everyone knows that the neighborhood charter clearly indicates that lawns must be mowed before they reach three.”
Dolores nodded as she took another drag on her cigarette. “You’re going to need to issue a citation,” she said.
Petunia sighed dramatically. “Sadly, yes,” she said, and then resumed her walk. As president of the Neighbor’s Association for the Pike Creek subdivision, it was her duty to issue citations to all offenders of the neighborhood charter. It was hard work, she knew, keeping the neighborhood in line, but it was a task the retired sixty-three year old woman undertook with the greatest zeal. Some might call her a busybody, but in Petunia Dudley’s mind, she was merely doing her job.
“Oh, my!” Dolores said, suddenly stopping in her tracks. “Look at the Thompsons!”
Petunia turned her head at the next house on her side of the street, and scowled. Where the front window had been, a blue tarp now covered the portal. She snorted angrily. “Looks like another citation for the Thompson’s then.” she proclaimed self-righteously. “That’s their sixth this year.”
Dolores chuckled maliciously at the proclamation. She had never forgiven that bitch Wendy for having the audacity to oppose her for vice-president in the last committee elections, and while the young woman had narrowly lost, the pressure of the election was more than her sixty-five year old heart could have bore. Beside, the woman was a professional wrestler for crying out loud! Who wanted a professional wrestler to represent their neighborhood?
“And their trash can doesn’t have a lid on either. Come on, Dolores,” Petunia finally said, resuming her walk with a disdainful sniff. “I want to see if the rhododendron plant Betty’s been bragging about is really that good.”
Dolores stared at the blue tarp covering the window for just a second longer, then followed her friend, tossing what was left of the cigarette into the lid-less trash can sitting at the edge of the driveway.
Friday July 2, 2010
The Nest- Master Bedroom
Indianapolis, Indiana
6:15 AM Local Time
Terrence Thompson grimaced as his hand slammed into the snooze button of the alarm clock. Morning already- and today was going to be hellishly busy. The glass company was showing up at nine o’clock sharp to replace the window, followed by training at eleven. And finally, the departure for Kansas City, hopefully no later than 2:00. He hoped to get at least as far as Saint Louis tonight, and finish the drive to the Do Or Die supercard tomorrow morning, hopefully arriving in time for the autograph session Wendy and him were scheduled to attend tomorrow afternoon.
A rustle to his side alerted him, and he turned over to look at his wife, who was smiling at him, brushing her red hair out of her face. “Good morning,” she said warmly to her husband.
“Morning to yourself,” Terrence said, plucking at the strap of her nightdress. “Its Independence Day weekend, and you’re looking awfully patriotic today.”
“Oh?” Wendy asked, smiling despite her obvious confusion.
“Yeah, your hair is red, your skin is white. So I say we fuck until we’re both blue.”
Wendy arched an eyebrow. “Terrence, that might be the WORST line of dirty-talk you’ve ever tried on me.”
Nonetheless, their lips met, and Terrence pulled his wife in close, embracing her...
*BOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!!!!!*
Obviously, the sudden sound of an explosion, not to mention the vibrating of the house, forced the two LoveBirdz apart. Wendy looked at her husband, apprehension entering into her eyes. “What was that?”
Terrence shrugged, and immediately the two got out of bed, running to the window. Wendy got their first, “Oh my God!” she shrieked.
Terrence joined by her side, his jaw-dropping in astonishment.
Their trash-can, placed curbside the night before for their Friday morning pickup had literally been blown to pieces. Even so, the show wasn’t quite over, several fountains were still going, showering sparks in all directions, while a few rockets exploded overhead. Terrence watched as a spinner worked its way across the street, coming to rest in another lawn. Another series of explosions rocked the neighborhood as every firecracker in the garbage can seemingly went off at once. A Roman Candle shot flaming balls that bounced off the RV, landed on the sidewalk, and exploded. Wendy shrieked as an artillery shell shot dangerously close to the window, exploding just before it reached.
Then, all was still. Both WhirlyBirdz stared out the window at the carnage. Radiating out from the small crater now at the edge of the driveway were several scorch marks, and smoldering rubber pieces of what used to be the trash can. Garbage had been flung all over the street, and wide-eyed neighbors were rushing out of their houses, staring in awestruck terror at the carnage. Terrence grimaced that both of his vehicles hadn’t escaped the disaster. Garbage and firework shells covered his Charger, and he could see several scorch marks on his RV. Oddly enough, Wendy’s Vespa, idly resting on a kickstand next to the Charger, had been completely unscathed.
“Maybe we shouldn’t have thrown the fireworks in the garbage can,” Wendy finally said weakly. “Oh no,” she groaned again as an elderly woman, her jogging clothes still smoldering from the explosion, hobbled onto her front lawn. “Dolores.”
“THOMPSOOOOOOOOOOOOOON!” the woman screamed.
Wendy covered her face in her hands as Dolores’ condemnation rang out through the neighborhood. “We’re going to get ANOTHER citation,” she moaned.
Beside her, Terrence began to laugh, and he hugged his distraught wife close. “That’s six for us! Looks like we might just break the neighborhood record after all!”
Friday July 2, 2010
The RV- Cockpit
Interstate 70 near Effingham, Illinois
11:21 PM Local Time
[Needless to say, the WhirlyBirdz didn’t hit that 2pm departure time.]
[By the time they had gotten the mess caused by the exploding garbage can cleaned up, and the new window installed into the house, it was time to hit the gym for their training session (which went well.) After that, they still needed to pack and load the RV up, chase down Chaunticleer to get him in his cage, and receive their TWO citations courtesy of the Neighborhood Watch Committee (That’s seven!) Finally, at just after six o’clock, the front door to the Nest was locked, the RV engine started, and the trip to Kansas City finally got underway.]
[So we open up now in the RV, which is making the late night drive through the Illinois countryside towards St. Louis. As with any promo originating from the WhirlyBirdz’ cockpit, the camera has been mounted on the RV’s dashboard. However, this time the camera is aimed not at Terrence, but Wendy, who’s sitting in the passenger seat. Behind them, the lights are off, giving a clear indication that the RV’s other inhabitants have all gone to sleep.]
[Wendy looks as prim and proper as ever, wearing a pale yellow flower-print blouse and a light blue pair of jeans. And of course, her seat belt. Click it or ticket, motherfuckers.]
Wendy- “Well, obviously Terry and I are on the road the Do Or Die pay-per-view. I was going to have Terrence and I sing a duet of “I’m Going to Kansas City” from the musical Oklahoma, but Terrence threatened to shove me out the door while we were still moving.”
[Hopefully he was kidding. Nonetheless, no singing today.]
Wendy- “I suppose before I go any further, I should probably address the three hundred seventy-five pound gorilla in the room. Earlier this week, word came in that Victor Mandrake has joined Pro-Wrestling X. I’d say it’s good to see you again, Victor, but we’d both know that I’d be lying. You can say whatever reason you have for joining PWX, but I know the truth. You are here because of Terrence and I.”
[Obviously, Wendy looks hardly happy about this. Next to her, Terrence can be heard shifting angrily, but he remains quiet. Of course the Mechanical Mayhem is no happier about Mandrake coming to the PWX than his wife is]]
Wendy- “I’m done with you, Mandrake. I fulfilled all my obligations to you at Summer Games, and with the World Wrestling Alliance now nothing but a memory, there is nothing between us any more. I no longer bear the burden or responsibility of Rick Logan’s death. My conscience is clear. You eliminated me from the Summer Games tournament fair and square, and I have no hard-feelings over how the tournament ended. What happened after I fell to the floor is between you, Boston Bancroft, and Eric Dane. Leave me out of it.”
[Wendy’s gaze into the camera becomes hard, however.]
Wendy- “But you probably already knew that I felt that way. And yet, you pursued Terrence and I nevertheless. I could give you warnings and threats about what will happen to you if you even think about messing with my family, but I know you won’t listen. But all actions have consequences, Victor. Remember that before you make your next move.”
[Big sigh.]
Wendy- “Now, onto other, more exciting matters. We are now less than seventy-two hours away from Do or Die, and while Michael Norcia has saw fit to cut a promo for his death match against Sami Jacobs, he has remained strangely silent in reguards to the tag team championship.”
[Wendy shakes her head sadly.]
Wendy- “I suppose it shows where his priorities lie.”
[To be fair, beating the shit out of Sami Jacobs is FUN. Wrestling the WhirlyBirdz tends to be a bit on the aggrivating side.]
Wendy- “As far as his partner goes, I read your blog, John. My husband has already had his say on the matter, and for the most part I agree with him, save for the crass wording he elected to use.”
[Wendy shoots a sidelong glance at her driving husband, although she obviously can’t be too upset. She’d known since before their marriage that the Twister’s hardly one to speak in dainty eloquence.]
Wendy- “You claim that Do or Die is YOUR pay-per-view. But here’s the question you need to ask yourself, John. What was really the star of that show? Was it you and Michael Norcia, or was it the razor wire you foolishly surrounded yourselves with? Had you taken away the wire, would that match still live on in your mind? Would it still be the, forgive me, ‘EPIC’ encounter you claim it is today? Or would it be just another match, one of thousands that take place throughout America every single year?”
[Given the slight sarcasm in her voice, it’s probably a fair assumption what Wendy thinks the answer to that question is.]
Wendy- “I have never needed gimmicks to put on a memorable match. My wins over Wolf, Misty Xiao, and Mike Bell. Terrence and I in the 2004 Crockett Cup. Even my loss to Rune Archer. Not a single one was contested under a gimmick. And yet those remain the best matches of my career, the ones fans point to when they see me on the street. And I’m proud of that, because I know it was my opponent and I who made the memories, not any tables, chairs, barbed wire, or anything else.”
[Not to mention the last time she was in a true deathmatch... well... ask Victor Mandrake what happened.]
Wendy- “And yet, there is one thing you are correct about, John. Despite all my past success. Despite that my only loss thus far in PWX competition was to my own husband, I have floundered in the singles division. My wins have come over Lust, Mercedes Morgan, Uriah Thomas, and Brian Hollywood by disqualification. A little disconcerting, considering that I know I’m more than capable of facing better than that. But your brother honestly cannot seem to figure out what to do with me... or any female in the PWX for that matter. How James Silkk has gotten a shot at the Grand Prix Championship and Valerie Belmont hasn’t is an absolute crime.”
[Wendy bows her head, and sighs. She hates airing her frustrations over the airwaves, but Pariah had breached the subject, and she might as well have her say.]
Wendy- “I suppose it sounds like I’m complaining. I really do love being in the PWX, but when I look at what great talent there is to compete against here, and I’m constantly being given... other people to face, it is frustrating. And it’s especially frustrating when the president’s own BROTHER feels fit to mock my lack of progress in the PWX singles division. Every week, I go out there, and I take on who I’m given, and every week, I give every effort I have. Beyond that, there’s nothing more I can do.”
[Well, she COULD take the John Ojeda route and attack someone with a pizza cutter. But we all know she won’t be doing that anytime soon.]
Wendy- “But at Do Or Die, there IS something I can do. I can beat the Kings Among Men, and I can return the WhirlyBirdz to the top of the tag scene. And together, Terrence and I WILL do so.”
[A small smile.]
Wendy- “John, you’ve begged me and Terrence to bring everything we got. You’re desperate for a challenge, you say. On Monday night, you will learn to be careful what you wish for.”
[That small smile breaks into a tremendous grin as Wendy stares into the camera.]
Wendy- “Because you sure as heck are going to get it.”
[And with that, we fade. St. Louis isn’t too far away, and considering the Birdz’ day, they could definitely use the sleep]
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