Post by The VNB on Jun 26, 2007 0:12:48 GMT -5
The camera fades in to the inside of a theater - Huge, Exquisitely decorated, Attended only by society's upper class... Men in the absolute best rented tuxedos, Women in their most glamorous looking dresses. The theater is packed full to bursting, During a break in Shakespeare's Hamlet.
The camera takes us behind the curtain.
It's a scene of total chaos. The play director is leaning back in a chair, Despondent, Sweat pouring down his face, Panic in his eyes. One of the actors hovers around him, Holding an ice pack to his forehead. A bunch of actors have gathered around, Almost as grief-stricken as the director. Cries of "OH NO!" "What are we going to do?" "We're screwed!" ring throughout the backstage area.
But what's the cause of the commotion? The camera pans around, and we see a young man sprawled out on the floor on his back with a massive gash on his head - He's been busted open hard - Half his face is solid red, Covered in blood. A pair of blood-stained brass knuckles lie on the floor nearby.
Director: Who would do such a thing? Who would assault our Hamlet in the Fifth act?!?
Actor: I don't know, But we've got to do something quick! The people are out there waiting for us! This isn't exactly a scheduled intermission!
Director: I know we've got to do something! But what?!? What are we supposed to do? Just dress up the nearest janitor like Hamlet and throw him onto the stage?
The directory collapses back into his chair.
Director: Someone bring me a Zoloft and a Perrier. No! Make that a scotch!
Suddenly, A door off to the side of the backstage area flies open, And the director gets out of his chair as in walks Jihad Sullivan, Garbed in the finest Hamlet costume ever created. He marches up to the director.
Director: And who in the blazes do you think you are?
Jihad: Can you not tell by my costume?
The director looks all confused and frustrated, never mind bewildered.
Director: No!
Jihad: (Under his breath) The VNB is now in need of a new tailor. (Back to normal voice.) I am your Savior! I am your hero! I am your Hamlet!
The director bursts out laughing, Doubling over. He laughs for several seconds, Then takes a few moments to recover before speaking again.
Director: Do you just expect to walk out on my stage and think you're going to replace my Hamlet? Just like that? In that outfit?
Jihad: I do, Indeed. I would be the perfect Hamlet.
Director: We'll see about that. Show me what you've got. Act 5. Scene 1. I will play Horatio. Don here will play the First Clown.
The three men get together in the middle of the backstage area, And the rest of the crew gathers around them, Struggling to get a view of their would-be savior.
Director: Alright, Don, You start with the singing at the grave.
Don: Cudgel thy brains no more about it, For your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating; And, When you are asked this question next, Say 'a grave-maker: 'The houses that he makes last till doomsday. Go, Get thee to Yaughan: Fetch me a stoup of liquor.
He digs and sings.
Don: In youth, When I did love, Did love, Methought it was very sweet, To contract, O, The time, for, Ah, My behove, O, Methought, There was nothing meet.
Jihad: Has this fellow no feeling of his business, That he sings at grave-making?
Director: Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness.
Jihad: 'Tis e'en so: The hand of little employment hath the daintier sense.
Don: Sings But age, With his stealing steps, Hath claw'd me in his clutch, And hath shipped me intil the land, As if I had never been such.
Throws up a skull
Jihad: That skull had a tongue in it, And could sing once: how the knave jowls it to the ground, As if it were Cain's jaw-bone, That did the first murder! It might be the pate of a politician, Which this ass now o'er-reaches; One that would circumvent God, Might it not?
Director: It might, My lord.
Jihad: Or of a courtier; Which could say 'Good morrow, Sweet lord! How dost thou, Good lord?' This might be my lord such-a-one, That praised my lord such-a-one's horse, When he meant to beg it; might it not?
Director: Ay, My lord.
Jihad: Why, E'en so: And now my Lady Worm's; Chapless, And knocked about the mazzard with a sexton's spade: Here's fine revolution, An we had the trick to see't. Did these bones cost no more the breeding, But to play at loggats with 'em? Mine ache to think on't.
Don: Sings A pick-axe, And a spade, A spade, For and a shrouding sheet: O, A pit of clay for to be made For such a guest is meet.
Throws up another skull.
Jihad: There's another: Why may not that be the skull of a lawyer? Where be his quiddities now, His quillets, His cases, His tenures, And his tricks? Why does he suffer this rude knave now to knock him about the sconce with a dirty shovel, And will not tell him of his action of battery? Hum! This fellow might be in's time a great buyer of land, With his statutes, His recognize, His fines, His double vouchers, His recoveries: Is this the fine of his fines, And the recovery of his recoveries, To have his fine pate full of fine dirt? Will his vouchers vouch him no more of his purchases, And double ones too, Than the length and breadth of a pair of indentures? The very conveyances of his lands will hardly lie in this box; And must the inheritor himself have no more, Ha?
The director suddenly stops, And throws up his arms, A huge smile on his face, Genuine joy in his eyes.
Director: That's it! That's enough! You were simply magnificent! You ARE Hamlet!
Jihad: I told you as much. Now, On with the play!
The crew gets in position backstage for the final scene, And the assembled crowd starts to buzz as the curtain begins to rise, Showing a hall in the great castle. Hamlet and Horatio enter, And the scene plays on, With both men performing magnificently. The play goes off without a hitch, And we get to the tragic ending...
Jihad: I embrace it freely; And will this brother's wager frankly play. Give us the foils. Come on.
Laertes: Come, one for me.
Jihad: I'll be your foil, Laertes: In mine ignorance Your skill shall, Like a star i' the darkest night, Stick fiery off indeed.
Laertes: You mock me, Sir.
Jihad: No, By this hand.
King Claudius: Give them the foils, Young Osric. Cousin Hamlet, You know the wager?
Jihad: Very well, My lord, Your grace hath laid the odds o' the weaker side.
King Claudius: I do not fear it; I have seen you both: But since he is better'd, We have therefore odds.
Laertes: This is too heavy, Let me see another.
Jihad: This likes me well. These foils have all a length?
They prepare to play.
Osric: Ay, My good lord.
King Claudius: Set me the stoops of wine upon that table. If Hamlet give the first or second hit, Or quit in answer of the third exchange, Let all the battlements their ordnance fire: The king shall drink to Hamlet's better breath; And in the cup an union shall he throw, Richer than that which four successive kings In Denmark's crown have worn. Give me the cups; And let the kettle to the trumpet speak, The trumpet to the cannoneer without, The cannons to the heavens, The heavens to earth, 'Now the king dunks to Hamlet.' Come, begin: And you, The judges, Bear a wary eye.
Jihad: Come on, Sir.
Laertes: Come, My lord.
They play.
Jihad: One.
Laertes: No.
Jihad: Judgment.
Osric: A hit, A very palpable hit.
The two men move into position to fight again, Yet Jihad suddenly breaks character and disarms Osric with his foil, And grabs him about the neck, And plants him with a The Holy War! Laertes and King Claudius stand stunned as the crowd gasps loudly. Jihad then grabs Osric and DDT's him to the floor, And then grabs King Claudius before he can run away, and plants him with yet another Holy War!
The crowd starts yelling, And the Director runs out onto the stage, And gets in Jihad's face about the whole thing. Jihad simply boots him in the guts and hits the Director with a Holy War of his own! Jihad looks around at the carnage and laughs heartily before turning and heading backstage. As he gets there, There rest of the crew scatter for their lives, And Jihad smiles evilly. He then looks up into the camera...
Jihad: There shall be no tragedy here today.
As we can see, Matthew, Not only am I a better wrestler than you, I am also a better actor.
Jihad stops and looks around a moment, As a straggling female crew member runs past him to the exit.
Jihad: But you see, Matthew... Every actor puts some of himself into his role... And I am not talking about the man-juice you whip up while staring at pictures of Joanie Laurer.
Each actor or actress gives of themselves, Ahares the essence of who they are with the audience in their roles... Their on screen character is comprised of bits of themselves.
Now, While your sarcasm was thicker than the shit that lines your britches, And your attempt to swerve your audience was as thinly-veiled as the lingerie on a porn star, The real you shone through your daytime soap opera-level of acting ability.
The real Szaban was underneath that character, And he bled through like a hot knife through butter.
Even though you may "act" as if you want this match. We all know, It is just that, An act... We also all know, You don't want any part of this match with me.
But now, It is time for you to fight the battle once again. It is time for you to either stand up and fight, Or roll over on your back like a submissive bitch in heat.
Funny thing is, You are too stupid to roll over.
Your three year old brain that matches the intelligence of most dogs will have you come charging out in the defense of all that is good, And faster than you can say "Boston Beans", I will have you flat on your back wondering what shade of blue the light the fourth rafter from the left is. The whipping that comes knocking at my door will be greeted with an unmatched fury of The Ruler Of ALL, And that whipping will turn and run with its tail between its legs.
But it will not get far, As it feels the hand of its owner come crushing around its neck, And putting it out of its misery.
You claim to be the best...
But you faced me, And you lost...
Your Master.
A broken neck is the least of your worries this time. I will not stop until I have crushed each and every bone in your body.
When I am through, You will be begging me for the pain of Highway To Hell last month. That pain, Will be nothing compared to what you will feel at King Of The Ring...
There will be plenty of time for reflection when this match is over, Szaban.
You can stand facing that mirror all you like, And all you will see is MY reflection, Holding The World Title over my shoulder, And you can stand there and think "What If" until your dying days.
And none of it will change the fact that you simply were not the best.
The camera comes in and focuses on Jihad.
Jihad: To be Champion, or not to be Champion.
I choose "To be".
Even if I don't want the damn Championship. I will claim it just so you wont...
Savor your time at the top, Szaban.
The trip down is an awful long one. But you already know that...
Jihad laughs evilly, And we continue to hear it as the camera fades to black...
End Scene...
The camera takes us behind the curtain.
It's a scene of total chaos. The play director is leaning back in a chair, Despondent, Sweat pouring down his face, Panic in his eyes. One of the actors hovers around him, Holding an ice pack to his forehead. A bunch of actors have gathered around, Almost as grief-stricken as the director. Cries of "OH NO!" "What are we going to do?" "We're screwed!" ring throughout the backstage area.
But what's the cause of the commotion? The camera pans around, and we see a young man sprawled out on the floor on his back with a massive gash on his head - He's been busted open hard - Half his face is solid red, Covered in blood. A pair of blood-stained brass knuckles lie on the floor nearby.
Director: Who would do such a thing? Who would assault our Hamlet in the Fifth act?!?
Actor: I don't know, But we've got to do something quick! The people are out there waiting for us! This isn't exactly a scheduled intermission!
Director: I know we've got to do something! But what?!? What are we supposed to do? Just dress up the nearest janitor like Hamlet and throw him onto the stage?
The directory collapses back into his chair.
Director: Someone bring me a Zoloft and a Perrier. No! Make that a scotch!
Suddenly, A door off to the side of the backstage area flies open, And the director gets out of his chair as in walks Jihad Sullivan, Garbed in the finest Hamlet costume ever created. He marches up to the director.
Director: And who in the blazes do you think you are?
Jihad: Can you not tell by my costume?
The director looks all confused and frustrated, never mind bewildered.
Director: No!
Jihad: (Under his breath) The VNB is now in need of a new tailor. (Back to normal voice.) I am your Savior! I am your hero! I am your Hamlet!
The director bursts out laughing, Doubling over. He laughs for several seconds, Then takes a few moments to recover before speaking again.
Director: Do you just expect to walk out on my stage and think you're going to replace my Hamlet? Just like that? In that outfit?
Jihad: I do, Indeed. I would be the perfect Hamlet.
Director: We'll see about that. Show me what you've got. Act 5. Scene 1. I will play Horatio. Don here will play the First Clown.
The three men get together in the middle of the backstage area, And the rest of the crew gathers around them, Struggling to get a view of their would-be savior.
Director: Alright, Don, You start with the singing at the grave.
Don: Cudgel thy brains no more about it, For your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating; And, When you are asked this question next, Say 'a grave-maker: 'The houses that he makes last till doomsday. Go, Get thee to Yaughan: Fetch me a stoup of liquor.
He digs and sings.
Don: In youth, When I did love, Did love, Methought it was very sweet, To contract, O, The time, for, Ah, My behove, O, Methought, There was nothing meet.
Jihad: Has this fellow no feeling of his business, That he sings at grave-making?
Director: Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness.
Jihad: 'Tis e'en so: The hand of little employment hath the daintier sense.
Don: Sings But age, With his stealing steps, Hath claw'd me in his clutch, And hath shipped me intil the land, As if I had never been such.
Throws up a skull
Jihad: That skull had a tongue in it, And could sing once: how the knave jowls it to the ground, As if it were Cain's jaw-bone, That did the first murder! It might be the pate of a politician, Which this ass now o'er-reaches; One that would circumvent God, Might it not?
Director: It might, My lord.
Jihad: Or of a courtier; Which could say 'Good morrow, Sweet lord! How dost thou, Good lord?' This might be my lord such-a-one, That praised my lord such-a-one's horse, When he meant to beg it; might it not?
Director: Ay, My lord.
Jihad: Why, E'en so: And now my Lady Worm's; Chapless, And knocked about the mazzard with a sexton's spade: Here's fine revolution, An we had the trick to see't. Did these bones cost no more the breeding, But to play at loggats with 'em? Mine ache to think on't.
Don: Sings A pick-axe, And a spade, A spade, For and a shrouding sheet: O, A pit of clay for to be made For such a guest is meet.
Throws up another skull.
Jihad: There's another: Why may not that be the skull of a lawyer? Where be his quiddities now, His quillets, His cases, His tenures, And his tricks? Why does he suffer this rude knave now to knock him about the sconce with a dirty shovel, And will not tell him of his action of battery? Hum! This fellow might be in's time a great buyer of land, With his statutes, His recognize, His fines, His double vouchers, His recoveries: Is this the fine of his fines, And the recovery of his recoveries, To have his fine pate full of fine dirt? Will his vouchers vouch him no more of his purchases, And double ones too, Than the length and breadth of a pair of indentures? The very conveyances of his lands will hardly lie in this box; And must the inheritor himself have no more, Ha?
The director suddenly stops, And throws up his arms, A huge smile on his face, Genuine joy in his eyes.
Director: That's it! That's enough! You were simply magnificent! You ARE Hamlet!
Jihad: I told you as much. Now, On with the play!
The crew gets in position backstage for the final scene, And the assembled crowd starts to buzz as the curtain begins to rise, Showing a hall in the great castle. Hamlet and Horatio enter, And the scene plays on, With both men performing magnificently. The play goes off without a hitch, And we get to the tragic ending...
Jihad: I embrace it freely; And will this brother's wager frankly play. Give us the foils. Come on.
Laertes: Come, one for me.
Jihad: I'll be your foil, Laertes: In mine ignorance Your skill shall, Like a star i' the darkest night, Stick fiery off indeed.
Laertes: You mock me, Sir.
Jihad: No, By this hand.
King Claudius: Give them the foils, Young Osric. Cousin Hamlet, You know the wager?
Jihad: Very well, My lord, Your grace hath laid the odds o' the weaker side.
King Claudius: I do not fear it; I have seen you both: But since he is better'd, We have therefore odds.
Laertes: This is too heavy, Let me see another.
Jihad: This likes me well. These foils have all a length?
They prepare to play.
Osric: Ay, My good lord.
King Claudius: Set me the stoops of wine upon that table. If Hamlet give the first or second hit, Or quit in answer of the third exchange, Let all the battlements their ordnance fire: The king shall drink to Hamlet's better breath; And in the cup an union shall he throw, Richer than that which four successive kings In Denmark's crown have worn. Give me the cups; And let the kettle to the trumpet speak, The trumpet to the cannoneer without, The cannons to the heavens, The heavens to earth, 'Now the king dunks to Hamlet.' Come, begin: And you, The judges, Bear a wary eye.
Jihad: Come on, Sir.
Laertes: Come, My lord.
They play.
Jihad: One.
Laertes: No.
Jihad: Judgment.
Osric: A hit, A very palpable hit.
The two men move into position to fight again, Yet Jihad suddenly breaks character and disarms Osric with his foil, And grabs him about the neck, And plants him with a The Holy War! Laertes and King Claudius stand stunned as the crowd gasps loudly. Jihad then grabs Osric and DDT's him to the floor, And then grabs King Claudius before he can run away, and plants him with yet another Holy War!
The crowd starts yelling, And the Director runs out onto the stage, And gets in Jihad's face about the whole thing. Jihad simply boots him in the guts and hits the Director with a Holy War of his own! Jihad looks around at the carnage and laughs heartily before turning and heading backstage. As he gets there, There rest of the crew scatter for their lives, And Jihad smiles evilly. He then looks up into the camera...
Jihad: There shall be no tragedy here today.
As we can see, Matthew, Not only am I a better wrestler than you, I am also a better actor.
Jihad stops and looks around a moment, As a straggling female crew member runs past him to the exit.
Jihad: But you see, Matthew... Every actor puts some of himself into his role... And I am not talking about the man-juice you whip up while staring at pictures of Joanie Laurer.
Each actor or actress gives of themselves, Ahares the essence of who they are with the audience in their roles... Their on screen character is comprised of bits of themselves.
Now, While your sarcasm was thicker than the shit that lines your britches, And your attempt to swerve your audience was as thinly-veiled as the lingerie on a porn star, The real you shone through your daytime soap opera-level of acting ability.
The real Szaban was underneath that character, And he bled through like a hot knife through butter.
Even though you may "act" as if you want this match. We all know, It is just that, An act... We also all know, You don't want any part of this match with me.
But now, It is time for you to fight the battle once again. It is time for you to either stand up and fight, Or roll over on your back like a submissive bitch in heat.
Funny thing is, You are too stupid to roll over.
Your three year old brain that matches the intelligence of most dogs will have you come charging out in the defense of all that is good, And faster than you can say "Boston Beans", I will have you flat on your back wondering what shade of blue the light the fourth rafter from the left is. The whipping that comes knocking at my door will be greeted with an unmatched fury of The Ruler Of ALL, And that whipping will turn and run with its tail between its legs.
But it will not get far, As it feels the hand of its owner come crushing around its neck, And putting it out of its misery.
You claim to be the best...
But you faced me, And you lost...
Your Master.
A broken neck is the least of your worries this time. I will not stop until I have crushed each and every bone in your body.
When I am through, You will be begging me for the pain of Highway To Hell last month. That pain, Will be nothing compared to what you will feel at King Of The Ring...
There will be plenty of time for reflection when this match is over, Szaban.
You can stand facing that mirror all you like, And all you will see is MY reflection, Holding The World Title over my shoulder, And you can stand there and think "What If" until your dying days.
And none of it will change the fact that you simply were not the best.
The camera comes in and focuses on Jihad.
Jihad: To be Champion, or not to be Champion.
I choose "To be".
Even if I don't want the damn Championship. I will claim it just so you wont...
Savor your time at the top, Szaban.
The trip down is an awful long one. But you already know that...
Jihad laughs evilly, And we continue to hear it as the camera fades to black...
End Scene...
