The Variety Hour (UIIT)

The newspaper looked at David, but David couldn’t look back. Nor could he avoid it as it lay in front of him, but he was too busy keeping his eyes hidden from Samantha, who was buttering Kayden’s toast on the other side of the breakfast nook. She had read it already, he had known this much, because when he finally peeled himself from the bed that morning, she had left it sitting on his night-stand. Subtle as a spade to the cheekbone, as always. He knew she was pissed off, despite her happy-go-lucky mannerisms and expressions as she cut their son’s toast into diagonal slices; he always found it tasted better that way. Wolfing down one slice, Kayden peered up from his mother’s gaze to look at the man who barely resembled his father.

“Morning dad. Mommy says you’re going to have to go away for a while.”

He had her eyes, only his were not so full of loathing. Still, they seemed to hold a lot more worry than a five-year old’s should do. Then again, the boy had seen some fucked up shit in his five years, a lot more than most people see in thirty.

“Oh she did, did she?”

Sam was keeping herself busy, doing everything she could not to crawl across the mahogany counter and jam a fork into David’s eye. The bastard, he had promised her since May that he was cutting down, going to meetings… all the usual shit that addicts say to their spouses. How could she have been so naive? It’s not like they hadn’t been down this road before. There it was though, the proof that love was not only blind: but deaf, dumb and stupid to boot.

“Uh-huh, she said you’re going on a trip to Riyadh. Can I come with you? - Pleeeeeease.”

David was barely awake and it had started already, but alas he had dug his own grave, and now it was time to face the funeral proceedings. His eyes were bloodshot and he was paler than a man born in Colombia should be, even his cheekbones had sunk back into his face a little. Junkie was not a good look for him, this was a fact he could admit to himself.

“Rehab Kay, your mother thinks I’m going to rehab, but she’s wrong. Besides, they don’t let kids go there champ, it’s like... a law or something.”

Even his speech was still a bit shaky, at least it matched his movements - this proven by the rattling noise of his teaspoon clinking against the lip of his mug when adding sugar to the cup of coffee he had poured for himself for the first time since his wedding day. If she was withholding java, shit must’ve been more serious than he thought; he was going to need to crack out the big guns in order to climb out of this unruly mess he’d made. Sam had left the breakfast bar now and was loading her own empty cereal bowl into the dishwasher as the sound of the school-bus honking outside brought Kayden to his feet. The kid stuffed the majority of the second piece of toast into his mouth and quickly ran over to hug his mother, and then his father in that order - it never varied, David often found himself wondering if that was his way of ranking his parents.

“Bye mom, bye dad. See you after school. Love you.”

Samantha simply blew a kiss after her son as David responded in his best ‘I’m totally not coming down right now’ voice:

“Love you too kid, learn something!”

With the rustle of a schoolbag being slung over his tiny shoulders and the slam of a door he was gone, leaving nothing but a tense dining dilemma in his absence. David takes a sip from his coffee and lets out a sigh; the universal language of the man who is too ashamed to communicate in spoken word.

“Don’t try that worn-out, ‘feel sorry for me, it wasn’t my fault’ bullshit David, you fuckin’ promised me you were in recovery.”

Oh how he hoped it would snow, at least that way: Kayden would be sent home from school, Samantha would re-apply her parental language and volume filter, and David wouldn’t have to worry about the lecture he was about to receive in addition to the fact that he was withdrawing pretty hard. Even his perspiration smelled like drugs, there was literally toxins seeping out of his pores and he could carry Santa’s Christmas delivery in the bags under his eyes. What the fuck did she want from him? She knew this game too well to throw out another ultimatum; by now she’d likely learned that he’d just: agree to quit, detox for a few days then start back on the pain pills until his tolerance restored, then the rest was history really.

“It wasn’t so long ago that you were rattling in a chair right next to me you condescending cunt, don’t take that high and mighty tone with me.”

Shit. The words had slipped out before he even realized. It was his body going into autopilot and trying to make short work of this domestic situation so he could be somewhere else, anywhere else with a bag of tar and a clean needle.

“Not long ago? It’s been six fucking years since I touched anything but a joint. You know, around the same time you promised me you’d quit the hard stuff before Kayden was born!”

He knew what was coming: the play-by-play run down of every single time he’d swore he would kick smack to the sidewalk, along with all the other opiates and just be a loveable stoner like her. David snorted as he finished his coffee and got to his feet, leaving the dirty mug on the breakfast bar as he stood scratching his itchy wrists in front of her. He didn’t have time for the full report and needed to hear the summarized version; the ‘what will it take for you to shut the fuck up?’ basics.

“Look Sam, I love you and nobody can doubt that I love that kid but you know what it’s like on the road. Shit, I just get bored and sore, and majorly fucking depressed. all the guys have their little cliques and shit, I just have my pills and scripts. That’s how I survive the out-of-town shows without blowing my brains out or drinking a bottle of bleach.”

“We’re not talking about a couple of Oxycontin here and there David, take a look in the fucking mirror. I’m ashamed to say I married you when people see us walking together. You’re a fucking skaghead and you look like you’re going to break into a convenience store and steal the ‘take-a-penny-leave-a-penny’ jar to fund your habit. Motherfuckers would never know we have money for days to look at you, I’ve seen more meat in a vegan’s lunch.”

Now she was just trying to hurt him, good luck with that honey. The great thing about heroin addiction is that nothing else matters but the next charge. She could literally set fire to the rain in front of him and all he would be able to think is: ‘how long is it going to take me to drive to the dealer’s shitty house out in San Bernardino? Can I even drive with these shakes? Do I need to go to the needle exchange? I definitely need cotton wool.’ her argument was almost as invalid as as another apology from him.

“Look Sam, I’d love to stay and get called a train-wreck some more but I’ve got a meeting with my agent about some company out in Chicago that’s willing to overlook the tabloid shitstorm and throw me a contract, no promises but keep your fingers crossed for me.”

Fuck, he’d been far too enthusiastic in picking up the car keys, even more so in his cheery response after her blatant insults. There was no way she didn’t know where he was really going. Still, it was said now. He turned to leave but as he did, she beckoned his attention once more.

“Here! Don’t forget your spoon you junkie, fucking waste of life.”

He had forgotten how hard she could throw, that was until the spoon caught him directly in the forehead. It was all he could do not to let his eyes water and assume the fetal position. Such was the problem with heroin, when you had it and were on it; you felt like your entire body was being protected by an ethereal glow, but when you needed it… shit, a sudden breeze could be the thing to make you break down into tears and weep for a week. Sniffing back his wilting strength and taking it in his stride he made towards the front door, all the while hearing her idle threats and insults still ringing out from the kitchen.

“Fucking Chicago, as if. Who’s going to give you a job? You’re on the fucking front page of every wrestling journal in the country, branded as a lost fucking cause. You can’t even finish a cup of coffee without shaking like a leaf and turning as white as a sheet. You’re a fucking mess David. Mark my words, this conversation isn’t over.”

“It has been brought to my attention that a number of complaints have been made due to my being a participant in the Updegraff Industries, one-hundred thousand dollar tournament which is due to take place this week. I’ve heard all of these grievances, and to those voicing their opinion I understand your concerns. Why does David Sanchez need that payday when he’s a billionaire himself? What possible reason could he have for entering such a tournament? Well, don’t worry. I’ve got you motherfuckers covered. Below is a list of fifty-one things I would consider doing with Wentworth’s money, I hope you find it to be a suitable explanation in regards to your questions. Yes; I have my own money - a lot of it, but that’s not the same as spending someone else’s. I’m rich because I’m smart, I look after my money and invest wisely. As this would not technically be ‘my money’ I feel I’d be able to be a little less restricted with my spending. If you have any further issues please fall on a spike. Kindly go and fuck your collective mothers with a pointy stick.”







The soothing pastel color scheme of blues and greens with the occasional yellow or orange was customary to the afternoon broadcast of the news and weather, an hour of programming aimed at the stay-at-home mothers, retired school-teachers and couch bound bargain hunters of Chicago, such had been the tradition for many a year between three and four in the afternoon. That sacred hour where soccer-moms poured a generous glass of chardonnay and congratulated themselves on a productive morning or ironing and sock-pairing before their husbands or same-sex partners returned from their hard day of actual work and garnered all of the evening’s empathy. Households across the state of Illinois were just sitting down in their armchairs for this afternoon’s edition of their daily news and weather update when all across the town, a buzz from the internet had started to drown out the rumours of bad weather. It had started as a tweet from Chicago’s illustrious and polarizing mayor; David Sanchez and had escalated from there. ‘Scheduled to appear on the news and weather today, lol, why the fuck not.’ It hadn’t been confirmed, nor had it really been taken seriously when it was posted from the ‘@cityhollow:’ Twitter-handle, instead it had been treated as a bad joke, after-all; what possible reason would the mayor have to appear on this show?

“Good afternoon Chicago, I’m Sunny Daize - Weather mogul extraordinaire and today I’m being joined in the studio by none other than the mayor of our fine city, the one and only - David Sanchez who has agreed to give an official statement for the first time since his ruling to abolish religion and all religious groupings within the city limits, a new law which has seen our beautiful city ravaged by riots and crime from protesters and priests alike.”

The camera makes a quick pan of the studio, a live audience was present, similar in size and demographic to that of a Jerry Springer crowd before settling back into focus on Sonny who was now shaking hands with the mayor of Chicago. David’s attire didn’t complement the nostalgic warmth that was radiating from his co-host; his jet black suit, shirt and hair all suggesting a much darker presence than the usual today, and yet he had on his finest serpent’s smile. Resembling a venus fly-trap of sorts he postured and attempted to look as approachable and friendly as he could manage, but as per usual just kind of came across as looking awkward and out of place as the little gathering of wrestling fans amongst the few hundred spectators applauded his presence, whilst the rest of the building was left muttering disdainful comments under their collective sighs.

“Good afternoon housewives, elderly people and nightshift supermarket employees. Actually though Sonny, I never agreed to that. I thought we could shake things up a bit. I’ll handle the weather, and you could talk about the riots, or you could just go home? I’ve got this presenting stuff down.”

His very being there was already enough to set Sonny’s teeth on edge, and that was without his having spoke. Now that he knew this was not going to be an ordinary day at work however the thirty-year old investigative reporter and weather presenter was beginning to fear that the worst was soon to come. His little oasis of calm in an otherwise endless desert of depressing programming that was being forced down the city’s throat by evil networking executives funded by the mayor’s many shell-corporations in an attempt to get people away from their televisions and into the midst of the never-ending riots that were tearing the city apart. Sonny had a shaved head and a thin goatee, was at least fifty percent Hispanic and actually stood at a respectable six foot tall, which was fairly tall for a non-wrestler yet he was still made to look much shorter than he actually was; dwarfed by Sanchez’ few inches in height and several kilos in muscle density. Panicked that he was going to lose control of the show before it even started, the man who had risen to fame from the bottom as an assistant to the old news team began to run down the show he had prepared, while David had taken to the audience, shaking the hands of working class men, and kissing the hands of pregnant woman in a pathetic attempt to endear himself to those in attendance; as if the simple caress of his hands or lips could erase all the bad deeds that these people knew fine well were the doings of their esteemed mayor.

“We’re going to start off this afternoon’s show with our weekly fifteen minute meal, prepared by none other than Chef Vince Dertour. Today’s recipe is for ratatouille and will feature some locally sourced vegetables, for a full list of the ingredients required, as well as cooking times and helpful tips when preparing this meal viewers are urged to consult our website as they watch.”

“Actually… I told that chef to go home for the day, I’ve brought my own cook in to share a recipe that I’ve been enjoying a lot lately.”

He was already ushering Chef Atticus Rex into the prop kitchen which was set-up in the center of the stage, washing his own hands before tying an apron around his waist that read “kiss the cock.” a fine garment to showcase during daytime television, but what could be done about it? He was the fucking mayor and ultimately could do whatever he wanted. Sonny Daize took a seat away from the scene, his head cupped in his hands as the camera stayed with Sanchez and Rex who were now hosting the cooking segment without him.

“Today we’ve got a very special recipe in store for all of you viewers out there; we’re going to be making Bankston burgers with a Bonnie Blue-cheese sauce. Pay close attention to this one all of you calorie counters as this meal contains absolutely no effort and is now one-hundred percent Omega-free!”

It was a painful pun but Atticus had sold it anyway, grinning at David all the while in some sort of misguided attempt to draw praise from his employer.

“First off we’re going to start by preparing the meat for our Bankston burgers, and we’re going to want to find the chewiest, blandest, out-dated meat we can for this. I’ve opted to go for some pork mince that expired in July but anything that’s well past it’s best before date should suffice. Now you want to start by making four identical balls of your minced meat, ignoring the smell and being extra careful not to mention anything remotely related to professional wrestling so as not to harm the character of the meat.”

David is seen to ball up four identical portions of the tainted pork mince, all the while trying not to gag on the putrid aroma of expired produce.

“Next, it’s time to season our burgers and we’re going to do so by sprinkling a dash of make believe across the raw patties. We’ve decided to go for pixie-dust but angel’s tears or essence of space dragon will get you the same result, or why not add some ground-up unicorn horn for that smokey flavor?”

Chef Atticus Rex pretends to sprinkle pixie-dust on the patties before drowning them in oil and tossing them onto a tray before placing them into the oven.

“Now we’re going to let the burgers cook for thirty-six hours, or however long it takes for them to become entirely flavourless while we work on our Bonnie Blue-cheese sauce.”

David is seen turning the temperature dial on the oven clockwise until it rests on two-hundred and fifty degrees; hot enough to cremate the meat, let alone cook it.

“For the sauce we’re going to need a well respected, brand name blue cheese. For today we’ve chosen Johnny Reb’s Somerset Blue, and we’ll need to remind you of this every twenty-six seconds until it gets to such a point that Johnny Reb doesn’t even sound like a real person anymore. Now I’d suggest that when you’re making the sauce at home, you cut the cheese into cubes, no bigger than a cubic inch but as you can see, this particular cheese has so little substance to it that it just crumbles under even the slightest pressure.”

David follows Chef Atticus’ instructions, breaking the cheese up in his hands until it is essentially just crumbs and powdered cheese that still somehow manages to smell nicer than the burgers.

“Next you want to throw that into a pan, heat it and add some creme fraiche, stirring it together until it bonds into an ungodly mess of cheese and cream that leaves you with a taste so bitter you’ll think you’ve been molested by a Jolly Rancher’s evil twin.”

Rex stirs the pan of Bonnie Blue-cheese sauce until it all folds together, before emptying it into a jug, where it waits to be poured atop the Bankston burgers.

“Now we don’t have enough time to wait for these burgers to cook today, because sadly to those of us living in the real world; time is not something we can just manipulate as we see fit. Worry not though, as we’ve got some burgers we cooked earlier to show you how best to serve this dish!”

Atticus pulls a plate of pre-prepared burgers out from a drawer affixed to the unit he is working on and places one on top of a stale roll that is starting to go mouldy before pouring far too much of the sauce on top of the patty and closing the crown, handing the embodiment of food poisoning to the mayor.

“I wouldn’t eat this shit if I had a starving tapeworm to feed.”

“Nor would I Dave, but people seem to eat up all the shit the Guardians serve on a weekly basis without question so they should love this tripe.”

Sanchez laughs before dropping the disgusting combination of ingredients into a small trash receptacle where it lands with a sloppy thud. The smile fades from the mayor’s face now as he looks into the camera and begins to talk directly to the Guardians, ignoring the fact that he is still apparently hosting a daytime television show.

“Polar, you seem to think that either you or Alex have got this whole thing won already before the first bell has even sounded. I really thought you were smarter than that to be honest; I must say I’m a little disappointed in you. I thought you had a little bit more brainpower than that which you’ve exhibited but then again maybe that’s the idea behind surrounding yourself with idiots, even the stupidest kid in school looks smart on the short-bus. I don’t know why you couldn’t just stay out of my business Cameron, and by my business I am of course referring to the city of Chicago and everything that happens in this city, I mean what have you gained out of meddling in my affairs? Nothing. All you’ve done is get a blind woman kidnapped and Alex Richards’ heart broken. For shame!

Those tag-team titles came with a promise that you’d be in the ring opposite me again, and now it looks like that’s going to be sooner rather than later now that Taylor’s back at my side after you’re galoot of an enforcer sent him to the hospital with a broken nose, but that’s not until next week, so you’ll maybe get to carry the belts around for a few more weeks before reality creeps up and you have to defend them against Syndicate. I mean it’s only fair, you barely managed to beat two drugged-out whores to win them in the first place and yet you now seem to think you’ve become a part of the elite around the locker room? Don’t make me laugh Phantasm, the only reason you even hold gold is that the same pair of bitches pulled a fast one over me and Fausse the week before. I wouldn’t get too used to dining in the champion’s lounger but enjoy it while you can, because after we squash your little crusade next week it’s only a matter of time before Price has to take notice and give us the title shot we deserve.

It’s tournament time this week though, and would you look at that first round match! Guardian versus Guardian. I honestly hope you kill each other but I’m not expecting anything other than a hearty game of rock, scissors, paper. Whatever, it’s not even important to me which one of you progresses because the outcome is going to be the same; David Sanchez wins the first ever Updegraff Industries Invitational and burns the money outside Guardians HQ, not because I don’t like you guys, not because I enjoy the smell of arson or the symbolism of Mr. Robot… but simply because I can. Have a pleasant day Cameron, I’ll see you on Sunday.”

Crouching a little, to emulate the difference in height between Polar Phantasm and his tag-team partner David drops to one knee and speaks to Bonnie in a much less hateful tone than he had addressed Cameron in.

“Bonnie Blue, The Daughter of Time and perhaps the only Guardian that possesses a functioning brain. At least that’s the impression I get considering she’s been the only one of you clever enough to not get involved in my business, well at least not directly. There’s something in those eyes of hers that I can relate to, it’s that same fear of mediocrity I see in Fausse, the same hunger to be someone I see in Wright and the same desire to exceed expectations that I stare at in the mirror. Bonnie is more Syndicate than Guardian, she just doesn’t know it yet, but when I take those tag-titles and she is left with that emptiness of a former champion it will only be a matter of time until she’s knocking on the front-door of City Hollow, begging me to make her relevant.

It’s just unfortunate that she’s been drawn against me in the first round, because of you all, she’s the only one that might’ve had a chance to make the finals an interesting match and not just the usual shit-show you guys seem to effortlessly produce each week. Somewhere, in space and time; Johnny Reb is watching his legacy being dragged through the dirt by this cheap imitation in a prettier package and he’s watching through the gaps between his fingers like one would watch a car crash, knowing that whatever the outcome, it’s most likely to be a disaster. Don’t take it personally though Bonnie, you just happen to be in the wrong match at the wrong time. I thought you were meant to be able to control time? Surely you made a mistake here? It just doesn’t make sense, surely if you could change time to bend at your will then you wouldn’t be fighting me so early in the tournament, knowing the likelihood is that you’re going to lose, and you’re going to do so in tragic fashion.

Maybe that’s part of your gimmick though, like some fucked up doppelganger of Alex Mack and her magic hats? I have to think you’re letting this match happen on purpose, that secretly you don’t even want to win this tournament, which doesn’t make sense to me really because I had you pegged as someone who thrives to succeed. Maybe I’m wrong about you though, maybe you’re not special? Maybe there are no exceptions and the Guardians are all just as useless and hapless as each other. I hope that’s not true Bonnie, but I guess only TIME will tell.”

Having heard quite enough of David’s ranting, Sonny Daize comes back into focus as Atticus Rex heads backstage and out of sight. Not known for being the easiest man to work with he attempts to whisper something to David off the camera, but Sanchez simply pulls a disgusted face and announces aloud:

“Ewwwww! For the last time I will not legalize beastiality, I don’t care how much you love Llamas…”

Humiliated, Sonny attempts to tell the viewers that this is not what he said but can barely be heard through the sea of boos and hateful comments that now fill the building.

“Let’s get this show back on track and join our nature aficionado, Wes Trevor with a look at some of the wildlife coming into season this month.”

“Actually, Wes had to take the day off. It seems that SOMEONE broke into his house and trashed his prized collection of national Geographic magazines. Not to worry though, I’ve got us covered! We’re going live to our alternative nature reporter; Petrov!"

“Petrov will fuck you, tiny pig.”

The camera pans out from the arena and into a series of clips where former WCF superstar Petrov is seen interacting with a variety of animals and plants. First it is a teacup pig.

“Tree remind Petrov of thick man-root.”

Next it zooms into him squaring off with a giant Redwood tree.

“Fuck you shark, Petrov will punching you!”

Finally it star-swipes to him punching a shark in the face, before being escorted out of Seaworld by an armed group of guards. With the introduction over, we now go live to Petrov who is seen standing in a bush with a pair of binoculars pointed directly through Kyle Cameron’s front windows.

“Petrov is hunting rare and elusive Fluffy-backed Tit-Babbler for Petrov dinner. Watch as stupid bird makes high-pitched calls to gain attention from mother-bird. Stupid bird, Petrov will make you into stew and eat you for lunch!”

We see Kyle Cameron begging his mother for a later bedtime so that he can stay awake for long enough to watch the end of the final Harry Potter movie. After finally accepting that she will not allow this, he breaks down into tears.

“Why you make so much noise bitch-bird? Petrov destroys you!”

Pulling a pair of earplugs from his jacket Petrov sends it back to the studio where David is waiting to recap the birdwatching segment which showcased Kyle Cameron as a squawking, warbling bird of sorts.

“Kyle Cameron, I barely even have words for you. That is because I barely consider you worthy of wasting my breath. You couldn’t even keep the entirety of a title you made for yourself, how the hell do you hope to survive this tournament, let alone win it? Prediction - Cameron leaves in tears after being shamed by Erin Fausse in the first round. People cheer, Kyle cries and within three minutes everybody has forgotten he was ever in the running. Just like the fluffy-backed tit-babbler you make so much noise that everybody has to look at you, but when we do, there’s nothing to see. Not one thing, not one reason to pay attention. You’re young but you complain like a pensioner in the DMV offices, you’re athletic but you hide it beneath all those layers of being an angsty kid with too much spare time. Sorry Kyle, that’s really all I’ve got for you, something about birds and a washed-up Russian wrestler. If I were to say anything else, it would just be overkill, you don’t deserve my attention.”

Trying once more to regain control of the show, Sunny Daize attempts to introduce the weather but is cut off for his efforts once more.

“And now, it’s Sonny’s time to shine with the weekly weather forec…”

“Actually, it’s time for a quick word from our sponsor… then I’ll get the weather, just you focus on not molesting farm animals.”

The screen fades to a mock, silent commercial for Tonne-der, endorsed by Alex Richards.


Back in the station, David has now taken to wearing a sumo-suit and is demanding that Sonny Daize also puts one on. After a few more moments of arguing the presenter simply storms off the stage, unclipping the microphone from the inside of his collar as he does so, leaving David center-stage to talk to Alex Richards.

“Alex, I know… That was pretty fucking weak of me huh? Maybe a little too soon? I’m not even sure if that blind bitch even had enough air to survive the weekend but that’s for the Japs to decide. How do you keep getting these opportunities when all you seem to be able to do is fall just short of the mark every-single-fucking-time? The only person I’ve get more opportunities in life is Jayden Thunder and we all know how that story goes. You’re being used by the powers that be Alex, they want you to stick around on the very cusp of being a main eventer, but they don’t want you in the actual main event, shit no. Think of the marketing nightmare! There’s not a man or woman on this planet in possession of enough Photoshop skill to sell a ticket with your face on it.

You are here because you are a means to an end, and acid-test ratio if you will. Take next week for example, everybody knows it’s going to be Howard Black versus Andre Holmes, but they can’t just be seen to GIVE Holmes the shot, they have to make it look like it’s been earned…. And that’s where you come in! Alex Richards to the rescue! Taking the fall to make other people look better since nineteen ninety-nine. What hope do you have in this tournament? Competing in three matches on one evening? Shit you’re out of breath unwrapping a Twinkie. Stamina Alex, think of it like a buffet and pace yourself.

I’ll give credit where it’s due though, you managed to fend of Taylor last week. Well good for you, it’s not like you’ve been doing this for years and he’s just started or anything; oh wait… Yes it is. Still though, you won a match, well done. I guess that means you should get a shot to challenge for the big belt right? What the fuck is up with that? Jay Price must be drinking Zim-Quila. Anyway, I’m not going to waste any more of my time pondering how the fuck you’ve managed to keep yourself in a job, never mind a main event. I hope you eat Polar in the first round and get ruled out of the second with a terminally clogged artery.”

The camera pans away from David now as he steps out of the fat-suit and introduces his next segment and its host.

“Now it’s time for Five Minute Fashion with Frankie; a show that’s sure to have you looking hawt as fuck, even when you’re a failed teenage heart-throb with no trace of talent.”

Frank Patrick Venable, or one of David’s mindless clones of the former champion makes his way out onto the show, dressed ridiculously with the waistband of his boxers pulled up so that it sits just below his ribcage, the lettering printed on it spelling out the word ‘Beaver.’ He also has his hair shaved in that stupid half-faded parting as well as some sick temporary tattoos in the same areas and styles as Dustin’s. Frankie walks the proverbial catwalk from one side of the stage to the other, posing and blowing kisses at girls in the crowd that are probably young enough to be his daughter. After so long, he pauses in front of David and flexes his muscles in typical Beaver fashion, only to drilled in the face with a Medusa’s Touch that causes him to fall off the platform and onto a group of fans who opt to move out of the way rather than cushion his fall.

“Just no.. Not a fucking chance. I’m not even going to give you the time of day Dustin, I just got finished beating you a few weeks ago. Who really gives a shit if Wade Moor is back? #BeachKrew stayed out of my way in the last company and they’ll do the same here. Not because Jared and I exchange Christmas cards, not because Andre Aquarius sells me that sweet, sticky goodness but because you guys need to avoid the legitimate athletes in order to stay in focus. If you were to start attacking people that can actually deal the damage back then you’re just another teenage gang with a weird, bearded leader.

I don’t know enough about you to stand here and give you the breakdown of how exactly I am better than you, and that’s not through laziness on my part. Instead it’s through simple repulsion. Every single time I try to watch one of your matches I find myself on the verge of vomiting; the whole idea of you being a professional wrestler makes me feel physically sick. Sorry Dustin, but you just don’t threaten me in the slightest. Come back when you hit puberty and we can talk, but until then just stay out of my way and hope for an early elimination.”

Some security are seen carrying the Frankie clone backstage as David finishes addressing Dustin Beaver, but before he can introduce the final segment. Sonny Daize walks back onto the set, livid that his show has been hijacked.

“This is my show dammit! These people need to hear me tell them the weather forecast! Don’t you understand I am the only constant in their insignificant lives!”

David looks at Sonny with a surprised look at his level seven bitch-fit before quietly asking the presenter if he wants a xanax, to which end he is rejected. With a sympathetic smile he decides to wave Sonny on and allow him to finish out the show by reading the weather report David has prepared and left sitting on Sonny’s desk. He shuffles the notes in his hands as David waves goodbye to the audience and steps behind the curtain to a spot where he can watch the end of the show without being seen on camera.

“I’m terribly sorry for the way today’s show has went ladies and gentlemen; rest assured we will be back to our regularly scheduled programming tomorrow afternoon at the usual time. I’ve been Sonny Daize, and until then folks, here’s the weather!”

Unfortunately for Sonny, when he clicks the button to show the weather map, all that appears is a compromising photograph of a llama.


Sonny looks on the very edge of a nervous breakdown as David walks back onto the stage and verbally bullies him out of the presenter’s chair.