TALES FROM THE STONERSPHERE - Chapter I: Rezurrection

In person, said the message.

Fucking bullshit.

What job was so important -- so absolutely critical to his precious “business” -- that it warranted flying halfway around the world in under twenty-four hours?

Especially after she made it clear to him all those years ago that she never wanted to see him again.

She said to him then, it was better for both of them. Even felt it gave them a better work arrangement.

She would go wherever she was needed, doing the work that needed to be done.

He would oversee things from Tokyo, making contact only whenever a job came up and wiring her the money when it was finished.

But Anzu Kuroyama was nothing if not insistent.

And petulant.

And arrogant.

And, most importantly, vindicative.

And he knew she had no choice for the matter.

Because if the asshole was calling on her to accept the next job in person, then it was his indirect way of saying he needed someone he could actually rely on.

As in, not just any other dumbass gorilla in a suit.

He needed a professional.

So she went.

If anything, to avoid the inevitable headache of being called in later to clean everything up after the work had been bungled.

Italy was hot and sunny and beautiful as it always was the evening she flew out.

When the plane landed in Tokyo the next day, the city was a rainy, sopping wet mess.

The change in weather only worsened her mood -- especially considering she forgot to pack an umbrella, and her coat was Dolce & Gabbana leather.

By the time the taxi delivered her from the airport to the Kuroyama Family office building in Kabukicho, she was jetlagged, beyond annoyed, and liable to cut the head off the first motherfucker that looked at her sideways.

When the door flew open, she walked in like Poe’s Red Death.

Upon looking up and seeing her, the handful of rank-and-file men on guard duty froze in place, looking the way a pack of schoolboys do when a fully grown woman walks into the locker room and catches them fucking around with their pants down.

It was a rare sight to see a woman walk into their office off the street.

Rarer still when that woman stood at six feet tall, wore an eye-catching red overcoat that did little to conceal a fit and powerful figure beneath, and had a face that immediately said she had neither the time nor the patience for fucking around with trivialities like them.

She cut through the room at a purposeful clip, black platform pumps stomping the tile like gavels of authority. Nobody stood or spoke as she walked by. For reasons that couldn’t readily be explained, they all knew there would be consequences.

The older members who recognized her awkwardly cleared their throats and quickly disappeared back into their card games and newspapers and shonen magazines and other time-killing proclivities in thuggish wankery.

The younger chaps gawked stupidly. There was a good chance that this was the first time many of them had actually seen a woman they instantly knew they could never intimidate.

An assembly of bad decisions, she thought. Both in life and in fashion. Useful enough to shark loans and run casinos and intimidate locals. Worthless pigs beyond the streets.

The captain’s desk in the back was her destination. She was only mildly relieved to find she still recognized the face sitting there.

Okamura had grayed considerably since she’d seen him last. He sat reclined on his chair, legs propped on the desk, hands busy with a blipping and blooping Nintendo Switch 2 in his lap.

He didn’t bother looking up from his game as she approached, as though she were expected.

“Okaeri, Kaoru,” he greeted listlessly. “Flight ha doudatta?”

The flight was fine.

But small talk was the last thing she was interested in.

“Kuso karae, Okamura,” she cursed in reply, and nodded to his Switch. “Ii kagen otona ni nare yo.”

The tenured yakuza lieutenant laughed, dry and joyless.

She hated virtually everyone who worked for the family in some aspect. But Okamura she respected on level, for being one of the few that actually understood her.

“Manners nattenai ne, ama,” he clapped back, and waved to the door behind him. “Oyabun ga matteiru.”

Another mild relief.

Better to make the asshole wait on her than for her to waste time waiting on him.

Without delay, she stepped through the door.

Not much had changed in Anzu Kuroyama’s office in the few years since she last saw it. Still the dimly lit, over-opulent den that reeked of premium tobacco, expensive whiskey, and unhinged arrogance.

Two sets of eyes fell upon her as soon as she entered.

The first belonged to Anzu himself, seated behind his large, ornately carved wooden desk and smoking his cigar with the grandeur and presence of an imposter king.

The second belonged to someone she hadn’t seen before -- a gaijin, groomed and dressed as sharp and tacky as the other brutes in the other room, sitting leisurely cross-legged on the leather side sofa while nursing an iced tumbler.

An uncomfortable silence lingered in the moments that followed her entry. As the old man stared at her, faint traces of emotion twitched across his creased features. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, greeting her with a smile that betrayed the years of hurt and strife between them.

“Kaoru…”

Seeing his face made the rage within her blossom.

She redirected her glare to the gaijin sitting off to the side, who stared back with a suave half-grin that was plainly meant to be more than friendly.

Something about him made her skin crawl.

A part of her was curious to ask who he was and what he was doing there. But she knew in doing so, she’d only invite herself to even more questions.

The quicker this went, the better it would be for all parties involved.

“Sono gaijin ni, usero to itteyare,” she rasped, nodding to the man on the sofa.

The bronze-skinned stranger quietly chuckled.

At least he knew enough of the language to know when he was being called out.

Honoring her call for privacy, the boss nodded first to his associate, then to the door.

“Beto, do you mind giving us the room?” he said to him in English.

The gaijin stood up without delay.

“As you wish, Oya-san,” he said.

Still wearing that repulsive half-grin, the stranger’s eyes gave her the once-over as he strode by and exited the room.

When the door shut behind him, the boss relaxed himself back into his seat.

“Milan dou?”

As it just so happened, Milan was beautiful. Perfect around this time of year. A shame she had to leave it behind when she received the call.

Again, though, she didn’t fly halfway around the world to make small talk.

“Nan no shigoto?” she asked, ignoring the question and getting right to the heart of the matter.

Anzu’s smile only widened. A hand opened a drawer, pulled out a black file folder, and set it on his desk.

“America ni ike.”

Internally, she groaned. There was no other place on earth she’d be loathed to be in than America, save for maybe the place she stood at present.

Reluctantly, she approached the desk and reached for the folder.

When her hand opened it, the first thing she saw was the wild, fury-filled face of a strange bearded man staring back at her from a glossy black and white eight-by-ten photo on the top of the pile.

The face of her next target.

“...fuza kenna, Anzu.”

This had to be a joke.

“Kono kusogaki ha watashitachi no kazoku ni jindaina higai o ataeta,” Anzu elaborated. “Kare ha tagaku no kin o nusumi, watashi no shinrai o uragitta.”

A petty thief, then.

Not like it was the first time anyone had tried to steal from the Family.

She flipped the photo aside, finding more underneath.

The same man in different places and situations. Most of which were promo stills of him standing in a professional wrestling ring. Some blurry security snapshots of him running from (or after) police officers. Quite a few mugshots as well -- in all of them, he was invariably grinning like a devil giving the camera the middle finger.

All this pomp and travel, just to bump off some homeless clown?

The job hardly felt worthy of her expertise.

“Kare wa kono bujoku no daishō o chi de harawanakerebanaranai,” Anzu demanded sternly.

And so the insult would be paid in blood, as called.

Though in all her years as a professional killer for the yakuza’s international dealings, she’d never been ordered to carry out a hit on a target quite as unorthodox and outright strange as this.

She continued to peruse the file, her hand briefly pausing over one strange photo showing a man in an ivory white suit leading a congregation of church-goers into prayer. She couldn’t immediately tell if it was the same target or if someone had left a wrong photo in there by mistake.

“Mi tsukaru na,” the boss continued, stressing her discretion. “America de yumei, da yo.”

A stupid thing to say, she thought.

No matter the job, as a professional, stealth and discretion were paramount.

The dossier at the bottom of the pile named him as “Erik Bartholomew Black”. Caucasian. Brown hair, brown eyes. A svelte five-foot ten inches and two-hundred and five pounds. Thought to reside from a prefecture named “Indiana”, though the file noted he moved around quite a bit.

He had a number of listed aliases, but the set of three katakana that spelled “REZIN” stood apart from the rest on account of being double underlined.

“O makase shite ii?”

Yes. He could trust her with this.

The job was a surefire lay-up.

A short weekend in the States, a bullet in this asshole’s brain, and she’d be back in Milan in no time.

“Hai,” she answered affirmatively, and scooped up the file.

The boss reached back into his desk drawer.

“Anata ashita hikouki dechau,” he said, sliding the plane ticket across the desk.

She could no longer hide her sneer.

And as he saw her face, he could no longer hide from the fact that his half-hearted attempt at cordiality meant nothing to her years of harbored hatred.

“Konya deru,” she countered.

She left the plane ticket on the desk as she turned to leave. The information in the folder was all that mattered. And she’d be damned if she’d be flying on his money.

“Kaoru…”

With her hand on the knob, the sharp abruptness in his voice brought her to pause.

“Kono kazoku nitaisuru anata no gimu o wasurenai dekudasai.”

She shut her eyes and sighed.

Of course he’d dangle that over her head.

What could she do but follow orders? The obligations to her family was everything she knew.

Whether with love or with hate, there was no escaping him. No escaping the family.

“Watashi ha kesshite wasurenai…” replied Kaoru Kuroyama

Then she opened the door to leave the boss’ office.

“...otousan.”

“SWEET SAGAN’S GHOST, SHE’S COMIN’ TO KILL ME!!!”

Rezin ran rampant through the Chi-town streets.

This on its own is nothing out of the ordinary. There are many streets across the country through which the Goat Bastard has led a desperate chase.

This occasion, however, proved to be an experience out of the ordinary, mostly on account of the pursuer being an eight-hundred foot long steam-propelled airship.

Especially one that flew the woeful pink flags of Vae Victis.

“WHOA SHUCKS, I SHOULDA REALLY THOUGHT TWICE ABOUT CUTTIN’ DOWN THAT FLOCK CAMERA!!”

Random Chicagoans on the street fled in terror as curbsides, cars, storefronts, and hotdog stands alike exploded beneath volley after volley of heat-seeking missiles sent down by the airborne vessel’s bow-side cannons.

Running aimlessly through the chaos and carnage, Rezin chose that particular moment to verbosely express his current temperament through those most academic and eloquent means within his intellectual capacity.

“AAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!” he said.

An alleyway to his right offered a chance at escape, the self-anointed “Escape Artist” ran for it.

Then a bright and hot red beam of fire cut through the air ahead of him, leaving a scorched, deeply set line in the concrete that was enough to get him to think twice about that plan.

“MY DEATHRAY?!” he exclaimed. “BEIN’ USED AGAINST ME!? OH, THE HIGH-RONY!!”

Through a large, conical speaker affixed to the airship’s , a voice like THUNDER boomed from the heavens above.

“GUESS WHAT, DIPSHIT?”

As he ran, Rezin threw a look over his shoulder.

The airship’s figurehead, a voluptuous mer-tiger, held within her sculpted arms a large conical speaker.

Turns out, it was not GAWD calling out to his erstwhile servant Reverend Erik Black in his hour of desperation.

It was, in fact, the one person on earth even the LOARD himself answers to.

“Lindsay…”

A force brought him crashing onto the asphalt.

Immediately, he felt his ribs being squeezed tight from both sides from something big, hefty, and metal.

A giant CLAW.

Tethered to the vessel by a long, sturdy chainlinked harpoon line.

“I’ll be DAMBED!” he uttered in astonishment. “That thing has its own HOOKSHOT!?”

Before he could react, he was violently torn off his feet and thrust into the air, as the line very quickly and very forcefully retracted back through a porthole in the bow, taking its squawling, scruffy quarry with it.

Through the speaker, the voice of the Queen once more rang out.

“IT’S YOUR LUCKY DAY…”

Rezin flailed his arms and legs, but found little else he could do as he watched the ground get smaller and smaller beneath him.

“AAAAAAAAAAaaaahhh…”

Like the prey of Scylla, the Goat Bastard disappeared through the porthole, which quickly sealed itself like a camera’s aperture.

“UNHAND ME, FASCIST CRETINS!!”

With his body still firmly clenched within the vice-like grip of the airship’s harpoon claw, Rezin found himself dangling mere feet over the deck, uncontrollably turning in a slow circle.

“I GOT RIGHTS, DAMBIT!! I’M A SOV’RIN CITIZEN, OR WHATEVER!! JUST CUZ WE’RE IN THE SKY DON’T MEAN WE’RE OUTTA THE JUR’ZICTION!”

The plague doctors surrounded him in a tight circle, empty eyes and pointy beaks glaring contemptuously at their catch of the day.

“YA CAN’T HOLD ME HERE FURREVER! I’LL BREAK OUT EVENTUALLY, AN’ WHEN I DO… I’LL KILL ERRY ONE OF YA!!”

As he spun around, his fists punched the air in front of him, fecklessly out of reach of his captors.

“ALL YA VAE VICTIS SCUM ARE DEAD! YA HEAR ME?! FIRST I’LL KILL HENNERY, THEN I’LL KILL KURRY, AND THEN I’M GOIN’ RIGHT FOR…”

He trailed off as his rotation brought into view a face that stood apart from the rows of plague doctor masks.

A face he knew well enough by now.

A face that meant DOOM every time he saw it.

And very quickly, his rage melted into a softened tone of voice and sheepish, innocent smile.

“Lindsayyyy…” he cooed.

Like a bird of prey watching an unsuspecting field mouse from its perch, Lindsay Troy ominously glared at the Escape Artist through the narrowed eyes of a killer.

“...Raisin.”

Her tone and facial expression suggested that he was as welcome as a fart in an astronaut’s suit.

The Queen of the Ring appeared stately and regal as ever in her favored blue and pink admiral’s longcoat, clearly serving as the vessel’s acting captain while her Bestie in Henry Keyes was away on his ongoing Survivor excursion.

“Well ain’t THIS a surprise!” said the Goat Bastard, not at all surprised. “Cuz ya know, I was JUST looking for ya a lil’ while ago!”

Her eyes rolled back in her head.

“So I’ve heard…”

The Queen nodded off to someone among the rows of plague doctors.

A mechanical device clicked somewhere nearby.

The claw released its grip…

“AAAHH!!”

…and Rezin hit the deck with a cartoonish splat.

“Hwwuuaaarrgghh…”

The plague doctors broke their circle and returned to their duties manning the airborne ship’s delicate equipment.

Delicately setting his jaw back into place, pushed his way up to his knees and looked appealing up at the PRIME CEO.

“So, uhhhhhhh… when d’ya think I can wrassle for PRIME again?”

Without saying anything, the Queen pivoted and began walking away.

Rezin nearly fell over himself scrambling back to his feet

“I mean, jus’ THINK of ALL ya stand to GAIN here, LINDSAY!” he appealed while scampering after her. “Ya got not only a returnin’ star here, LINDSAY, but a returnin’ CHAMP as well! That sorta thing is like a surefire WIN for venture capitalist types like YOU, LINDSAY! Not to mention, LINDSAY, I’m the FIRST PERSON to win both the FIST of DEFIANCE and the PRIME UNIVERS--AAAHH!!”

Rezin promptly hit the deck, narrowly avoiding a divebombing set of talons swooping in at his head.

“WHOOO??” cried Athena as she flew away.

The Goat Bastard instantly popped up and continued talking as if nothing happened.

“Like I was sayin’, I’m the SECOND person--THE SECOND--to win both the FIST and UNIVERSAL Titles…”

Ahead of him, the actual first to perform that feat wore a slight smile of pride.

“So, STRAWbviously, LINDSAY, I’m a DRAW!” Rezin went on. “On toppa that, LINDSAY ya arready gotta HOT-TO-TROT WRASSLIN’ PROGRAM in the works! I mean, jus’ TRY and name ONE PERSON, LINDSAY, who doesn’t wanna see me kick that Big Ian Salt’s Big Ian ASS! NAME ONE, LINDSAY! ONE!”

Troy said nothing.

She continued marching along the length of Henry Keyes’ airborne wonder, observing the plague doctor crew attending their duties while the groveling dopesmoking daredevil trailed at her heels, incessantly trying to advocate for himself.

“I mean OKAY, LINDSAY, I know we’ve had our differences…” continued the Goat Bastard. “Like all those times I fought against yer buncha Vae Victis blackshirts. An’ that time I won the Universal Championship an’ nearly bankrupt the company after the stock value tanked. An’ that time that UFO dropped me on top of you and Hennery, costin’ ya that match against Rocko’s boys. An’ that time I nearly blew up Ultraviolence--tho in my defense, I WAS stone cold sober!”

The more he spoke, the darker her expression grew. Every sentence was a shovel going deeper into the earth, digging out his grave.

The Queen’s graceful procession stepped through the open doors leading to the captain’s cabin. Like a dumb lamb walking into an abattoir, Rezin lurched in after her.

“All I’m trynna say here, LINDSAY, izzat I’m READY an’ WILLIN’ to make it RIGHT!” avowed Rezin. “I mean, ya can jus’ ask KURRY! I helped ‘im with HIS whole, um… thing.”

Troy threw a sharp look over her shoulder that struck the bong-ripping barbarian in the forehead like a dart finding the bullseye.

“Oh yeah… great work with that.”

The tone was clearly sarcastic. For a brief moment, the Queen clenched her eyes shut and shook her head,

“Ever since you ‘helped’ him, he keeps going around saying, ‘I’m a dragon’, or some stupid shit,” she said. “We keep having to tell him, ‘Shut up, Kerry. You are not a dragon. Stop calling yourself a dragon!’”

In the corner of the captain’s cabin, Troy’s throne of championship belts sat nestled between a crackling fireplace and a large albino tiger that answered to Helen, lounging on a plush circular bed.

Shortly after taking her seat, her fingers found the big cat’s head and scratched affectionately. Helen purred contentedly.

Rezin looked between tiger and queen, unsure of who to consider the greater threat, but knowing he was doubly fucked in their presence.

“I mean, it’s the THOUGHT that counts, RIGHT, LINDSAY??” contended the dopesmoking daredevil. “Mebbe I can work with CLAY next, LINDSAY! I can be all like, ‘GET THIS, big guy! Why settle for just a lil ol TRUCK? Ya heard of the A-TRAIN? Well now we got the CLAY TRAIN!!’ YEAH!! Jus’ ROLL on that for a minnit, Lindsay! VISUALIZE the SHIRTS!! ALL ABOARD THE TEX EXPRESS, WOO-WOOOOO--”

“Shut the fuck up!” boomed the Queen.

“Aight…” said Rezin, obligingly.

With an annoyed sigh, Troy reached for a folio of paperwork on the end table beside her throne.

“Here…” she said as she threw it to his feet.

Tepidly, the Goat Bastard scooped the paperwork up. A cursory glance at the front page revealed a load of technical jargon his marijuana-addled mind could not immediately interpret, but the meaning of which was not lost to him.

“This is--”

“Your new PRIME contract,” declared Troy, somewhat begrudgingly. “All it needs is your signature.”

Rezin stared at the printed word in dumbfounded disbelief.

He’d spent weeks -- no, MONTHS -- with increasingly failing efforts to buy an audience with the Queen in the hopes of convincing her of the impossible.

Now, the very thing he wanted was there in his hands.

“This is conditional…” warned Troy.

The bloodshot eyes of the Escape Artist looked up from his freshly printed contract to the stoically staring CEO of PRIME, once again wearing her slight smirk of triumph.

“First of all,” she began. “Whether FIST or not, I don’t ever want to see THAT company’s belt on my show. For reasons that I’m sure you understand to be reasonable. Are we clear on that?”

The Goat Bastard nodded fervently.

“Hey, NO PROBLEM-O!” he said with a salute. “Can’t be flashin’ the competition’s swag on live TV, givin’ ‘em free advertisin’! Ya know, to be honest, I ain’t eben sure whurr it is right now. Think mebbe I left it--”

“Second,” she said, swiftly interrupting him. “There may come a time when Vae Victis calls upon you for a favor.”

Rezin’s face scrunched into an expression of dubious, dope-addled confusion.

“When that time comes,” Troy continued. “I fully expect you to honor the request, whatever it may be. Otherwise, that contract in your hands will be null and void.”

The Goat Bastard bit his lip.

“Does, um… does pitchin' the ‘Clay Train’ idea count as a favor?”

Troy’s expression matched that of a certain scowling owl gif.

“NO.”

Rezin apologetically threw up his hands in an instant.

“ARRIGHT, OKAY!” he said. “Against my butter PUNK ROCK ideals, I’ll, um… I’ll ACK-QUIESCE to your terms! LINDSAY!”

Flipping to the back page, the Escape Artist used the tip of sludge-stained pink to formally sign his name to the line.

“PLEAZURE DOIN’ BIZNESS WITH YA!” he crowed.

Smiling stupidly, he handed the freshly-signed contract back to the CEO whose face implied that said “bizness” was anything but pleasurable.

“Don’t let it go to your head, Raisin,” said Troy. “I’m only doing this because I’m sick and tired of hearing about you trying to sneak into the shows. Your first opponent is Scott, by the way.”

Rezin balked in utter shock.

“GREAT SCOTT!?” he exclaimed. “HOLY SHUCKS!! I had NO IDEA he was back!”

Once more, Troy clenched her eyes and shook her head.

“No, not that asshole,” she clarified. “Scott Hunter, you idiot.”

Rezin balked once more.

“OH…” he said. “Right. Strawbviously…”

“Now that that’s taken care of…” said Troy, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. “You can see yourself out.”

The Goat Bastard looked pensively at his airbound surroundings, slightly confused as to what was being asked of him.

“Okay, um… do I jus’ ask these dudes to land somewhurr first? Or--”

The Queen pointed to the door, and exploded in a voice of fire and furor.

“GET THE FUCK OFF MY AIRSHIP, RAISIN!!”

The booming command was quickly followed by a sphincter-tightening ROAR from the beast beside her. Helen leapt up from her bed, baring her humongous, man-eating teeth as she lowered into a pouncing posture.

Rezin reacted with a statement that was as solipsist as it was esoteric.

“AAAAAAHHH!!” he avered.

And promptly ran out of the captain’s cabin, screaming in terror.

He had no recollection of how he ended up in the dumpster.

Vague memories recounted a tiger hot on his tail, and a desperate tumble over the rail of the airship.

And a long, long fall, that, only through the grace of our lord and savior, Carl Sagan, miraculously did not kill him.

Caked in garbage and offal, Rezin slowly sat up.

Only a single thought crossed his swirling, dope-addled mind.

“I’m… back… in PRIME?”

As the words dripped from his saliva-soaked lips, the revelation hit him like a slap to the face.

In a heartbeat, he was on his feet, bursting out from the lid of his tomb of trash like some stoner savior rising up from the dead.

“HOLY SHUCKS, I’M BACK IN PRIME!!”

He turned to a point in space where a camera might have been, and flashed his devilish smirk.

“Ya know what THIS means… RIGHT??”

FUGG YEAH, we know what this means!

It means THE LONG AWAITED RETURN of YER RECOMMENDED AUDITORY COMPANION!!

An’ THIS WEEK, ya muthafuggaz are gettin’ treated to some PISSED JEANS!

Now LISTEN UP, gang, cuz this is a VERY PARTICULAR sequence, an’ I need ya to VISUALIZE this shit I’ma ‘bout to drop on ya!

Cuz while these intro drums be straight up BEATIN’, this ol’ DOPESMOKER pops outta that dumpster and runs hisself into the nearest phone booth!

Now, I know what yer thinkin’...

“Rezin, ya dumbass,” says that internal voice of yers. “There ain’t no such thing as a PHONE BOOTH anymore!”

Arright, look…

For the PURPOSE of the NARRATIVE here, I need ya to have an OPEN MIND and just IMAGINE we live in a world whurr such things as PHONE BOOTHS are still around an’ plentiful in the world!

So I hop into one, and start smashin’ buttons!

CUT TO… a low budget studio.

The scene is set like a dungeon, or some shit. A coupla medieval-lookin’, scantily-clad BADDIES are chained to the wall…

Then BLAAAAMMMBB!! Fuggin’ WALL just comes blastin’ open!

An’ who else should walk in other than errybuddy’s FAVORITE pornstar viking, OLVIR ARSVINNAR!!

Seven foot tall, big flowin’ beard, horned helmet… the WHOLE nine yards!

An’ Olvir’s like, “HA HA HA HA!!”

Then just BREAKS the chains bindin’ these hotties, who are immediately like, “ooh, Mighty Olvir, for freein’ us, we’re willin’ to free these BAPS! In like, a totally CONSENSUAL way!”

An’ Olvir’s like, “HA HA HA HA!!”

But then, before whippin’ out the ol’ MJOLNIR in his furry britches, he hears a RINGIN’.

An’ the director’s like, “Bro, what the FUGG?! We FILMIN’ here!”

But Ollie just puts up his hand, like, “SILENCE, puny one!”

An’ he pops a horn off his helmet, which also serves as a phone.

An’ he goes, “HELLO? AHH, ERIK! It has been MANY MOONS since we last spoke! What’s THAT? You say you’re getting the REZISTANCE back together? By GREAT ODIN’S BEARD! I’ll be there in a FORTHNIGHT!”

Then he hangs up, and walks off set.

CUT TO…

A MAGIC SHOW in some shitty club in Vegas!

The AMAZING AMARETTOS -- CARLO and GOMEZ -- are doin’ their regular magic bit! Former’s workin’ the crowd, latter’s climbin’ the… ladder.

An’ the reason he’s climbin’ that ladder is cuz their NOT-SO-LOVELY ASSISTANT SUZIE is bein’ held within a BOX right at the FOOT of it!

It’s a great bit, ackshully. Carlo goes “AVANTI!”, Gomez comes flyin’ off, elbows that fucker, and breaks it -- and HER -- in half down the middle.

But right then, there’s a RING that innerupts the sequence!

Suz takes a puff off the Pall Mall still clenched innher mouth, an’ uses her free hand to pull a PHONE RECEIVER from her tiny golden tophat.

An’ she’s like, “Whut?”

An’ I’m like, “We’re GETTIN’ THE BAND BACK TOGETHER, BISH!!”

An’ she’s like, “Aight, whatevah.”

Then she snaps her fingers, and POOF! She’s gone!

And Gomez comes flyin’ off the ladder, elbow droppin’ nothin’ but an EMPTY BOX!

Shit dawg, THAT right THERE is fuggin’ MAGIC!

Then we CUT TO…

Somewhurr in the Midwest, an angry, middle-aged Midwestern man is givin’ lip to his lawn services expert.

It should be pointed out that not erry lawn service expert dresses like a grim reaper, but this one does.

A GREEN grim reaper, to be exact!

An’ while bro is there, tellin’ him the south side of his lawn ain’t anywhurr close to the level of the north side, my man hears a lil’ RINGY-DINGY…

…and promptly pulls out his REAPER PHONE!

Now…

I KNOW what yer thinkin’.

Yer thinkin…

“REZIN, ya daft lunatic! What in the flyin’, freakin’, fugazi-sucks FUGCK do ya mean by ‘REAPER PHONE!’”

I mean… isn’t it STRAWBVIOUS!?

It’s a PHONE!

That looks like a SKULL!

A GREEN ONE! I think…

ANYWAY, Greenie makes this muthafugga talk to the hand while he takes the call.

“THIS IS A MESSAGE!” I say on the other end.

(it’s a DEFIANCE thing. ya kinda had to be there)

Then Greenie realizes gettin’ the REZISTANCE back together beats the shit outta takin’ this prick’s abuse, so he fires up his ridin’ lawnmower, and REAPS the fuck on outta there!

Last, but not least… we CUT TO…

The HOWARD-TILTON MEMORIAL LIBRARY of TULANE UNIVERSITY…

Whurr we find none other than my eber-faithful LAWYER-IN-TRAININ’, CHRIS CHICKENTENDERS!

He’s nose deep in books an’ shit -- whish I can say from personal ecks-perience is WAYYY BUTTER than bein’ nose deep in MEXICAN HOOKERS -- when his phone suddenly rings, and he’s like:

“Uhhhhhhhh hello?”

An’ he’s like,

“Oh wow, hey man, whuzzup dude?”

An’ of COURSE he’s like,

“Oh wow! Totally, dude! I’ve just been bored sitting around here reading all these law books and legal stuff, but like, my mom says I got to study hard or whateverif I’m ever going to pass the bar exam, but I don’t know what she means by that, because I’m totally twenty-one now, and I can go into a bar whenever I want, and at no point did anybody make me pass an exam to get in--”

“--unless maybe like the exam is showing my ID or whatever, except I don’t know why they always have to triple check mine, but I think it’s cuz I was making a weird face when they took my photo when I got my driver’s license issued, cuz like the chick working the counter that day was TOTALLY smoking, and I think she was into me, and--”

“--all the chicks here are totally into me, and I think it’s cuz of this totally badass mustache I grew out, and I think when I finally become a lawyer like my dad and join the Hamburgers, Hotdogs, and Chickentenders firm, it will really give me like a sense of maturity and experience or whatever, which would be cool cuz then I could get more chicks--”

An’ he’s like,

“Oh wow, man, that’s totally badass! Like yeah, I’m down to clown and stuff, you just name the time and--”

An’ I slam down the receiver.

NOW, gang…

NOW!!

If yer GOOD LIL’ DOPESMOKERS who CLICKED THE FUGGIN’ LINK, yu’ll have reached the minnit-fitty-four mark of the song. The part where it gets GOOD and RAWKIN’.

Whish is PERFECT, cuz right now, ya gotta imagine the FIVE OF US REZISTANCE MUTHAFUGGAZ just WALKIN’ AT THE CAMERA all SLOW and BADASS!

Olvir MARCHES!

Greenie STOMPS!

Chickentenders STRUTS!

Suzie… just kinda SHUFFLES ALONG!

An’ there’s ME, front and CENTER, leadin’ this charge of PURE PUNK ROCK MUTHAFUGGERY!!

The EPIC RETURN that PRIME has been waitin’ on for YEARS!!

An’ THIS REVOLUTION BEGINS with SCOTT HUNTER! The RISIN’ STAR of VAE VICTIS!!

SCOTT!!

I’ve had my outs with the VEE-VEE weirdos…

BUT I’M TELLIN’ YOU RIGHT NOW!

Um, Mister Rezin?

I gotta cut this EPIC PROMO on my opponent!

SCOTT!!

You VEE-VEE PACK-a WEIRDOS jus’ THINK yer HOT SHIT…

But when YOO and EYE get in THAAT R’ANG, buddy…

Yeah, but, Mr. Rezin--

I TOLD YA not to INNERUPT my PROMO-in’!

Yeah, but--

WHEN WE HIT THAT FUGGIN’ RING, YER GONNA LEARN FIRSTHAND WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A STREET-WALKIN’ CHEETAH WITH A HEART FULLA NAPALM!!

I think you’ve passed the word limit.

Whut?

Yeah…

We’re like over five-thousand, or something.

I think the rules say we’re supposed to keep it under thirty-five hundred, or something.

“RULES?!”

Abidin’ by RULES is the LEAST punk rock thing ya can do!

But… doesn’t that automatically disqualify you?

Better to LOSE than to ACK-QUIESCE to some DUMB TECHNICALITY!

If this is TOO LONG for WHOEBBER-da-FUGG, then they’re jus’ gonna hafta DEAL!

EMBRACE the LENGTH!

PUNK ROCK KNOWS NO LIMITS, GODDAMB YA!!

I’m not sure it works that way, Mr. Rezin.

This is my ART!

Okay…

…

…

…

…should we--

OH, SHUDDAP!!

…

shucks…