Chops and Jobbers

“People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.” - George Orwell ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On an otherwise typical Saturday afternoon in the Pacific Northwest, the calm and serenity hovering over the city of Seattle is suddenly broken by an earth-trembling roar.

“HUUUNNN-TTERRRRRRRRRRRR!!!”

From the rooftop of the Vae Victis Department, flocks of pigeons scatter in terror.

Meanwhile, in the office of the PRIME CEO, Lindsay Troy punctuates her exclamation by slamming her fists into the desk. Everything in the office seems to shudder.

Everything, that is, except for Scott Hunter, sitting calm and collected in the chair across the desk. His gaze is hidden behind a set of rainbow-tinted Pit Viper sunglasses.

“Something on your mind, Chief?” he quietly responds, a rasp in his voice suggesting he’s conjuring up the likes of Eastwood and/or Seagal.

PRIME CEO Lindsay Troy accusingly extends her finger upon him like a sniper training a rifle.

“I’ve had it up to HERE with your loose cannon ways!” she shouts. “You’re a black eye on this department, Hunter, and I won’t stand for it anymore! Just what the hell were you doing at that fan meet-and-greet event at Husky Stadium anyway?”

Hunter shrugs, either oblivious or unconcerned with the Vae Victis Co-Consul’s volcanic rage.

“Had an anonymous tip there was some jobber activity in the area,” he reports, matter-of-factly. “Went there, saw Arthur Pleasant in the third stage of his werewolf transition… so I did what any right-minded wrestler would’ve done, and I neutralized the threat. Case closed.”

Troy's fists pound the desk once more.

“That wasn’t Arthur Pleasant, you idiot!” she bellows. “That was the Washington University sports team mascot! You dragon suplexed Harry the Husky through a table in front of dozens of fans!”

Unphased by this revelation, Scott shrugs again. He is either unaware or uncaring of the gravity of these actions.

From the seat next to Scott’s, Kerry Kuroyama quietly clears his throat before chiming in.

“Technically, Chief, it was a gargoyle suplex…” he corrects, some would say unwisely.

The Queen of the Ring’s glare pans its way over to the Emerald Apex.

“Don’t even start with me, Ker!” she says forebodingly. “You’re on thin ice as it is! You two are lucky I don’t suspend your asses on the spot, after the shit the two of you pulled up in Vancouver with the Furies!”

Kerry balks, as if slapped in the face. Scott scoffs, completely shameless.

“C’mon, Chief, that was hardly our fault!” he barters. “They threw the first punch!”

Troy’s eyes roll in her head.

“Sure, Kerry,” she replies, unconvinced. “Whatever you want to tell yourself.”

Kuroyama stammers, looking between Troy and Hunter. Conversely, Scott is completely chill, quietly chewing on a toothpick and looking quite bored this entire conversation.

“Listen, Chief, you know that there’s hardly anyone that takes wrestling as seriously as I do…”

He says completely deadpan, overlooking the fact that he’s wearing a mint green leisure, tinted shades, a gold chain, six-inch platform shoes, a permed helmet of hair, and an absolutely bitchin’ handlebar mustache.

“And I can totally relate to your frustrations,” he continues. “Scott’s methods are… unconventional, I’ll admit. He’s reckless. Foolhardy. Often acts without thinking, and without any concern for anyone else around him. He’s given me one headache after another. But all that being said, in my opinion…”

Kerry looks to Scott, and nods.

“He’s a damn fine wrestler... and one that I’m proud to call my partner.”

LT falls into her chair and massages her temples. With the exasperated groan of someone who has way more on her plate that would allow attention for this bullshittery, she pulls open a drawer from her desk and procures a manilla envelope.

“The details you two requested on Fade and Selene,” she says, tossing it across the desk. “Keep in mind, I’m only giving these over in the hopes that you two don’t embarrass this stable any more than you already have.”

Kerry and Scott come to their feet, the former swiping the envelope up in a flash.

“Thanks, Chief,” says Kerry, grateful to be let off the hook this easily. “We won’t let you down!”

Troy grunts dismissively and waves them off. “Just leave the displaced aggression ing the ring. And while you’re at it, leave me the hell out of any and all future buddy cop bits.”

“I mean, I figured since we don’t have guns and technically can’t arrest people, we weren’t so much riffing off the cops, but maybe doing something like a ‘public safety force’ or--”

“GET! …OUT!”

So they do. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “A jobber without a loss is like a cop without a donut.” - Some Guy in a Hat ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I’m too serious for this shit…” mutters Kerry the moment they exit the building. “One title defense away from retiring my championship, and now they’re forcing us to deal with a couple of Zillenial dipshit punks.”

He opens the manilla envelope given to them just minutes ago, only to find its contents woefully light. Two file photos of both Fade and Selene, and a brief dossier barely covering half a page.

“There’s nothing here,” he says, dejectedly. “No background, no career highlights… nada. Not even a hometown. Seems these two are a complete mystery.”

Hunter says nothing. He steps to the curb and silently scans the Seattle skyline through his wraparound rainbow-tinted sunglasses.

Somehow, by way of whatever cosmic force, Scott knows the answers to this mystery are somewhere out there in the streets.

“So where do we go from here, partner?” asks Kerry.

Scott clears his throat, continuing to stare into the distance and look badass.

“Ker-Bear, I’ve been on the beat looking for jobbers for nearly seventy-five years, and as a seasoned veteran, believe me, I’ve seen it all. The only thing we need to do is get in a jobber’s face and get tough, and they’ll fold like a nice 1500 count Egyptian cotton bed sheet on laundry day. What we’re gunna do is post up down at the docks where all the lowlifes ply their trade. If we’re lucky, they’ll find us.”

Ever the Pacific Buzzkill he is, Kerry skeptically arches an eyebrow

“Okay, Scott, two things,” he begins. “One, I highly doubt that these two are just slumming it up on the docks. Two, believe me, buddy, this city's lowlifes aren't the kind you want finding you.”

Now Kerry gives the city the big stare-down, taking in his hometown with a love-hate sense of fondness.

“I grew up here in the Emerald City…” he says with grit. “And I can tell you first-hand, this place is a haven for every kind of clown-ass outlaw wrestling bullshit known to man.”

He gets lost into a thousand mile stare. Somewhere in the background, one can almost hear helicopters and explosions.

“Hardcore nutjobs… backyard mutants… screaming spot monkeys… aggressive parkour ninjas… video game cosplayers… creepy dipshits on monster serum… you name it! The clownest of the clown, Scott!”

Before he can descend further down this mental mudshow rabbit hole, the buzzing of his phone snaps him back to reality. He checks the alert, and winces.

“Shit… the chief’s putting me on Helen duty,” he says with a laboured sigh. “All my years living here, and I never once thought I’d have to ask myself, ‘Where do I go when I need to feed a tiger?’” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance.” - George Bernard Shaw ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Kerry Kuroyama, the Prince of the Pacific, the King of the Kale Infused Smoothie, the Baron of the Bay Area, the Master of Macedonia, and the Jester of something that starts with ‘J’, was called away by the chief for the afternoon, so it’s all on me, now. Me, Scott Hunter, the Pearl of Peanut Butter, the Grand Poobah of Pooh Corner, the Guy Who Tells Kids to Settle Down at the Trampoline Park Even Though I Do Not Work There, the Winner of a Free Coupon to Pizza Hut For Winning a Raffle, yes me, and me alone. I alone? I don’t know. I don’t know grammar. Either way I’m gonna have to do this part on my own. The mean streets sure have changed since I was a young pink-faced rookie nearly three years ago now. Back in those days we had to make do with what we had available, things like rotary phones, non-electric skillets, board games, and women named Pamela. You try and get Pamela to type up a report for you on that old clickety-clack typewriter and see what happens. It can’t be done!! It was the bottom of the barrel and I scraped it. But I didn’t care. That is a line I saw someone say in a movie once, and I heard it too. That’s how eyes and ears work. Yes, the first time I saw and heard Selene and Fade, the Femme Furies, I thought to myself… Scott, which one is Selene and which one is Fade? And the second time I saw Selene and Fade, I thought to myself… no seriously, which one is Selene and which one is Fade? Then the third time I saw Selene and Fade, I decided to refer to them as ‘Tall Tammy’ and ‘Regular Sized Rita’, and now I think I have it straight. I should have had Pamela type it out for me so I could remember, but like I told you, Pamela can’t type. Pay attention. All I know is the chief has really been riding Kerry and I, and it’s not hard to see that if we somehow can’t defeat the Femme Furies at Ultraviolence, we could very well find ourselves kicked off the force, or perhaps something even worse, like finding ourselves strapped to a table and forced to listen to Arthur Pleasant speeches for two weeks. Can you imagine? So much bad language, so much obscenity, so little regard for personal hygiene. I saw Arthur Pleasant backstage at an independent show several years ago and I wanted to ask him about his lack of regard for personal hygiene, but I didn’t, because it’s personal. I remember thinking, ‘his teeth look really sharp, he is like a shark with a smaller brain. He’s like the sharks in that movie Deep Blue Sea if the experiment worked backward and they got dumber, and then instead of curing Alzheimer’s, they somehow caused it.’ Although, maybe that makes him more dangerous somehow. Anyway, it sounds like it would be a mean thing for the chief to do. But I dye grass. If you want to know the truth, I’ve been concerned ever since Tammy and Rita made their first appearance in PRIME, back at some point on the calendar that is before now but after like 2004. I don’t remember the specifics. There’s something about the two of them. They’re just like other women, only more so. They’re young and talented. The big one reminds me of a young Brad Garrett, and the other one makes one think of Phyllis Diller in her prime. It’s a dangerous combination if I’ve ever seen one. We certainly can’t afford to take them lightly, but at the same time, they’d better have themselves prepared. I have not shown them my very famous and secret figure four leg lock yet. I’m nothing if not crafty and smart. Not just a hat rack, my friend. I was just now tapping my head when I said that, which is a helpful descriptive sentence I just thought of for the first time. Kerry made them both look like straight up fools last week. Even though I was busy holding my surfboard and scoping out the honeys on the boardwalk with my woodie, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the way he completely deconstructed their stupid boring lives with like, words and facial expressions. If I am not mistaken there were multiple prepositions and similes involved, as well as at least five but no more than six commas. How can you stand against something like six commas?? You can’t! I looked it up! Their weakness, as far as I can tell, is their complete inability to control their temper. If they think that the most hilarious member of Vae Victis… and Scott Hunter… are afraid of them for one second, I’ll tell you what, one second is not very long so I wouldn’t worry about it. But also, they would be wrong! Flat out wrong! More wrong than Danny DeVito in a thong! More wrong than Mother Theresa with a bong! More wrong than Tommy Chong playing a gong! More wrong than Vince Neil singing a song! Those are called rhymes. Where was I? Oh yes. Yes, this will be a tough week for a crusty ol’ veteran like me and my fresh faced partner alright, but we’re up for the challenge. We are finely tuned athletic machines, and this gritty, grimy metropolis hasn’t seen the best of us yet. Those ladies will find out soon enough. In the meantime, I need to find out what Tammy and Rita are up to, and the only way I’ll be able to do that is if I follow my instincts, so that’s what I’m gonna do. Better call my partner. We’ve got some work to do. I will also need to find a cab, because I have been walking this whole time and I think I am at least six miles away from our hotel. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you without flinching – they are your family.” - Jim Butcher ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A few hours and one expensive cab ride later, the Wingmen are reunited. On the road. Out on patrol, in a city where outlaw jobbery lurks around every dark corner.

Kerry is behind the wheel, spilling his guts.

“...and I’m there thinking, ‘Remarried?! My father is barely cold in the ground, and you throw this step-dad stuff on me out of nowhere! Do you have any idea how this is going to affect my training and my…?’”

He trails off.

“…Scott, are you listening?”

Scott tips a fedora forward, slightly covering his eyes. “Of course... you remarried your step dad when you caught a cold, then you rode a train with your dad.”

Kuroyama groans.

“I’m too serious for this shit…”

The radio on the dashboard squawks to life.

“CALLING ALL UNITS: POSSIBLE ILLEGAL ARMS DEAL TAKING PLACE NEAR THE OLD DOCKS IN THE PORT OF SEATTLE. PLEASE RESPOND, OVER.”

Before Kerry can react, Scott snatches up the receiver.

“This is Car Oh-Sixty-Niner, we copy and we’re on that like ugly on your old Aunt Gladys, ten-four, breaker-breaker, over’n’out!”

Kuroyama sighs, shakes his head, and begrudgingly pulls the car into gear

“Looks like we’re headed to the docks after all, partner” he says quietly. “Hopefully this doesn’t end up a wild goose chase.” Scott takes a deep drag off a candy cigarette, his eyes squinting in the non-existent sun. “I don’t hunt geese, wild or otherwise.”

The window slides down. A single GREEN flasher signal finds its way on the roof. A siren winds up into an ear-splitting wail.

Kerry slams down on the accelerator, and the Wingmen launch themselves heedlesly into the line of duty...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting.” - Carl Douglas ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “God, I hate when you’re right…” bemoans Kerry.

Sure enough, following up on the APB to the old docks has led them straight into the dark heart of Seattle’s outlaw mudshow.

They stumbled upon the jabronis doing their business in a mostly empty, out-of-commision warehouse. After gaining entry, the Wingmen have now stealthily positioned themselves behind a waist-high row of crates in clear view of the proceedings.

“I spot no less than five jobbers,” whispers the Emerald Apex, analyzing the scene from their point of surveillance. “Two ham-and-eggers that match the descriptions of our opponents, two lucha-masks, and some goof in a grim reaper costume.”

“It’s a little too early for Halloween, or a little too late for some other holiday where people dress up. Looks like our friends didn’t get the memo.”

Since they don’t have guns, the Wingmen just clasp their hands and steeple their index fingers together.

“Looks like they’re dealing in… kendo sticks,” Kerry observes with a snarl of revulsion. “The gateway illegal weapon. If these get out on the street, next thing you know there’ll be teleportations. Snake people. Werewolves. Snakewolves. Christian rock mausoleum fights,”

Hunter shakes his head and adjusts the brim of his fedora. If there was a camera capturing this, he would be looking right into it. “Christian rock mausoleum fights… the last thing we need is more people listening to Skillet.” Kerry nods in agreement.

“Time to get serious, Scott,” he says with sternness. “We do this by the book. None of your cowboy shit. Got it, wingman?”

Hunter abruptly bounds out of his hiding spot, flashing his laminated Vae Victis membership card.

“FREEZE, DIRTBAGS!”

Like roaches exposed to light, the jobbers scatter.

“Damnit, Scott…” Kerry groans, following his partner out of hiding.

“¡DIOS MIO, LA POLICIA!” cries one of the luchadopes in a panic as he runs for the door.

Kuroyama and Hunter snap into action, while somewhere in the background, somebody is going to fucking town on a set of bongos.

“Actually, we’re not really cops, but more of a public safety force!” Kerry angrily retorts, tackling a runner to the ground.

Hunter bolts in the other direction, vaults off a crate, and spears himself through the air with a missile dropkick that knocks the other luchadork into a pile of fishing nets.

“EAT FEET!” he declares.

The dipshit in the spooky reaper outfit makes a break for the exit, but invariably runs straight into Scott’s clothesline!

“The ARM brings HARM!” he asserts.

The other lucha-dope stands frozen in panic. His name must be Scott, because the HUNTER of Scotts savagely takes down his prey seemingly from out of nowhere with a big splash!

“Do the CRIME, you get the RHYME!” he promulgates.

“Look out, Scott!” calls Kerry

Hunter whips his head over in time to see the last one standing attempting to chuck an old lobster cage at his head!

He ducks in the nick of time…

…and before the jabroni can fire off another, Kerry runs in behind them and sends them crashing into a stack of crates with a gargoyle suplex!

He rises up. Scott comes over and props his foot on the back of one of the fallen. They tear off their sunglasses in unison, and stare into the nonexistent crash-zoom.

“Great work, Wingman!”

“Lock ‘em up, Ker-Bear!”

“Please don’t call me that…” groans Kerry.

Scott shrugs. “Don’t worry, it’s super macho.”

As Kerry "locks them up" by way of a Figure Four Leglock, Scott notices something, kneels down near the perp's head, and suddenly realizes they're wearing a wig.

"Wait a sec..."

Kerry frowns, breaks the hold, goes to the other, and pulls at what also seems to be a wig. It comes off with little effort. Scott gasps in terror and points. Kerry, startled, takes a step backward. “Great Scott, Scott!" he says in surprise. "These aren’t Fade and Selene! These are their non-union equivalents, Fugue and Serena!” Scott stops, confused.

“I’m sorry, who are Selene and Fade?”

Kerry facepalms. “Tall Tammy and Regular-Sized Rita...” Scott’s eyes flash in recognition. “OH RIGHT!!” He suddenly composes himself and his eyes narrow. “Riiiiiight.”

“Hang on…” says Kerry, abruptly holding up his hand. “...do you hear something?”

Scott cups his ear.

Yes…

A faint beeping noise, somewhere nearby.

It’s only now that they realize the WRESTLING RING set up in the corner of the warehouse. Running closer to it, the beeping only seems to get louder.

Together, they pull up the apron.

“Mother of God…”

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to recognize the conflagration of wires and explosives they discover hidden beneath the ring to be anything other than a BOMB!

"It's an EXPLODING RING!"

The digital clock ticks down the final seconds.

SIX… FIVE… FOUR…

Knowing they have only precious seconds to get clear, Kerry and Scott bolt for the door.

THREE… TWO… ONE…

“I! AM! TOO! GODDAMN! SERIOUS! FOR! THIS--”

KA-BOOOMMM!!

Kerry and Scott DIVE through the bay door as the warehouse explodes into a ball of fire... and we FREEZE FRAME!

Suddenly we hear the booming voice of William Dozier, the voice of all of those really cool bumpers on the 1960s Batman TV show.

“WHAT WILL BECOME OF KERRY KUROYAMA AND SCOTT HUNTER?! WILL THEY BE ABLE TO WITHSTAND THE NON-AFFABLE AMBITION OF THE FEMME FURIES?! WILL SCOTT HUNTER REMEMBER THEIR NAMES?! WILL KERRY KUROYAMA GIVE IN AND REFER TO HIMSELF AS KER-BEAR ON AT LEAST A SEMI-REGULAR BASIS?! FIND OUT NEXT TIME… DIFFERENT SERIOUS TIME…DIFFERENT SERIOUS CHANNEL… ON GETTIN’ SERIOUS!!!”