[The camera fades in to reveal, rather than what one would typically expect from an AWOL promo, the figure of one Steven Parkwood sitting on a yoga mat, surrounded by candles, a jack-o-lantern, an incense burner, a Ouija board, and what appears to be a paper mache skull with smoke pouring out of it. All of this contributes to make the gold turban with purple fringe and a large oval cut emerald resting on his forehead seem somewhat less out of place, if that is at all possible. He flashes a smile at the camera, his hands resting on his crossed knees in the lotus position.]
Hurse-Some of you may be wondering what I’m doing, sitting here in AWOL’s promo, dressed in this get-up. The answer is that the big guy is under contract to do three promo videos for the Overbooked Extravaganza main event, and…um…we can’t find him.
[He shrugs apologetically.]
Hurse-It may seem a little counter intuitive, really, for me to be helping him out since we’re technically opponents in this match, but ultimately he’s my stable mate, I owe the big guy a few favors, and, well, he has my Bratz collection. Also, it’s not like I’ve been doing any promos since last week, so hey, I figured why not?
[He smiles, the explanation not really satisfying him any more than it was likely to satisfy the audience.]
Hurse-However, I do have trouble imitating his particular style of promo, so I thought, in the spirit of the season, I could come up with someone as caustic and in possession of his sense of the ironic and aptitude with the English language, while also providing myself with a convenient method of doing this stupid promo and getting back home.
[He reaches down towards the Ouija board, rolling his eyes back into his head.]
Hurse-Oooohhh, great spirits of the beyond. I call upon you, souls of the departed, to send us one who can provide some entertaining content. I CALL upon you, to send back the animus of one who can do AWOL’s promo justice. I CALL UPON YOU!!!!!
[A crash of thunder goes off outside the window (out of place, since the weather was completely clear just a moment ago) and a gust of wind (equally out of place, since Hurse is indoors) blows out all of the candles simultaneously. A girlish shriek issues forth, likely from Steven Parkwood’s lips, as the scene is pitched entirely into darkness. A moment passes, two, with only the sounds of undefined motion to give the viewer a sense that anything is occurring, before Hurse finally flips on a light switch. He is looking at the room through the cracks between the fingers he is holding over his eyes, his breath coming in short, frantic bursts, which slowly but surely starts to even out to a more steady level. He drops the hands back down to his sides, a relieved smile on his face.]
Hurse-Holy crap, heh, I almost thought for a second that had actually worked. Must have been some kind of freak microburst, blew out the candles, and tossed out a crash of thu-
Voice-Jesus Christ, man, where did you summon me? This place looks like Hitler’s basement.
[Hurse lets out another girly scream and dives behind a green recliner, peeking out from behind it to see the apparition floating in the middle of the room. It appears to be a man in his seventies wearing a Hawaiian shirt, mid-thigh length shorts, white socks pulled up to mid-calf, a sun hat, and large mirror aviator sunglasses. His voice comes in quick, slurred sentences, uttered forth from around the cigarette held tightly between his lips.]
Hurse-A-are you a ghost?
Ghost-Well, that, or an incredibly convincing acid hallucination. You do any mescaline today, boy? That shit’ll rot your brains, and it’s incredibly fucking rude not to offer some when you have guests.
Hurse-Why are you here?
Ghost-You tell me, you’re the goddamn Nazi with the Ouija board and the turban. What’d you call me here for, anyway? I was playing a game of Indian Poker with Charlton Heston, Marilyn Monroe, and Mama Cass, man. Do you know what you’ve done? Heston’s awful at cards, and you can get Cass to fold just by offering her a ham sandwich. You’ve cost me untold hundreds of dollars!
Hurse-In heaven?
Ghost-Fuck no, man, I was in New Jersey. Heaven’s for boring assholes like Mother Teresa and Moses. They sure as shit don’t let you play cards, to say nothing of smoking grass.
[A look of revelation appears on the Master of Control’s face.]
Hurse-Oh, shit, I recognize you now. You’re Hun-
Ghost-DON’T SAY MY NAME YOU BASTARD.
[The ghost whirls around, looking frantically in every direction. He switches the cigarette up and down in his mouth in irritation.]
Ghost-You never know who’s listening. Now answer my question you pigfucker. Why the fuck did you summon me here?
[Hurse walks out from behind the table, his hands held up in front of him.]
Hurse-Well, uh, I needed somebody to help do a promo for…the IWC. You ever hear of the IWC?
[The ghost pauses for a moment, twitching the cigarette around in his mouth thoughtfully.]
Ghost-Oh, right, that place with the sweaty men rubbing each other in the tights.
Hurse-Yeah, I guess it’s a little below anything you’d be interested in.
Ghost-Fuck man, are you kidding? I love it! Can’t get enough! It never fails to amuse. Fear and loathing of the highest order from one minute to the next. Just when you think it can’t get any weirder, some crazy shit named Bob comes wandering out of the woodworks, ranting and raving about bum bums and something called a mnoose.
Hurse-Uh, yeah, that’d be the place.
Ghost-I mean, what the fuck is a mnoose, anyway? Some kind of rodent? I’ll tell you one thing, you bastard: I mean to find out! One of these days I’m going to go on a god damned mnoose hunt, and I’ll bag a dozen of the little fuckers! I’ll mount em on my wall, like a goddamned murderer’s row over my fireplace.
Hurse-Ooookkk, that sounds good. Before you go, though, have you seen any of the promos for the main event of the Overbooked Extravaganza?
Ghost-That massive clusterfuck? Sure. Been watching it all week. Makes good background music when you trip on acid. It’s not exactly “White Rabbit”, but it’ll do. The perfect combination of repetitive and droning, kind of like a Simon Cagero promo, exactly the sort of thing you need when the paint starts crawling off the walls and marching out the front door along with your pants.
Hurse-Ok, so, could you help us out and talk about it?
Ghost-Well I suppose, but let’s make it quick ok? I think I feel the mushrooms wearing off.
Hurse-Alright, how about you start off with Riggs?
Ghost-The guy from the Lethal Weapon movies?
Hurse-No, the wrestler.
Ghost-Don’t play mind games with me, you bastard. I know what I’m talking about, and I’ll be damned if you’re going to trick me. I saw him with Danny Glover fighting the german guy with the diplomatic immunity and the little asian fucker in the last movie. But I’ll tell you right now, he’s on the completely wrong track. That movie with the legionnaires whipping the hell out of Christ and the thing with the native guys running through the jungle were ok, but he’s gotta learn to be a hell of a lot more subtle.
Hurse-…what?
Ghost-It doesn’t pay to be an anti-Semite in Hollywood, man. You’ll never get your movies funded, and forget about putting together a Broadway show. Jesus god, who will you ever get to do your taxes? It’s a proven fact that the gentile are barely able to balance a checkbook, let alone sort through all of that crazy fucker’s books.
Hurse-Right. Ok, what about his partner-
Ghost-Danny Glover?
Hurse-Um, no. His name is Psycho.
Ghost-Psycho? That’s not a name, it’s an adjective. But maybe that’s the point? No, no, that implies a level of intelligence far beyond the common ape, which we know Psycho shares a kinship with. He’s not capable of coming up with anything that creative. More than likely, he just flipped open a copy of “Three Thousand Names for People Who Are Barely Verbal” turned to the P’s, flipped past “Painmaster, Pitbull, and Praline Pecan” and landed full on at Psycho. Psychopath was too long, so he went with the Hitchcock movie title. Much like the title character, however, I’m forced to assume that this Psycho also dresses like up like his mother. It’s the only explanation for his anger. You ever wear a corset boy? I didn’t think so. It’s maddening, let me tell you. Either that or he’s just an annoying shit that won’t catch the hint that no one likes him and go away.
[Hurse laughs, but this only seems to puzzle the spirit.]
Hurse-Heh, uh, how about my tag team partner, Porno Lad?
Ghost-He represents an incredibly irresponsible policy of exploitation enforced by your company. Only in this Kingdom of Fear we call the United States of America would a company like the IWC be allowed to employ a mentally retarded person in a physical sport like wrestling.
Hurse-What? He’s not retarded, he just-
Ghost-DON’T INTERRUPT ME WHILE I’M RANTING, PIGFUCKER! I mean, really, what sort of human being could be so soulless? Listen to the way he talks, just rambling from one phrase to the next without even a hint of sentence structure. Clearly a sign of mental retardation leading to a lack of second grade English education! And worst of all, his particular brain damage appears to have led to an overactive sex drive. Every other word is about fucking. It was like listening to Hugh Heffner having a conversation with Caligula. The only way the IWC can make amends for this terrible lack of judgment is to permanently graft a bicycle helmet on that boy’s head, and castrate him. Only by removing the terrible font of testosterone coursing from that kid’s scrotal region will he ever be freed from his walking nightmare. It’s a moral imperative!
Hurse-Ok, fair enough. Any thoughts on Christian Savior and Pat Evans?
Ghost-I don’t know who that second guy is, but the first one is truly a genius.
Hurse-Seriously?
[The faux Necromancer seems puzzled by this.]
Ghost-Of course! He’s truly brilliant! I mean, think of the subtlety of that last promo. A staircase! That goes up! Just like his career, and the phantasmal bile rising in my incorporeal throat while I watched it! Never mind that he’s failed to contribute any form of memorable success in recent memory. Oh, hey, I know how to really create the piece-de-resistance, spend the majority of your promotional time on a badly considered parody that has no relationship to anyone in it. And the real genius has to be, when discussing your supposed target in the match, Johnny Kingdom, writing off his partner as if he doesn’t exist. Clearly a three hundred pound pile of angry napalm wrapped up in a human fucking body doesn’t warrant any consideration. No, instead let’s make a stupid joke about his name, do an Abbot and Costello rip-off joke, and then call him irrelevant. News flash, you Heath Ledger look-alike, there are two people in a tag-team, and you have to beat both of them! I know you’re confused since you apparently have a mute for a partner, but AWOL could just as easily sit in the ring with you the whole match, and you would officially have no way to beat Kingdom for the title. What would you do then, you bastard? Stand at the top of your hackneyed metaphor staircase and cry? And what the fuck is the point of actually making us watch you drive to the Home Depot and buy the props for that promo anyway. This isn’t behind the music, dipshit, no one cares that you hit the blue light special on black spraypaint!
[The ghost chuckles and pulls the cigarette out of his mouth, exhaling a burst of ethereal cigarette smoke into the room.]
Hurse-And the Brat Pack?
Ghost-Don’t care about them! You, me, and God knows that they’re irrelevant, so let’s move on.
Hurse-Uh, ok. I guess that just leaves-
Ghost-The motherfuckers, that’s right. Let me tell you something about those two testicle warts, as a Doctor of Journalism I find their work this week offensive. Fuck man, I love the “F” word as much as the next guy, but there has to be limits. Just like Brittney Spears’ vagina, over-exposure and repeated use has led to the complete ruination of something that was once beautiful and desirable. No one has a problem with you using the word, you flea-ridden cock stains, we have a problem with you wasting it for the rest of us. Don’t you know we’re in an energy crisis? We have to band together now, and look out for our neighbors. Leave some F-Bombs for the rest of us, you bastards! There’s a whole spectrum of profanity out there that you’re ignoring. Give ‘em a try, damnit! There’s a reason Howard Stern does satellite radio now, eventually people just get tired of listening to pointless profanity. But pointed profanity, that will carry you to the promised land, gentlemen! The difference is content. You can’t just get in front of the camera and swear for hours. If that worked, people like Bluhd Raige would be running this place. Come up with something relevant to say, or else the terrorists win!
[The door at the outer edge of the shot opens, and AWOL walks into the room. He looks back and forth between the two figures, solid and incorporeal, an unreadable expression on his face. The ghost raises his hand in a peace sign.]
Ghost-Mahalo.
[AWOL looks Hurse in the eyes.]
AWOL-Why are you in my apartment? And why is the ghost of Hunter S. Thompson in my living room?
[Hurse swallows.]
Hurse-Uhh…I thought I would help you out with filming a promo?
Ghost-Did you just piss your pants, Nazi? I can smell the urine!
[AWOL closes his eyes, sighing in irritation and pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.]
AWOL-Nevermind.
[He turns around, walking back out the door he came through.]
Ghost-Nice to meet you, Frankenstein! Now, it’s time for you to send me back, turban boy. I’ve got things to do, and big bucks to take away from unsuspecting celebrities!
[Hurse scratches the side of his head.]
Hurse-Well, um, I didn’t really think this was going to work. I don’t know how to…I don’t know…unsummmon you.
Ghost-YOU MISERABLE BASTARD! I HAD A DATE WITH BEA ARTHUR TONIGHT! THIS WAS MY BIG CHANCE TO SCORE WITH MAUDE!!!!
Hurse-Look, hold on, I’m sure I can fix this. Just, uh, let me go look some things up on the Internet. I’ll be right back!
Ghost-Pick me up some ether while you’re out. If I’m stuck here, I would rather it was while I was on a full-on drug binge. The best thing about being dead? No more worries about ODing!
[Hurse stands up, ditching the turban and heading towards the door.]
Ghost-Lets go, you bastard. MOVE MOVE MOVE!!!!
[Hurse sprints out into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind him. A smile slowly spreads over the ghost’s face.]
Ghost-Ah, it never gets weird enough for me. Wonder if he’s got any beers in his fridge.
[The ghost turns and phases through the door towards AWOL’s kitchen as the scene fades to black.]
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