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| Northern England > Southern England; and a cheap plug for The Church | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Mar 5 2005, 10:49 PM (44 Views) | |
| Brad | Mar 5 2005, 10:49 PM Post #1 |
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The screen fades in, to show Bradley Johnson, sitting at his computer desk. What the cameraman is doing in Johnson’s home, I don’t know, but he’s there, and he’s filming The Purist as he opens up Mozilla Thunderbird, and checks out his emails, hoping that a TNT card has been sent his way. The cameraman zooms in on the monitor, and we see that Johnson has three new mails – one from sky Sports asking for confirmation of an interview date, one from Middlesbrough Football Club requesting that he do the half-time jackpot draw, and one from… you guessed it, Tuesday Night Throwdown, entitled “TNT Card – March 8th 2005”. This is the one that gets opened, and Mr. Johnson reads the card. He then rereads it, to confirm that his eyes aren’t playing tricks on him. Nope, it definitely says Ultimate Endurance Contendership Match, Bradley Johnson vs. Brighty, Referee: Tony Clarke. A look of annoyance flicks over his face, and he turns to look at the camera Johnson: Brighty. Brighty. You think this is funny, Madison? Did you not hear me the last time? I do not want to face this man any more. I’m sick of him. The sight of him makes me ill. I don’t need this again. He gets up, and wanders out of the room. Dutifully, the cameraman follows him, and they leave the Johnson household. We catch sight of Mr. Johnson’s beautiful TVR Tuscan, before some boring shizz must start happening, ‘cause we get a funky little time shift going on [doHTML]<center>Ten minutes later</center>[/doHTML] We fade back in on that impressive setting that is the Church Of Pure Wrestling. A couple of Johnson’s acolytes are sparring in the ring, and one of them is near the cameraman, and seems to have something to say Johnson acolyte: Ladies and Gentlemen, my name’s Dean Stanford. Mr. Johnson is currently conferring with God, but will be with you shortly to address the issues of Brighty, and the Ultimate Endurance Championship. He casts a glance over his shoulder Stanford: In the meantime, I’ve been asked to plug Bradley Johnson’s Church Of Pure Wrestling, this wonderful wrestling school you currently find yourselves in. Our numbers are depleted this week, as some of the guys are having trials at Mr. Johnson’s friend Brad Manson’s wrestling company in Japan, a partner of The Church, but we are a thriving school. Mr. Johnson and his partners accept anyone who has a desire to learn how to wrestle properly. He pauses Stanford: Mr. Johnson would also like me to inform you that, starting March 15th, due to the negotiating efforts of another of his partners, his former manager and long-time best friend Richard Bradley, a number of the students of this school, including myself will be competing in Tuesday Night Throwdown dark matches. Mr. Johnson himself will referee the weekly ten-minute time-limit matches, and we will attempt to provide some quality wrestling to counter-balance the sports entertainment crap that Tuesday Night Throwdown is turning into. He glances over his shoulder again, and sees The Purist himself making his way over to address the public Johnson: You did good, Dean. Now get back to work. Stanford does as he’s told, and Johnson returns his attention to the camera Johnson: Walking advert. The place needs the exposure; the state of professional wrestling these days is disgraceful. Come and join, it’s worth it. I’ll teach you how to wrestle. He smiles Johnson: Anyway, to the more pressing business of Bradley Johnson versus Brighty. Brighty. Breaker of three deadly sins, in Greed and Sloth. A waste of space. A fish out of water. A man who’s beaten before we even start. He pauses Johnson: Why are you still here, Brighty? Hell, are you still here at all? I don’t think you’ve been around since I beat you, prior to this week. At all. How do you manage it, Brighty? A man with your ample girth shouldn’t be able to just vanish into nothingness. The metaphysics of that possibility are simply mind-boggling. He cracks another smile Johnson: So I can only make the logical conclusion that you’ve been hiding. That you’re embarrassed at yourself, Brighty. Your morbid obesity. You commit the sin of gluttony, Brighty, but that seems pretty obvious to the world. You also commit the sins of sloth and greed, but again, that seems obvious, so I won’t delve into it. God doesn’t smile on you, Brighty. He wants me to punish you. And punish you I will. He takes a quick pause for breath Johnson: Also, you Southern ponce, the comments you made about Northern England? Load of bollocks. Unless you’re talking about Newcastle, then fair play to ya. But let’s look at the South of England. What have we got in the South? The British gay community, the Royal Family, Parliament, the Welsh border, East Anglia in general… not an impressive résumé, is it? So before you Southern nancy boys come slagging off the North, take a good look at the fight that you’re getting into. He shakes his head Johnson: Hell, even our Chavs are better than yours. Although that is something akin to saying “this piece of dog shit is better than that piece of dog shit”. Actually, Chavs originated from the South, so there ya go. Your crowning glory – you spawned the most annoying entity known to man. He shakes his head in derision Johnson: Anyways, I’m getting sidetracked. You, Brighty, need help. The size of you… it’s just wrong. You’re the picture boy for the gluttony sin. You’re a disgrace to the planet we live on. And I pity you. So I’m going to do the humane thing this week, and I’m going to put you into hospital. The Doctors will help you with your weight problems as well as the injury I’m going to inflict. It’ll benefit you. You’ll thank me eventually. So, Brighty, commit your soul to the Lord. Because this week, you belong to me. Fade out |
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7:06 PM Jul 11
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7:06 PM Jul 11