A Tongue Lashing From G.I. Joke?

 
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[A Greyhound bus pulls up into the dusty, dirt covered parking lot of a small “greasy spoon” diner, somewhere between New York and Indianapolis. There is the loud sound of escaping gas as the buses’ hydraulic brakes bring the lumbering transport to a stop. After a few moments, the door to the bus opens and the driver emerges, followed by a steady string of passengers. Last off the bus is the newly crowned HSW Hardcore Champion, “Majestic” Jesse Falcone. He is dressed casually in a pair of worn blue-denim jeans, a white T-shirt, and a brown leather jacket. As he steps off the bus and surveys his surroundings he sets his trusty black cowboy hat upon his head. He scans the area for a few moments, taking in a couple of deep breaths of the clean country air. Finally he notices the camera off at a distance and begins to walk toward it. As he approaches it’s position, he passes on by and the camera suddenly begins to follow him. Jesse continues to walk around to the back of the diner, and the camera follows at his side, giving a profile shot of the young wrestler as he walks.]

Jesse. Well, Cut Throat, seems you’ve gone and opened up your mouth and stuck that oversized combat boot right in it. I suppose I should have expected as much. You seem to like to talk a big game. Course, after that little lovefest that you and Dick pulled the other night, talk is apparently all you’re about. That and kissing that little, butch broad of yours. Yeah, nothing makes me fear you more than watching you kiss some woman. Is that what I should be preparing myself for? Your vicious tongue? Because whether it’s flapping away about stuff you clearly know nothing about, or ramming itself down Napalm’s throat, it’s the only muscle we’ve seen you flex since you got here.

[By now we’ve reached the back side of the diner where a pair of weather beaten picnic tables sit. Obviously, they haven’t been used yet this season as a number of fallen branches lay across each one. Jesse clears the brush off of one of the tables and sits down on the top, his feet resting on the bench.]

Jesse. So, Throat, – can I call you Throat? – Throat, first off, I’m gonna correct you on a few things since you were clearly too busy making friends with The God of Dick to have noticed how Breakdown really went down. Ya say I knew what I was getting myself into when I signed for the Hardcore Championship match? Well, soldier, I guess you didn’t hear that little announcement that made it a title match just as the show opened, long after the match was set. Did I know it was hardcore? Sure did. Did I know it was for the title? No, sir, I didn’t. Did that stop me from competing? Well, I think that slab of gold back in my bag will answer that one. You say I’m not worthy to be called hardcore? Well you know what, I never said I was. I’m a wrestler. It’s what I do. I figured I’d leave the brainless brawling to talentless wrestlers and military has-beens, in which case, you’re doubly qualified. But yet despite all that, I walked out of there the winner. So as I said, whether I consider myself hardcore or not, I’m apparently tougher than most of you boys. As for my nearly passing out during my interview because of a, small cut was it? Well, you see, I actually had to work the other night. I got in that ring with two other guys who were prepared to beat my brains in and had to earn my paycheck. Unlike some guys who think they’re smarter than the fans because they can hug they’re way through the card. So, yeah, I was pretty damned tired after that match. And I was pretty well bloodied. A couple of chair shots to the face will do that to you. Does that make me unworthy to wear the belt? Ask the fans, they’ll tell ya. So spare me all your war stories. Keep your little boot camp memoirs to yourself. Because neither I, nor the thousands of HSW fans really care. You haven’t proven a damn thing, other than the fact that the only war you ever fought in was a war of words, and I’m pretty sure you’re infantry all the way – emphasis on the infant.

[Jesse gets up from the table and begins to make his way in towards the diner, presumably through the back entrance. Sure enough, there’s the door. He walks up to it and places his hand on the knob of the beat-up screen door. He pauses before entering and looks back to the camera.]

Jesse. Well, Throat, you got what you wanted. Mr. Blair seems to have listened to your little whining and granted you a title shot. Fine by me. Because I can guarantee you that I won’t be embracing you once that bell rings, as the only arms I’ll be wrapping around you will be the ones on a chair. You’ve done you’re talking and I’ve done mine. Now let’s see if ya can back it up for once. Or are you and your little lady friend too busy playing “tin solider” that night?

[He pulls on the screen door, pushes open the wooden main door and steps into the back of the restaurant. Immediately the sounds of meat sizzling on a grill and orders being shouted back and forth between the cook and the waitress can be heard echoing from the kitchen. Jesse steps inside and lets the screen door shut behind him. He turns to the camera, looking out through the mesh for one final thought.]

Jesse. Oh yeah, one more thing. Bullshit is one word, Jackass.

[He turns away and shuts the wooden door behind him with a mild *thud*. Fade out.]

 
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