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[Black. One at a time white letters appear across the screen in a rapid fashion, as if they are being viewed as they are typed. A clicking noise accompanies each successive letter. They read:]
The following message is brought to you by the
Morality Underground Movement.
To join the revolution – Clean Your Mind.
[The letters slowly fade into oblivion.]
[An series of exterior shots of downtown Atlanta. A low soundtrack of generic rock guitar starts to play. It’s nighttime. We see a flurry of neon markings from bars and adult entertainment clubs. The 24K Club. The Doll House. Tattletails. People are funneling in and out of the buildings, flooding the sidewalks. Cars honk as the flow of traffic rushes by, then suddenly slows, then speeds up again. More lights. The last shot is that of the Cheetah Club.]
[An interior shot of the Cheetah.]
[The noise is deafening. An unseen stereo system blares through an unrelenting barrage of party metal anthems from the by-gone days of the late 80’s. “Girls, Girls, Girls” by Motley Crue plays as we enter.]
## I’m such a good boy – I just need a new toy ##
## I tell ya what girl dance for me – I’ll keep ya overemployed ##
## Just tell me a story – You know the one I mean ##
[The room is bustling with activity. Two long runways extend out from each side of the room as we enter. A pair of exotic dancers gyrate to the rhythm on each runway, each in a different stage of undress. Dozens of men, some middle-aged, some barely past 21, all horny and lonely, line the edges of the runways. Most are seated while a few others stand, choosing instead to watch from a distance. A bar runs along the wall to our left. It too is crowded with patrons, fueling their system with alcohol in an attempt to either drown their sorrows in a cocoon of numbness or to find the strength to feel good about themselves as they ogle women from afar.]
[The place is seedy, even for a club of it’s nature. The women are low grade. They’re either out of shape, victims of haphazard surgical enhancements, or just downright ugly. The men don’t seem to mind. Hand after hand of sweaty dollar bills is thrust towards the dancers. The women saunter over to each grim voyeur and attempt a seductive play for the cash. Seconds later, with the snap of a g-string and an empty wink, the prize is theirs. Just as quickly, they’re on to the next offering. So goes the game.]
## Girls, girls, girls – Body Shop, Marble Arch ##
## Girls, girls, girls – Tropicana’s where I lost my heart ##
[The music says it all. The air is thick with smoke, the lighting so poor it only serves to enhance the dense cloud. The general aura of sleaze that permeates the room is almost frightening. The American Strip Club – one of the last few bastions of outdated 80’s sexism and glitz. It’s all here.]
[The camera pans the room. We watch for awhile as the decadence around us continues without shame. We zoom in on a dancer. Her naked breasts blurred thanks to the post-production editing process. We can use our imagination though. Her g-string is bulging with wrinkled money. A conservative guess says close to hundred dollars. Another look at her face and maybe it’s only seventy-five.]
[Time for a new song. A child’s chorus singing “Purple Mountain’s Majesty” is intermixed with a dizzying combination of sound bites and keyboard stylings. Right into the chorus – no waiting.]
## Up all night – sleep all day ##
## Up all night – sleep all day ##
[Slaughter, for those who may have forgot, or are too young to have ever known. Like I said, where 80’s metal has gone to die. The change in song also signifies a change in dancers. The two completely undressed girls on each runway gather up their skimpy belongings and wave goodbye. The two that remain take their cue to hit stage two of their presentation. A reach around, a quick unhitching, and the glory of woman is revealed to all. The once empty garter now begins to fill up. No wonder. Soon two new dancers will join them, and then it all starts anew.]
## When evening comes – I am alive – I love to prowl around in the streets ##
## It&’s the moonlight – that controls my mind – Now I’ve got the power to speak ##
[The camera makes a drastic spin towards the door. On cue, in walk two men. One, an impressive, burly man that towers over the crowd. His massive chest and shoulders suggesting a possible role as a bodyguard. The other, a slender Latino man with a toothpick in his mouth and a sneer on his face. Both men are dressed casually in all black t-shirts and new black denim jeans. Their hair is military short and a little spiked. Their eyes are narrow and cold. They take some time to survey the seen, the Latino man nervously tossing the toothpick from side to side in his mouth. They remain expressionless, although a slight look of disgust starts to creep across the larger man’s stone visage. He turns to his lanky partner.]
Big Man: Let’s do this.
Latino Man: You got it, D.C.
[With that, the young Latino takes a running start and leaps onto one of the runways. The dancers let out a tight scream and cower towards the stage’s entranceway. Heads all over the room snap at the sound and immediately a trio of bouncers heads towards the stage. They encircle the runway in an attempt to subdue the rowdy patron.]
Bouncer: Alright, pal. Come on down. Time for you to leave.
Latino Man: Ah, ah, ah… tsk, tsk, tsk…not so fast boys.
[Out of nowhere his large companion flies into view and tackles one of the bouncers with a punishing blow. The others turn to react but are too late. The Latino leaps from the stage and strikes one with a vicious twirling heel kick and lands in time to cut the other off with lethal backhand chop to the throat. With the staff now out of the way, the two intruders begin to systematically eliminate each of the patrons that were stupid enough to have not made their way to the exits.]
[Their methods are ruthless. Bludgeoning blows to the head; wicked chops; devastating kicks. One of the more macho victims decides to get involved by cracking a beer bottle off on a table. Bad idea. A clumsy lunge is soon turned into a chickenwing arm bar as he’s pushed face first into one of the full length mirrors that decorated the walls. Another man jumps on the back of the bigger renegade, who counters by leaping backwards and crashing, back first, into a table. It splinters into pieces and the piggyback ride comes to a sudden end.]
[One by one, the drunks go down. Bodyslams, dropkicks, powerbombs. Everything you’d expect to see inside a wrestling ring is seen here as these two crusaders pick their way through the sea of challengers. Glasses crash to the floor, bottles shatter against the walls, strippers scream, and blood flows. When it’s all said and done, the establishment resembles a Hollywood movie set after a Jackie Chan film shoot, and a field of bodies lies strewn across the floor. Only two men remain standing. Can you guess which two?]
[Meet Denton Cage. A.k.a. “The Resistance”. He’s 6 feet 7 inches and 275 pounds of attitude wrapped in a big, dense package. And his partner, Diego Valencia. A.k.a. “Uprising”. 6 foot 2 and 235 pounds of endless energy. Together, they represent the Morality Underground Movement, and they have a message to all.]
Cage: GCW. The game is up. It’s time to put away the women and children and clean up your act. Your days of decadence are over. This is a war where no prisoners will be taken, and where victims will not live to fight again. The disgusting display of perversity you saw in this building tonight is soon to be a thing of the past. Morality’s making a comeback, and we’re here to see that it succeeds. So consider this a warning. Cause from here on out, there will be no more. The Revolution has begun and it will not end until the world is clear from your repulsive, lecherous ways.
Valencia: [coming right up to the camera, he puts his index finger to his lips] But, shhhhhh. Remember. M.U.M.’s the word.
[The camera zooms out quickly leaving the two men standing in the middle of their carnage, Diego cackling like an insane hyena.]
[No fade. Just black.]
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