Better Late Than Never

* * * * *

[Blackness. Almost all promos start there. But very few actually stay there. This one does.]



[The echoing voice of a child.]

“Dude, where the heck are we?”

[Then again, maybe not.]

“I’m not really sure, brah, but I think that this– OW!”


“Dude, you just poked me in the ass with the flag pole!”

“But… I’m not carrying the flagpole. You are.”

“Oh.” [pause] “Never mind then. And uhhh… don’t walk so close behind me, man.”


[Brief silence. The sound of scuffling boots on gritty floors. Then…]


“WHAT did I just say?! Not so close, brah!”

“Sorry. But I can’t tell how close I am. It’s dark, dude.”

“I know, dude.”

“How much farther?”

“I don’t know, Chiz. It’s kinda hard to tell where we are in all this blackne–”



“All this what, dude?”

“Son of a… HEY! I think I found a door!”

[A rattling noise is heard. It sounds suspiciously like a doorknob being jiggled.]

“Check it out, brah, we’re so there!”

[The creaking of the door is heard as it slowly drawn open. Our picture remains the same however. Black. Plain black. No lights, no motor cars (not a single luxury!).]

“Are you sure this is the right place?”

“I thought so. But I still can’t see anything.”



[And God said, “let there be light!” And there was!]

[Bright, blinding light suddenly fills the entire screen, forcing anyone who looks at it to squint and withdraw their eyes. You too. WITHDRAW YOUR EYES, DAMNIT!]

[Thank you.]

[Anyway, the light begins to subside, turning it’s harsh focus away from the camera as we zoom out and pan up in one fluid motion. As our eyes adjust to the sudden change in illumination, we begin to slowly recognize our surroundings. We’re inside the Miami Arena, site of this past week’s edition of PWP Vortex. Except that now the arena is completely barren. All signs of the PWP’s presence have been wiped away, and all that remains is an empty arena floor and thousands of lonely seats.]

[Oh yeah… and the BOD Squad.]


[“Chisel” Chad Cormier and Marky “Rip” Peters stand at the top of a small ramp which leads to the underside concessions area somewhere up in the loge section. From our current viewpoint, they can barely be seen, although they do tend to stick out like a sore thumb because they’re the only ones here, *and* they’re still dressed in their annoyingly bright wrestling gear, *and* they’re carrying a giant red flag with a black anarchy symbol on it. But really… barely noticeable.]

Marky: Like… where the heck is everybody?

[Chad does not respond. He’s too stupid to really fathom what’s going on.]

Marky: Umm… hello?

[No answer. Well DUH!]



[A pause, as they contemplate the meaning of life. Or something.]

Chad: Hey, man, does like, this mean we lost?

[Fade back to black as the duo stands looking blankly out over the empty arena.]

* * * * *



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