PCW: Gates Of Buckingham – May 30, 2001



Wednesday, May 30, 2001




[Fire up the P.A. if you will. Sir Sammy of Hagar is here to the herald the arrival of the PCW Tag Team Champions.]

## Walk out the bedroom / Into the light ##
## Can’t sleep cause morning’s come / Can’t sleep all night ##
## Burned out on the TV set / Burned outa sex ##
## I ain’t trashed / I’m fucking wrecked ##

MM: Oh, please. Not these idiots.

JW: WooHoo! It’s the BOD SQUAD!

MM: Woo hoo? [sigh] Would you grow up.

[Enter the muscle-bound mites known as The BOD Squad. “Chisel” Chad Cormier and Marky “Rip” Peters come bounding down the ramp, PCW tag title belts strapped proudly around their respective waists. Marky is already dressed in his ring attire: a pair of hot pink bicycle shorts and a black half-tee with “HUZZAH!” scratched across the front. A black ballcap sits backwards on his head as well. Chad is decked out in his “street” clothes, which today consists of a pair of lime green windbreaker running pants and a neon orange t-shirt which reads “We are POP!” above giant photos of each of the duo’s smiling faces across the front, and “The BOD Squad – U.K. Invasion – 2001” across the back over a PCW logo. (Available now for only £15 at concession stands everywhere.)]

## The skyyyyy-yyyyy’s the limit ##
## Shaka, Doobie, Shaka ##
## So hiiiii-iiiiigh up in it ##
## Shaka, Doobie ##

JW: The PCW Tag Champs are here, ladies and gents!

MM: What a sham THAT is. These two boobs didn’t even have to BEAT anybody for those belts.

JW: Nonetheless, they are the officially recognized champs of PCW.

MM: PAH! They aren’t recognized. You gotta be a STAR to be recognized. And these bloody halfwits do NOT qualify.

[Having finally made their way to and into the ring, The Bodders proceed to spend a good 30 seconds or so posing like freaks for all their “fans”. They get a decent pop from the assembled crowd, most of whom find the pair to be harmless and amusing. Marky eventually gets a mic and begins to work his magic.]



Peters: So like, me and the Chisel, we were thinkin’ on the way over here about how so totally rad it is to be tag team champs. What a rush, yo.

[More poppage. Why? I dunno. Why not?]

Peters: And we were thinkin’ that, yo, we wanna be the rootinest, tootinest, fightenest tag team champs in the history of the world, yo. So yours truly, the Ripper, came up with a damn SA-WEET idea. Ya see, my peeps, we’re gonna throw down the goblet…

JW: I think he means “gauntlet”.

MM: I don’t think he knows *what* he means. The kid’s a meatball.

Peters: …and issue an OPEN CHALLENGE, to any tag team here in the Pee-Cee-Dub, to face us, me and the Chisel, right here next week on WAD!

MM: [screaming towards the ring] THAT’S “GOB”, YOU BUFFOON!!

[Marky’s response to Marbury is to shoot him a quick smile and a thumbs up. Moron.]

Peters: So if there are any teams in the back who think they got what it takes, yo, then step right up and hop aboard the BOD Squad Express!

MM: That’s one train that is guaranteed to be derailed.

Peters: Meanwhile, me and the Chisel are gonna be in the back, chillin and coolin just like a snow man! And I’ll be back out a little later to teach a lesson to Jimmy-Crack-Corn Clark! HUZZAH!! See ya, layta, London!

[“Shaka Doobie” fires up once again over the sound system and Chad and Marky make their exit from the ring, once again taking an inordinate amount of time to pose and make basic fools of themselves. What the hell, it IS their only true skill after all.]

JW: So the tag champs issuing an open challenge for right here next week on Gates of Buckingham.

MM: Sure. Like *THAT’S* original.

JW: We’ll have to see if any team steps up.

MM: I’ll be praying somebody does. You can bet on that.




[We’re whisked away to the ever popular backstage area. You know the place: gym lockers, benches, pathetic tag teams. Lo and behold, but what to our wandering eyes should appear but none other than the current PCW Tag Team Champeeeens themselves – The BOD Squad. Marky and Chad are currently chillin’ in the confines of the locker room, Chad absentmindedly curling a dumbbell with his right arm while keeping one eye on his half of the tag team titles. Marky sits with his belt strapped around his muscular waist and his back leaning up against the wall.]

Peters: Yo, Chiz, man, this is so boss. Last week we get our first taste of gold, and now tonight I get to so totally destroy that Clark dude. I am most definitely marked for greatness, yo. Huzzah!

[Chad doesn’t respond. C’mon… does he ever? He just continues to pump iron and admire his shiny belt.]

Peters: I’m tellin’ ya, brah, this is our big break. After tonight people are gonna go hella-crazy for the Bodders, man. We are POP! We are pop DELUXE!

[Pump. Pump. Pump.]

Peters: And that open challenge earlier… an inspired stroke of genius if I do say so myself. I mean, like, yo, what a hella-original idea. Damn, brah, I just oooooze creativity. Who else woulda thunk of somethin’ like that? You know, to just totally open the doors and like, take on all comers, yo. Certainly not that cholo, James Clark. Man, he is so totally gonna regret leaving himself open to a match with the Ripper.

[Chad stops pumping long enough to add a sage bit of wisdom.]

Cormier: Totally.

[…And back to the curls he goes. Marky beams brightly. He is very pleased with himself. He is also a total chode.]

Peters: Yeah, brah, this is it. This is big time for the Ripper. First tonight I’ll walk all over the butterfly guy, and then next weak, when some total scrub tag team answers our challenge, yo… we will massively kick butt, dude. And we will be SO OVER! HUZZAH!!

[Marky places his hands behind his head and kicks back even further, slouching down slightly on his chair and kicking his feet off the ground.]

Marky: I wonder which team is gonna have the rods to step it up. Ya gotta admit, Chiz, we *are* pretty intimidating. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if nobody accepted. Seriously, like, who’d wanna be known as our first victims? That would so totally be embarrassing, yo.

[In more ways than you realize, you tool.]

[Once again Chad has deemed it time to speak. Wow, twice in one hour… will miracles never cease.]

Cormier: I don’t remember seeing any other teams on the roster yet, dude.

Peters: I know, Chiz, that’s cuz everybody is hella-scared to come to the Pee-Cee-Dub cuz they know we’re here. Think about it, dude. Would *you* wanna face us? We would so totally kick our asses! Nah, there won’t be any real competition until we go for the world titles. Now THAT will be POP! That will be pop to the EXTREEEEME!

Meanwhile, brah, we just gotta hang in there and settle for whatever joke teams they throw our way. I know, it’ll like, be no sort of challenge, but hey, that’s what legends have to deal with. We’re champs, Chiz, we gotta expect it.

[Chad nods in agreement while he continues to do his curls, now with his left arm.]

Peters: And, dude, pretty soon the chicks will be *rollin’* in. We’re gonna be up to our necks in the ladies, Chiz. That’ll rule. Yes, sir, tonight… tonight is most definitely a sign. Just like that dream I had the other day. You know, brah, the one about the monkey and–


[There is a rap at the door. Marky falls forward in his chair and gets to his feet, crossing the room to see who it is.]

Peters: Yup. This is a sign alright.

[He opens the door to the locker room to reveal the lithe frames of Dash Janssen and Jett Torres. Guerilla Zen. Jett hasn’t changed much since he dropped off the scene some 12 months ago. He looks the same – from the long flowing locks of platinum hair, to the ripped and torn “Sex Pistols” tee, and all the way down to the neon green Sabu style pants that are some 3 sizes to big. Dash however is a mystery. Sometime in the last year he has turned his body into a canvas – with tattoos and piercings springing about from everywhere, and a spiky red Mohawk that rests awkwardly on his head. The only thing that resembles the Dash of old is the attire… Grunge to the core!]



[Our camera remains inside the locker room where we see a suddenly panicked Marky Peters franticly tearing about the room. He’s nearly hyperventilating while Chad just stares at him in confusion.]


Cormier: Who’s at the door, Rip?

Peters: [in-between panic attacks] It’s… it’s… IT’S THEM!!

Cormier: Them who?

“Howdy boys. Remember us?”

[A voice from the other side of the door. Marky’s face turns ashen white.]


[Chad still looks confused. Odds are he’ll remain so for quite some time. With the fear and abject horror of our scene well established, we cut to the other side of the door where the two-man team of Guerrilla Zen awaits. Turning towards Jett, Dash speaks for the first time in his short PCW career.]

Janssen: I think that means they remember us.

[*BOOM!* *BOOM!* *BOOM!*]

[Jett pounds his fist against the locker room door with mild authority.]

Torres: We’re here to finish what we started twelve months ago, you tools! Now open this friggin’ door!

Janssen: C’mon, fellas! What could you possibly be afraid of? I mean, hell, you guys are PCW tag team champions! That makes *YOU* the baddest team in all of London. And us, we’re just another joke team here to make sure you guys have somebody to beat on.

[Sarcasm is an awesome tool.]

Janssen: (to Jett) Think they’re buying it?

Torres: I think they’ll buy anything.

[*BOOM!* *BOOM!* *BOOM!*]

[Again Jett pounds his fist against the door. This time with a little more zeal.]

Torres: C’mon, fellas! Bygones be bygones. We’re just here to kick back and reminisce about old times. It’s been a long time since any of us have been to Florida.

[A few moments of dead air.]

Janssen: It’s no use. They’re not going to open that door, and really… can you blame them?


[One more hard pound from Jett. The duo known as Guerilla Zen slowly begin to back away.]


Janssen: Be prepared, gentlemen. Guerilla Zen is back, and your names are first on the list.

[As Dash and Jett shuffle off down the hallway, we cut back inside the dressing room where Chad and Marky, despite their ripped muscular physiques, look about ready to shit themselves.]

Peters: Dude… this is a sign.

Cormier: [*gulp*]

[And cut back to ringside.]




(Note: A portion of the above was written by the handler of Guerilla Zen.)



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