Suffering Suckatash

 
* * * * *

 
“Let’s face it, dude. We suck.”

[And cue the lights.]

“We suck hard. We suck big time. We suck unlike anyone has ever sucked before. We are the uncrowned kings of sucktitude.”

[Our picture begins to come clear. We’re in a gymnasium, a place not totally surprising given the personalities of the two men who will make up the focus of this little opus. “Rip” Peters and “Chisel” Cormier may be bad wrestlers, but they certainly do have impressive physiques.]

“In the history of wrestling… there is no one that has ever quite sucked on the level that *we* suck, brah. We mega suck. Hell, G, we super COLOSSAL mega suck.”

[At present Marky and Chad are not engaged in some strenuous weightlifting exhibition or heavy cardio workout. Nope. They’re just sitting. Slumped up against a wall in their obnoxiously bright neon workout clothes with the PCW tag team championship straps laying across their respective laps.]

“I think it’s pretty safe to say we’re gonna lose at WAD, dude. Lose hard.”

[The downtrodden voice we hear is that of Marky Peters, the defacto leader of the wrestling world’s most inept tag team. From the sound of things, and from the look on his face, things aren’t going so good in Camp BOD.]

Marky: Seriously, brah, we might as well just throw in the towel now. It’s like, waaaaay inevo– inava– in-ev-it-a-ble…

[There is a brief pause as Marky, proud of himself for actually getting the word out (even if he did have to break it down phonetically), smiles. His joy, however, is short lived.]

Marky: Anyway, Chiz, we’re as good as done. Those Monkey dudes were totally right. It’s gonna be a hella-slaughter. We’re toast. We’re worse than toast. We’re toast with marmalade.

[Breaking his own dejected silence, Chad makes his token verbal appearance in a BOD Squad promo.]

Chad: Not even jelly?

Marky: Not even jelly, dude.

Chad: Bummer.

Marky: Bummer squared, Chiz.

[A few moments of miserable silence pass. Chad stares ahead with an expression that is equal parts depression and complete cluelessness. Marky meanwhile, gnaws on his bottom lip. He is, after all, the brains of the outfit.]

Marky: The time has come, my brother in arms. Judgement Day. The end is nigh for the Squad. No more “huzzah”. No more “sa-weet”. No more “POP!”. And worst of all… no more PCW tag team championships. Once those two guys are through with us, we are SOOOO gonna be roadkill. This bites.

Chad: [*sigh*]

Marky: I know, dude. I can totally feel your pain. But seriously, brah, what is there to do? You heard the guy. He’s absolutely right. We suck. We’re terrible. We never win. We’re like, a total joke to everybody in the council. Sure, we may *look* sa-weet… [so much for “no more sa-weet”… I guess some habits die hard] …but in the ring we plain ol’ rot. Like cabbage. Bad, stinky, been-left-on-the-counter-for-a-week cabbage. Like the kind yer mom used ta use when she made that coleslaw. Whoh, dude, do you *remember* that stuff? Talk about harsh. Aye carumba to the max.

[A small tear forms in Chad’s eye. Thinkin’ of dear old momma Cormier makes him sentimental.]

Marky: That stuff STANK. Just like us, dude. We stank. We *stink*. Come tomorrow, we’re still gonna stunk. We’re all ABOUT stink. Dangit, brah, we BLOW!

[Chad cocks his head as if confused. Once again words flow from his mouth.]

Chad: Wait a second… I thought you said we suck?

Marky: We do.

Chad: Than how can we blow?

[Marky thinks. This takes awhile.]

Marky: Good point, dude. We don’t blow. But as much as it pains me to say this, we most definitely do suck.

[By now Chad looks kind of disturbed, as if perhaps he is truly upset by this sudden realization that both he and his partner are bad at what they do.]

Chad: Ripper… I don’t… I don’t *wanna* suck.

Marky: I know, dude. But you can’t help it. Neither can I. It’s just a fact of life. As cool as we are… as tight and as slammin’ as our bod’s are… as much as the ladies so totally dig us… we still suck.

Chad: [*sniff*]

Marky: This rots.

[Chad speaks yet again… this time sounding to all the world like a little boy of about 4 years old.]

Chad: [*sniff*] Mebbe… mebbe if we had cool names. [*snuff*]

Marky: Dude, we *DO* have cool names. What could be cooler than “Rip” and “The Chisel”?

Chad: [*sniffffff*] How ’bout… Dash… or Jett?

[For an instance, Marky’s eyes go bright. Is it… could it be… has Chad actually come UP with something? DUN-DUN-DUNHHHH!!!]

Marky: Naaaaaah.

[Fizzle.]

Marky: Who’d ever believe THOSE were our names? We’d better just stick to Rip and Chisel and face the facts… we’re rotten. And there’s not a lickity damn thing we can do about it. Come WAD, we’re gonna have to give up these precious titles. The dream is over, dude.

[Chad looks down at his half of the tag team titles. A small tear falls from his cheek and plops onto the belt. He wipes it away with an open hand.]

Chad: [*sniff*] No.

Marky: No, what, Chiz?

Chad: No, I don’t wanna.

Marky: Don’t wanna what, brah?

Chad: I don’t wanna give up my title, Ripper.

Marky: Neither do I, dude, but we ain’t got much choice. Not unless we suddenly get – you know – GOOD. The truth is, Chiz, we’re bottom of the barrel. They only gave us these titles cuz there was nobody else. And now? Now there *is* somebody else. And they’re gonna beat us up and take out belts. And we can’t do a thing about it.

Chad: Why not?

Marky: Cuz we suck, Chiz.

Chad: Yeah, but why?

Marky: I dunno. I say it’s karma.

Chad: What’s karma, Rip?

Marky: I dunno completely. But I heard Boy George sing about it back in the 80’s, so whatever it is it *can’t* be good. Anyway, the point is that there’s no WAY we’re gonna get better between now and WAD.

[Suddenly, as if fueled by some sort of new resolve within himself, Chad Cormier pushes himself up to his feet. He grabs his PCW tag team title belt tightly in his arms like a child with a favorite doll.]

Chad: No.

Marky: Face facts, brah.

Chad: No.

Marky: We suck.

Chad: NO!

[Marky looks up at his partner, somewhat taken aback by his sudden raise in volume.]

Marky: Dude, we–

Chad: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

[With a loud, pain-ridden bellow, Chad Cormier lets out all of his frustration. It is a primal scream, and it nearly scares poor Marky right out of his shorts.]

Chad: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!

Marky: DUDE! WHAT’S WRONG?!

Chad: I DON’T SUCK! I WON’T SUCK! AND YOU AND ALL THE MONKEY PEOPLE IN THE WORLD CAN’T MAKE ME SUCK!

Marky: But, dude, it’s the way it is–

Chad: NO! Just because you say it doesn’t make it so! I AM CHAD CORMIER AND I DO NOT SUCK!! Do you hear me, Ripper? I – DO – NOT – SUCK!

Marky: Ok, ok, chill, brah.

[Chad’s chest swells with pride. The tears, once slowly rolling down his face, have subsided. Now his eyes gleam with pride. He raises his chin just a touch. He grits his teeth.]

Marky: Whoh, ahh Chiz… buddy?

[By now Chad has morphed into some sort of super hero pose; one hand on his hip while the other cradles the PCW title belt.]

Marky: You okay, dude?

Chad: [with confidence] Never been better.

[In the background, a very patriotic and inspirational soundtrack begins to play, replete with surging horns, crashing drums, and a chorus of heavenly voices crying out.]

Chad: Marky?

[Peters is dumbfounded. Chad *never* calls him Marky. Always Ripper. Something is up. The Ripper swallows hard.]

Marky: Y-y-y-yeah, Chiz?

[Chad’s eyes sparkle.]

Chad: Come with me. We’ve got training to do. Because tonight…

[The music swells… dun-dun-dun-DUN-DUN-DUNNNNNHHHHHH!!!!]

Chad: THE SUCK STOPS HERE!

[DUNNNN-NNUUUUHHHH!!!!!!]

[And fade to black.]

 
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