Post by Phil Goode on Jun 30, 2020 2:24:36 GMT -5
“The First” Phil Goode is sitting alone in his four-cornered room starin’ at candles.
(With a specific blend of Iowa City and Houston cadences) Oh, that shit is on?
Yes, the streetlights are on, the stars are out, and there’s a bright full moon over yonder. Phil Goode has yet to meet Mr. Sandman this evening, and for some reason, he can’t sleep. For hours, he’s been tossing and turning, consistently tormented by visions of an AWF superstar’s body being burned. If these four walls had eyes, they would just stare at Phil Goode, watching his paranoia as he cradles a football for dear life. His IPhone is shattered on the carpet across the large room, right below a distinct hole in the drywall. Although the phone’s screen is cracked from top to bottom, there are still notifications popping up that are somewhat visible. Several frantic texts from “Mother” reveal that Mrs. Goode is stressing to Phil, that he aint livin’ right.
(Talking to himself, damn-near belligerent) I DON’T UNDERSTAND how these people (quick deep breath) can look you in your face and completely dismiss you. I’m sick, and I’m tired of being the last man picked. I will never be the underdog. I refuse to be second GODDAMNIT because I am “THE FIRST”. Unlike these beloved, complacent, and hydrated superstars, I’ve been dying of thirst and I need to quench it now.
Cycling through his dense skull is the image of his next opponent, the one and the only Big Homunculus. His name has been thrown around the locker room so freely, that it is nearly impossible not to hear… the hoots and hollers for the World’s Tallest Little Person.
(Now addressing the cutout) You got these FUCKING nobodies proclaiming that you’re the best thing since sliced bread. I don’t blame you for it. I don’t blame you for being a shepherd, my fingers are pointed at the sheep. The washed-up, carbon copy, self-loathing, and insecure type of wrestler. (Nodding his head as he stands to greet the fake Big H face-to-chest) They don’t even deserve to be called superstars.
(Without single care or fear in the world) I’ll tell you this, it will be a BREEZE to kick Tyler’s ass… or Dolph, or Nicky, or whoever the hell he’s been trying to be.
(Jumping up) Ohh, I realized something about our glorified and praised AWF World’s Champion as well. It might be time for “Cancel Culture” to recognize Ms. P.Kelly for who she REALLY is and what REALLY takes place in that big old mansion. I may be the FIRST… (slight pause) to notice but Ms. P.Kelly is definitely a sexual deviant.
Just because she’s a woman, no one would ever suspect her or believe she is capable of such heinous and sexual acts. In fact, if you take a look at her little (or should I say large) HOSTAGE Princess Albert, you will find all the evidence needed to conclude that… Ms. P.Kelly is actually… R.Kelly… without a pair of BALLS.
(Goode takes a long deep sigh) And as for Bret Sergeant Hart, thanks for the opportunity but ever since you got SCREWED, you’ve been miserable. You have no control over the company you built and your holding back your best talent. I called on you during my lowest moments and you left me high and dry. So, from now on, it’s gonna be Phil Goode vs. The World... and I ain’t going out without a fight.
Phil Goode
(With a specific blend of Iowa City and Houston cadences) Oh, that shit is on?
Yes, the streetlights are on, the stars are out, and there’s a bright full moon over yonder. Phil Goode has yet to meet Mr. Sandman this evening, and for some reason, he can’t sleep. For hours, he’s been tossing and turning, consistently tormented by visions of an AWF superstar’s body being burned. If these four walls had eyes, they would just stare at Phil Goode, watching his paranoia as he cradles a football for dear life. His IPhone is shattered on the carpet across the large room, right below a distinct hole in the drywall. Although the phone’s screen is cracked from top to bottom, there are still notifications popping up that are somewhat visible. Several frantic texts from “Mother” reveal that Mrs. Goode is stressing to Phil, that he aint livin’ right.
Phil rises from his waterbed to grab his phone. Noticing the damage that has already been done, he reads the last messages from Mama Goode and finally puts the IPhone out of its misery. Slamming it against the only mirror in his room, Goode picks up the pieces of shard glass carefully. He takes the biggest one he can find, and then violently holds it to his carotid artery.
Phil Goode
(Talking to himself, damn-near belligerent) I DON’T UNDERSTAND how these people (quick deep breath) can look you in your face and completely dismiss you. I’m sick, and I’m tired of being the last man picked. I will never be the underdog. I refuse to be second GODDAMNIT because I am “THE FIRST”. Unlike these beloved, complacent, and hydrated superstars, I’ve been dying of thirst and I need to quench it now.
Cycling through his dense skull is the image of his next opponent, the one and the only Big Homunculus. His name has been thrown around the locker room so freely, that it is nearly impossible not to hear… the hoots and hollers for the World’s Tallest Little Person.
The shot of the room slowly widens and introduces a towering Big Homunculus cardboard cutout. The head of this fake Big H is flattened by the ceiling and droops down looking Goode directly in the eyes.
Phil Goode
(Now addressing the cutout) You got these FUCKING nobodies proclaiming that you’re the best thing since sliced bread. I don’t blame you for it. I don’t blame you for being a shepherd, my fingers are pointed at the sheep. The washed-up, carbon copy, self-loathing, and insecure type of wrestler. (Nodding his head as he stands to greet the fake Big H face-to-chest) They don’t even deserve to be called superstars.
Goode just so happens to have a soapbox in his closet. He conveniently pulls it out and takes his place.
Phil Goode
(Without single care or fear in the world) I’ll tell you this, it will be a BREEZE to kick Tyler’s ass… or Dolph, or Nicky, or whoever the hell he’s been trying to be.
Goode is now wearing a bald cap, Versace shades and is sucking on a cherry lollipop.
(Jumping up) Ohh, I realized something about our glorified and praised AWF World’s Champion as well. It might be time for “Cancel Culture” to recognize Ms. P.Kelly for who she REALLY is and what REALLY takes place in that big old mansion. I may be the FIRST… (slight pause) to notice but Ms. P.Kelly is definitely a sexual deviant.
Just because she’s a woman, no one would ever suspect her or believe she is capable of such heinous and sexual acts. In fact, if you take a look at her little (or should I say large) HOSTAGE Princess Albert, you will find all the evidence needed to conclude that… Ms. P.Kelly is actually… R.Kelly… without a pair of BALLS.
His last and final attack is on the man who gave him a shot in this business.
Phil Goode
(Goode takes a long deep sigh) And as for Bret Sergeant Hart, thanks for the opportunity but ever since you got SCREWED, you’ve been miserable. You have no control over the company you built and your holding back your best talent. I called on you during my lowest moments and you left me high and dry. So, from now on, it’s gonna be Phil Goode vs. The World... and I ain’t going out without a fight.
His massive bear claws clutch a strawberry banana BodyArmor bottle. His natural strength and intense grip begin to deform the plastic, making it abnormally long and slim. He takes a humongous gulp of the beverage and then a Goode idea comes to his battered mind. He individually blows out each candle in his room.