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The Engineer · (02-01-2018)

[Image: images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTD1MfexmKD5Pp1G6ELrq_...TLkaInpl_w]

The shot opens on Madison and homosexual gadfly and regular promo guest star Milo Yiannaopoulous enjoying some tea at an outdoor cafe. But something looks a little off about Madison. Her face is pinched with barely concealed worry. A strand of her bond hair is wrapped about her finger in a nervous tic. And every so often she looks up and about, scanning her field of vision for...something.

Milo looks up from his tea and clearly realizes something is up.

Bitch you be trippin'?

Madison returns her gaze to him.

What? No. No, I'm.....A-OK!

Madison laughs nervously, leaving Milo looking unconvinced.

You've been acting really weird all day. Spill it!

Really, it's nothing. I'm fine. Honest.....

Something catches Madison's eye. A figure is standing across the street staring at her. Something seems off about this figure, some undefinable strangeness that places this being not quite in this world, and yet clearly standing in it. Something anomalous and deeply unsettling, and yet you find yourself lacking the verbiage to adequately explain what is wrong, further adding to the creeping sense of dread percolating in your guts. Madison locks eyes with the figure, her tea cup starts to shake in her hand. She puts it down hastily, causing it to tip and the contents to run into Milo's lap. Milo gets up.

Damn it woman these are Saint Laurent's!

I gotta go!

What, why?!

The ominous figure starts crossing the street towards her. We catch a better glimpse now of what it looks like.

[Image: r-X-PAC-SEAN-WALTMAN-large570.jpg]

[Image: r-X-PAC-SEAN-WALTMAN-large570.jpg]

Madison makes a bee line for her car. She reaches deep into her purse, fumbling for her keys.

You're my ride!

THEN GET IN THE FUCKING CAR!!

Madison presses down on the key fob, unlocking the car. The greasy do-rag wearing Caucasoid is within 10 feet of Madison now! Panicking, she slams the door, locking it. Milo jumps in the passenger seat.

Lock it, lock it!

What the hell is your problem?!

CAN'T YOU FUCKING SEE IT!

Sean Waltman presses his face up against the window, leaving a disgusting smear on the glass.

Hey, can I bum a cigarette?

AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

Madison peels away from the curb, clipping Sean Waltman and sending him spinning into the street. She guns it through a red light, drawing the blaring ire of other drivers. Milo looks out the rear window uncomprehendingly.

You want to tell me what's going on?

You really didn't see it?

See WHAT?!

X-PAC!!

What the hell is an X-Pac?!

Buckle in. It's a long story. But for now, we just need to get far, far away.

Madison's knuckles whiten as she grips the steering wheel. Taking the nearest exit she can find to anywhere, she veers onto it. She clears her throat nervously before recounting her tale.

Ok, so here it is. Way back in July I wrestled a Last Woman standing match against Jenny Myst. Unfortunately, I lost.

How could I forget, you bitched about it for weeks.

Fuck you. But it turns out that as bad as losing to her was on the surface of it, what came with that loss would turn out to be so much worse. You see, ever since then I've been seeing Sean Waltman in random places every so often. At the mall. The Korean nail salon. Even at Fox. At first, I thought I was losing my mind, but it was just so real. So I started searching around online trying to figure out if I was gonna have a stroke or something. Eventually I found this message board in these dark pocket of the internet. It was so weird because all the posters were people in the pro wrestling business, but they all were describing the same things I was. And you know what else?

I am waiting with baited breath.

Fuck you again. They all had one thing in common....they all lost to Jenny Myst. It turns out that Jenny carries this...this...I don't know what else to call it but a VIRUS. Like an STD. And anyone she pins gets stalked by the spectral form of Sean “X-Pac” Waltman. No one else but the victim can see him. Now thankfully he's stoned most of the time and pretty stupid overall, so he doesn't move that fast. But he's unrelenting. He never stops coming after you. Never! And he leaves a viscous, oily trail of destruction in his wake.

Ok, so what's the big deal if he gets you?

That's the worst part! When he gets you, he infects you with X-Pac heat, and anything that made you even remotely interesting, over, or profitable in the biz is gone just like that. Jenny Myst is a self replicating virus host, and Sean Waltman is like the infected sperm, getting all up in your hoo-ha with heat killing AIDS!

This sounds pretty dumb but I had nothing better to do today so I'll bite. Where are we going?

Hey, how about that a “fuck you trifecta”. And we're going to one of my safehouses.

You built safehouses to protect yourself from X-Pac heat?

No dumbass, I built them during the Obama administration for obvious reasons. It's just a happy coincidence.

Madison punches it down the interstate, her car disappearing into the distance. In the foreground, the ratty greasy mass of Sean Waltman's hair suddenly rises up to obstruct your view.

Damn bro, I shouldn't a had all that queso....ugggghhhhhhhh....

LATER!

A kerosene lantern flickers to life, illuminating Madison's face. She seems to be in a bunker of some kind, a cot is just behind her, as well as a metal shelf full of nonperishable provisions. The walls are full of borderline racist anti-Obama posters. Okay, some of them are more than just borderline.

[Image: 8-lawdy-obama.jpg]

Eugh.

Every single one of these is expired.

Milo is riffing through the canned goods, checking the dates and coming up empty.

What do you care, aren't you anorexic anyway?

I'm bulimic! I need to eat SOMETHING before I puke it back up!

Well those dates are just a suggestion anyway. I think. Wait, did you hear that?!

Madison cranes her neck, turning an ear towards the doorway. Milo turns to her with a sour expression on his face.

No, I didn't. And we drove like 200 miles. If he's on foot we'll be fine for a while. I'm gonna be in the pantry trying to salvage a meal out of this shit.

You do that. I need time to think. I by “think” I mean embarrass the holy living fuck out of Jenny Myst.

Milo shrugs and steps into an adjoining room.

God damn you Jenny, look what you've reduced me to! Holed up in a bunker like the Fuhrer in his final hours! Now ordinarily that's a comparison I would appreciate, but not so much when a drug addled career killing phantom is methodically stalking me across state lines!

Only you could suck so hard that your level of suck spawns a legitimate goddamn cosmic horror! It's not bad enough you have to murder your career week in and week out on live television, but you have to drag down the rest of us who actually have HOPE with you?

Let me head you off at the pass darling. Yes, you did beat me. Yes, you beat Mercy. Yes, you've been the longest reigning Bombshell champion yet, although that last one is like being the least gangrenous morbidly obese Type 2 diabetic in the hospital. But even with all those things in your plus column, why is it that everybody considers you the absolute bottom of the barrel here when it comes to respect? Why does no one take you seriously, despite your weekly hyperventilations that you are the biggest deal going on Savage?

The answer? Because I'm right. You have no heat. Abso-fucking-lutely none. The only one who considers you tolerable is your equally intolerable boyfriend. Everyone else wants you to die in a fire. You talked a lot of shit lately about Holliday being a Barney Green guy. Does it bother you that that angle is getting more play than you being women's champion for the last few months?

Do I think the Bombshell title belongs to me? Kinda already went over that, no I don't. But what I did say was that somebody who hasn't been in active competition for months suddenly getting the shot is a pretty major commentary on the sad state of affairs that is your division. Please pay attention. Words have meaning.

What I will allow is that while that title doesn't belong to me, nor do I particularly deserve it, I do WANT it if only to give it a last ditch chance at being something valuable and worthy of praise.

Next up, your a fucking

. Because I explained to you point blank what X-Pac heat is and why its CAREER FUCKING POISON and your response is “HURF DURF I LOVE IT GIVE ME MORE”. You utter dumbass. You complete window licking tosser. You absolute BARBIE of a human.

Nobody in this industry wants X-Pac heat because it's the opposite of being interesting. People don't hate you because you're good at being the bad guy, they hate you because they are sick of you and want you to go away. You wear that like a badge of honor and want to lecture me about not knowing what's good for business? Good GOD! People aren't JEALOUS of you you daft cunt! The hate everything you're about. You're a vapid pair of tits who is constantly in a mad dash to flash your sexuality wherever you go. But you're so quick to sell yourself you're not attractive and alluring but desperate and sad. Which, makes sense given your history of sexual abuse, I suppose.

What next on your bed shitting “clap back” of comically inferior proportions? Apparently its a bad thing for me that Engy hit it big. Hey, go check the XWF website. You see the part where it says that I'm Engy's manager? Ya huh. You may have to open your eyes sweetcheeks. You got it now? You ready for me to blow your mind? Check it. The fact that Engy is overshadowing me is proof that I'm good at my job. It means I'm a good manager. Now, maybe your mental illness level lust for attention makes you unable to recognize why someone might be in it to make sure somebody else gets a push, but every good manager wants to be overshadowed by their client. Because if it's the other way around, that manager fucked up big time. I have zero problem with Engy's success. Hell, it's making me more money by association. And as for your accusation that I NEED him? Honey please, I've been in this business since before you delivered your first Pop Rocks flavored blowjob under the bleachers in second grade, if it wasn't Engy it would be someone else. I know how to survive. The big difference between me and you is that unlike you I can survive with style and without resorting to turning myself into a clown-painted fetish doll.

Also, way to be a model for strong women everywhere by bagging on Gretchen for getting molested. Trust me, I knew Ailes. He was fucking gross. But what's even more gross is your Stockholm Syndrome like reverence for abusers considering you spent the better part of your teen years being tossed around like a flesh and blood glory hole. Somebody with an ounce of self respect might have an experience like that and and feel bad for somebody like Gretchen, but considering you have all the emotional depth of a puddle during dry season you see her and think “Haw, haw horse face!”. I don't agree with everything Gretchen has done but at least she stood up for herself rather than perpetuating her own cycle of abuse by turning herself out over and over again like a cheap whore ie. YOU, BITCH.

Don't you come up in here with that weak ass shit again Jenny or....

Madison!

Madison stops mid rant, looking frustrated.

Not now, I'm spitting bullets here!

Actually this might be....

Sean Waltman walks into the room. Madison lets out a piercing shriek.

AHHHHHHH OH FUCK OH FUCK OH FUCK! How did you get in here?!

Back door was open.

FUCK! Well, looks like I'm joining the Myst army now.

I'l let you go if you got some crack.

Crack? Ew. That's for poors. I do cocaine like every other rich white sophisticate.

Hmmmm. Deal.

**Sigh** Follow me.

Madison motions for Sean to follow her off screen as the shot fades to black.

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