"Joey, they got me in that box again!"

-1995 / Boy Meets World Season 3 "My Best Friend's Girl" episode taping-

Ethan Suplee (Frankie) delivers his line while Heather Herbon, some brunette and I mime invisible walls around the big guy and the scene ends.

Dress rehearsal's going well. By now I've all but forgotten the embarrassing brush-off I'd received from Ben Savage a few hours ago. For the time being, the pressure of having to perform such a lame (despite heavy exposure via multiple scenes) mime role before a live studio audience has managed to, thankfully, throw all other concerns out the window.

When next we're on-cam it's on the school theater set miming eating popcorn before Mr. Feeny frightens away the students. One more down, one more to go and a last minute addition at that: the end credits scene...

Back where it all began for me on the show, the classroom set. For the final installment of our running gag throughout the episode, the three of us are to mime the actions of cowboys.

I'm told by the Assistant Director to "make (my) way up and down the center aisle between the desks acting like a cowboy on cue until (I) hear cut".

Psh. No problem.

"Action, Will."

Will Friedle (older brother "Eric Matthews") kicks off the scene expressing his approval of Cory and Topanga's relationship. A back and forth between the three of them ensues until Eric references us mimes in derogatory context (our cue).

Heather and the brunette start their actions and I energetically take off down the aisle miming riding a horse while the audience inexplicably laughs hard-

"Cut," the show's writer/producer/creator Michael Jacobs orders with a strong NY native accent and a note of irritation. "You, the blonde boy, not like dat. Act like a cowboy."

The audience laughs.

Uh......okaaaaaaay.

I nod an affirmative and return to my mark.

"From the top," he orders. "Action, Will."

Again Eric, Cory and Topanga lead into our cowboy clusterfuck. THIS time, since simply riding a horse somehow isn't "cowboy" enough, I repeat the equestrian antics while miming spinning a lasso above my head. The audience laug-

"Cut!"

What?

I can feel my face flush red, unseen beneath the white face paint.

"Nah, nah, nah," Jacobs begins.

The audience laughs. It sounds forced. Uncomfortable.

"Like a cowboy, a COWBOY!"

I visibly flinch as he shockingly barks at me.

How was that NOT cowboy??

I nod and reset to one. I don't like this. Not one bit.

"Again! Action Will!"

Third time through and on my cue I make my way, on "FOOT", down the aisle miming shooting two six shooters repeatedly into the air along the way. The audience la-

"What the hell!? Cut!!"

Jesus FUCKING Christ!

Again, I feel the burn of embarrassment, the heat forcing droplets of perspiration below my hairline. Frustration hits like a fist to the gut.

"Like. A. Cowboy! What's the problem!?"

His voice echoes throughout the now completely silent set. No one laughs. A full grown adult male berating a teenager doesn't seem to be anyone's cup of tea.

I glance over at Will, Ben and Danielle. They're all staring at me. I look back to Jacobs.

Why is this happening?? What the fuck does this guy want from me??

"Okay, I got it," I answer through a swarm of butterflies wreaking havoc in my stomach. I honestly have no idea what I'm supposed to do as I reset to one.

"I hope so fuh Christsake! ......ACTION WILL!"

Fourth time through and it passes all too quickly as I frantically attempt to come up with SOMETHING this asshole will find acceptably "cowboy". I almost miss the cue in my highly nervous state...then...

I mime opening "saloon doors" with two hands and saunter down the aisle to "the bar" intending to mime "ordering and drinking a beer".

"CUT!!"

"Come _on_," Ben Savage complains loudly. I swiftly flash an angry glare his way.

"I dunno, maybe it's ME, maybe I'm speakin' _Brooklynese_," Jacobs spits.

Ben scoffs. Will and Danielle, however, stare at me in pity. I'm now on the verge of tears. This is a fucking nightmare...

The AD hustles over to Jacobs. They confer.

Where the scene leading up to my cue couldn't have been quicker, this little huddle is taking forever. I look to Heather and the brunette. I sweep my gaze across the studio audience. Not a smile among the faces and all eyes glued to yours truly. Utter humiliation.

The AD finally scuttles over.

"He wants you to take ten paces, bow-legged, turn, draw and fire."

"Why the _hell_ didn't he say that," I demand as quietly as I can!?

She actually looks sympathetic.

"I don't know. I'm sorry."

"We finally good," Jacobs asks from his chair?? The AD backs away, turns and nods. "Wunduhful. Everybody back tuh one...... Action Will."

Oh, I did what he said and the scene finally went down as directed...but the damage had been done. The cast performance seemed half-hearted, the studio audience didn't laugh...by the time we shot what would end up being aired, Jacobs had struck our credit gag scene and wrote up a shitty alternative. Asshole.

The business didn't seem so special anymore and I knew I'd see fewer projects because of this bullshit. It made me...very angry. I wanted revenge. As far as Micheal Jacobs was concerned, I'd no idea how I'd ever collect on his tab. Ben Savage, however, was NOT a producer protected by Walt Disney Studios with über-private parking. Oh no, Ben (or rather, his mom) had to park on the same lot the rest of the talent did.

Before climbing into the Herbon van with Heather and HER mother for my ride home after wrap, I plucked a conveniently discarded Duracell C battery from the lot asphalt and pitched it with all my might at the windshield of Ben's momma's BMW (imagine that) then turned and hopped in right before the projectile landed.

CRACK!!

Fuck you Ben Savage.

Good enough. One day I'd have to pay Jacobs back as well.

No one humiliates me and gets away with it. No one.

END
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


"Brucette Bitchmade Blingsteen"







-Thursday July 27 2017-


The last five days had been productive in context with plotting the demise of my one-time murderer, Henry Eugene "Buddha" Spade. My homie Robert's street feelers had been extended, routines researched, schedules memorized. The pawns of the pookie had even been sent several times to pick up from the target so as to avoid suspicion when it all went down.

Soon. Very soon. After 14 long years, vengeance would be mine.

Steve has no idea what I've been up to, I think to myself standing beside the XWF mainstay interviewer before a backdrop emblazoned with the image of the XWF Universal Championship BEFORE being molested and melted down into a grill for the current "champ". Avoiding the promotion's ravenous camera crews and drones had been quite the task but secrecy was imperative. It wouldn't do to broadcast a murder nor it's premeditative planning. How others on the roster avoided the illegalities of their actions I'd never know...as for me, I had to act as if nothing was going on. I had to act natural. Not that it took any false effort from me to focus on my professional task at hand: a Universal Championship rematch booked in a Steel Cage on Savage this weekend and responding to my opponent's passive though shady strategy.

The cameraman gives Sayors a nod and-

"Greetings XWF Universe, this is Steve Sayors, your trusted source of info for all things Xtreme. I'm standing here alongside the _former_, and many would say _future_, XWF Universal Champion, The STAR KILLER Jim Caedus. Now Jim, you've had a rough go of it as of late, what with the destruction of Ax3, losing the Unified Tag Title match against The Kings, failing to advance along with TRAX in the Tag Team Tournament and worst of all, Bruce Blingsteen's cashing-in of a years old 24/7 briefcase with which he successfully stripped you of the strap. Your comments, please."

Fuck a rehash.

"The fuck you want me to say that I haven't _already_ stated, Steve? I've spoken on all that shit as it happened, let's move on to what's important. The present."

"Chomping at the bit are ya? Alrighty then, the CURRENT XWF Universal Champion Bruce Blingsteen. Your thoughts?"

"Bruce defines his presence here by my very existence. Quite frankly, he's a closet queer who's had a hard-on for me ever since I pimp slapped 'is stupidass by stealin' 'is blunt months ago. I picked up on the 's fakery from the moment he popped "Molly" and inexplicably remained sober an hour later. Did he acknowledge his own botch and own up to puttin' on a tough guy front? 'Course not, all he did was take to trollin' the halls o' the XWF like a true bitch, all talk like a no-life-havin' loser, while 'is pussy pissant peanut gallery o' gay support like Tommy Gunn hyped his hackneyed and highly flawed style o' outright LIES and floppy, flimsy, flacid fisticuffs in trash talk. Tommy Gunn handle, by the way, Derringer sized dick. Consider the cocksuckin' source. Anyhoo, not long after, the XWF was treated to the formation of Bx3, without question a creation competely attributed to _Ax3_ and again, we have proof that I may as well have ball-blasted Bruce out the urethra amidst his salty flagellate brethren onto the roster. You have Josh Reno emergin' after I kicked 'is buttfucker brother the hell out, Bilbo and 'is boner rollin' in after my threat to Dolly durin' the Lottery finals o' bringin' in a wheelchair-bound crippled kid to counter her obvious popularity revolvin' around bein' a _12_ year old wrasslin' sideshow freak (I love the lil' asskicker though) and John Blaq/Blingsteen dedicatin' the majority of 'is time tauntin' my ass with weak attacks, arguments, insults and rep down votes via the official XWF99.com site. Next thing you know, the nutless lazy limpdick is cashin-in on my ass with a dusty briefcase that should've long ago expired just to gain the notoriety he knows he'd never be able to accrue WITHOUT the inclusion o' Caedus. I own Bruce Blingsteen, Steve, own 'im. I was the competition that drew 'im in, I'm the catalyst that culminated in 'is continued presence and it'll be my climactic Katabasis kickin' 'is ass off the throne he usurped before I vacate the cage to collect my beloved belt."

"Are you sure that bout will even happen, Jim? Bruce has made it clear he canNOT defend the title for whatever reason on Saturday, instead announcing his intention to _forfeit_ the match and the strap if the booking isn't pushed back another week."

"Bluffs, Steve. Like an amateur poker player, prick thinks he can outsmart me by pushin' 'is pathetic presumption that I'll either drop my guard or give the gutless geek an extra week. Futile. I ain't fallin' for it and neither is anyone else. Dipshit's flashin' the vag'-badge and provin' he don't DESERVE the Uni by threatenin' to forfeit anyhow."

"Well, what if he truly CAN'T defend the title this Saturday? What if this ISN'T a bluff but rather an actual plea?"

"Bro, ain't anyone, brass included, givin' a good goddamn what excuses he offers up to avoid this. The XWF Universal Champion represents this pinnacle promotion as the face o' the company. It's unacceptable to assume the champ can just beg off competin' or expect special treatment. If that were the case, I coulda complained 'bout bein' so ring weary in relation to losin' the belt and demanded it back in the interest o' fairness. Hell, even if the bastard broke a bone or two, he'd never be allowed to retain, he'd be stripped o' the strap and that'd be that. Speakin' o' which, what reasoning has Blingsteen stated is responsible for 'is "inability" to perform like the testosteroneless twat that he is? Fuckin' kid's fulla shit. If I hafta drag 'im out to the ring by his braids myself I'll do just that, right before I blade 'is belly open, spill 'is intestine out onto the mat and use it to scale the steel cage to escape and victory."

"And what of the Brick Squad?"

I snatch the mic from Sayors with one hand and shove him away with the other. I put a little too much force behind the push and poor Steve sails back outta frame, apparently grabbing at the Uni title backdrop along the way for support but succeeding only in ripping it free from it's fastenings. It drops from view as my eyes glaze over, dead.

"Fuck Brick Squad and their uninspired-cut-'n-paste-Wocka-worshippin' snail-trailin' snotty snatches. I ain't stressin' anyone affiliated with an ass like Bruce Blingsteen, least of all a pack o' pop culture cucks who adore drawin' from the most recognizable o' subjects with less shame than "Sting" Steve Borden. And where the Universal Title is involved, pertainin' to it's priority positionin' for the Big Dick Daddy, it shares it's slot with a single concept: revenge.

Bruce, you've been lappin' at my mustard nuts for months, motherfucker. I lost patience with you in our FIRST hallway confrontation. Since then you've no idea how often I've entertained the notion o' followin' you home to introduce six inches o' steel to your face and torso a few dozen times before mutilatin' your corpse with my best rendition o' The Ripper meets Mary Kelly. I fuckin' hate you, hack. Hate you. Legitimately, sincerely, with every cell in my body, I want you to die and I wanna be the one to do it. For now I'll hafta settle for what I've got. It's unfortunate, in a way, that our showdown depends not on a pin or submission for the win but climbin' free o' the cage. I can already see you scramblin' saclessly, desperately, frantically for an escape every moment I don't have you at my mercy. It's the niche you've carved out for yourself: the loud-mouth piece o' shit showin' much balls when it comes to talkin' trash yet sufferin' severe shrivelage once it's time to knuckle the fuck up. That special kinda cocky coward who only acts tough in scenarios revolvin' 'round 'is boys backup or security/cop/rules & regulations protectin' from a poundin'. The type o' spineless sumbitch you see online, the weakling wimp-ass trolls safe behind the anonymity of a pc monitor and a screen name. You make me fuckin' sick. You're an embarrassment to the Uni strap, the XWF and the business as a whole, asshole; you deserve every bit o' beatdown I've in store for you on Savage. You're gonna lose that Uni title...and there ain't a damn thing you can do to prevent it. "Brucette Blingsteen"....

You ain't a champ, you ain't a warrior. You're a pussy. Prepare to get fucked like one."

::Fade to black::