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Agent Orange · (07-12-2013)

XWF HOUSESHOW

**Agent Orange is storming through the halls of the arena where the XWF is currently occupying. He stops and looks at every door; clearly agitated. Orange notices the camera man.**

Agent Orange: You! Come here! You’re gonna make yourself useful!

**The Camera Man follows Orange, namely out of fear of being tagged in the mouth for not doing what he’s told. Orange comes across a couple of guys who are trying to get a development deal with the company. One of them starts to say “hi” and gets super kicked. Before the other can stand and defend themselves, Agent Orange has already surprised tackled and rained down fists to his skull. Orange stands and turns to the camera man**

Agent Orange: I’m taking the time and I’m going to make a statement. The statement is real simple: I am done being effed with. I don’t know who has who’s wild hair up their ass, but every match I’ve been booked in so far has been an attempt to bury me and my career at every turn.

My first match was against two of the Backyard Wrestling’s Highlight Reel superstars. My second match was in a main event against two of the top guys and the match maker, who I can only assume is severely impotent from all the blow he’s been doing, saddles me with a goddamn caveman who decides he’s going to take the week off. That wasn’t even a tag team match, that was me walking in to a text book ass-kicking. The match after that? I had to wrestle a fat sack of “From the Pole to the Wrestling Ring” and for what? What did that match prove other than Agent Orange has no problem ruining a single mother who is just out of the rehab clinic and would be happy to give an enthusiastic handy for her next fix.

So after Agent Orange proves that he can crush whoever is set in front of him, that Agent Orange can take his lumps, how am I thanked? I am thanked by being put in a match with a bunch of fuggin Yard-Tards in an Xtreme Title match! I, a scientific wrestler with a wealth of knowledge of the industry and a plethora of techniques at my disposal, get to play King of Trampoline Championship Wrestling with a bunch of kids with weapons. Stevie Tyler, who hasn’t had a good look at a vagina since he emerged from it; Alex Shawn, who is battling with the decision to finally schedule that gender reassignment surgery and Tony Santos, who had the good fortune of having been booked against Agent Orange when he was saddled with the dead beat dad of tag-team wrestling.

Starting today, starting right now and upside these two jabroni’s skulls, I’m making a statement. The statement is this: I am not taking it on the chin any more. Each act of trying to bury Agent Orange is going to be met with an equal and opposite reaction of someone getting crushed. Period. I’ve done my talking in the ring and no one listens, I’ve done my talking to entertain and no one thinks I’m serious. Now I’m serious, now things get real.

**Agent Orange storms out of the locker room and through the production area. He forcefully grabs a mic from one of the sound techs. He makes a sharp left turn and through a darkened maintenance area where he emerges in the arena. The camera man patches his feed through to the XWF-tron.**

Agent Orange: Ladies and Gentlemen of the XWF audience. By now you should know who I am. I am the whipping boy of the XWF, the kind-hearted athlete that a bunch of guys in suits takes out their sexual inadequacies on by booking me in lousy matches with lousy kids who’s only training consisted of “Drop your pants so that I can take some pictures” and picking out a nice set of jean shorts and a Megadeth t-shirt to wrestle in. At Leap of Faith, I was booked against Stevie Tyler, Alex Shawn and Tony Santos in a match straight out of some yard-tard’s notebook. While Tony Santos, an incredible a**hole, has done some things, I’m not sure about the other two. See, I was too busy doing anything else with anyone else to really research their careers.

I’ve decided today that I’m going to take a stand; a revolution really. My revolution, my uprising, is going to be centered on the idea that wrestling is the core of what we’re all here for. I know you guys paid a lot of money in hopes that a wrestling match might break out in the middle of this episode of “The Young and the Emotional,” but Agent Orange’s vision of the world is all about athletes competing with other athletes in contests of strength without having to worry about who someone’s imaginary friend groped, without worrying about who is carving their feelings all over their arm and without having to keep track of which alien knocked up which farm girl.

In Agent Orange’s vision of wrestling, kids like the ones who are running around with their diapers running over with crap, would earn their shots. We wouldn’t cater to American Apparel models, we wouldn’t service the Hollister nation because they look good. Champions would be crowned in contests where they’ve earned their shots because they are superior athletes. Matches would be won or lost because of the amount of skill that one human being possesses.

This revolutionary vision of wrestling, The “Orange World Order” is not some strange concept, it is primal instinct. This crap, these videos of people talking to cheap broads and nasty looking women in hopes of closing the deal on getting their junk wet, is what we’ve come to. It’s not so long ago that we’d crowd around a TV because Bret “The Hitman” Hart was putting his title on the line or because Hulkamania was running wild; that’s why we tuned in. You, check that, we are all being saturated with a story, not wrestling, a story about a bunch of a**holes and their “Real World Road Rules” garbage.

Tony Santos, you goofy son of a bitch. The last time you and I found ourselves in competition with one another, I had you pegged as someone who likes the rough stuff. I labeled you as someone who would spend his time in a dark club with fruit scented cigarettes where you are paying some woman named Axe Handle to work you over because you’d been a bad boy. How do you refute those claims? For one, you and Mr. Mars Bar take the opportunity to drop me on my goddamn skull in the middle of a match that I had no hopes of winning being weighed down by Wrestling’s Most angularly sloped forehead; but then you come out and say how the Orange Crush left you …smiling? Tony, some day, when our careers are over, I think you and I will end up being friends. I think that we’ll sit around talking about the wars we’ve been in, the matches we’ve won, we may even end up being close. Now, as I’m sure you are at half-mast because I said that, I need to make it perfectly clear that I am not going to be able to engage in the kind of friendship that you are looking for. I’ll drop offense on you all day long, but not because I’m going to help you get your jollies. If the Orange Crush is going to put a smile on your face, then you might as well call me laughing gas, this is going to be a lot of fun for you.

Alex Shawn, you are truly remarkab…ly unimpressive. At no point has anything you’ve said make you feel like you are a threat to me. In fact, Alex, I will let you know that you will most likely beat me. It’s true, my gift to you is the knowledge and foresight that you are most likely going to secure the win over Agent Orange and that is based solely on the fact that I am allergic to yard-tards. I have no time or tolerance for kids running around their back yards, stealing barbed wire from rusty fences and inviting twenty of their closest friends who are only going to your backyard show because your sister has huge cans, a touch of autism and doesn’t tell your parents about the basement game of “it tastes like a lollipop.” I don’t have time for that, Alex. Our “match,” if you can call it that, is just another attempt to keep Agent Orange down. Alex, you aren’t any more important than my political agenda. You are vanilla pudding whose only hopes of being successful in life is that the “Worst Wrestler’s On the Planet” museum opens soon.

Stevie Tyler, your band sucks. I hate your band; the music is loud and your mouth bothers me. You have the sex appeal of a cactus and frankly you sucked out loud on American Idol. You couldn’t judge vocal talent out of a wet paper bag!

**Agent Orange turns to someone behind him.**

Agent Orange: Wait, I’m not wrestling the lead singer of Aerosmith?

**Someone is talking to Orange again**

Agent Orange: It’s not the guy who sings Janie’s Got a Gun and Love on an Elevator?

**More talking**

Agent Orange: Bummer. Mom, Dad, if you’re watching, I was wrong. Turns out I don’t get to beat the crap out of the guy from Aerosmith, I won’t be offended if you cancel the viewing party back home.

Well, I planned a whole speech for how I was going to rid the world of its collective ringing in its ears by punching the guy from Aerosmith in the throat and now it turns out …you guessed it, I’m wrestling yet another yard tard. If I remember correctly, this particular yard-tard is even goofier than the last. The yard-tards are breeding, ladies and gentlemen. They are foregoing the wrestling training, going to acting school and even failing at that. I guess I gotta say something to the yard-tard, right?

Stevie Tyler, you are an inferior wrestler and I have a moral obligation against hitting the mentally challenged. The problem is that I like getting paid, so you know what that means, right? That’s right, Agent Orange is punching the Special Olympics bronze medalist in turd-hurling. Not only is the XWF trying to ruin my career, now they are making my parents ashamed of me. My mom doesn’t want to be the mom of the guy who beats up another guy who can hardly Velcro his boots.

Here is the point: Everything I’ve said, everything I’ve done, it’s all about wrestling. All the points I’ve made have been valid and directly about the physical contest I’m going to be in. The XWF is trying to bury me, that’s a given, I’m still a professional wrestler and as a professional, I wrestle who they put in front of me. I’m not taking it on the chin anymore. Starting at Leap of Faith, in the Xtreme Title match, you get to see the Rise of the Orange World Order; the return to glory of professional wrestling.

**”New Disease” plays through the P.A. system and Agent Orange disappears into the building**

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