The scene opens in The Times, a bar located in downtown Boston. It's the middle of the day, so the only patrons holding court are two down-on-their-luck, unemployed schmos sitting on opposite ends of the bar, a couple having a mid-afternoon lunch of bangers and mash (this is an Irish-style pub in Boston, after all), and a staff of three (the bartender and two waitresses). One of the men at the bar looks to be in his early 50s, and his cracked hands and rough face make it likely that he works in construction or some other manual labor position. The man on the other end of the bar is hidden in the dark, as the corner that he's sitting in happens to be out a light. This man looks remarkably younger... probably only mid-30s... but his downtrodden, droopy face lacks any hint of ambition or care for life, and an odd mish-mash of weathered khakis and a plaid, Nirvana-esque polo convey the same.

As the camera is slowly making its rotation through the establishment, a major bit of force can be heard hitting a door to the right. The camera swivels to the right, and in comes Tony Santos. Dressed in a gray polo and jeans, Tony looks almost... presentable. That is until you see the disheveled mop laying limp on his head, as well as that... smile. Sweet Jesus, that gap-toothed smile.

Santos: Peter god damn Gilmour! The demon himself! The lover of women with large sets of... tools. It has been too long, Peter. It has been too god damn long. Did you miss me over these past few months? Did you miss my smile? My gorgeous mug? My silky smooth hair? My impeccable physique? The way I can make a four-letter word sound like the verbal equivalent of a panda bear when it forms in my vocal cords and shoots out in to the atmosphere?

Did you miss me? Did you? Did you, you scary son of a bitch?

Yeah, you did. And I don't blame you. For one, I know the love and fucking adoration you have for the final male appendages. Don't deny it, Peter. The entire organization has been down that road enough times to make an Asian stuck in a rotary blush. Wait...

Rose Smith?! Where'd she go?? Who the hell is Jessica? And why is she apparently so irresistible that men just feel the need to not only go for that luscious ass of hers, but to try to throw away all bits of social convention and rape her in the middle of a bar, where there are dozens of witnesses? Shit, that dick must blow Rose out of the water! That's saying a lot too, Petey, considering your narrator on that masterpiece of a set earlier just couldn't resist calling Jessica "Rose." Jessica must be the gold standard when it comes to those in a "transition period," eh, Petey my boy? Or...

Is Jessica actually Rose? Is that why the narrator slipped up? Because it's not a slip-up at all?

Let's play that clip...

Peter Fn Gilmour Said: Peter nods his head again and they begin to leave but Peter notices the man is still moving. How is he able to withstand this beating from Peter and Rose? The man charges, well, limps over to try a sneak attack but Peter sees the move and then quickly picks up the man and him and Jessica perform a devastating maneuver through the pinball machine that would make the Dudleys proud. They hit a 3D through the pinball machine! Sparks fly everywhere as the man begins to convulse then his body goes limp. The people in the bar look on in awe of what has happened. Peter kneels at the prone body of the older man and smiles wickedly. He then grabs the hand of his lovely girlfriend Jessica and they begin to leave the bar as the patrons look on. They head down the street as the light of the moon begins to shine upon them as we slowly begin to FADE TO BLACK!

The camera cuts back to Tony, who, with his hand against his chin, looks deep in thought, yet also thoroughly confused.

Santos: Tell us the truth, Petey. I can't figure it out for the life of me, but I'm practically an XWF newbie again. Hell, if you're gone for a few months here, you might as well be gone for an eternity. You're practically dead to the organization, my friend. That's just how it works. And, since I'm once again an infant to the organization...

...albeit still smarter than Agent Orange, for those who remember...

...but I digress! For someone who's once again a soft-assed newborn to this fine wrestling company, I'm just not familiar enough with this situation to provide an accurate take, so tell me, Peter... is Jessica a man? Is Jessica also Rose Smith? What are you hiding? Why are you warping reality?

Peter...

Was that bar of yours in Manhattan a real bar? Were you [i[really[/i] in Manhattan. Because, Peter, as someone who's been to a bar or two in his day, that doesn't seem like a bar I'd ever find myself in, at least not north of the Mason-Dixon Line. Not in Manhattan, of all places.

Peter...

Was that promo all your imagination? Were you really with a beautiful woman? Does she really, like seemingly every woman who's struck by Cupid's demented Gilmour bow, adore you and only you? Does she really have so little self-respect that she allows her entire existence to revolve around a winless, mentally "demon," who can't go more than five seconds without telling someone to suck his dick, let alone get anybody to actually fucking do so?

Peter...

Is this the real life? Or is this just fantasy?

Tell me Peter. I want to know.

I want to know, because I feel bad for you. You had a pretty awesome high in December of 2012. You were the Superstar of the Month, Peter! The king of the fucking world. And now, look at you. It's May 6th, 2014, and you're the laughing stock of this entire organization. The man who can't let go. No no, the man who's too lost to realize that at his peak nobody gave a shit about him. You were a rambling idiot then, Petey, but at least you were one with a shred of credibility. At least people looked at you and didn't immediately question whether their elementary-aged child could both beat you in a fight as well as in the classroom. Now, seemingly 1,000 King of the XWF challenges later...

...approximately (and this is generous) 150,000+ Rose Smith dick jokes later...

...a good few thousand of the Suck My Dick chants, which you could never get anyone to chant along with you, later...

We're here. It's you and me, Peter. A 26-year-old alcoholic with what amounts to practically a bastard child, a home beneath a dive bar, and no family or friends to associate with, versus Peter Gilmour. Given all that...

I'm still better than you. I'll still win. You wanna know why? Because I may be fucked up, but I'm not delusional. See this, Petey? This is a bar. This is a real bar, that you find in a real American city. A bunch of sad, lonely men sitting at a bar, dwelling on their troubles and many failures. A nice young couple, just enjoying a meal together. Just talking. Not eye-fucking each other and defending one another from public attempts of gang rape...

Why?

Because the shit that you spew only exists in your own head, Peter. And don't take that the wrong way. This isn't because you're some menacing demon with a petrifying mean streak and a connection with Lucifer. No way in fucking hell.

It's because you're a straight up imbecile. That's all it is, Peter. A dumb brain can work wonders for the person it's controlling. Why do you think cults continue to pop up after another has been squelched? Why do people talk of prophetic visions, or seeing Jesus in their fucking toast?

Because they're idiots. They're delusional. They see things others don't, oh, no doubt about that. But they don't see things that actually exist. They see cranial misfires. They're basically watching the mental equivalent to Gigli on a continuous loop. And so are you, Peter. Gigli in human fucking form.

On Wednesday, I'm gonna tear you to shreds. Not just because I want to, but because I fucking need to. Sleep well.

The scene fades to black.

September 2013 and May 2019 Star of the Month
1x Hart Champion
1x Television Champion
1x Xtreme Champion