Threaded Mode | Linear Mode

SpineTwister · **01-23-2015, 09:26 AM**

Jolene’s BBQ, Outskirts of Denver. Early evening.

A long, low roadhouse building offset by the towering majesty of the Rocky Mountains, Jolene’s BBQ serves as a gathering place for the locals of this Denver exurb. Jolene’s has stood for three generations, serving a diverse crowd of blue-collar types like ranchers and oilmen, middle-class families, and an increasing crew of hipsters come for cheap drinks and free pool.

Standing out front, banished to the porch by recent smoke-free regulations, JOE and RANDY are two of the old guard: good ol’ boys not inclined to welcome gentrification. They look with scorn on the hipsters with their truckers’ caps and ironic PBR tallboys. Diversity does not suit them.

They’ve never seen anything as diverse as what they’re about to see.

“Holeeeeeeeee…”

The rented Audi slides into the closest parking space. Out steps one man, three women, and one… something.

The man is blocky, broad, clearly an athlete, white-blond hair and icy blue eyes. He wears a white Dolce & Gabbana suit with blue linen shirt tailored in Hong Kong.

One woman wears a red PVC corset, black miniskirt of the same material, dominatrix cap, and stiletto-heeled thigh-high boots. The second wears a barely-covers-the-crotch nylon dress, thigh-high stockings, and Fleuvog boots. The third wears a red rubber dress slit to the hips. All are crawling with body modifications. All accentuate with medical support gear.

Limping along from behind, led on a leash, GIMP ZERO brings up the rear, his allotted place. He wears a latex corset, rubber bodysuit, half mask, and splints and bandages patching together his innumerable injuries.

As SIMON LYSTER, “THE SPINE TWISTER” passes the gaping JOE and RANDY, he turns to them and says:

“Yes, I know: In this country it’s gauche to wear white after Labor Day. Good thing I’m not American.”

MAMA JO, proprietress of Jolene’s, is a 50something woman, broad, big haired, tattooed in a few spots, who’s seen it all. Until now. But when she receives the party and takes their seating request:

SUBMISSIVE #1: “Table for five.”
SUBMISSIVE #2: “Table for five.”
SUBMISSIVE #3: “Table for five.”
SUBMISSIVES [all]: “As it pleases the Mistress.”

…she shrugs and says, “Right this way.”

MAMA JO leads them past gawking regulars to a table as far in the back as she can place them. Dimly lit, the table is surrounded by grungy walls displaying three generations’ strata of kitsch: motorcycle license plates; longhorn steer horns; posters of Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline, Drive-By Truckers, Squirrel Nut Zippers; vintage 1950s pin-up calendars.

The pool-playing regulars in the back make excuses not to play pool anymore. LYSTER ignores the buzz coming from the front of the restaurant.

LITTLE GIRL: “They’re pretty! They look like Monster High dolls!”
MOM: “Don’t look at them!”
LITTLE GIRL: “Can I have a skirt like that?”
MOM: “I said don’t look at them!”

LYSTER, to MAMA JO: “This will do nicely. We have work to do during dinner anyway.”

MAMA JO turns to SUBMISSIVE #2 and says, “Ma’am, what’ll you have?”

LYSTER corrects her. “I order for everyone.”

SUBMISSIVE #1: “We eat as the Master dictates.”
SUBMISSIVE #2: “We are abject slaves grateful for the tiniest crumb.”
SUBMISSIVE #3: “The Master knows what best meets our nutritional needs.”
SUBMISSIVES [all]: “As it pleases the Mistress.”

MAMA JO: “Ummmm… Yes, ma’am. Sir, what’ll it be?”

“I shall have the pork brisket platter. With… Texas toast. And onion rings. Do you have hollandaise sauce? I’ll take that as a no. Your local condiment will suffice. Oh, and a Laphroaig 18, neat. No? Johnny Walker Black on the rocks?” [sighs] “No again? Seriously? OK, well, double Jack and Coke, then. Never accuse me of being high maintenance.

“For the ladies, each shall have a pulled pork sandwich with steak fries. And a Pabst Blue Ribbon.”

SUBMISSIVE #1 [whispers]: “PBR?”
SUBMISSIVE #2 [whispers]: Chavvy.”
SUBMISSIVE #3 [whispers]: “Can’t we at least get Heineken?”

LYSTER glares.

SUBMISSIVES [all]: “As it pleases the Master.”

“And for the… gentleman?” MAMA JO looks dubiously at GIMP ZERO.

“This lowly worm is eternally grateful to lick the grime off the Mistress’ kitchen floor.”

“The… health inspector wouldn’t go for that,” MAMA JO replies.

LYSTER waves dismissively at the GIMP. “That crawling thing shall suffer hunger pangs and revel in his misery.”

“As… you wish.” MAMA JO scurries off to place the order. “And you’ll want a bib, sir,” she says, looking at LYSTER’s white suit.

“I am at your disposal, madam,” SIMON says graciously.

LYSTER and the entourage eat the brunt of their meal. Then, satisfied, LYSTER orders a second Jack and Coke and commands:

“GIMP, camera on.” Looking into the feed, LYSTER speaks.

“Roll camera and Mr. HOLLYWOOD, like a critically panned flop long kept under wraps by the studio execs, finally slithers its way into view.

“Thought I’d indulge in a little Americana while I’m here. Local color, hometown meals. Do that blue-collar thing you so fetishize, as if it makes you more authentic. After all, for you, quote, the idea of ‘spotlight’ and ‘superstardom’ are trivial. They are just a few words. In the grand scheme of things, fame means nothing. Unquote.

“Or so you say. You say a lot. You do rather less. But we’ll get to that point.

“Catch a little American football, too. Seems like you’re the one, with your last-minute responses to my promos, who’s deflating the ball, sir.

“You accuse me of being a coward. Lacking integrity. And yet I’m the one who actually showed up and put in the work to sell our fight instead of sliding in after the 75% mark and then blindsiding me on Day Nine of nine.

“I suppose, though, you’d call it ‘being an opportunist.’

“But sandbag away, RYBACK. Let’s get on with it. Plenty of absurd footage to cover.

C.C. Hollywood said:
Like the winter of '05, you will be howling with coal eyes to be heard for miles. Distractions? See how locked and keyed in I am at Turning Point, locksmith. Fiction is a flattering art, but that doesn't flatter me when you finally find your identity with my words."

“And once again with the bullshit.

“What does that even mean? Winter? Howling with coal eyes? How much more of this Bob Dylan tripe do I have to take?

“My own musings, while pretentious, are at least understandable.

“And identity? Please. If nothing else, my identity is exceedingly well established. As I said: You want your stars. I’m the void that crushes them.

“You know, like I said on Day Five of nine, when you were nowhere to be found. Coward.

LYSTER sighs in disdain. At this moment, MAMA JO arrives with his second Jack and Coke. “Thank you, madam,” he says, then faces the camera again.

“We clearly have an impasse in communication. Indulge me, sir, while I indulge myself.” He knocks back a slug of the Jack and Coke.

“Maybe if I drink enough of these, I’ll be able to make sense of your raving.

“I expected better, honestly. The conventional wisdom on HOLLYWOOD is that it’s all dreck. Some initial substance, a flashy entrance, then fading to disposable… well, fiction. Artifice. Smoke and mirrors.

“I’m beginning to suspect you’re aptly named.”

C.C. Hollywood said:
"My old man taught me a very important lesson when I was young. That lesson was simply that no matter how good you think you are, there is always someone better than you. There is always someone out there to humble you. I can truly say that since I have made my debut, I have yet to be impressed by someone who I think can be better than me. Yes, that even includes Simon Lyster."

“You ramble on and on about your dead beloved father. My father taught me some lessons, too. He was viewed in society as an eccentric, which is a polite English euphemism for batshit mad. Wasn’t much fortune in the House of Lyster left to spend, but he did his best.

“He died... suddenly... a fall, the coroner determined, an instantly fatal neck injury. Near-complete disintegration of the C-4 vertebra. Tragic. It was all I could do to manage the disbursement of his estate.

“So what did my father teach me?

“That fathers, like all men in this broken world, are nothing but flawed, fallible meat and bones. And looking back on them to guide your own path is the mark of a loser.

“Your father was right about one thing, though: You will be humbled.

“Then there’s this, of course.”

C.C. Hollywood said:
Do you have anything worth mentioning? Anything worth while? Or are you just a carbon copy of something that has already been written before, like a kind of CNN?

“Yawn. Good artists borrow; great artists steal. Stole that from Picasso, in fact.

“At the end of the day, the only originality that matters is in the ring. As mentioned: my Paralyzer: unique innovation of two separate moves. Your Hollywood Hills: a gator roll used in every high-school gym.

“So much for carbon copies.

“And now we come to the excuses.”

C.C. Hollywood said:
"Eventhough I was bent, I am not broken. See, if you really thought you were better than me, Simon, you wouldn't have tried so hard to get an advantage to take the easy way out and injure your opponent. You failed at that. I would have at least succeeded in putting you out of action.

LYSTER sighs, takes a sip of the Jack and Coke, and says:

“The self-proclaimed opportunist of opportunists, whining about others taking their own opportunities.

“Mr. HOLLYWOOD, please. Don’t embarrass yourself any further. Review the footage:

Monday Madness said:
The referees are trying to pull apart the two men, but Simon is having none of it. He is wrenching the hold in tight. Finally, Simon releases it and stands over Hollywood.

“Listen to me. I’ll say it very… very… slowly:

“You’re here because I let you up, you idiot.

“Because I wanted to make an example of you at Turning Point.

“Turning Point will be, in your case, very much literal. I’d estimate about a 63-degree pelvic-to-torso turn, then a 102-degree turn of your neck. You’ll be in Denver but… courtesy of me… facing Manyuk, so as your eyes glaze over you might get one final view, across the thin Rocky Mountain air, of your beloved home. Maybe you can send Mr. BAGADONUTS out for a roast beef with gravy before your esophageal tract spasms into uselessness.

“The promo wouldn’t be complete, of course, without the bragging….”

C.C. Hollywood said:
I am the guy who dives in the waves to challenge Jaws, then I live to tell about it.

“You say this… you say anything your weed-addled brain percolates into your slack-jawed mouth…

“You babble about your… surprise, surprise… cryptic ‘legacy’…

“You hint about your depths and your darkness and how you’re going to… I don’t know, morph into Super C.C. Seiyan and suddenly reveal all your hidden edgy anime moves.

“Yet what I see is a man who has yet to accomplish anything concrete.

“Who was handed a pinfall in his debut, by a mythical messiah in whom neither of us even believes.

“Whom I, in my self-admitted worst match… a match I had no particular interest in winning… tied, then left lying in agony on the concrete.

“What, for your father’s legacy or your own, have you accomplished?

“Say what you will about DUNCAN B. DEADLY, but HE TAPPED OUT. No ambiguity.

“ADRIAN STORMS TAPPED OUT. No ambiguity.

“Do you have anything but ambiguity, Mr. HOLLYWOOD?”

C.C. Hollywood said:
I see right through your disguise and you are scared. Ladies and gentlemen of the grand jury, Simon Lyster is afraid.

“Am I afraid of you? Depends on your definition.

“I acknowledge… because I am a man of reason and facts… that you have a statistically conceivable chance of winning: 2.4%. Someone wins the lottery, some planes crash, someone gets struck by lightning.

“Good luck in Vegas… or Hollywood… with those odds.

“Fear? No. A sober…” LYSTER holds up the cocktail. “…well, more or less sober… acknowledgment of reality.

“You need a dose of sobriety, my friend.

“But it’s good that you’re on the bleeding edge of medical marijuana. It’ll help pass the next 60 years staring at the same ceiling, waiting for the nurse to change your bedpan."

LYSTER kills the last of the Jack and Coke, stands to leave, then sits back down.

“One more thing, just so we’re clear on our respective stances.

“You spoke of this great rivalry and epic program you fancy we share. One would think if our program were so meaningful to you, you’d have shown up on time for it. But whatever.

“Maybe to you, I’m your rival or your nemesis or your trophy kill or what have you. Can’t say I much care.

“To me, you’re just another slab of meat.” SIMON spears and eats his last bite of brisket. "Another chunk of bone and cartilage. To be broken.”

SUBMISSIVES: “Like all th—“

“I think he gets the point, ladies. Come, then.”

LYSTER tosses an excellent tip on the table, and then he and his entourage rise and leave.

JOE and RANDY don’t say a word as they pass, but when nearly out of earshot RANDY mutters:

“

.”

SIMON spins.

“Appreciate the offer, but I am an athlete and do not smoke.” Then comprehension dawns. And he approaches like a storm cloud.

“Oh, yes, your American slang. I think you’re implying that I sleep with men. And that I should be ashamed of this.

“To answer your accusation, yes, I sometimes do fuck men. I fuck women as well, as you can clearly ascertain. And occasionally things of other species, or unliving objects.

“I am the proprietor of London’s most exclusive alternative lifestyle establishment, and in addition a paraphiliac who takes sexual pleasure from paralysis. Trying to shame me sexually is like trying to shame Jeffrey Dahmer for his table manners. Whatever vile and degrading acts you conjure up, whatever filthy and scatological insinuations you sling at me to try to compensate for your own insecurities:

“To paraphrase M. Bison: For me, that was… Tuesday.

“Is that a problem for you?” LYSTER thrusts his 265 pounds of muscle forward at the two overweight rednecks. SUBMISSIVE #3 steps up to LYSTER’s side, eyes cold as stones. “Do you want to make it a problem? Really?”

“Didn’t mean no offense,” JOE offers. “Friend’s just had a bit to drink is all.” Neither can meet LYSTER’s eyes, or the SUBMISSIVES’.

SUBMISSIVE #1: “Losers.”
SUBMISSIVE #2: “Trash.”
SUBMISSIVE #3: “Nobodies.”
SUBMISSIVES [all]: “SUBMIT.”

JOE and RANDY drop their eyes fully, dogs acknowledging their alpha.

Then the crew turn their back on the cringing pair.

As the group step out to the Audi, SUBMISSIVE #2 suddenly stops, says, “As it pleases the Master…”

“What?”

“Before we leave, I need to…” She gestures downward, does an antsy dance. “The ladies’ room, as it pleases the Master.”

“Hurry.”

“As it pleases the Master.”

SUBMISSIVE #2 reenters the roadhouse, heads to the ladies’ room.

She looks furtively around, then pulls out a personal video camera with XWF feed. Foregoing the general feed, she selects C.C. HOLLYWOOD’s personal repository.

Looking into the monitor, she says in a whisper.

“Mr. HOLLYWOOD, sir: The Master’s in a state.

“You don’t seem like a bad bloke. You’re smart. You’re cute in your way.

“You have your friend. There’s a girl and a life out there for you.

“The Master talks about pride and… he don’t much fancy titles and all that, but… he’s got to win this one, you know.

“And beggin’ your pardon, and not for me to speak out of turn to my betters, but:

“I don’t like your chances, sir.

“Be happy. Stay home.”

Her eyes glisten, then overflow with tears.

“Please.

“Just. Stay. Home.”

She puts the camera away, exits, and rejoins her family.

Threaded Mode \| Linear Mode Americana
Author	Message