“Lights!”

Three spotlights burst to life and sweep wildly around the set. A flash of the red curtain, a moment of the host’s desk, the backdrop of the beautiful Pyongyang skyline!

“Camera!”

Three cameras, scattered around the studio audience, glide exactly to center stage.

“And… If You Want Action and Adventure, He’s Your Guy! The North Korean! Waaaaar! CRIMINAAAAAAAAAAL!”

A bright red stage curtain lifts and the audience claps and screams.

Too excited to wait for it to wait for the curtain, NKWC ducks and does a full tuck and roll into the stage lights! He stays low for a moment, his eyes widen and a gleaming smile spreads across his face. It’s as if discovering the magic of his set from a completely new angle. The cameras adjust to his position and the stage lights descend to illuminate him.

The crowd applauds as he kneels on the stage, basking in their approval. When he springs back upright, kipping to his feet, the volume of the applause doubles.

He bows, waves and bows again. He touches his heart and gestures outwards, a symbol of what he gives to the fans every night.

The crowd will not stop gushing with love for their returning hero.

After a few moments, he goes from ecstatically effervescent to somewhat pleased as he waits for the applause to die down. It does not. The enthusiasm remains dialed to a ten, people screaming and crying and slamming their palms together.

The corners of his mouth turn inward, slowly slipping into a sneer.

His hand zips through the air to slash across his throat. “ENOUGH!”

Silence. The applause is dead. There’s a split second of noise as his audience awkwardly shifts from a standing ovation back to their seats, at full attention.

NKWC looks out at his obedient, loyal audience. Gazing out into the darkness, partially blinded by the bright, studio lights. As if searching for any semblance of resistance or rebellion before he begins.

After scanning the room with his eyes, he finds none. His face returns to a smile, practiced perfectly into a shape designed to be charismatic and friendly.

“Hello! We have a great show tonight! Let’s kick things off right!”

NKWC extends a hand out in front of him.

“Our first guest please...”

On a string from the ceiling descends a notecard, missing his hand and dropping right below NKWC’s face. He’s momentarily startled! Swatting at the mic to get it away from his face.

The start of a giggle!

He turns and scans the crowd again. Pointing a finger, as if about to indicate the vandal who filled the space with mocking, hideous laughter.

But the crowd is obediently silent.

NKWC points for a moment more, then yanks down the notecard, his bright calm emcee demeanor returning.

“Our first guest! All the way from Seattle, Washington! This Sunday, he’ll be wrestling in his debut match at XWF’s Leap of Faith! Please give it up one time for Hawk F’ING Hendricks!”

NKWC jogs playfully behind his talk show desk. The crowd claps politely.

Coming in on a clothesline from the opposite side of the stage is a posterboard of a hawk from National Geographic. It slides into the guest chair beside NKWC before the clothesline sags, dropping him into the seat.

NKWC hasn’t looked up at his guest, still examining the cue card.

“So, first question, Hawk. Your middle name. F’ing? Am I pronouncing that correctly? Fuh-Ing? FING? Is that it?”

The hawk poster sits there quietly.

“Is it short for something? Maybe Hawk Fizzling Hendricks? Or Hawk Failing Hendricks? Hawk Folding Hendricks?”

NKWC glances up at the posterboard to check in with his guest, not seeming to notice he’s a hawk and made of posterboard.

“You know at first, I thought it might be short for Hawk Fucking Hendricks. Then, I figured, this guy doesn’t fuck. Right? Have you ever seen someone less likely to fuck?”

NKWC checks in with the crowd and they applaud at the premise of Hawk Hendricks’ eternal and perpetual virginity.

“Hmm.”

NKWC waves a hand in front of the hawk posterboard’s eyes. The hawk’s pose is frozen in the middle of descent. About to reach his prey, but never actually getting there.

“Well, honestly, Hawk I’d keep going but you’re a little quiet for my taste. It’s less than three days ‘til your debut and you’ve got nothing to say. You’ve been a terrible guest, hasn’t he, folks?”

Boos rain out as the Hawk seems to jiggle up and down on the clothesline, trying to rush the thing off-stage. Old tomatoes and Rotten heads of lettuce fly through the air. A Browning, Wet Onion Catches the Hawk right in its beak, before it finally snags correctly, and is dragged back stage-right.

“Boy, some people are not ready for their time in the spotlight.”

NKWC extends his hand again.

“Speaking of which, we have another guest… and this one is a legend!… allegedly.”

“All the way from Venice Beach, California! Give it up one time for Terry Bord-”

Suddenly, a PA runs to NKWC’s side and waves him closer.

“What?”

NKWC leans. The PA whispers.

“Uh huh.”

“Uh huh.”

“Not here?”

“Too old?”

“Too senile?”

“Bones too brittle?”

“Too physically fragile and mentally feeble?”

NKWC looks up at the PA.

“Well, then why the hell did he agree to be in a match?”

The PA leans down to whisper again.

“Uh huh.”

“Uh huh.”

“Needs the money?”

“Hip replacement?”

“Child support?”

“From Multiple Baby Mamas?”

“Was caught on a sex tape?”

“Might have said the N-word on that sex tape?”

“...No, DEFINITELY said the n-word on that sex tape?”

“Is a relic of a bygone era that at this point is more humiliating for the industry than nostalgic?”

“...Huh. Stop saying these things out into the microphone?”

“The audience can hear me?”

“He’ll sue us so he can spend the settlement money on tanning cream and pain pills?”

“Okay.”

NKWC nods and the PA runs back into position.

“Sorry, folks, apparently, Mr. Borden is suffering from heat exhaustion.”

“Or the opioid crisis.”
“Either way, couldn’t make it to the studio.”

“Thankfully, we have a backup guest prepared and ready.”

“All the way from Bay City, Michigan, one of the hardest working funnymen today! Give it up for Mr. Borden’s old friend, Doctorate in Mathematics, Scott Rechsteiner, PhD!”



Scott Rechsteiner (PhD) sweeps open the red curtain with his oversized right arm, before getting caught in it and failing over onto his side. The crowd applauds.

For a moment, he seems trapped on the floor like a turtle, his massive, yet ineffectual arms to muscular to actually function. Two PAs run up, getting onto each side of Rechsteiner (PhD), before rocking him back to his feet like a helpless turtle. The crowd applauds at the same volume throughout.

Rechsteiner makes his way to a microphone stand at center stage. As he reaches the mic, two PAs wheel out a chalkboard behind him.

“NOW, PRESIDENT TOMMY JEFFERS ONCE SAID, ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL. BUT TOM JEFFERSON NEVER MET ME. YOU LOOK AT ME, AND YOU LOOK AT THOMAS J. EFFERSON AND YOU CAN SEE THAT STATEMENT IS NOT TRUE!”

“SEE NORMALLY, IF YOU FIGHT A PRESIDENT, YOU GOTTA 50/50 CHANCE OF WINNING!”

“BUT I’M… BUT I HAVE A PHD IN MATHS STUFFS! A PRETTY HARD DICK FOR MATH! AND THAT’S NOT NORMAL! I GET HARD WHEN I SEE MATH PROBLEMS! I AM SEXUALLY AROUSED BY EQUATIONS! I HAD TO COVER EVERY BONER I HAD FROM MIDDLE SCHOOL TO LAST WEEK, WHICH IS WHY I STILL ALWAYS CARRY MY 8TH HISTORY TEXT BOOK TO OBSCURE PEOPLE SEEING MY ENGORGED GENITALS! THAT’S HOW I GOT THESE JACKED BICEPS, I’VE CARRIED MY TEXTBOOK WITH ME FOR 53 YEARS!”

The PAs rush behind Rechsteiner mid-rant to take away the chalkboard, just in case.

“SO AT BEST, THOMAS JEFF GOLDBLUM! YOU GOT A TWENTY-FIVE PERCENT CHANCE OF BEATING ME! AND THEN YOU ADD MY MATH PENIS TO THE MIX, AND YOUR CHANCES OF WINNING DRASTIC GO DOWN! DRASTICALLY!”

“SEE, WHEN YOU GET INTO A ménage à trois WRESTLING MATCH, YOU GOT A 33 AND A THIRD CHANCE OF WINNING! BUT I.. BUT SEE I… I GOTTA 66 AND TWO THIRDS CHANCE OF WINNING! CUZ MY PENIS KNOOOOOOWS IT CAN’T BEAT ME! I BEAT IT! EVERY TIME I SEE A MATH PROBLEM! I SOLVE THE MATH PROBLEM, THEN SOLVE MY PENIS PROBLEM. SO, WHEN MY PENIS AND I GET IN THE RING WITH ANYONE, MY PENIS DOESN’T EVEN TRY!”

“SO PRESIDENT SANFORD AND SON, YOU TAKE YOUR 33 AND ONE THIRD CHANCE OF WINNING THEN SUBTRACT MY 25 PERCENT CHANCE AND THAT LEAVES YOU WITH UH…”

Scott Rechsteiner (PhD) tries to count on his fingers, before looking back for his chalkboard.

“WHO TOOK MY FRIGGIN’ DAMN CHALKBOARD?!?”

Scott Rechsteiner reaches into his tights and pulls out a sharpie. He tear open his ceremonial graduation robe and begins writing out equations on his own chest.

“THAT LEAVES YOU WITH UH… 8 AND ONE THIRD CHANCE OF WINNING!”

“BUT THEN YOU TAKE MY 75 PERCENT CHANCE OF WINNING IF WE WAS TO GO 1 ON 1 AND THEN ADD 66 PERCENT BECAUSE OF THE ménage à trois . I GOT A 141 2/3 CHANCE IN BED TONIGHT!”

“GROUND CONTROL TO MAJOR TOM! THE NUMBERS DON’T LIE! AND THEY SPELL DESIRE... FOR YOU! PLEASE CALL ME BACK!”

Scott Rechsteiner (PhD) struggles to catch his breath, is covered with sharpie marker math equations, and has a visible erection through his tights.

The crowd applauds.

Scott Rechsteiner (PhD) is ushered off stage by two PAs wielding cattle prods. NKWC politely puts his hands together two or three times as the crowd claps with him.

“Scott Rechsteiner, everyone!”

“If you’ve never heard a Terry Borden promo, it’s that but with the word ‘BROTHER’ ending every sentence.”

“Well, that’s about all the time we have…”

Once again, the PA jogs beside NKWC’s desk and whispers into his ear again.

“Uh huh.”

“Uh huh.”

“...Really?”

“One more?”

“...But, this one DID show up?”

“We have a clip?”

“All right.”

NKWC gestures to the production team.

“I’ve received word we have a clip from our final guest of the night. Ladies and Gentlemen, Jordan Knoxville.”

NKWC keeps his microphone as he sits close to the projected screen, playing the Jordan Knoxville promo.

Quote:Jordan Knoxville stands alone in what looks like a run-down graveyard, he stands there arms crossed wearing a black suit, white shirt, and red tie.

“Red Tie? To a graveyard? Disrespectful to the deceased.”

Quote:‘The very worst of humanity has flashed behind my eyes, things from my darkest nightmares have come to life more times than I can count, and eventually, you adapt. The fear becomes minimal and complacent as very little scared me anymore.’

“Excuse me, waiter. This is Diet Mark Flynn. I ordered regular.”

Quote:‘Yet here I stand, looking down at this so-called Body Count, utterly paralyzed with that pure instinctual warning tearing at my spine and the tiniest of whispers rattling in my skull in a horrified tone telling me to run.’

“This graveyard is scary! Quick Gang, back to the Mystery Machine!”

Quote:‘The screams of those who suffered unimaginably…’

The people who listen to your promos?

Quote: and the sheer joyous laughter of the demonic madness that tore them asunder…

The people that spent money to watch you wrestle for 8 seconds?

Quote:...washes over me in an agonizing wave as that infernal house mocks the foolish humans who dared grace its presence.’

“Well, someone must have gotten a word-of-the-day calendar between his last match and this one! Great buy!”

Quote:‘The same foolish beings tried to prevent me from the success, Mikey you were the one who shelved me, unknowingly but you caused the issues that spiraled the actions that followed. Due to your recklessness you cost me the momentum I was building, the momentum I had gained… I promise that when our paths cross again you will not be so lucky.’

“I think that double headbutt knockout gave Jordy a concussion. His name was MICKEY KINCADE. Who the hell is Mikey? Jordan, how many fingers am I holding up? What day is it?”

Quote:‘We have, or should I say that I have the opportunity to shake this uneasy start, in order to do this I have to take the ever so coincidental phrase, the Leap of Faith to allow me to progress, but there is only one..well three issues with that…Borden, Hendricks and The War Criminal…’

The smile immediately disappears from NKWC’s face.

“Cut the clip.”

Immediately, the Jordan Knoxville footage freeze frames. The image of him crouching on a tomb.

NKWC looks at this figure, hopping and prancing around a graveyard. He regards The Nottingham Ripper with disgust and contempt.

“I am not The War Criminal.”

“I am The North Korean War Criminal.”

“You Say My Full God-Damned Name or You Leave It Out of Your Mouth.”

“I am not a simple War Criminal. I did not commit atrocities and neglect the Geneva Conventions for myself or for any individual. I committed them for the greater good. For the good of the entire North Korean people. The TRUE Korean people!”

The crowd begins to clap, louder and louder as NKWC speaks more and more profound truth to their ears.

“I bring with me every time I step into the ring the full fury of the True Korean people. I am their representative. I am their vassal. I am them. And they are me.”

“And you, Jordan Knoxville, are about to witness the firepower of a man who has the fighting spirit of the greatest people from the greatest country in the world supporting him.”

The crowd begins to roar. You hear the screams and howls of approval. The North Korean flag unfurls from the ceiling with confetti and streamers. The house band begins belting the anthem of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.

He basks in their deafening, unquestioning love.

“Glory to Pyongyang!”

“Glory to Kim Jong Un!”

“Glory to YOU! WE’LL SEE YOU NEXT TIME!”

NKWC waves, right back to his smiling emcee persona.

“Thank you, True Koreans! Good night!”

He smiles, basking in cheers! Roses are thrown on stage. A FULL ROSEBUSH FLIES THROUGH THE AIR AT HIS FEET.

Credits fly down the screen in front of his face, concluding with Executive Producer Garry Marshall.