Post by E.W Montgomery on Jan 27, 2021 22:57:55 GMT -6
“A golden opportunity awaits me once again…”
The camera fades in on the massive Arkansas native, E.W Montgomery. Oddly enough, he looks less like his normally disheveled self than normal. In front of him sits an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels and a small whiskey glass filled with ice and waiting to be filled.
“...I already know how this game goes. I sit here in my hotel room and think about how few of these golden opportunities I have left in my career. I’ll probably drink this here entire bottle of Jack Daniels, and smoke a truly unhealthy amount of cigarillos before I fade off. And that’s when she’ll show up, rubbing her hands through my hair and beard and whispering the sweetest amount of honey into my ears. I’ll make a deal and then…”
Earl pauses looking at the bottle of Jack Daniels as he trails off.
“...well, Deja vu all over again.”
Earl pauses again this time he flicks open the top of his Zippo lighter and strikes the flame.
“I’ve been hit in the head so many damn times in my career that I probably have brain damage the likes of which has never been seen before by the medical community. They’ll put my brain on display and wonder how the hell I was able to make it into my later years with so much damage. Of course, they’re going to have to wait until I die first to find out.
Even with that amount of damage to my brain though. I’m still not damaged enough to fall down that path once again. Hell, I’ve given up smoking and no matter what happens at Adrenaline Rush, I sure as hell ain’t about to open up that bottle of Jack.”
Earl closes the Zippo lighter snuffing out the flame.
“This golden opportunity is going to be won by me and me alone. Crash and Biff, you’ve had your chances you’ve had your opportunities. But you’re getting thrown into the ring with me, and then we’re throwing out all the rules. Chairs, tables, knives, popcorn, even the use of fans is all perfectly legal in this street fight. I don’t like either of your chances to be honest.
In fact, could I recommend to both of you to start drinking heavily? It’ll probably be your best bet.”
Earl picks up the bottle of Jack Daniels and goes to hand it off before we fade to black.
--
We fade in from black to a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels sitting on a small table. We’re pessimists here. There is an ashtray right next to that bottle of Jack, which is stuffed full of so many cigarillos that it would make Annabel Chong jealous. She’s a gangbang queen, I’ll save you from Googling who that is, but I’m sure you’ve watched her before. As the camera begins to pan backwards, the rest of this crappy looking motel room can be seen. There is a mess in just about every corner, the terrible looking blinds have been pulled shut but are still cheap enough that they allow streams of light to break through. Those lines of light show off the water stains on the walls and possible mold that would make Mike Holmes go fucking bananas right now.
That’s when the toilet flushes. The door to the bathroom slides open because it’s one of those cheap ones that slide, and standing there is a very rough looking Christopher J. Wrigley. That’s right! We’ve got a Wrigley sighting. He’s been missing since the night E.W Montgomery dropped the TV title back to the Enforcer.
And it looks like he hasn’t shaved, changed his clothes or possibly taken a shower since then. For those keeping track that’s about 45 days. Wrigley’s rocking a white wife beater t-shirt, a long tattered red robe which has been left open and a pair of light blue boxer shorts. With a flick of his wrist he turns on the television which is only getting static at this point and tosses the remote onto the bed, Wrigley picks up his half a bottle of Jack Daniels and slumps down into the chair the motel provided to him. The chair looks a little bit better than he does.
A long chug out of the bottle, a bit of which drips down his chin and onto his bathrobe. Wrigley doesn’t seem to care much about the spilled drink, instead he just stares towards the television snowy static.
“Where you at, exactly?
It’s been at least ten days since I last went outside and saw the sunlight, I’ve sat here and waited and waited. I’ve had to sleep on the damn floor because I put that ‘do not disturb’ sign on my door and ran out of bed sheets as a result of it. Me. Christopher. Jerome. Wrigley. I had to sleep on the damn floor of this dingy ass motel room when I’ve got a perfectly good king sized bed at home. Why? Because you told me to wait here without any distractions.
Well, I’ve done it. Not a single distraction for the past month and a half. I ain’t showered, I threw out my phone, and I ain’t checked in at work. I’ve met all of your demands, it is time to show yourself like you did to my client. It is time for the devil herself to make a deal with the devil himself and see what the hell is going to happen.
You hear me?”
Wrigley is screaming at the snow on the television at this point. The foam has built itself up in the corners of his mouth, some has even clung itself to the beard that he’s wildly grown to this point. Wrigley wipes it away.
“I’m at my lowest. That’s when you said you’d show up! That’s when you showed up for Earl. I don’t know if I could get any lower than this, I’ve got two squares left on the last toilet paper roll… will that make me lower?
Huh?
So, where are you at?!”
Tears begin to well up in the eyes of Wrigley.
“I miss my friends, my job, hell I even miss the phone calls from my ex-wives bitching about wanting more money. I miss Earl. Goddamn, do I miss Earl. I need to know if he’s okay right now without me. I need to apologize to him, because it was me that slipped the title belt into the ring, it was me that caused him to hit his head and cost him that title. It was me! I saw the look in his eyes when he realized that it was me too, and I am sure the look in my eyes was the only thing that stopped him from wrapping that massive hand around my throat and choke me out. I need… to apologize to my friend.
But… I need you to show up first.
This is me, at my lowest!”
Wrigley downs what remains of the Jack Daniels and tosses the bottle to the side, probably right onto the building pile of other empties. The tears start to stream down a little bit from his face. They’re running down tracks that have dried up a number of times before this moment.
Wrigley slowly closes his eyes as the Jack does the rest of its job.
VOICE: “Mr. Wrigley, I’m impressed. This is pretty low.”
A pair of female hands appear from each of the sides of the chair Wrigley is now slumped in, the begin to touch his cheeks and pull on the hair that has grown on his face.
VOICE: “But maybe I should just wait a couple of more days until you actually run out of toilet paper to come on back this way. That would be an even more interesting low.”
Wrigley doesn’t open his eyes, he doesn’t react at all to the pair of hands that now stroke through his beard.
“I’ve waited this long for a word with you, I can wait a couple more days. I’ve got plenty of bedsheets to use and then there’s always these t-shirts. But..”
VOICE: “But you’re out of alcohol.”
“...that’s a very good point. So, let’s get down to brass tacks. You tricked my friend, you gave him a taste of championship gold only to rip it away from him a week later in some sick and twisted game you’re playing with him. Then out of the blue, you called me moments afterwards and told me to find myself alone and at my lowest point because you wanted to make a deal.”
The hands continue to rub up against the side of Wrigley’s beard and his out of control hair at this point. A lot of the gray must normally be covered up, because it’s now showing through.
VOICE: “Think you’re ready for me? Think you’re ready to make a deal?”
A smirk grows across the face of Wrigley.
“Deals? I was born to make deals.”
There’s a chuckle from the voice behind the chair. One of the hands pats Wrigley on top of the head, like he was a good little doggie.
VOICE: “I'll bet a fiddle of gold against your soul, 'cause I think I'm better than you."
Wrigley chuckles back.
“I'll take your bet, you're gonna regret, 'cause I am the best that's ever been.”
Wrigley must be familiar with his Charlie Daniels Band as well.
We fade to black again.
--
Earl still has that bottle of Jack in his hand pointing towards the screen. After a moment he puts it back down and runs his hands through his handlebar mustache.
“Nah, not worth it. I promise the two of you that. Crash and Biff, just take your lumps and we’ll see who is able to walk out of Adrenaline Rush not only with the gold opportunity, but also who can still walk period.
Are the two of you ready for that?
Are you su--”
Just then there’s a knock at the door of E.W. Earl stands up and heads on over towards the door of his hotel room. He hesitates for just a second or two, and then with the second set of knocks on the door Earl grabs the handle and opens it up.
The look on his face is utterly shocking.
Standing across from him is Christopher J. Wrigley. Wrigley is clean shaven, his hair is dyed to cover up any gray hair and of course he is wearing a navy blue Italian suit over a black silk shirt and complete with a matching tie. Wrigley has a smile that goes ear to ear as he holds his hands out wide as he looks at his client for the first time in nearly fifty days.
“Wrigley, is that you?”
Earl looks confused as Wrigley just stands there.
WRIGLEY: “Baby, who else could it be?”
The two embrace as Wrigely wraps his arms around the massive upper frame of Earl. Montgomery doesn’t seem to know what to make of what’s happening, while Wrigley is still smiling ear to ear almost like a machine like at this point.
We fade to black.
The camera fades in on the massive Arkansas native, E.W Montgomery. Oddly enough, he looks less like his normally disheveled self than normal. In front of him sits an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels and a small whiskey glass filled with ice and waiting to be filled.
“...I already know how this game goes. I sit here in my hotel room and think about how few of these golden opportunities I have left in my career. I’ll probably drink this here entire bottle of Jack Daniels, and smoke a truly unhealthy amount of cigarillos before I fade off. And that’s when she’ll show up, rubbing her hands through my hair and beard and whispering the sweetest amount of honey into my ears. I’ll make a deal and then…”
Earl pauses looking at the bottle of Jack Daniels as he trails off.
“...well, Deja vu all over again.”
Earl pauses again this time he flicks open the top of his Zippo lighter and strikes the flame.
“I’ve been hit in the head so many damn times in my career that I probably have brain damage the likes of which has never been seen before by the medical community. They’ll put my brain on display and wonder how the hell I was able to make it into my later years with so much damage. Of course, they’re going to have to wait until I die first to find out.
Even with that amount of damage to my brain though. I’m still not damaged enough to fall down that path once again. Hell, I’ve given up smoking and no matter what happens at Adrenaline Rush, I sure as hell ain’t about to open up that bottle of Jack.”
Earl closes the Zippo lighter snuffing out the flame.
“This golden opportunity is going to be won by me and me alone. Crash and Biff, you’ve had your chances you’ve had your opportunities. But you’re getting thrown into the ring with me, and then we’re throwing out all the rules. Chairs, tables, knives, popcorn, even the use of fans is all perfectly legal in this street fight. I don’t like either of your chances to be honest.
In fact, could I recommend to both of you to start drinking heavily? It’ll probably be your best bet.”
Earl picks up the bottle of Jack Daniels and goes to hand it off before we fade to black.
--
We fade in from black to a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels sitting on a small table. We’re pessimists here. There is an ashtray right next to that bottle of Jack, which is stuffed full of so many cigarillos that it would make Annabel Chong jealous. She’s a gangbang queen, I’ll save you from Googling who that is, but I’m sure you’ve watched her before. As the camera begins to pan backwards, the rest of this crappy looking motel room can be seen. There is a mess in just about every corner, the terrible looking blinds have been pulled shut but are still cheap enough that they allow streams of light to break through. Those lines of light show off the water stains on the walls and possible mold that would make Mike Holmes go fucking bananas right now.
That’s when the toilet flushes. The door to the bathroom slides open because it’s one of those cheap ones that slide, and standing there is a very rough looking Christopher J. Wrigley. That’s right! We’ve got a Wrigley sighting. He’s been missing since the night E.W Montgomery dropped the TV title back to the Enforcer.
And it looks like he hasn’t shaved, changed his clothes or possibly taken a shower since then. For those keeping track that’s about 45 days. Wrigley’s rocking a white wife beater t-shirt, a long tattered red robe which has been left open and a pair of light blue boxer shorts. With a flick of his wrist he turns on the television which is only getting static at this point and tosses the remote onto the bed, Wrigley picks up his half a bottle of Jack Daniels and slumps down into the chair the motel provided to him. The chair looks a little bit better than he does.
A long chug out of the bottle, a bit of which drips down his chin and onto his bathrobe. Wrigley doesn’t seem to care much about the spilled drink, instead he just stares towards the television snowy static.
“Where you at, exactly?
It’s been at least ten days since I last went outside and saw the sunlight, I’ve sat here and waited and waited. I’ve had to sleep on the damn floor because I put that ‘do not disturb’ sign on my door and ran out of bed sheets as a result of it. Me. Christopher. Jerome. Wrigley. I had to sleep on the damn floor of this dingy ass motel room when I’ve got a perfectly good king sized bed at home. Why? Because you told me to wait here without any distractions.
Well, I’ve done it. Not a single distraction for the past month and a half. I ain’t showered, I threw out my phone, and I ain’t checked in at work. I’ve met all of your demands, it is time to show yourself like you did to my client. It is time for the devil herself to make a deal with the devil himself and see what the hell is going to happen.
You hear me?”
Wrigley is screaming at the snow on the television at this point. The foam has built itself up in the corners of his mouth, some has even clung itself to the beard that he’s wildly grown to this point. Wrigley wipes it away.
“I’m at my lowest. That’s when you said you’d show up! That’s when you showed up for Earl. I don’t know if I could get any lower than this, I’ve got two squares left on the last toilet paper roll… will that make me lower?
Huh?
So, where are you at?!”
Tears begin to well up in the eyes of Wrigley.
“I miss my friends, my job, hell I even miss the phone calls from my ex-wives bitching about wanting more money. I miss Earl. Goddamn, do I miss Earl. I need to know if he’s okay right now without me. I need to apologize to him, because it was me that slipped the title belt into the ring, it was me that caused him to hit his head and cost him that title. It was me! I saw the look in his eyes when he realized that it was me too, and I am sure the look in my eyes was the only thing that stopped him from wrapping that massive hand around my throat and choke me out. I need… to apologize to my friend.
But… I need you to show up first.
This is me, at my lowest!”
Wrigley downs what remains of the Jack Daniels and tosses the bottle to the side, probably right onto the building pile of other empties. The tears start to stream down a little bit from his face. They’re running down tracks that have dried up a number of times before this moment.
Wrigley slowly closes his eyes as the Jack does the rest of its job.
VOICE: “Mr. Wrigley, I’m impressed. This is pretty low.”
A pair of female hands appear from each of the sides of the chair Wrigley is now slumped in, the begin to touch his cheeks and pull on the hair that has grown on his face.
VOICE: “But maybe I should just wait a couple of more days until you actually run out of toilet paper to come on back this way. That would be an even more interesting low.”
Wrigley doesn’t open his eyes, he doesn’t react at all to the pair of hands that now stroke through his beard.
“I’ve waited this long for a word with you, I can wait a couple more days. I’ve got plenty of bedsheets to use and then there’s always these t-shirts. But..”
VOICE: “But you’re out of alcohol.”
“...that’s a very good point. So, let’s get down to brass tacks. You tricked my friend, you gave him a taste of championship gold only to rip it away from him a week later in some sick and twisted game you’re playing with him. Then out of the blue, you called me moments afterwards and told me to find myself alone and at my lowest point because you wanted to make a deal.”
The hands continue to rub up against the side of Wrigley’s beard and his out of control hair at this point. A lot of the gray must normally be covered up, because it’s now showing through.
VOICE: “Think you’re ready for me? Think you’re ready to make a deal?”
A smirk grows across the face of Wrigley.
“Deals? I was born to make deals.”
There’s a chuckle from the voice behind the chair. One of the hands pats Wrigley on top of the head, like he was a good little doggie.
VOICE: “I'll bet a fiddle of gold against your soul, 'cause I think I'm better than you."
Wrigley chuckles back.
“I'll take your bet, you're gonna regret, 'cause I am the best that's ever been.”
Wrigley must be familiar with his Charlie Daniels Band as well.
We fade to black again.
--
Earl still has that bottle of Jack in his hand pointing towards the screen. After a moment he puts it back down and runs his hands through his handlebar mustache.
“Nah, not worth it. I promise the two of you that. Crash and Biff, just take your lumps and we’ll see who is able to walk out of Adrenaline Rush not only with the gold opportunity, but also who can still walk period.
Are the two of you ready for that?
Are you su--”
Just then there’s a knock at the door of E.W. Earl stands up and heads on over towards the door of his hotel room. He hesitates for just a second or two, and then with the second set of knocks on the door Earl grabs the handle and opens it up.
The look on his face is utterly shocking.
Standing across from him is Christopher J. Wrigley. Wrigley is clean shaven, his hair is dyed to cover up any gray hair and of course he is wearing a navy blue Italian suit over a black silk shirt and complete with a matching tie. Wrigley has a smile that goes ear to ear as he holds his hands out wide as he looks at his client for the first time in nearly fifty days.
“Wrigley, is that you?”
Earl looks confused as Wrigley just stands there.
WRIGLEY: “Baby, who else could it be?”
The two embrace as Wrigely wraps his arms around the massive upper frame of Earl. Montgomery doesn’t seem to know what to make of what’s happening, while Wrigley is still smiling ear to ear almost like a machine like at this point.
We fade to black.