Post by Gurgen Hovhanissian on Jan 5, 2017 9:13:48 GMT -5
The video opened to Frank and Bob jogging along, as fast as their slightly overweight, nearing granddad age frames could yet manage without them collapsing in asthmatically wheezing piles of sweaty messes.
“Hello NAW,” Bob said in a short burst, the longest he still had breath for, “Robert May here.”
They paused at a corner somewhere in the belly of NAW HQ.
“It’s getting harder and harder to squeeze any sort of …” Bob paused to draw some much needed breath. “promo out of our dear fiend, The Armenian Beast.”
He peered around the corner. “It’s clear,” he told Frank before returning to the NAW audience, “As you can no doubt see, we’re tracking him now. And as usual, he’s been as subtle as a rhino who’s had a wasps’ nest suppository.”
Frank panned around to indeed show the destruction of things and people alike, The aptly monikered Beast had wrought during his swift passing through these corridors.
“Let’s go,” Bob spoke and Frank followed him around the corner.
Some more borderline elderly running later, Bob remarked, “Given Gurgen’s propensities, this chase is likely to end in one of two locations … the ladies room …”
He abruptly interrupted his jog to push open the door to said locale. A quick shriek from inside and a blurted apology by Bob later he told the camera, “Nope. … or …”
They jogged a little further. “… the cafeteria.”
Frank aimed the camera inside and remarked, “Bingo!”
There, seated amidst the remains of the backstage crew’s lunch, The Beast sat, stuffing his face, his beard and the folds of his toga/cape/cloak.
The lunch had been laid out on one of those cheap folding tables that always seemed to end up in the ring during no-DQ matches, or whenever the referee had been knocked out … NAW should really find a better place to store these tables, or the kendo sticks for that matter … why did NAW have a lifetime supply of kendo sticks anyway?
It seemed that Gurgen had splashed onto this table, ass first. And, as was it design purpose, the table had neatly collapsed right down the middle.
Bob walked up to the Massive Moron. “Sated?” he asked.
Beast exhaled a single ‘ha!’, spewing a half masticated chunk of pizza inches past Bob’s face. “Bob say ‘seated’ wrong. Bob be dumb.”
To wash away the perturbment Beast rummaged for the eternal wodka bottle in his coat … only to be reminded, mid rummage, of the fact that he was wearing, not his usual unfathomable coat, but a curtain.
Dejected, he let his paw fall to his lap.
“Beast be sick of it all, Bob know,” he said.
“Sick? How so? Are you thinking of quitting? Going back to your hovel in the Caucasus?” Bob prodded.
“No … Beast mean yes … Beast mean no.”
“Glad we got that cleared up,” Frank commented.
“Beast mean … NAW use Beast like they use Beast back in Kiev.”
“You’ve lived in Kiev?”
“Yeah, after Pripyat power plant go boom, Beast live in Kiev for while. This be when Gurgen first become Beast. Other kids of … erm … runners-away?”
“Refugees?” Bob suggested.
“Yeah, those too. Kids of refugees scare each other with Beast. They trick people into going into the Beastly tent in camp. Gurgen no longer look nice and they all run from tent with the screaming and the pissing of the pants.”
Bob frowned at the camera. ”And how is this related to your career at NAW?”
Pining for a drink, Gurgen resigned himself to further comment, “When match no be big enough … scary enough … ugly enough … NAW toss Beast in there. For fans to be disgusted with Beastly appearance.”
“Have you considered exfoliation?” Frank quipped, but Bob gestured for him to be quiet.
“Then fans be happy and make cheering when others hit Beast in the face. This not be so bad, really, Beast be used to this back home. But what make Beast sick is that no matter how often Beast beat others NAW keep throwing them back at Beast. Bob know what Beast want?”
Bob shook his head.
“Beast want more permanent match.”
“Permanent … match … ?” Bob wondered.
“Yeah, match where no one can come in from outside. And no one can run away.”
“You mean a …” Bob started to help The Beast.
But Gurgen interrupted him, “… a cage. Bob no need help Beast. Beast know word ‘cage’. Beast been in enough of em to know.”
“I … I think it’s a bit late to change it,” Bob stammered.
“No, no, no,” Beast said as he waved Bob’s objection away. He got to his feet, two ham sandwiches and a cold drumstick fell from the folds of the curtain. The Hairy Horror slowly trudged towards what yet remained of the lunch buffet. He seized a can of beer and was halfway through it before realizing NAW had a strict no alcohol policy and thus only provided non-alcoholic beer. He punted the foul drink in front of him and stamped his hobbit-level hairy foot on it.
He grabbed two more beers, but both were similarly lacking in that crucial department. He wrapped his paws around the cans tighter and tighter.
“Not this match,” He stated, “Beast be good little boy one more time. Beast wipe ring with faces of Jasons one more time. But after that … not no more.”
“Beast?” Bob asked.
“After that, Beast wanna fight in cages alone. No more mister nice Beast, not no more.”
He squeezed the cans even more, they started to bulge outward at the ends.
Suddenly forceful, he bayed, “NAW want Beast? Beast give them Beast.”
He screamed his objection at the unrelenting unfairness of the world. Both cans popped open, showering him in lousy beer stand-in.
He stuck out his tongue and sampled some of the rank beverage.
“Beer still sucks rancid monkey ass,” he affirmed and walked off, probably back to his burrow.
“Hello NAW,” Bob said in a short burst, the longest he still had breath for, “Robert May here.”
They paused at a corner somewhere in the belly of NAW HQ.
“It’s getting harder and harder to squeeze any sort of …” Bob paused to draw some much needed breath. “promo out of our dear fiend, The Armenian Beast.”
He peered around the corner. “It’s clear,” he told Frank before returning to the NAW audience, “As you can no doubt see, we’re tracking him now. And as usual, he’s been as subtle as a rhino who’s had a wasps’ nest suppository.”
Frank panned around to indeed show the destruction of things and people alike, The aptly monikered Beast had wrought during his swift passing through these corridors.
“Let’s go,” Bob spoke and Frank followed him around the corner.
Some more borderline elderly running later, Bob remarked, “Given Gurgen’s propensities, this chase is likely to end in one of two locations … the ladies room …”
He abruptly interrupted his jog to push open the door to said locale. A quick shriek from inside and a blurted apology by Bob later he told the camera, “Nope. … or …”
They jogged a little further. “… the cafeteria.”
Frank aimed the camera inside and remarked, “Bingo!”
There, seated amidst the remains of the backstage crew’s lunch, The Beast sat, stuffing his face, his beard and the folds of his toga/cape/cloak.
The lunch had been laid out on one of those cheap folding tables that always seemed to end up in the ring during no-DQ matches, or whenever the referee had been knocked out … NAW should really find a better place to store these tables, or the kendo sticks for that matter … why did NAW have a lifetime supply of kendo sticks anyway?
It seemed that Gurgen had splashed onto this table, ass first. And, as was it design purpose, the table had neatly collapsed right down the middle.
Bob walked up to the Massive Moron. “Sated?” he asked.
Beast exhaled a single ‘ha!’, spewing a half masticated chunk of pizza inches past Bob’s face. “Bob say ‘seated’ wrong. Bob be dumb.”
To wash away the perturbment Beast rummaged for the eternal wodka bottle in his coat … only to be reminded, mid rummage, of the fact that he was wearing, not his usual unfathomable coat, but a curtain.
Dejected, he let his paw fall to his lap.
“Beast be sick of it all, Bob know,” he said.
“Sick? How so? Are you thinking of quitting? Going back to your hovel in the Caucasus?” Bob prodded.
“No … Beast mean yes … Beast mean no.”
“Glad we got that cleared up,” Frank commented.
“Beast mean … NAW use Beast like they use Beast back in Kiev.”
“You’ve lived in Kiev?”
“Yeah, after Pripyat power plant go boom, Beast live in Kiev for while. This be when Gurgen first become Beast. Other kids of … erm … runners-away?”
“Refugees?” Bob suggested.
“Yeah, those too. Kids of refugees scare each other with Beast. They trick people into going into the Beastly tent in camp. Gurgen no longer look nice and they all run from tent with the screaming and the pissing of the pants.”
Bob frowned at the camera. ”And how is this related to your career at NAW?”
Pining for a drink, Gurgen resigned himself to further comment, “When match no be big enough … scary enough … ugly enough … NAW toss Beast in there. For fans to be disgusted with Beastly appearance.”
“Have you considered exfoliation?” Frank quipped, but Bob gestured for him to be quiet.
“Then fans be happy and make cheering when others hit Beast in the face. This not be so bad, really, Beast be used to this back home. But what make Beast sick is that no matter how often Beast beat others NAW keep throwing them back at Beast. Bob know what Beast want?”
Bob shook his head.
“Beast want more permanent match.”
“Permanent … match … ?” Bob wondered.
“Yeah, match where no one can come in from outside. And no one can run away.”
“You mean a …” Bob started to help The Beast.
But Gurgen interrupted him, “… a cage. Bob no need help Beast. Beast know word ‘cage’. Beast been in enough of em to know.”
“I … I think it’s a bit late to change it,” Bob stammered.
“No, no, no,” Beast said as he waved Bob’s objection away. He got to his feet, two ham sandwiches and a cold drumstick fell from the folds of the curtain. The Hairy Horror slowly trudged towards what yet remained of the lunch buffet. He seized a can of beer and was halfway through it before realizing NAW had a strict no alcohol policy and thus only provided non-alcoholic beer. He punted the foul drink in front of him and stamped his hobbit-level hairy foot on it.
He grabbed two more beers, but both were similarly lacking in that crucial department. He wrapped his paws around the cans tighter and tighter.
“Not this match,” He stated, “Beast be good little boy one more time. Beast wipe ring with faces of Jasons one more time. But after that … not no more.”
“Beast?” Bob asked.
“After that, Beast wanna fight in cages alone. No more mister nice Beast, not no more.”
He squeezed the cans even more, they started to bulge outward at the ends.
Suddenly forceful, he bayed, “NAW want Beast? Beast give them Beast.”
He screamed his objection at the unrelenting unfairness of the world. Both cans popped open, showering him in lousy beer stand-in.
He stuck out his tongue and sampled some of the rank beverage.
“Beer still sucks rancid monkey ass,” he affirmed and walked off, probably back to his burrow.