Cuatro Equis

High Noon

We open in a gym. Futurequis is dragging a handcuffed Dos Equis toward an empty boxing ring.

XX: I promise I won't smoke anymore. Uncuff me, you poopooheado!

FUTUREQUIS: Why? Things are just getting interesting now.

Futurequis shoves Dos Equis backward into the ring apron. His hands take the brunt of the impact, but Dos doesn't cry out in pain.

FUTUREQUIS: I'll uncuff you in a minute. All you have to do is be a man and agree to three stipulations. One: Don't run away like a little b!tch. Two: Address the pieces of sh!t who dared to mention our name. And finally, submit to the toughest fucking workout you'll ever have. If you choose not to accept the terms of this deal, we can do things the hard way.

XX: What's the hard way?

Futurequis gets on his knees, retrieves a steel chair from under the ring, then gets in Dos Equis' face while putting a leg of the chair to his throat as if it were a gun barrel.

FUTUREQUIS: I bash our fucking head in with a chair, killing BOTH of us. How would you like to be on the hook for a double single murder?

XX: No!

FUTUREQUIS: OK, then. Do you agree?

XX: Fine.

Futurequis begins uncuffing Dos.

FUTUREQUIS: You, boy, need to start talking some sh!t.

Futurequis tosses Dos Equis into the ring, then follows him inside, rolling in in exactly the same manner.

FUTUREQUIS: I'll take care of the Gothtard, show you how it's done. Goth says that our segments are too long and are too full of filler chatter that isn't funny and goes nowhere. You want to fuck with Cuatros Equis? That's fine with me. I'm bringing my shovel to Cleveland, and I'll make sure to introduce you to the business end of my favorite shovel and start digging for that brown, jiggling mass of sh!t you call brains. Because if you are calling us out, then God must've taken a giant dump in your skull while your were forming in the womb of that crack whore you call "mom." Now, just to prepare you, it takes quite a few stabs to break through the skull, so it might hurt a little bit. Well, a LOT, really. But luckily for you, I will have already rendered you unconscious with the 4X. The most devastating tag team finisher on the planet.

DOS EQUIS: It's like the 3D!

FUTUREQUIS: Hey, future you is talking! And besides, our version is much better, because only one of us is a fat fucking slob.

DOS EQUIS: Man, I'm really vulgar in the future. (Rubbing his belly) And this isn't fat. It's an emergency supply of solidified beer in case there's a beer shortage!

FUTUREQUIS: Shut up, or I'll find one of those fat sucking machines and steal your beer belly.

DOS EQUIS: …

FUTUREQUIS: Actually, I'll deal with this other *ahem* tag team of Y2Dumb and some guy I wish would jump off a ledge from about 50 floors up, preferably hitting several flag poles and statues crotch-first on his way down, before finally spinning around in mid-air because even gravity hates him and wants to see the no-talent hack crash face-first into a wood chipper that chops him into bloody chunks, then miraculously becomes sentient, and then, realizing that little bits of grade-Z jobber have defiled it, explodes itself Al-Qaida style in one final act of righteous jihad against the Osama bin Laden of bullsh!t, Biff Busey, who will be so distracted trying to shoot a load of "spiff" into his own mouth he won't even notice until it's too late.

FUTUREQUIS: David Jericho and Shawn Coppola want to talk about stealing material? Stevus Christus, you might want to check yourself for irony poisoning. At some point, boys, you are going to have to deal with me. And the material I steal will be right out of Bashing-Your-Head-In-With-A-Barbed-Wire-Baseball-Bat, Revised Edition. The NFW fans aren't booing you jackasses because you're over. They're booing you because you flat out suck and they want you to be stabbed and raped in a pit of endless agony. So shut, the HELL, up, you filthy, dirty, disgusting, brutal, bottom-feeding, trash bag…rip off. Stop your act, or I'll stop it for you. Permanently.

FUTUREQUIS: David, you want funny? Funny is…me going eye fishing. That involves me getting the nastiest, sharpest fish hooks I can find, taping them to my palm of this right hand (he says holding up said hand), and then gouging at your effeminate face until you're an eyeless, flopping fish and your stupid little eyes are hanging out on top of stacks of bloody dollar bills in Geico commercials.

FUTUREQUIS: As for Shawn, it's funny that two pussies with less talent than the Pussycat Dolls have any ability to call anybody else a novelty act. Yes, Dos Equis is a joke. But now that I'm here? The fucking joke IS over. And the joke's on you. Or, you, to be more precise. Any guy who even admits to watching "Finding Nemo" must have as many issues as chicks who enjoy "Grease." And believe me, every single b!tch who loves that movie is fucked in the head. Which leads me to believe that any wrestler who watches "Finding Nemo" must be fucked in the head. You, sir, are fucked in the head, and thus, your entire evaluation isn't worth anything I flushed down the toilet this morning.

FUTUREQUIS: But you want to pick a fight? I'll gladly set a table on fire and drop you through it if you wanna get hardcore with Cuatro Equis. I'll gladly play with tables and ladders and chairs. For those with the benefit of flash photography? Your Rated S era is over. But the S doesn't stand for sexual situations or strong language, or even Shawn. It stands for SH!T. Because you AREN'T over, and I will be for many, many years after you've become just another dead fly in the wrestling's sweaty, hairy, asshole.

FUTUREQUIS: (Grabs the camera to pull it in for an extreme close-up) And when we meet, boys, remember. We aren't a virus. We're cancer. And there will never be a cure for the way we're going to make your pathetic bodies waste away. You will rot second by second, and minute by minute, at our hands until you're just a hollow shell of whatever it is you used to be. (Shoves the camera away) And Dos, that is how you fucking do a promo.

DOS EQUIS: I much preferred the cast of "Charles In Charge" over "Saved By the Bell."

Futurequis slaps the fuck out of Dos Equis, who falls to the mat.

FUTUREQUIS: Was that slap funny?

DOS EQUIS: Not particularly.

FUTUREQUIS: Laughter to me is ear rape.

XX: Do you HEAR me laughing?

FUTUREQUIS: No. And neither will any other tag team in NFW starting in Cleveland after they're done with us. Joke's over.

Static.

Black.

NEXT CHAPTER: Memo to 2 Guys, 1 Biff's Mouth Inc. >>

© 2009 John Leary