Die by the chair

[The scene: backstage at Fury. The time comes up on the screen: "About 10 minutes before Trey Vincent sports entertained Auryn." We are in a locker room. Trey comes stumbling inside. In the middle of the room is a cot. He falls face down on the cot. You could assume this is the medical room. Your suspicion would be even greater now, because in walks Kyle Loughery. He takes one look at Trey.]

Kyle: Good God, what happened to you?

[Trey mumblies something and then laughs. He does a push up and flips himself over like a hamburger. He puts his hands behind his head and smiles at Kyle.]

Kyle: Are you drunk?

Trey: Want a sample? (he asks pulling at his pants).

Kyle: No! Trey, it's obvious you're in no condition to wrestle Auryn tonight. Hell, if you go out there, you're probably not going to win.

Trey: Not according to the chapter from my book I haven't written yet.

Kyle: What? Trey, listen.

Trey: What kind of license do two lesbians need to get married?

Kyle: What?

Trey: A liquor license. BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh, I kill me.

Kyle: You're a laugh riot.

[Trey slides the lower half of his body off the cot and lands knees first on the ground. The rest of his body follows. Trey chuckles and looks up at Kyle.]

Trey: Gravity sucks.

Kyle: I can't let you go out there tonight.

Trey: James Nethery always says the show must go on. Trey Vincent won't let his fans down. He'd rather let everyone see the greatness of me lose than not see me at all. I'm so amazing.

[Kyle grabs Trey's arm and helps him up, but Trey misinterprets the grab and shoves at Kyle angrily.]

Trey: You can't hold me back man! [He shuffles to the right and chuckles. Then he gets serious again.] The show must go on. The show must go on. It's time....to sports.....enter......TAIN!

[Shuffle, shuffle. A little dance. Oh good God, now Trey is doing a little shuffle dance.]

[Minutes later....(as footage rolls of the greatest upset in the history of sports entertainment) well, you know what happened, Trey Vincent was pinned. By Auryn. Auryn may think he won with the use of the chair, but sadly that is not the case. The only man who can really beat Trey, is himself. In this case, Trey teamed up with liquor, and together, the two of them had a handicap match, and well, Trey ended up passed out. No, not from the chair shots. He's taken worse shots to the head than that. The fact that Auryn was there was irrelevant. Really. Trey is NOT just making up excuses and doctoring videotape. Would he stoop that low? Of course not.]

[We open in an office. Trey is leaning back in a leather chair, feet up on a desk. He is staring at a framed picture, which he holds in his hands. He looks up and puts the picture face down on the desk. He stares off into space. Until the phone rings.]

Trey: TVPI.

Voice: Hey, I've got a tip for you Trey. You suck.

[Click.]

[Trey puts the receiver down with a crash.]

Trey: OWW!

[Trey forget to remove his fingers from beneath the receiver. Dumbass. He shakes his fingers and delivers a pair of middle fingers to the phone. The censors are kind enough to block out the rude gesture, so we just see some stained glass action over his hands. But we ALL know what he just did. Why are we here?]

Trey: Hey Auryn. I got news for you. I just watched the tape. And it comes to my attention that I was asleep during my match with you. Yeah, that's right. I wasn't even conscious, yet still, I was able to put up more of a fight than half the roster could awake. You didn't beat me. Bud Weiser, Jack Daniels, Captain Jack and all their friends had a party in my body the night....well....more than just the night before. But that's irrelevant. I've had hangovers worse than what those weak little chair shots could do to me.

But fine, you want to turn up the heat? Trey Vincent isn't one to take a chair shot sitting down. So you got some balls? Prove it. Trey Vincent isn't one known for hardcore wrestling. But I'm sick of you Auryn. I think everyone is sick of you. So let's make it interesting, shall we? How about we have an ultimate chair match? What is an ultimate chair match? Very simple. Pick any number of chairs. It doesn't matter. Since it's you, how about we use 66 chairs? Sure. 66 chairs are scattered around ringside, in the ring, up the aisle, up your ass, wherever. All legal. Only one way to win. Knock your opponent unconscious. No pins. No submissions. Just metal meets skull until skull can't take no more.

Now, if I'm lying about the alcohol, prove it. Beat me again. If I'm not lying, than you're running from me, and all the Trey Vincent fans will mock you and laugh at you and call you names. Hmm. That won't be much different than your life as you know it now. You will not be able to walk the streets without shame. (He snaps his fingers.) Oh right, you can't do that now. Well tell you what. Just do it for the privilige of getting your ass kicked by the most outrageous sports entertainer of all time.

Huh?

What do you say Auryn?

Huh?

Fight me Satan boy!

And if you ain't got the guts, I'm officially issuing an open challenge to ANYBODY who wants to fight me in an ultimate chair match. Trey Vincent and losing do not go together. So allow me to list off a bunch of names of people who would be eligible to have their nothing happening careers elevated just by sports entertaining with me live on pay-per-view. Just think. You will be mentioned in the same breath as Trey Vincent. So, here we go. "The Archangel" Michael Mitchell. "Mean" Mike Savige. Matt Walker. John "The Hardcore" Williams

[The phone rings. Trey picks it up.]

Trey: Hello?

Voice: You suck. I can't belive Auryn beat you.

[Trey calmly puts the phone back down. He continues.]

Trey: The Anarchist. Dude of Berk. "The Final Cut" Exile. Rain. Ricochet. Hell, I'll take all of you on and blast the hell out of all you scrubs. And when you wake up in the hospital room, you can tell them that Trey Vincent made you famous. We could call it the Trey Vincent invitational ultimate chair match. Be there. Or be conscious.

[Trey suddenly gets up, picks up the phone, violently rips the cord free from the wall and whips the thing through the window. The window explodes and shards of glass rain down outside and on the floor of his office. After a couple of seconds, outside, a horn blares. Trey stares at the place where there used to be glass. Snarling.]

Trey: Auryn, you dumb bastard. You were at the right place at the right time last week. But now, anywhere is the wrong place, and when Trey Vincent sees you, it most definitely will be the wrong time for you. No chanting, no Ancient Ones, Elder Gods, Hellraisers or whatever the hell you worship will save you from the wrath of Trey Vincent. Hell has no fury like an angry sports entertainer.

[Scary darkness fills the screen.]

NEXT CHAPTER: A jail bird sings a song >>

© 2001 John Leary