Ever wanted a chance to shine on a global platform?
Want to get your foot in the door for one of the most modern, premiere wrestling organizations in the world?
Just wanna… settle a score with someone?
Backstage, walking with his gear over one shoulder, is the Joy of Man’s Desiring, Johann Sebastian Johnson. He has a characteristic pep in his step, and is speaking to himself softly.
TJOMD: “World Champion, The Joy of Man’s Desiring”—no, that isn’t right.
He turns a corner, his brow furrowed, then breaks into a smile.
TJOMD: “World Champion, The Joy of Man’s Desiring, Johann Sebastian Johnson”. That feels appropriate. Maybe an esquire.
He passes a backstage worker, giving them the smarmiest finger guns in three counties, before popping up the locker room door with his foot. Climbing your way up from the bottom has it’s fallbacks—one of them being a shared locker space. He passes three others before reaching the end of the line, where “TJOMD” is scrawled onto a piece of masking tape, serving as a label. He drops his bag and puffs his chest out, affecting a booming announcer’s voice.
TJOMD: “World Champion, The Joy of Man’s Desiring, Johann Sebastian Johnson, Esquire”.
He puts his hands on his hips and smirks.
TJOMD: That’s the wave. Maybe get the Allstate guy to do it.
He does his combination, bouncing on the balls of his feet, clearly chock full of energy. When he opens it, he leans down to get his bag, meaning we see it before anyone else:
Hanging from the door of his locker is a plain, white, plastic mask. The same that’s been found on people who won’t be so lucky as to compete in the Rumble.
TJOMD Stands up, catches sight of the Mask, and jumps back a solid foot, dropping his bag. He shakes his head and begins tearing through the locker room, kicking open toilet stalls, looking for any sign with his hands balled into fists.
TJOMD: Where are you?! Huh?!
Realizing that he’s not going to get a response. He sighs in frustration. Snatching the mask from his locker, he storms out of the locker room, and we cut away.
“DID YOU HEAR THIS IDIOT? WAX MY EYEBROWS? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?”
The Breedlove Sanctuary.
Joshua Breedlove is joined by his compatriots, Spinebuster Island, Octavian Enright, and Brock Holloway, affectionately known today as… The Breedlove-52s.
Octavian: Mate, I think it’s just some prattle.
Breedlove: PRATTLE? My eyebrows are NOT the subject of ANY prattle, idle or otherwise and I WILL NOT STAND BY and take this THREAT to my visage. LOOK at this face.
He points to his face.
Brock: It’s a face.
Breedlove: It’s a BEAUTIFUL, AMAZING face, adorned with BEAUTIFUL AND AMAZING EYEBROWS. Who does this motherfucker think he is???
Joe Quinn: I think he kinda tells you with that promotional piece he released. Pound-sign Tee-jahmd.
Breedlove: Pound sign? OK, BOOMER. I’m going to melt this kids face with the sunlight that radiates off of my pecs. I’m done with this. I’m headed to gorilla position.
Octavian: See ya, bud. Good luck out there. Protect the brows!!
Enright giggles, and Breedlove turns and looks back.
Breedlove: Fuck you, Ock.
The scene fades in on a man leaning against the hood of an all-white Pontiac Fiero. He is wearing tight, acid washed jeans, high topped sneakers, a fanny pack, a sleeveless B.U.M. Equipment t-shirt. His hair? Coiffed to the heavens in an almost Doug Dimmadome-esque fashion. Rocking bright neon Foakleys, he chuckles to himself. “Lick it Up” by Kiss plays from the car’s car’s stereo in the background.
Bobson: They wanna talk on a Rumble. That suits ole Bobson just fine, daddy. I done rumbled in these streets, I done rumbled in these sheets, I done rumbled from Calcutta to Billings. Bingo halls, bathroom stalls, arenas, girls named Tina, stadiums, palladiums, and one Auto-Trade museum—hot dog, Bobson Dugnutt Hootchie Cootchied his way everywhere the sunshine touches!
He expands his arms, then holds a hand to his brow in a pantomime of a man searching the horizon.
Bobson: They gonna say there’s monsters in there. Violent men. Psychopaths. C’mon now, jack! I’m so out the stratosphere I done walked on the surface of the sun, and I’m supposed to shake in my Reebok Pumps cause of someone like Elvis Butcher? That man is about 8 coneys shy of a dozen pack, jack! Cmon.
He shrugs, then puts up his dukes, laying out a couple of quick jabs.
Bobson: I’ll throw a steak out the ring and take care of his mess. Give Elbow Jackson the ole one two, that Oooh, Slam-a-doo! X-Calibur? Once I get him with that Sweet Sassy, Bobson gonna say “Who’s Next-Calibur”! Ain’t a man or sweet lady walkin’ among ya can make me feel fear about all this, and I dang sure ain’t showing up to lose. This ain’t no vanity play, baby. This ain’t a man who aint know when to hang it up. This is The Boogie Woogie Daddy, The Hootchie Cootchie Man, the Internationally known and Locally infamous lover man just letting every wrestler with a pulse who thinks they can step out to the ring and waltz away with that title shot know one thing…
He holds up a finger.
Bobson: …it’s only gonna be one persons time, kiddos. And that one person? Is Bobson Dugnutt! So look out, have mercy, and don’t take it personally, cat! Oooh whee!! Someone hit me with water, cuz this boy is on fire!
He reaches into the car and CRANKS “Lick it Up”, hitting some sweet air guitar licks. The camera pans out. We’re in the parking lot of a Dunkin’ Donuts. Cut to black.