Scott Hunter is sitting behind a news desk, horn-rimmed glasses over his eyes, a very serious stern expression, and that breaking news sound is playing in the background. You know the one.
“This just in, a thorough investigation of the weird South Pacific creature known as Holo Make determines that the man is a fraud. That’s right, a fraud. A phony. Not real. The plants that were growing out of his wrists and ankles?? Fake! His boots? Like that big hillbilly guy who makes weak alcoholic drinks! Like the weird Asian guy with the top-knot. Yuji Yama, or Fuji Llama. Either way, they’re non-existent! The callouses on his feet from walking on sharp rocks all day spearfishing? VERY REAL.
And the lost island he’s supposedly from? It’s not even lost! It has nothing to do with Lost. Who does this guy think he is? Pacific Islander Matthew Fox? I’m sorry, but Evangeline Lilly would never have anything to do with some long-haired weirdo with a green water moccasin wrapped around his biceps. Don’t you know that snakes don’t even like biceps?? Cruelty to animals! Another reason to hate you.
Why do you hate puppies?
I bet you like to cook puppies and kittens over an open fire that was caused by lightning which scared you and made you think it was magic because you’re so stupid. I bet that movie Moana was based on your life because that movie was LAME! And that’s all in caps, so you know I’m serious! Which you can’t tell, because I’m speaking and not writing, but it doesn’t matter, because you can’t read anyway! COMIC BOOKS DON’T COUNT!”
Hunter’s face is getting increasingly flushed, so he pauses, closes his eyes, and whispers ‘Nam Myoho Renge Kyo’. He opens his eyes, takes a deep breath, and looks calmly into the camera.
“AND ANOTHER THING!”
So much for calm.
“These Gods of yours? You do everything you do in Classic Wrestling in the name of those Gods?? I’ll tell you what you should do in the name of those Gods, pal. Take a shower. Try out some soap. Maybe a little shampoo. I’ll have to train myself to be nose-blind before I wrestle you because your stench burns the hairs right out of my nostrils any time I’m within twenty feet of you.
You’d think a weird island guy with delusions of grandeur and obvious OCD would be cleaner. Must be hard for your girlfriend to date someone with OCD. Every time she gets turned on, you turn her off again.
Of course, those dumb, fat handlers have been filling your head with all of this nonsense. They look at you and see dollar signs. And it’s no wonder why. When they talk to you it’s like you’re the before in a room full of afters.
But let me tell you something, Mr. ‘I wear plant bracelets’. I’ve got the power of the Gods myself! OOOOH, weren’t expecting that, WERE YOU? Now what? I’ll tell you what. Nothing. You lecherous bag of monkey turds. You starvelling, you elf-skin, you dried neat’s-tongue, bull’s pizzle, you stock-fish! You fat-kidneyed Fopdoodle! You mandrake mymmerkin!!”
Scott looks off-screen, clearly impressed with himself, looking to someone for confirmation, with a wink and a smile. Then, back to the camera.
“I’ve been reading a lot of Shakespeare lately…
BUT THAT’S NOT THE POINT!
The point merely is this. I don’t care how big and strong you think you are, I don’t care how graceful, I don’t care what sort of weird jungle magic you plan on using, you will not defeat me. You hear me?? You will not defeat me! I’ll say it one more time! You!
As I always do, I will thrash you about the head and shoulders, jostle your tiny little brain inside your head, then wrap your legs up like so many of your fishnets, which by the way, use a fishing POLE! You savage. Hawaiian harlot! South Pacific pansy!
You prepare yourself!”
Hunter raises his hands and makes them into fists.
“Prepare yourself for Barack Obama….”
He holds one fist out.
“And Dwayne Johnson…”
He holds out the other.
“Prepare for them! They are deadly, lethal, and fake Hawaiians, like you! I sure as hell hope you’re thirsty. Because I want that Pacific American Championship! And I’m about to give you a big, tall glass of Hawaiian PUNCH!”
Scott holds his right-hand fist out, then stands, almost trips over the chair, rights himself, then leaves.