Post by mrhacksaw on Jan 14, 2022 18:26:23 GMT
Wingmen’s.
The skies are dark. But the lights emitted from this majestic bar/bowling alley/strip club/arcade/matchmaking service/psychological help clinic and so on…blast rays of hope into the galaxy.
For the ascension of The Wingmen was upon us.
Soon, they would be your World Heavyweight Champions.
We saunter inside and our ears are greeted with the glam rock tunes of ‘Wild Side’ by Motley Crue. Various patrons, all three or four of them, slug down brewskies at the bar. Slap the Pacman joystick. Consult JD Drake to discuss their forever soulmate. And finally, graciously receive lapdances from the establishment’s two finest strippers, their only strippers, but nevertheless.
One of them was overwhelmingly more welcome than the other. One of them was far cheaper than the other. Neither of them knew what the fuck they were doing.
The older woman, the decrepit blonde with the scraggly hair and the saggy boobs, who’s snorted more cocaine in the past 24 hours than the human body should ever be able to handle, danced as smoothly as you’d expect her to. She stumbled all over the patron, tripping, barely able to stand. Intermittently grabbed his penis outright, hoping for an extra tip.
The other woman, the younger woman, the leggy brunette with the recently furnished boobs, whose seemingly snorted more cocaine in the past 24 hours than the human body should handle but *that’s just how she is*...flailed clumsily around her customer. She simply danced wildly for him, not touching him, having no idea what a ‘lapdance’ is supposed to be. First she did the YMCA dance, then the macarena, then a ballerina twirl…she was trying it all, and failing everytime. Still, it was better than sitting in the other chair, he thought.
BOOM.
A FLURRY OF COPS AND ACCOMPANYING SWAT TEAM BURST THROUGH THE DOOR, NEEDLESSLY USING THAT BIG BLOCK THING.
“TAMMY LYNN SYTCH, YOU’RE UNDER ARREST!”
Peter Avalon is outraged. How could the cops be invading their bar like this? Without warning?
Tammy pays her arrestors no mind, still falling over her customer.
“YOU’RE UNDER ARREST FOR UNLAWFUL POSSESSION OF A WEAPON, EVADING A POLICE OFFICER, MAKING TERRORISTIC THREATS…”
NEMETH: …Uh, what?
Nemeth glances on from his bartender post (he was a man of many trades and hats), baffled with the rest of us.
“TAMMY LYNN SYTCH, GET ON YOUR HANDS AND KNEES NOW!”
By now the arrestors have rushed over, pointing threateningly with their nightsticks at Sytch.
“MAAM, YOU’RE UNDER ARREST! COMPLY OR WE WILL USE FORCE!”
No acknowledgement at all.
“I SAID YOU’RE UNDER ARREST. COMPLY OR…”
GUNSHOT.
GUNSHOT AGAIN.
Thankfully it was at the ceiling.
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SHOOTING ALREADY FOR?”
The guilty cop shrugs his shoulders indifferently.
“Eh, fuck it.”
“GET HER DOWN ON THE GROUND NOW!”
The lead cop gestures for the onslaught and they take the disoriented Sytch to the ground, applying cuffs. They stand her up and she mumbles incoherently, before suddenly screaming and trying to escape, but it’s way too late.
AVALON: NO! ARREST THE OTHER STRIPPER! THIS IS AN INJUSTICE! SHE DID NOTHING WRONG!
Avalon points towards the other said stripper, obviously Jessica McKay.
AVALON: It’s her who you want! She has taken my life! My money! She is a thief and a crook and deserves to be behind bars! And she’s an illegal alien!
The cops and swat team *were* nonchalantly strolling out of the bar, until….
“Illegal alien, you said?”
AVALON: Yes! Illegal alien!
“Not like the one who said she was an alien, but was actually born here, right?”
AVALON: No! But she’s annoying too! Arrest her too!
“Oh. So, actually an illegal immigrant?”
He stares Jessica up and down.
“Well, she doesn’t look it…”
AVALON: She is! Believe me!
JESSICA MCKAY: Wehl yah stahp lewkin’ aht meh, suh? Unless yewd loike a dance?
She does the macarena, badly, for the officer.
“Okay, she’s definitely illegal. There’s no way that’s someone born in THIS great country! …GET HER!”
The swat team moves back in, shoving McKay to the ground, and swiftly cuffing her.
Avalon celebrates like he’s won the Superbowl, the World Series, the NBA Championship, the Stanley Cup, the Full-Tilt Boogie Championship, all in one.
AVALON: YES! YES! YES!
JESSICA MCKAY: NO! AYE DEEDNT DEW NUTHIN! CHECK MOY RESUME! AHM LEEGAL!
Regardless of her stammering, she is on her way.
’Pretty’ Peter Avalon turns to the rest of the boys.
AVALON: Boys, this is the greatest night in the history of The Wingmen.
He grins, reveling in the moment.
NEMETH: So like, I don’t know about that. They sort of just arrested our only two strippers. They shot a few holes in the ceiling. They destroyed our only door. They used brutal force when they probably shouldn’t have. Basically wrecked our entire reputation among the few customers actually here. Oh and, they arrested Jessica, who’s here totally legally. That’s uh, not gonna last Pete.
AVALON: It will last, Ryan! And besides, are you sure we don’t have any more strippers?
Avalon undoes his robe, gently, before THUNDEROUSLY tossing it aside, leaving…
NEMETH: Dude…no.
AVALON: Mr. Nemeth, this is the body of a champion. A World Champion. Which SOON I will be. We ALL will be. Through me.
NEMETH: I mean, I’ll probably toss you out, but okay.
The forgotten JD Drake looks on, not at Pretty Peter of course, there is nothing pretty about that, but he seems sad. Downtrodden. Like something’s missing.
NEMETH: But seriously dude. Put your robe back on. And we really should discuss strategy. We can work together on this. We don’t have to be every man for himself, you know? We can win this thing as a group. As a cohesive unit. We can gang up on all those other jokers like only we can.
AVALON: That’s true, Ryan. But then…who do we decide who wins at the end? Surely, you would choose me over Cezar and JD?
Cezar vocally scoffs.
NEMETH: No. We wouldn’t choose anyone. We’d fight for it. The best men win.
AVALON: Fight for it? But we’re The Wingmen! We are not mere MEN. WE’RE WINGMEN! There is never an ounce of tension between us.
NEMETH: You just got our publicist and brand strategist arrested. And best stripper. Only stripper.
AVALON: I said between US. She is not a Wingman, and never will be!
NEMETH: Just sayin’. Besides, it’s fair.
AVALON: What’s fair is our leading man, the face of this bar…being the World Heavyweight Champion.
NEMETH: So you’re the face of the bar?
AVALON: I’m the manager! I’m the best-looking!
NEMETH: Did you put any money into the bar?
Avalon hesitates, pondering the thought.
NEMETH: Right.
AVALON: So the richest men have all the control? Is that it? In any case, it wasn’t even your money!
NEMETH: Wouldn’t have happened without me. The Wingmen wouldn’t have even happened without me! Do you hear yourself talk sometimes, dude?
Ryan’s voice was tense. It was even angry. The normally cool, relaxed, smooth Nemeth was finally frustrated. And why shouldn’t he be?
NEMETH: It was my idea! Seriously. Us. This bar. And now we stumbled into a really good opportunity here. This company is a big deal. We can get our name out there more. You know that, Pete. It’s obvious! It’s why you were so on point the other day. It’s why YOU got the pin. YOU. When do YOU ever get pins?
Avalon scratches his head, dumbfounded.
NEMETH: You KNOW this place is a huge opportunity. WLCW puts The Wingmen into the marquee. It makes people know this bar, know us. If we can win this thing, we’ll be the fucking kings. The fuckin’ kings, man.
AVALON: The kings…
Avalon begins to puff his chest out. Feeling proud.
NEMETH: So don’t be petty, Pete. Don’t make this about you. This is about all four of us. We can’t fuck this up. We won’t. We WILL be the final four in the match. And then I’ll give everything I’ve got to survive, and I know you all will too.
AVALON: I am PRETTY Pete. Not PETTY Pete!
NEMETH: That’s right!
AVALON: As a result, I agree with you, Ryan. I do! This Saturday, in the city known for Chic Fil-A and gorgeous Amazonian women who would be ever so fortunate to get themselves a taste of MY Chic Fil-A…The Wingmen will persevere. The Wingmen will prevail.
NEMETH: That a boy, Pete. That a boy.
With that, Ryan cracks a hugely relieved smile.
Even if the world around him is literally falling apart.
That’s what it was to be a Wingman.
It wasn’t about the bar. It wasn’t about *things*.
It was about the people.
And the friends we made along the way.
“YAH HEH! THANK YEW, NIC! THANK YEW!”
Jessica McKay cries out desperately in her holding cell, seeing the presence of the familiar Nic Nemeth, shamelessly hoisting a wad of cash.
“Yeah, uh, I’m here to bail out Tammy Sytch?”
Fade.
