Post by mrhacksaw on Jan 8, 2022 17:54:39 GMT
“Home Sweet Home” by Motley Crue blasts through the airwaves.
A hotpink Porsche Taycan whizzes through the disgustingly dirty streets off the Vegas strip. The destitution. The prostitution. The *pollution*. It’s all there and equally indistinguishable sometimes.
The driver’s obscured as she or he assuredly speeds significantly past the maximum limit, seemingly in a rush to their destination. We follow them until they pull into the seediest Las Vegas strip mall you’ll ever see.
Actually, you could call it a strip mall, but that’d be too kind. This wasn’t a strip mall. This was more like a decrepit shopping plaza in an abandoned city in the middle of a zombie apocalypse and an alien invasion and the emergence of Godzilla and the rumbling of King Kong all simultaneously. It was probably where you went to scavenge food and supplies. Until there wasn't any more food and supplies. And it was just full of needles and condoms and intermittent orgies.
But it was still something. It was operating. And given the state of the world and the associated pandemic, with a prominent virus of the body as well as many viruses of the mind…it was not something to take for granted.
As the porsche zooms closer, you can read the sign, plain black lettering on a white board.
“Wingmen’s”.
Simple. Sleek. To the point.
Or it was all they could afford.
The Porsche turns sharply into a spot in front of ‘Wingmen’s’, whatever the pristine establishment was. There were ample spaces. In fact, this was the only car in the entire lot. Even if it’s only just late morning, that can’t be promising.
The car parks haphazardly too. A car quite small, yet still taking up two spaces in a diagonal way. Classy.
The driver car side door opens. The passenger side door opens too, actually.
The driver has long, curly, frizzy blonde hair. He wears a black t-shirt that states “I <3 Japan”, covered by a black sportscoat.
Another gentleman emerges from the passenger door. He wears a lightblue t-shirt that simply says in yellow, bold lettering “Hollywood Hunk”, he covered by a golden, glitzy sportsjacket.
The two gentlemen, Ryan Nemeth and Nic Nemeth, stare proudly at the establishment. Almost in awe.
What a creation. A union of brilliant minds. A hell of a business venture. You could never think of anything better. No way. There’s nothing else they could’ve done with hundreds of thousands of dollars. Not a chance.
They simply stand there, sustaining their awe. Their marvel.
Tonight was the grand opening.
There was a lot of work still to be done.
The bar wasn’t going to arrange itself.
The stripper poles weren’t going to either.
Neither was the kitchen.
Neither was the gift shop.
Neither was the arcade.
Neither was the little bowling alley inside with two lanes.
But the hulking Cezar Bononi and JD Drake were up to the task. Two gargantuan men who were committed to this fine establishment until the end. They were the muscle. They were the brawn. They were the scary bouncers waiting to toss you outside, you god damn degenerate.
Then there was the sly Peter Avalon, “Pretty” Peter Avalon as he prefers to be called. He would be the manager of the establishment. Obviously because he was the smartest. Well-read. But also, naturally, because he’s the prettiest. The manager will always be seen. It only makes sense.
Avalon, eternally smug and wearing nothing but a royal blue bathrobe, legit nothing, eyes Drake and Bononi, not satisfied with their work.
AVALON: Boys, that doesn’t go there.
Huffing and puffing, they ignore him and press on.
AVALON: No, the dancers must be beside the arcade! We need the patrons to be fatigued from jamming their fingers, and decide they need to take a seat!
Now listening, they oblige.
AVALON: My voice must be heard, gentlemen. Thank you.
He leans against the bar counter, content to watch, as Ryan Nemeth emerges beside him, equally as content to watch.
NEMETH: I think it’s gonna be great, Pete. I think it’s gonna be real great.
AVALON: Ryan, Las Vegas has never seen a venue like ours. We will attract the hottest stars. The hottest talent! We will put on the greatest matches ever seen!
NEMETH: …Are we a wrestling company?
AVALON: No! Of course not. I have moved beyond wrestling, Ryan. I’ve transcended it. I’ve given it enough, while it has given me such scant little! …I simply meant that our matchmaking business beside the arcade and the stripper poles will produce very great matches.
NEMETH: Oh yeah. Of course. It’s all about variety. Some come for love. Others come for pleasure.
AVALON: …But are those two things mutually exclusive?
Within seconds, both men abruptly chuckle, as if to negate that question.
AVALON: Ryan, I owe a great debt to you. Thank you for having a rich brother. It was the least he could do.
NEMETH: Yeah. I mean, he’s pretty bored. He told me this is gonna fail miserably. And he can’t wait to see it. And it’s worth every penny.
AVALON: …Oh. I see.
Avalon feels angry. Hugely insulted. But he composes himself. There’s nothing to be angry about. They have their opportunity. That’s what counts.
NEMETH: But hey. We’re The Wingmen! This is Wingmen’s! There’s no way this can fail.
AVALON: No way!
NEMETH: We’re four brilliant minds. Two brilliant bodies.
AVALON: You and I, without doubt.
NEMETH: Exactly!
AVALON: One day, we will all have brilliant bodies. And then we will be unstoppable, as if we weren’t already!
Nemeth apathetically shrugs, yanking out his phone, reading something.
NEMETH: Hey…have you seen this? This new company opening up?
AVALON: What new company, Mr. Nemeth? There’s only one new company that matters!
NEMETH: I don’t think this is technically a company. But okay. I’m talking about the new wrestling company.
AVALON: I told you! I pay no mind to professional wrestling. It is ungrateful. It’s too simple. I am too complex for that world. Further, I’m too pretty.
NEMETH: Right. Right. I know. But it’s just sort of like, what are they doing? Buying everyone out? Saying it’s gonna be the best thing ever? And they didn’t even call us?
AVALON: Why do you WANT to be called, Ryan? It’s a fool’s errand!
NEMETH: I don’t know, man. Hurt pride? I’ve been in this business for a while, but I’m still a blue-chipper. I’m kinda’ insulted I didn’t get a call.
“YEW GAWTAH HEEH DIS GENTLEMEN”
The lanky brunette once known as “Billie Kay” storms into view, extremely eager. She sports professional attire, a hotpink business-outfit and skirt, her trusty clipboard at her side.
JESS MCKAY: GHISS WUT, GENTLEMEN.
Deadpan, Nemeth glares on.
NEMETH: …What?
JESS MCKAY: YAH IN!
She giddily laughs.
NEMETH: In what, Jessica? What are we in?
JESS MCKAY: YAH IN! JUSS LOIKE YEW WANTED!
NEMETH: …I don’t…what did I want? What did I tell you I want?
JESS MCKAY: Wehl, yew wuh dewin’ dah drinkin’ da othah day, or noight, aye dunnah. Said yew wanted tah join dah new cumpany.
NEMETH: What new company, Jess? This is the only company that matters, eh Pete?
AVALON: Absolutely! What are you talking about, you disgusting cretin?
JESS MCKAY: PETAH. DIS AIN’T DAH TOIME.
AVALON: But you’re drenched in makeup! You look like a clown! And that skirt, and those high heels…they do not compliment you at all.
JESS MCKAY: Wow. Thanks Petah.
NEMETH: Jess, what am I in? What did you put me in?
JESS MCKAY: WCW, ahf course!
NEMETH: …WCW?
JESS MCKAY: Yeh! Dah new cumpany. Juss loike aye said. Aye delivered, didn’t aye?
She leans forward, smiling, nudging him on the shoulder.
JESS MCKAY: …Oh! Drats. Gawtah add dis tew dah resumeh.
Whipping out her clipboard, she quickly takes a pen out of her nose, yes out of her nose, jotting something down.
NEMETH: Jess…
JESS MCKAY: Yees. One second!
Once finished writing, she glances back up.
NEMETH: Did you get us into this company right here?
He shows her his phone. It shows the WLCW website.
JESS MCKAY: YEES. DAT’S DAH ONE! SO??? HOW MUCH DEW YAH LUV THIS?
NEMETH: Uh…
He sighs.
NEMETH: Not at all. Thanks.
She frowns.
JESS MCKAY: But, buh but…
NEMETH: Jess, you’re our brand manager. You’re our publicist. You’re not our agent. What are you doing? Who did you talk to? How did any of this happen?
JESS MCKAY: OH! Wehl, yah bruthah helped me ah leetle beet.
A stronger sigh than before.
NEMETH: Course he did…
JESS MCKAY: Yeh! Then he helped me with sumthin else, yanno?
NEMETH: No. I don’t want to.
JESS MCKAY: So! …Yah first day is next week. Against the Hoppin’ Corbin and Sadcap Moss!
NEMETH: …What?
AVALON: This is ridiculous, woman! I should have expelled you a long time ago! You are the bane of my existence! I thought THAT company ending was the best thing that ever happened to me! And yet, you keep on coming back!
JESS MCKAY: Juss troyin’ tah help Petah…Ryan…
NEMETH: Alright, Jessica. We’ll do it this time. We’ll be there. We’ll get paid. But our focus is this bar…restaurant…strip club…arcade…bowling alley…dating service…thing.
JESS MCKAY: GREAT! KNEW YEW’D LUV EHT!
She taps Ryan on the shoulder, ignoring Avalon, before darting off.
The two men exchange stares, befuddled.
NEMETH: Dude, what the fuck.
The ‘Bar Rescue’ logo shoots across the screen.
Voiceover: NEXT WEEK…on Bar Rescue…
JON TAFFER: I can’t believe this. This is ridiculous. What even is THAT?
A gross sea of cockroaches scurry behind the bar counter.
JON TAFFER: This could be the dirtiest bar I’ve ever seen in my life. What is that guy DOING?
JD Drake picks his nose in the kitchen before some booger gets on the fries he was preparing.
JON TAFFER: And look at this guy! He’s supposed to be the bouncer? There’s a customer taking a PISS on a stripper pole! How does nobody see this?!
Cezar Bononi flirts with a couple strippers as the customer pisses away.
JON TAFFER: That’s it! I’m going in!
The door slams.
He stomps in.
JON TAFFER: Who’s the manager of this place? Somebody get me the manager now!
Avalon, always proud to be the manager, struts forward.
AVALON: Yes! I’m the manager!
JON TAFFER: What the HELL are you doing in here? ARE YOU EVEN PAYING ATTENTION? THERE’S SOMEBODY PISSING INSIDE THE DAMN BAR! OR WHATEVER THIS IS!
AVALON: Excuse me?!
JON TAFFER: THAT’S IT! WE’RE SHUTTING THIS THING DOWN NOW!
AVALON: Shutting it down? But we follow all covid-related protocols!
There’s not a masked soul in the place.
JON TAFFER: EVERYBODY OUT! EVERYBODY GET OUT OF HERE NOW! THIS PLACE IS A FUCKING DUMP!
Baboom. A not so graceful landing.
“...We have arrived in St. Louis. We hope you enjoyed the flight.”
Ryan Nemeth jolts awake from his seat, deeply disturbed.
NEMETH: Fuck.
