Post by Zevon on Apr 10, 2007 18:49:38 GMT -6
*Scene opens to a room with plain white walls, a bachelor pad. There is no sound. The camera is jerky and obviously of home video quality. The camera pans a short distance to find a messy bed with a packed suitcase. Camera pans forward to find our hero, JR Zevon, playing with his orange cat. The sound suddenly kicks in.*
Zevon: Eh!...Eh!... don't bite Mr. Kitters.
Off-camera voice: [throat clearing].... [weak, forced cough].... (whisper) Zevon!.... I got it working. Stop playing with the cat, you're embarrassing yourself.
Zevon: (looking upwards toward cameraman) Embarrassing myself? Can't a man enjoy his kitty without being ridiculed, Francis?
Francis (the cameraman): Not in wrestling.
Zevon: I love Mr. Kitters... and you and the wrestling world will have to accept that. Okay?
Francis: Ummm....
Zevon: What?
Francis: Ahhh...
Zevon: It is perfectly alright for a man to play with his cat before going on the road.
Francis: But on camera, in front of all the POW fans, staff, and competitors?
Zevon: Why the hell not? I have to drive all the way to the Northeast for this gig. I won't see him for a couple days.
Francis: My wife will keep him company while we're gone.
Zevon: She damn well better!
(Dramatic pause. Zevon looks intensely at the camera.)
Francis: Haven't you left him home before? I mean...you've been wrestling for years.
Zevon: I've been wrestling for years in Toledo, Chicago, Detroit, London, Cambridge.... not some small town out in the middle of Maryland! Mr. Kitters doesn't do well on long road trips...he gets restless.
Francis: (sighing, flippantly) My reputation is spent already.
Zevon: Dammit Francis! There is nothing wrong with a man loving his damn kitty!
Francis: We need to get rolling. Get your bags and hurry it up!
Zevon: She'll be here in ten minutes right?... (voice rising) and I give the damn orders. You work for me!
Francis (in low voice): Ten minutes.
Zevon: Good.
(Zevon bends down and rubs his nose against the cat's face.)
Zevon: Goodbye Mr. Kitters. Be good for Sharon.
Francis: Ah, Jaysis.
(Zevon picks up bag and heads through the hall.)
Zevon: You are not Irish.
Francis: Sorry... just saw a promo from some Irish chap from POW.
Zevon: What was he like?
Francis: Seemed like a real nasty fellow... just out of the slammer.
Zevon: Taking a holiday at the Isle of Wight eh?
Francis: No. Nevada. Vegas.
(They reach a mid-90s black Ford Taurus.)
Zevon (opening trunk and placing bag): Son of a.... dingo! I finally dump that bastard agent of mine and I get sucked into another hole. Damn convicted felons running around trying to end my career.
(They enter the car. Zevon drives.)
Francis: Why did you fire him anyways?
Zevon: He didn't give me the respect I deserve. Always had his head up that talking bird's ass.
Francis: Talking bird? That some actress?
Zevon: African parrot. Real bastard.
(Now driving through streets of small Ohio town towards highway.)
(Awkward pause.)
Francis: You do know you aren't even booked for the show?
Zevon: I told you he had that bird up his ass...
Francis: Soooo, have you caught any promos from the POW boys?
Zevon (after brief pause): Just the one... Flying Diamond Cutter Man. Raging alcoholic... yet somehow intriguing. I think we'll get along. Too bad its just a one match deal for him.
Francis: Say wha? You hate boozers!
Zevon: I'm surprised too. I'd go out for a drink with him except for the facts that I don't drink and I despise bars... and drunks. And smokers... Filthy mongrels.
Francis: Well, you won't be too happy what I else I caught on the ol' POW train.
Zevon: Spill it. I've been in this game for quite some time.
Francis: Buddy Love Johansson...
Zevon: Scandinavian?
Francis: No.
Zevon: Afrikaner?
Francis: No... New Orleans party boy. His goal is to bring gold back to Mardi Gras.
Zevon: For Christ sakes! Couldn't this Lovejoy guy find any better talent? How am I going to be able to pull off great matches with a roster full of drunken criminals. Cajun drunks. Irish drunks....what else has POW got up their sleeves?
Francis: Well, there's this big German guy...
Zevon: Drunk! Next.
Francis: Only other thing I saw was... well, I'm not sure how to tell you this...
Zevon: Go on, I'm a man. I can take it.
Francis (timidly): Nightkiller.
Zevon: THAT AXE CARRYING BLOOD SPEWING FREAK! I...I...
Francis: Calm down.
Zevon: DOES THAT BASTARD LOVEJOY WANT ME DEAD!?!
Francis: Calm down. You've faced him before and you came out victorious.
Zevon: And alive.. barely.
Francis: And you'll come out alive next time.
Zevon: NEXT TIME? There won't be a next time. I can somewhat tolerate the drunks, but not a murderous loony...
(Pause)
Zevon: You call and tell that bastard Lovejoy he better have extra security at the arena for me. Motherfu...
*The camera abruptly ceases operations.*
Zevon: Eh!...Eh!... don't bite Mr. Kitters.
Off-camera voice: [throat clearing].... [weak, forced cough].... (whisper) Zevon!.... I got it working. Stop playing with the cat, you're embarrassing yourself.
Zevon: (looking upwards toward cameraman) Embarrassing myself? Can't a man enjoy his kitty without being ridiculed, Francis?
Francis (the cameraman): Not in wrestling.
Zevon: I love Mr. Kitters... and you and the wrestling world will have to accept that. Okay?
Francis: Ummm....
Zevon: What?
Francis: Ahhh...
Zevon: It is perfectly alright for a man to play with his cat before going on the road.
Francis: But on camera, in front of all the POW fans, staff, and competitors?
Zevon: Why the hell not? I have to drive all the way to the Northeast for this gig. I won't see him for a couple days.
Francis: My wife will keep him company while we're gone.
Zevon: She damn well better!
(Dramatic pause. Zevon looks intensely at the camera.)
Francis: Haven't you left him home before? I mean...you've been wrestling for years.
Zevon: I've been wrestling for years in Toledo, Chicago, Detroit, London, Cambridge.... not some small town out in the middle of Maryland! Mr. Kitters doesn't do well on long road trips...he gets restless.
Francis: (sighing, flippantly) My reputation is spent already.
Zevon: Dammit Francis! There is nothing wrong with a man loving his damn kitty!
Francis: We need to get rolling. Get your bags and hurry it up!
Zevon: She'll be here in ten minutes right?... (voice rising) and I give the damn orders. You work for me!
Francis (in low voice): Ten minutes.
Zevon: Good.
(Zevon bends down and rubs his nose against the cat's face.)
Zevon: Goodbye Mr. Kitters. Be good for Sharon.
Francis: Ah, Jaysis.
(Zevon picks up bag and heads through the hall.)
Zevon: You are not Irish.
Francis: Sorry... just saw a promo from some Irish chap from POW.
Zevon: What was he like?
Francis: Seemed like a real nasty fellow... just out of the slammer.
Zevon: Taking a holiday at the Isle of Wight eh?
Francis: No. Nevada. Vegas.
(They reach a mid-90s black Ford Taurus.)
Zevon (opening trunk and placing bag): Son of a.... dingo! I finally dump that bastard agent of mine and I get sucked into another hole. Damn convicted felons running around trying to end my career.
(They enter the car. Zevon drives.)
Francis: Why did you fire him anyways?
Zevon: He didn't give me the respect I deserve. Always had his head up that talking bird's ass.
Francis: Talking bird? That some actress?
Zevon: African parrot. Real bastard.
(Now driving through streets of small Ohio town towards highway.)
(Awkward pause.)
Francis: You do know you aren't even booked for the show?
Zevon: I told you he had that bird up his ass...
Francis: Soooo, have you caught any promos from the POW boys?
Zevon (after brief pause): Just the one... Flying Diamond Cutter Man. Raging alcoholic... yet somehow intriguing. I think we'll get along. Too bad its just a one match deal for him.
Francis: Say wha? You hate boozers!
Zevon: I'm surprised too. I'd go out for a drink with him except for the facts that I don't drink and I despise bars... and drunks. And smokers... Filthy mongrels.
Francis: Well, you won't be too happy what I else I caught on the ol' POW train.
Zevon: Spill it. I've been in this game for quite some time.
Francis: Buddy Love Johansson...
Zevon: Scandinavian?
Francis: No.
Zevon: Afrikaner?
Francis: No... New Orleans party boy. His goal is to bring gold back to Mardi Gras.
Zevon: For Christ sakes! Couldn't this Lovejoy guy find any better talent? How am I going to be able to pull off great matches with a roster full of drunken criminals. Cajun drunks. Irish drunks....what else has POW got up their sleeves?
Francis: Well, there's this big German guy...
Zevon: Drunk! Next.
Francis: Only other thing I saw was... well, I'm not sure how to tell you this...
Zevon: Go on, I'm a man. I can take it.
Francis (timidly): Nightkiller.
Zevon: THAT AXE CARRYING BLOOD SPEWING FREAK! I...I...
Francis: Calm down.
Zevon: DOES THAT BASTARD LOVEJOY WANT ME DEAD!?!
Francis: Calm down. You've faced him before and you came out victorious.
Zevon: And alive.. barely.
Francis: And you'll come out alive next time.
Zevon: NEXT TIME? There won't be a next time. I can somewhat tolerate the drunks, but not a murderous loony...
(Pause)
Zevon: You call and tell that bastard Lovejoy he better have extra security at the arena for me. Motherfu...
*The camera abruptly ceases operations.*
