I GOT THE MAGIC DUCK
Somewhere backstage. Where exactly is a big mystery, both because half of the people you’re about to meet have no idea where they are, and also because they’re not supposed to be here so it’s all being kept very hush-hush. Don’t want to call down the thunder of the Bird Force, after all.
Let’s rap about the first one. He’s the idiot in the comically oversized director’s chair, the one that looks like it requires a complicated system of levers and pulleys to get into. Plaid pants, a turtleneck, some bowling shoes, and a purple sport coat are all complimented by a ski mask that looks lifted straight out of 1981 and some BluBlocker sunglasses. Oh, and also there’s the fedora. Can’t forget that.
Big “I just raided daddy’s closet” energy for this dork.
His name is Zeke, but we’ll get to him in a minute.
Behind him stand a pair of elderly gentlemen in sweatshirts that stopped fitting properly at least two decades ago. Each has the kind of villain mask on that makes them look like underfunded raccoon cosplayers. Their names are Barry and Rocko, but no one gives a shit.
Barry is holding a boom mic with all the grace of a man struggling to boat a marlin.
Rocko is slowly pouring a can of Caffeine Free Diet Coke into a glass filled with ice.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq: Hello, yes. I am nefarious, the evil, the nefariously evil Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq. Professional wrestling’s foremost lawyer, doctor, lawyer-doctor, and accredited member of the Associated Press.
He opens his coat slightly to reveal that, yes, he does actually have press credentials. Better nobody thinks about how that came to be.
Also thank god for copy/paste, because holy shit if I had to type “Dr. Zeke D. blah blah blah” over and over again it would get old real quick, so instead we’ll just “Dan Ryan” this one.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq: My guests this evening have stated their intentions to challenge Jerry and his tag-team partner An Actual Human Woman for a pair of belts that I have been told are not just chocolate wrapped in foil. Please welcome Karl Malone and his partner BIG LORENZO.
The camera pans over to see the smiling topknot and bushy face of Joe Fontaine. Pretty sure those aren’t the right descriptions. We don’t care. Sitting next to him is Sid Phillips, who looks like he’s seated in one of those chairs that they make for children. Neither of them look like they know exactly what they’ve gotten themselves into.
Joe Fontaine: Hi, hello, hola, salutations, etc. I am Joe Fontaine de Karl Malone. This is my associate, best friend, best buddy, living powerbomb, and all around good guy, “Large” Sid Lorenzo Phillips. Esquire.
Sid Phillips: Wait, I thought you were “BIG LORENZO”?
Joe Fontaine: Don’t be ridiculous. You have a look about you that screams “BIG LORENZO”. Right, Doc?
He stares up at Dr. Badguy, and concludes based on absolutely no evidence other than being the one who gave Sid the name that he agrees with the assessment.
Joe Fontaine: Anyway, lovely to be here in your, uh…
He pauses, looks around, and shrugs.
Joe Fontaine: Your, uh… dungeon? Your basement hideout? I don’t know what this place is, how we got here, or what that smell is.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq: Yes, hi. That would be my Werther’s candies. The old chompers aren’t what they used to be, I’m afraid, so I like to let them sit for a spell on a space heater when I can to soften them up. And for the record my secret underground lair is most definitely not just a basement, thank you very much.
In case you’re confused, and in all fairness you should be, Dr. Zeke has appeared on exactly one episode of ReVival before this. He and his evil henchmen, The Evil Henchmen, were responsible for cooking one of the many dishes fed to the Survivor contestants almost a year ago. Since then he has somehow made his way into the Jabber realm, where an alleged “clerical error” means he has access in perpetuity.
Also, in case it’s not abundantly clear already, he’s kind of an idiot.
Oh, and Rocko has moved on to taking large bites out of a Whopper sandwich while staring directly at the camera. If you were to ask him, he’d swear it’s called a “Henchburger”, but no such thing exists and he’s not allowed to talk without permission.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq: Yes, anyway, first question. How do you intend to subdue the Actual Human Woman so that you may finally realize my lifelong dream of poisoning Jerry? Preferably with poison.
Joe Fontaine: Why not just poison the Actual Human Woman? Is she immune to poisons? Is she some sort of toxic hell banshee whose very presence can taint the very soil she walks on? Why do I get the feeling that asking all of these questions is just asking for me to get punted in the head some time in my future?
Sid Phillips: How did you go from “try poisoning our opponent”, which is already an extreme, to “toxic hell banshee”?
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq: Hi, hello. To answer your first question, because it would no doubt make Jerry cry, and as we all know once that process gets going it is impossible to stop. I did not bring my floaties, and can’t swim as well as I used to, so I would rather not drown if it is all the same to you both.
A boom microphone held by a man with weak arms sails in front of Zeke’s face. He doesn’t react, because he knows that Barry has tiny T-Rex muscles at this stage in his life.
Rocko holds up a large sign that is nothing more than a giant IcyHot logo. That is until he unfolds something from the back. Now it’s a giant IcyHot logo with a custom tagline. IcyHot: For when you’re old and have the arthritis.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq: To answer the rest of your questions in order. I do not know. I’m not certain. Probably yes. And was that last one directed at me?
Joe Fontaine: Depends. Did you and/or your minions… nice hoodies, by the way, very fetch… bring your punting shoes? Because the Actual Human Woman definitely brings hers. Which, to be fair, sort of suggests that she isn’t a toxic hell banshee. Because banshees don’t really do a lot of punting. They just scream a lot.
Sid Phillips: I feel like this analogy of yours is getting away from you a little bit. And by a little bit, I mean a lot. Like, there’s a chasm that you could drive a starfighter through, and still have room enough to do stunts.
Joe shrugs, the motion looking somewhat silly considering how small his chair actually is.
Joe Fontaine: Look, Doc, we don’t really need to explain all of our strategies. Stratagems. We did consult the book of Sun Tzu, and that didn’t really help us much, either. Although I didn’t know the ancient Chinese war man was a 5-Star Champion here.
Sid Phillips: You literally brought a large notebook with “Sun Tzu” taped onto it, and said it was the book of Sun Tzu. I’m not even sure anything was written in it.
Joe Fontaine: That’s what confused me.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq: Hello, hi. Should I take this to mean that you have access to a space plane? Does the Jet Man know about this, and does it fall under his Jet Jurisdiction? I have many questions about your aerodynamic adventures and what manufacturer can create a cockpit large enough to accommodate BIG LORENZO, but perhaps it is best if we put a pin in that for now.
There’s a muffled “thunk” as the boom mic lands on one of Zeke’s shoulders, and then is quickly lifted back into the air. Behind our host, Henchman Barry has turned into one sweaty boi. Them lil’ dino arms are burnin’.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq: I am made to understand that people in this company have sponsorship agreements. I myself am looking to acquire one both for Werther’s Candies and also for Polident for personal reasons. Recently I received a fax that King T’chulla of Wakanda is being endorsed by the Jolt Colas and hightop Reebok Pumps. Have either of you been approached by big industry? Perhaps T’chulla will sponsor you with some of his fine citruses.
Sid clears his throat.
Sid Phillips: Yes.
He pauses.
Sid Phillips: And all my sponsorships keep getting usurped by people who ride jets and I’m not allowed to powerbomb because they are staff and I’m not allowed to powerbomb staff apparently. I took enough hits to the old wallet last year and I need to cut back on that because my budget can’t keep pace with all of the powerbombs I want to dish out to every two-bit Enemigo that stares at me threateningly.
He shrugs.
Sid Phillips: You powerbomb one Enemigo twenty-three times into a boulder and suddenly you’re the bad guy forever.
Joe Fontaine: Also, hi. Yes. I would like a sponsorship. Are you offering? Do you have some sort of poison-based sponsorship I can get behind? I assume that’s what all of your sponsorships do.
Joe pauses, as though thinking about it for a while. He’s not. He’s only pausing because he thinks that’s dramatic.
Joe Fontaine: Maybe we could talk sponsorship opportunities after we totally relieve Jerry and Actual Human Woman of their tinfoil chocolate championship belts.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq: Yes, hello. We can talk about sponsorships after we finish up our business here, provided that you are willing to help me construct my most brilliant device yet, the Skunk-A-Pult, which will be unleashed at the Madhouse sometime this year. I don’t know when. I’m only responsible for engineering and mechanical designs. I leave the planning to the Overcaffeinated Airship Man.
He clears his throat. It sounds not unlike a rubber chicken being stepped on.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq: Anyway, my own problems with Jerry are well-documented and have been passed down through the great oral tradition.
This is a lie.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq: But what gripes do you have, eh? What grievances do you have? What annoyances have you endured? What irritations have you suffered? And many other sentences that all rephrase the same question.
Joe Fontaine clears his throat, and when that isn’t enough, he takes a long sip of his conveniently placed Dr. David Lemonade lemon drink and then proceeds to answer those questions.
Joe Fontaine: Well, to answer… uh, all of those questions at once, Doc, those not-berries have been real thorns in our sides. I mean, obviously, they’re the only team in PRIME that’s ever beaten us here. I’d say that’s a gripe, a grievance, an annoyance, an irritation, and a partridge in a pear tree. They also, like, did it in front of all of our friends and family, and I gotta say… not a big fan of that.
Sid Phillips: Some people even claim that I did something other than powerbombs in that match. Those people are fools.
Joe Fontaine: And I mean, I get it. It’s just the way this whole thing’s supposed to work, right? A winner and a loser. Sometimes, your ol’ boy Joe ends up on the latter end of that spectrum. I can usually accept that. But in this case, I can’t. I see those belts on those not-berries, and all I can think of is how I want to take them. Can’t stop thinking about them, really. So this time, I want to do it my way. No, our way. So, I guess that’s my gripe, grievance, etcetera?
He shrugs. Sid decides that this is the perfect time to interject.
Sid Phillips: I’m just here for the powerbombs. Everything else is fluff.
The camera pans back up to where Dr. Zeke is sitting on his ridiculous director’s chair to reveal that he’s holding a container of Dulcolax suppositories and smiling for the crowd at home. Well, we assume he’s smiling. The man’s mask doesn’t have a slot for a mouth, but it does look like he’s at least grinning under all that yarn.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq: Hi, hi. A point of order, young Karl Malone, but technically aren’t we all “not berries?”
He doesn’t turn to look at Joe as he says this. Behind those oversized BluBlockers this dipshit is staring directly at the camera. Through the camera.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq: Regardless, BIG LORENZO raises an interesting point. Tell me more about these bombs and how you power them? Are they fusion-based? What isotopes are involved? Or are they some garden-variety combustibles that any enterprising villain can make out of some propane and a case of Fruit Tornado gum? Fruit Tornado, now available in green apple flavor for deviants!
Joe Fontaine: You know, I don’t really mind app–
Sid holds up a hand in front of Joe’s face, interrupting him.
Sid Phillips: I got this.
Sid clears his throat.
Sid Phillips: First of all, the thing you must understand about the powerbomb is that it uses physics and the mechanics of the human body. It is entirely human-powered. That makes it very powerful, because as we all know, humans are the most dangerous game. The second most dangerous is Tetris, as we all know. Anyway, the powerbomb requires a working knowledge of how a right angle works. It requires a measure of power greater than the weight of the poor dumb moron who’s getting powerbombed on this fine Friday evening. It requires an inhuman tolerance for crotch stink. Without all of these things, the powerbomb is merely a figment of one’s imagination. With those things, any powerbomb is possible as long as you are powerful enough to powerbomb.
Joe stares at Sid for a long moment, and then turns to Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq., jerking a thumb over his shoulder at Sid.
Joe Fontaine: …Doc, you catch everything he said?
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq: Hello, yes. Yes.
He tosses aside the box of Dulcolax, which for whatever reason he was still holding next to his face during that entire exchange.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq: If I am to understand BIG LORENZO, then the powerbomb is the means through which one person attempts to pulverize the tender, supple body of their opponent through a judicious use of physics, combined with an applied knowledge of advanced mathematics and a working, thorough understanding of geometry. Additionally, it requires the person in control to not only be sound of body, but also strong of will, for one can never tell if their opponent knows how to properly bathe themself, or if they have bathed recently. It exists in the mental as well as the physical. The powerbomb is the we, and we are the powerbomb. It is omnipresent, like the air we breathe. Graceful as the wind, and brutal as the flame. Art in the truest sense, and only an artisan may craft the powerbomb.
He pauses to stroke his chin in quiet contemplation.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq: Also it was invented by a Russian man who had his ideas stolen by the state, is that correct? All in the name of many communisms.
Sid Phillips: Who can say, really? Scholars are a bit torn on who truly invented the powerbomb. Some believe it was invented by Phillip Seymour P. Bomb. Others who are definitely not Alexei Ruslan believe it was invented by Ivan Stanislav. Still others think it was simply birthed into existence by an angry powerbomb god. Or Lou Thesz. Same thing, really. There are many roads to powerbombs, and many truths. Perhaps we are all powerbombs in the end.
Joe Fontaine: …What in the hell is this conversation?
Zeke holds up a duck. An actual, honest-to-god, live-ass duck. Just so everyone is aware, it’s not the same duck that was ALLEGEDLY booked against a six-year old last year. That duck is dead now.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq: Hola, bonjour. This conversation has been brought to you by Aflac. For when the big man hurts you and you need Band-aid money, trust in the magic duck. Trust in Aflac.
Joe Fontaine: Oookay.
Sid Phillips: Tell me more of this magic duck.
Joe does a double-take and turns to Sid like he’s crazy. Because he is.
Joe Fontaine: Dude.
The Duck: (Excited quacking noises)
Zeke nods, but doesn’t put the duck down.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq: Hello, quack. Yes. Very worthwhile information there, I must say. Also might I add that your collection of party equipment is unparalleled.
Joe Fontaine: You know, I need to ask this… is the duck available to help us win the tag titles? Just asking for a friend. Who is me. And Sid. Actually, it’d probably be better if it was just Sid.
The Duck: (contemplative quacking noises)
Once again, Zeke nods along. Evidently in addition to speaking fluent powerbomb, he is also trained in conversational duck.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq: Yes, hello. On behalf of my new client I have been instructed to ask what benefits you are offering as part of the standard compensation package. Do note that my client, this duck here, is unable to consume bread because he is currently watching his gluten intake. Gives him a bit of the rumbly tummy, you see. He is offering his services for the very generous price of eight pounds of shelled peanuts – no salt, he’s watching his blood pressure. Also, thirteen million dollars.
Joe Fontaine: Whoa, now. Hold on there, buster. The thirteen million, that’s doable. Everyone in PRIME has like thirteen million smackeroos. But lay off the shelled peanuts, bro. That’s mine.
Sid Phillips: Ours.
Joe Fontaine: Ours.
Joe stands from his chair, a laborious effort considering how tiny the damn thing is, and points a finger not at Zeke, but at the duck.
Joe Fontaine: The shelled peanuts are ours, just like the tag titles will be!
He points a finger at Zeke.
Joe Fontaine: Zeke! You’re, uh… you’re cool. I think? You haven’t tried to poison us in like a year, so that’s nice. I expect some poisoning in the future, though, now that I said that you haven’t tried lately.
Sid Phillips: I’m immune to poisons. All of my blood cells are comprised of concentrated powerbombs. A mere poison stands no chance.
Joe Fontaine: Dude. Don’t give him a challenge.
With one hand Zeke shifts the duck onto his lap, and with the other he waves off the implication that he poison his new friends.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq: Hi, no. Nonsense. There is no poison in your future, since I expect you both to murder at least Jerry. His Actual Human Woman friend I’m still on the fence about. And in this endeavor I wish you good luck, good fortune, and good vibes. Now…
He leans down from his chair, almost falling out of it in the process.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq: Are either of you boys in the market for legal representation? Medical advice? Medical-legal representation and-or advice?
Fortunately, before they can answer we fade elsewhere.
Probably because someone in the production truck finally decided that this has gone on long enough.