Post by The Hannahverser on Sept 15, 2016 19:30:48 GMT
Zen and the Art of Miming
Pain?
You promised so much, and delivered so little.
Rather than stay victims you proclaimed yourselves victimizers.
You vowed to slaughter, maim, hurt and assassinate us, and yet here we stand.
You accomplished nothing.
Your words ring hollow.
You claim to know pain,
Mercy and Sin?
We’ll show you pain.
You promised so much, and delivered so little.
Rather than stay victims you proclaimed yourselves victimizers.
You vowed to slaughter, maim, hurt and assassinate us, and yet here we stand.
You accomplished nothing.
Your words ring hollow.
You claim to know pain,
Mercy and Sin?
We’ll show you pain.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Rodney! GET IN HERE.
His voice sounded hollow, like he was calling from behind thin layers of soundproof material. Rodney P looked up from trying to install Pokemon Go onto his brand new cell phone and feared what was to come next. That voice, stentorian and authoritative, excluding its current state of dimness, had become Francis’ ever after returning from Bad Moon Rising. After that show they’d all sat silently in the car Rodney was remiss to enshrine as the Francis-Mobile in opposition to Francis’ insistence, none of them willing, or, in the case of the mimes, able to discuss the proceedings leading up to the Mime’s victory. Furtively, Rodney glanced back from the passenger seat at the newly christened tag champions hoping to apologize for letting them down, and missing the details of their identity so crucial to their existence, but they did not return his gaze. And then came the giggle and hearty smack on Rodney’s shoulder from Francis followed by one of his characteristically cryptic statements, “DAMN, SPIDER’S ARE COOL, HUH?”
Francis’ mood had deteriorated thereafter. He’d oscillated unpredictably from joyous expressions of glee when speaking of his plans to destroy Sergio, to angry wrath-filled nonsensical tirades once it had gotten out that Sergio had in fact died, all of which kept Rodney off-balance and uncertain of what to expect from Francis.
At this summons, Rodney stood and crossed the hallway and peeked into the first open doorway he found. Inside, several slimy reptilian-looking cocoons had attached to the floor. Rodney recoiled at the sight of them and let his eyes roam to a couch where two of Francis’ Mogwai attended to Mario Kart racing on a Nintendo Wii. They noticed him and gave a creepy knowing grin about the cocoons before ignoring him and returning their attention to their race.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Rodney! Get in here, NOW!
Rodney had seen the movie Gremlins, and inhaled sharply at the disturbing sight of what he knew to be a Mogwai transformation, (of which, Francis had managed to multiply his collection after their drive through the rain, which only exacerbated Francis’ already unpredictable irascibility,) but Rodney opted to dismiss this development in favor of addressing his employer’s new pressing concern.
He proceeded into the next open living room. Already, Rodney nervously hid his cell phone behind his leg in case Francis threw another fit and tossed it out a window, or into the toilet, or whatever else he could find to aid in destroying Rodney’s outlets, of which there were few.
Rodney stopped at the doorway, and the sight of his employer seated in the lotus position inside of a transparent spherical plastic bubble sealing him off from the rest of the room. Against the far wall opposite Francis on a floral-design couch seated side by side silently watching Rodney’s arrival were the French Mime Assassins each wearing their freshly minted PAW Tag-Team Championship belts around their waists. Francis was studiously overlooking a dossier before noticing Rodney with a vague smile.
Francis Ford Cuppola: There he is. Took you long enough. First day with new legs?
Francis chuckled irritably. It made Rodney chuckle nervously as well and eye the mimes for some comfort.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Just kidding. I’m so funny. Aren’t I funny, Rodney?
Rodney P: You--you are, Francis. Really funny.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Oh really? You think so, huh? Then perhaps it’s finally time you let me in on the one joke I don’t know, Rodney.
Rodney P: Okay…
Francis Ford Cuppola: Who the FUCK are the French Mime Assassins?!
Rodney blinked at Francis, waiting for the seriously pissed off expression on his employer’s face to give way to a conniving smile. It didn’t. Rodney glanced to the mimes uncertainly as Francis stood inside of his protective bubble and looked crossly around the room, presumably for a terminus upon which to focus his anger. Rodney observed Francis’ gaze completely avoid the seated mimes.
Rodney P: They’re sitting right there, Francis…
Francis shook his head and looked perturbed as he glanced over his file folder and showed it to Rodney.
Francis Ford Cuppola: I want to manage these two.
Rodney looked to see the obvious promotional images of Becky Mercy and Tracy Sin. Rodney noticed the entire biography of the two, frowned, and glanced full of questions to Francis.
Francis Ford Cuppola: THIS is a tag-team I can get behind, Rodney. Brutal. Vicious. Lethal. 'Monsters'. These two know how to get the job done.
Rodney P: But--
Francis Ford Cuppola: This is the kind of tag-team I can sell, Rod.
Francis peered down at his dossier and paced the one or two feet he could move inside of his protective plastic sphere. Rodney didn’t like Francis’ tone. It traded its usual sense of jovial ignorance for disappointed desperation. This was a man on a mission to change his fortunes. Rodney hadn’t seen this side of Francis since he’d decided to recruit the mimes months ago. This was the look that came before one of Francis’ now-trademark course-altering decisions.
Rodney P: Francis, the mimes won—
Francis Ford Cuppola: Did you know that most of the official records for Becky Mercy and Tracy Sin have gone missing? I bet you can’t guess who probably did that!
Francis chuckled to himself inexplicably, seemingly barely registering Rodney’s presence anymore. His focus was set, and Rodney felt himself sinking, somehow.
Francis Ford Cuppola: You gotta love that tenacity to take control of one’s life. Granted, in today’s day and age it’s difficult to COMPLETELY remove yourself from the grid so long as secondary and tertiary sources exist about you. It took a lot of digging, Rod, and some pricey bribes in some deep, dark places, but I found what I wanted to know about Ms. Sin and Ms. Mercy.
Rodney P: You mean confidential information. Is this legal?
Francis snickered.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Due Diligence is always legal, dear Rodney. There’s a distinction to be made between information accessible to the public, and information accessible to private, wealthy corporations for the sake of recruitment and employment. Governments love the bottom line. Remember, I may not be a successful director now, but I was. And I still have friends in very high places.
Rodney P: You’re… recruiting them?
Francis Ford Cuppola: Mistakes were made, Rodney. I’d like to one day say I have learned from those mistakes. And so, as part of this new leaf I’m turning over, I’ve learned it’s important to know who you’re dealing with before contract negotiations begin. And I want to know what makes these two tick before I go discussing money, or what sort of doors I can open for Sin and Mercy.
Rodney could feel his eyebrows straining, watching as Francis’ eyes gleamed exuberantly as he looked over the dossier.
Francis Ford Cuppola: I mean, check this out. As far as my connections can drum up, these two pretty much went through hell; found themselves on the wrong end of just about every possible authority they could find and essentially dug themselves a reservoir of bad karma enough to feed and sustain these two beautifully gorgeous angry, lost souls forever. You’ve seen it in their promotional videos just how much anger there is inside them! I’m talking these two have been through stuff taken right out of a Stephen King novel, Rodney. Gotta love it. I love that angle. I admire it. I can market it. Why, these two remind me of myself.
Rodney P: You don’t say.
Rodney’s face had turned stone cold serious. Francis wasn’t joking, or playing around. The mimes sat where they were, like they always did, not reacting to a single word.
Rodney P: Francis, you already have a tag team.
Rodney’s eyes fell and remained on the two mimes, trying to silently illustrate with his eyes to them how much his level of respect for the two white-faced wrestlers had grown over their time together. Slowly, Francis lifted his eyes to see what Rodney saw, and hmphed dismissively.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Them. Right. I don’t want them anymore.
Rodney P: What are you talking about, dude? Are you serious? Two weeks ago they were one of your “favorite things”. You wanted to be buried with them. And out of a field of 5 tag teams THOSE TWO emerged victorious, Francis. Mime TAG-TEAM CHAMPIONS, dammit! That’s gotta be historic if not unprecedented. These two are the instant write-off of the masses on account of what is admittedly one of the weirdest “gimmicks” ever witnessed. You wanted those two because you said they were what the kids wanted. These two are something different in a sea of look-alikes. And through some miracle… YOU WERE RIGHT ABOUT THEM BEING CHAMPIONS! They’re a success, Francis.
Francis contemplated the mimes sullenly then looked away.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Well, now the kids want Sin and Mercy, Rodney.
Rodney’s frown grew angrily pensive as he turned and watched Francis go back to studying the dossier, his expression shifting to splendid pleasure the more information he learned about his targeted tag-team acquisition. Rodney eyed the mimes with a shrug. They expressed no discomfort, no complaints, not a sound. Rodney’s eyes drifted downward to notice they each held the others' gloved white hand. Guiltily, Rodney stepped in closer to the bubble Francis was encased in whispered to him.
Rodney P: Francis, what is this, why are you really doing this?
Francis remained lost in his dossier. Rodney felt righteous indignation well up inside him before he angrily slammed his palm off the plastic bubble.
Rodney P: I’M TALKING TO YOU.
Francis glared at him a moment. Rodney breathed loudly. He’d stood by enough to know that far too often he’d picked the wrong battles to fight. This one, for a change, was one he wouldn’t miss out on.
Francis’ eyes wavered from Rodney’s with a look of dismay at this unexpected challenge from his subordinate. He leaned towards the inside of the bubble and whispered to him sheepishly,
Francis Ford Cuppola: Rodney, I--
His eyes darted nervously with a deep gulp.
Francis Ford Cuppola: I don’t want to manage faggots.
Rodney stared at Francis before witnessing out of the corner of his eye the white-gloved hands formerly nestled lovingly together on the couch between the mimes slide slowly apart. Without warning he jabbed his finger into Francis’ protective bubble with enough force to pop it explosively.
Rodney P: You know they can hear you right, you fat, angry bigoted old man?
Francis glared.
Francis Ford Cuppola: So what, huh? Just means they know loud and clear that I’m not down for their gay erotic exploits no doubt taking place inside of my house, nor shall my anus be their playground!
He glared at the mimes.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Now you know, and knowing is half the battle!
Francis exaggeratedly mimed protecting the seat of his pants, and presumably his “back door”. Rodney growled, the tempers flared between them.
There, on the couch amidst that tumult, the mimes sat and remembered that this wasn’t the first time…
Pain?
Life is pain.
Your best bet is not to cry, whine, or complain about it.
Get used to it.
You can store it up and let out all the anger you want, in the end it only leaves you exhausted.
There’s no payoff, it’s a fire in eternal need of fuel, more parasitic than symbiotic in the long term.
This urge of yours to punish others, to make them bleed and scream, to victimize and torment, may project outward this idea that you two are something to be feared.
At least that’s what you’re aiming for.
You want the respect and power that comes with a name uttered in fearful and dreaded whispers among a cowering roster.
Frankly, Mercy and Sin, you don’t resemble anything powerful or fearful.
You’re wounded animals.
To be pitied.
Backed into a corner, made to hurt so badly, for so long that this pain of yours, alone, has come to define you.
Now you fight from that place of pain and torment you insist on inflicting onto your opponents and believe that somehow the skill of harnessing self-defeating energy will serve you.
Indeed, Sin and Mercy, a wounded animal is most dangerous.
But that animal becomes decidedly less dangerous the longer it remains wounded.
How long has it been since you first felt anger burn inside you, if we may ask?
And there, by your admission, it still burns.
When was the first dark side of bitterness and pain grafted onto your being after some trauma that brought about the “monsters” you’ve become?
The sad thing is wounded animals become blinded by their circumstance to the point of lashing out, and demanding attention.
Does this sound in any way familiar? Perhaps like your arrival in Pure Amusement Wrestling?
And now, on account of a loss you didn’t expect, you vow ever more vengeance and suffering to mete out on us for stealing what you thought to be rightfully yours.
We will meet you head on as we’ve met every challenge ever put before us because that is what truly defines us.
Know this, Becky and Tracy,
all the strength,
and anger,
and pain in the world will not,
and can not help you overcome a tag-team that is beyond suffering.
Life is pain.
Your best bet is not to cry, whine, or complain about it.
Get used to it.
You can store it up and let out all the anger you want, in the end it only leaves you exhausted.
There’s no payoff, it’s a fire in eternal need of fuel, more parasitic than symbiotic in the long term.
This urge of yours to punish others, to make them bleed and scream, to victimize and torment, may project outward this idea that you two are something to be feared.
At least that’s what you’re aiming for.
You want the respect and power that comes with a name uttered in fearful and dreaded whispers among a cowering roster.
Frankly, Mercy and Sin, you don’t resemble anything powerful or fearful.
You’re wounded animals.
To be pitied.
Backed into a corner, made to hurt so badly, for so long that this pain of yours, alone, has come to define you.
Now you fight from that place of pain and torment you insist on inflicting onto your opponents and believe that somehow the skill of harnessing self-defeating energy will serve you.
Indeed, Sin and Mercy, a wounded animal is most dangerous.
But that animal becomes decidedly less dangerous the longer it remains wounded.
How long has it been since you first felt anger burn inside you, if we may ask?
And there, by your admission, it still burns.
When was the first dark side of bitterness and pain grafted onto your being after some trauma that brought about the “monsters” you’ve become?
The sad thing is wounded animals become blinded by their circumstance to the point of lashing out, and demanding attention.
Does this sound in any way familiar? Perhaps like your arrival in Pure Amusement Wrestling?
And now, on account of a loss you didn’t expect, you vow ever more vengeance and suffering to mete out on us for stealing what you thought to be rightfully yours.
We will meet you head on as we’ve met every challenge ever put before us because that is what truly defines us.
Know this, Becky and Tracy,
all the strength,
and anger,
and pain in the world will not,
and can not help you overcome a tag-team that is beyond suffering.
I stood there with my partner on July 8, 2002, in a secluded area of Landes Forest in France where it was lonely, and where the birds stopped chirping while we said our vows.
The only witness, and only guest at our wedding, was the only priest we approached to oversee the ceremony. We both wore a wreath of dandelions on our heads, and held hands and stared into one another's eyes.
We kissed when that minister pronounced us, and the clouds rolled out of the way of the sun.
“Be careful who you tell,” the minister told us as we quietly walked back from that sequestered moment known only to us. We now bore rings we’d hide beneath white gloves thick enough to ensure no outline could be seen.
Our marriage was our secret. Our passion known only to us.
In our locker room, as we changed among other wrestlers preparing for the show, our eyes would meet and a knowing grin between us would say more than we ever needed to communicate.
And that much was enough.
Between us we were lovers, to others we were brothers.
And that much was enough.
We were known as The Mimes back then, because we didn’t need to reiterate we were French while wrestling in France, and we had yet to earn the title of Assassins.
Because names and titles work best, like someone’s hand in marriage, when it is earned.
For a year we were happy.
Alone backstage one night, the din of the crowd a distant memory, my partner had taken a brutal singles loss. Discouraged, I comforted him not seeing the set of eyes secretly spying us as we embraced, and learned once more to smile together amidst temporary setbacks and misfortune.
Afterwards we strode together like the brothers we projected ourselves to be, only now came the veiled snickers of laughter and the occasional quiet shoulder turn and hiding of the mouth of gossip among our peers as we walked past.
I thought nothing of it at first, because when you break it down so much of this ‘adult life’ becomes like high school with cliques and groups who stick together and withdraw from outsiders, and attempt to paralyze difference before it intrudes.
We were mimes. We were used to the reaction.
Until it became stark.
“I’m not wrestling the butt pluggers,” (translated from French), laughed The Modern Nostradamus backstage one night when it came time to be booked against my partner for his championship belt. His words were greeted with fraternal group laughter and veiled threats.
We were years away from “marriage equality” in France, and government legislation does not trickle down so easily to the hearts of men. It continued indefinitely, as though the truth about my relationship with my partner in some way reflected upon the sexuality of others.
Our monogamy, it would seem, was not something others could understand.
There was violence, but we fended for ourselves, not only on account of our skill sets as trained wrestlers, but because mimes stick together, and it’s never as bad as it seems, only daunting when it feels like a continuous uphill climb towards acceptance.
Something you take for granted until you cease being accepted.
And we thought being taken seriously as mimes was difficult.
“Look,” Pierre the league promoter said with a bottled in smirk. “I’m having trouble finding anyone that’s willing to wrestle you two… ‘clowns’.” He snickered with his air quotes. It was a joke, and we were it.
We lost our contracts that same night.
Loopholes allowed him a way around buying us out for the remainder of our contracted time.
I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, Mercy and Sin, that when you finally snap there’s no turning back entirely.
We lurked outside the backstage entrance that night and waited for the first to exit. It was the Modern Nostradamus. My partner, my lover, smashed his face off the hard concrete wall and watched as teeth smeared out of his mouth onto the pavement below before he sunk like a ton of broken bricks. As I propped open the auto-locking back door. And then I never stopped kicking his prone body, and I don’t think I’ve ever kicked harder than I did that night.
And then it was a raid.
Some people come in loudly for shock and awe, right Sin and Mercy?
Blitzkrieg.
You do it to create havoc and confusion and fear.
For our part, we entered as quiet as ghosts and took advantage of the wound down energy of wrestler’s who’d already spent all their energy competing for the night.
We left most of them alone. But we made sure Pierre the Promoter never opened his mouth again.
And that was the last of that ill-fated French Wrestling League as handled by Pierre the Promoter.
Why have you never heard of any of this?
Because not all news stretches across oceans.
But, underground there were whispers, Mercy and Sin, of the two French Mimes who got their revenge.
French Mime Assassins, became the warning.
We didn’t want this, or any of our past to follow us over the Atlantic because the past is a sorry place to stare when you’re seeking inspiration for how to move forward.
It’s a tool to learn from, not a place to hang your hat, or a corner to scream from at the top of your lungs. We've been called names, abused, tormented, and harassed until we learned to realize the weakness from which all these things come from.
The same weakness we see in you.
When last we met, leading up to Bad Moon Rising, you claimed it was all on account of Francis Ford Cuppola that we Mimes were where we were.
You said you hated clowns.
You said a lot of things.
And now, we sit here as PAW Tag Team Champions after a night in which Francis and Rodney were barred from the doors, not allowed to attend, and safely kept away from us leading up to that event…
The only witness, and only guest at our wedding, was the only priest we approached to oversee the ceremony. We both wore a wreath of dandelions on our heads, and held hands and stared into one another's eyes.
We kissed when that minister pronounced us, and the clouds rolled out of the way of the sun.
“Be careful who you tell,” the minister told us as we quietly walked back from that sequestered moment known only to us. We now bore rings we’d hide beneath white gloves thick enough to ensure no outline could be seen.
Our marriage was our secret. Our passion known only to us.
In our locker room, as we changed among other wrestlers preparing for the show, our eyes would meet and a knowing grin between us would say more than we ever needed to communicate.
And that much was enough.
Between us we were lovers, to others we were brothers.
And that much was enough.
We were known as The Mimes back then, because we didn’t need to reiterate we were French while wrestling in France, and we had yet to earn the title of Assassins.
Because names and titles work best, like someone’s hand in marriage, when it is earned.
For a year we were happy.
Alone backstage one night, the din of the crowd a distant memory, my partner had taken a brutal singles loss. Discouraged, I comforted him not seeing the set of eyes secretly spying us as we embraced, and learned once more to smile together amidst temporary setbacks and misfortune.
Afterwards we strode together like the brothers we projected ourselves to be, only now came the veiled snickers of laughter and the occasional quiet shoulder turn and hiding of the mouth of gossip among our peers as we walked past.
I thought nothing of it at first, because when you break it down so much of this ‘adult life’ becomes like high school with cliques and groups who stick together and withdraw from outsiders, and attempt to paralyze difference before it intrudes.
We were mimes. We were used to the reaction.
Until it became stark.
“I’m not wrestling the butt pluggers,” (translated from French), laughed The Modern Nostradamus backstage one night when it came time to be booked against my partner for his championship belt. His words were greeted with fraternal group laughter and veiled threats.
We were years away from “marriage equality” in France, and government legislation does not trickle down so easily to the hearts of men. It continued indefinitely, as though the truth about my relationship with my partner in some way reflected upon the sexuality of others.
Our monogamy, it would seem, was not something others could understand.
There was violence, but we fended for ourselves, not only on account of our skill sets as trained wrestlers, but because mimes stick together, and it’s never as bad as it seems, only daunting when it feels like a continuous uphill climb towards acceptance.
Something you take for granted until you cease being accepted.
And we thought being taken seriously as mimes was difficult.
“Look,” Pierre the league promoter said with a bottled in smirk. “I’m having trouble finding anyone that’s willing to wrestle you two… ‘clowns’.” He snickered with his air quotes. It was a joke, and we were it.
We lost our contracts that same night.
Loopholes allowed him a way around buying us out for the remainder of our contracted time.
I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, Mercy and Sin, that when you finally snap there’s no turning back entirely.
We lurked outside the backstage entrance that night and waited for the first to exit. It was the Modern Nostradamus. My partner, my lover, smashed his face off the hard concrete wall and watched as teeth smeared out of his mouth onto the pavement below before he sunk like a ton of broken bricks. As I propped open the auto-locking back door. And then I never stopped kicking his prone body, and I don’t think I’ve ever kicked harder than I did that night.
And then it was a raid.
Some people come in loudly for shock and awe, right Sin and Mercy?
Blitzkrieg.
You do it to create havoc and confusion and fear.
For our part, we entered as quiet as ghosts and took advantage of the wound down energy of wrestler’s who’d already spent all their energy competing for the night.
We left most of them alone. But we made sure Pierre the Promoter never opened his mouth again.
And that was the last of that ill-fated French Wrestling League as handled by Pierre the Promoter.
Why have you never heard of any of this?
Because not all news stretches across oceans.
But, underground there were whispers, Mercy and Sin, of the two French Mimes who got their revenge.
French Mime Assassins, became the warning.
We didn’t want this, or any of our past to follow us over the Atlantic because the past is a sorry place to stare when you’re seeking inspiration for how to move forward.
It’s a tool to learn from, not a place to hang your hat, or a corner to scream from at the top of your lungs. We've been called names, abused, tormented, and harassed until we learned to realize the weakness from which all these things come from.
The same weakness we see in you.
When last we met, leading up to Bad Moon Rising, you claimed it was all on account of Francis Ford Cuppola that we Mimes were where we were.
You said you hated clowns.
You said a lot of things.
And now, we sit here as PAW Tag Team Champions after a night in which Francis and Rodney were barred from the doors, not allowed to attend, and safely kept away from us leading up to that event…
What do you have to say now?
Rodney and Francis stared, eye to eye, heaving in oxygen into their spent lungs after a shouting match that either mime had managed to tune out until now.
Francis Ford Cuppola: And I still think they’ve been fucking my Mogwai.
Rodney P: What the HELL are you even talking about? They’re homosexuals, not bestiality enthusiasts.
Francis Ford Cuppola: You’ve seen those cocoon things. That’s gotta be part of their mime nest. I know it’s here somewhere.
Rodney P: So, all of this, you wanting to recruit Sin and Mercy as your new representative tag-team in PAW is on account of your inability to protect your damn Mogwai?
Francis Ford Cuppola: *sarcastic* Yes, Rodney. It’s all on account of the damn Mogwai. Hell, EVERYTHING is because of the Mogwai. The damn economic meltdown of 2008 is because of the damn MOGWAI, Rodney.
Silence as Francis shook his head. Finally, Rodney ventured,
Rodney P: It’s because of Sergio, isn’t it? He’s dead and you’re genuinely upset.
Francis’ face grew beet red.
Francis Ford Cuppola: How DARE you utter his name!
Francis, in a fit of anger raised his arms and began to choke the unsuspecting Rodney.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Mogwai! Mogwai! Mogwai! Mogwai! Mogwai!
As Francis shook his assistant violently and reverted to a seemingly feral state, a white-gloved hand appeared between them that confused Francis enough to silence him, and cease the violence. Francis blinked as he let go of Rodney. Rodney fixed the collar of his shirt.
Both men looked to the French Mime Assassins who stood beside them with discouraging shakes of their head. And then they left leaving Francis and Rodney to watch after them.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Was that some sort of gay thing?
Rodney’s eyes met Francis’ with confusion.
Rodney P: I think that was… those two wanting us to just shut up.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Oh.
Rodney P: Yeah.
Awkward silence between them.
Francis Ford Cuppola: And I still think they’ve been fucking my Mogwai.
Rodney P: What the HELL are you even talking about? They’re homosexuals, not bestiality enthusiasts.
Francis Ford Cuppola: You’ve seen those cocoon things. That’s gotta be part of their mime nest. I know it’s here somewhere.
Rodney P: So, all of this, you wanting to recruit Sin and Mercy as your new representative tag-team in PAW is on account of your inability to protect your damn Mogwai?
Francis Ford Cuppola: *sarcastic* Yes, Rodney. It’s all on account of the damn Mogwai. Hell, EVERYTHING is because of the Mogwai. The damn economic meltdown of 2008 is because of the damn MOGWAI, Rodney.
Silence as Francis shook his head. Finally, Rodney ventured,
Rodney P: It’s because of Sergio, isn’t it? He’s dead and you’re genuinely upset.
Francis’ face grew beet red.
Francis Ford Cuppola: How DARE you utter his name!
Francis, in a fit of anger raised his arms and began to choke the unsuspecting Rodney.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Mogwai! Mogwai! Mogwai! Mogwai! Mogwai!
As Francis shook his assistant violently and reverted to a seemingly feral state, a white-gloved hand appeared between them that confused Francis enough to silence him, and cease the violence. Francis blinked as he let go of Rodney. Rodney fixed the collar of his shirt.
Both men looked to the French Mime Assassins who stood beside them with discouraging shakes of their head. And then they left leaving Francis and Rodney to watch after them.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Was that some sort of gay thing?
Rodney’s eyes met Francis’ with confusion.
Rodney P: I think that was… those two wanting us to just shut up.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Oh.
Rodney P: Yeah.
Awkward silence between them.
We will tell you this, and only this much:
A win or a loss doesn’t intrinsically change who we are.
We are the French Mime Assassins regardless of winning or losing.
We’re not afraid of the damage you two can do to us physically.
Ask Sykes and Ava, we take your mind body and your soul and erase it.
Like what’s already begun with you, Mercy and Sin.
We’ve lived up to our promise each and every night.
And look at you, hungry for revenge, and thirsty for that which inherently blinds you.
By the end you’ll starve yourselves looking to cause us pain, but you’ll never hear a peep from us, ladies.
Suffering, real suffering, proper suffering, should be done in silence.
This is a lesson you both have clearly failed to learn.
Say all you want, but this time make sure you live up to your promises.
It’s rare to get second chances in this business, and here you are
With a second chance.
You promise pain?
We’ll show you pain.
The pain of once again missing the mark;
The pain of failing to understand that what you seek from this match cannot be gained without losing that which makes you who two are.
Pain?
We’ll show you pain.
And keep none for ourselves.
A win or a loss doesn’t intrinsically change who we are.
We are the French Mime Assassins regardless of winning or losing.
We’re not afraid of the damage you two can do to us physically.
Ask Sykes and Ava, we take your mind body and your soul and erase it.
Like what’s already begun with you, Mercy and Sin.
We’ve lived up to our promise each and every night.
And look at you, hungry for revenge, and thirsty for that which inherently blinds you.
By the end you’ll starve yourselves looking to cause us pain, but you’ll never hear a peep from us, ladies.
Suffering, real suffering, proper suffering, should be done in silence.
This is a lesson you both have clearly failed to learn.
Say all you want, but this time make sure you live up to your promises.
It’s rare to get second chances in this business, and here you are
With a second chance.
You promise pain?
We’ll show you pain.
The pain of once again missing the mark;
The pain of failing to understand that what you seek from this match cannot be gained without losing that which makes you who two are.
Pain?
We’ll show you pain.
And keep none for ourselves.