Promo

[Guest Edwin MacPhisto]

Phoenix.

 

Sunshine.

 

Scorpions.

 

As Edwin MacPhisto kicks open the back door to the America West Arena’s staging facilities, he notices a pair of scorpions fighting it out in the dried, burnt grass next to the door’s rusted hinges.  The scorpions gnash and lash at each other, one black, one red, toppling over and around in a mess, each one darting at the other with the jagged, barbed tail.  Fascinated, Edwin pauses for a moment, hanging in the doorway as a cool blast of air conditioning surges down the hall…

 

“Edwin, can you stop watching the bugs?  It’s really, really hot out here.”

 

Edwin turns to the booming voice behind him and nudges his sunglasses down his nose for a clearer look at the Heavy Hitter, his partner-in-crime and Carniedom.  “Mark, my friend, scorpions are not insects.  They’re not spiders, either.  In fact, they’re a lot more complex then you give them credit for.  Now, were you a scorpion--”

 

“—I’d be inside in the air conditioning, thank you very much.”  With a chuckle, Mark gives Edwin a light shove through the door, and he follows soon after, leaving the scorpions and the scorching Arizona heat all to themselves.  Duffle bags by their sides, the Carnival duo walks down the hall, in search of their locker room for this weekend.

 

The doors read:

 

“DA POUND.”  A funny smell and the hard beats of some late 90’s rap seeps out from under the door, and with a shake of the head, the Carnies keep walking.

 

Next door.

 

“THE CLAN.”  Husky German voices echo out from the room over industrial beats, the unmistakable musical styling of Rammstein being particularly dark and evil.  Edwin peeks inside for a second and catches a glimpse of Spider Nekura sitting on a black couch while Thoth pokes at a CD player.

 

“Spider, I’m sorry,” he says.  “This is scary…but it’s just not right.”  With a quick press of a button, the CD cycle to the King of Fighters ’97 Original Soundtrack Recording, and the Reaper buries his face in his hands as Thoth shakes his groove thing.

 

“Uh…I think I found our room, Edwin.”  Grand Slam’s voice draws Edwin away from the Clan door and down the hall a fair distance, where the faint strains of some vaguely poppy music get louder and louder as he approaches…

 

“…just wanna have fun, oh giiiirls, just wanna have fun…that’s all the really waaaant, ohhh, chicas quieren divertido!”

 

The door flies open under Mark’s strong push, and there stands El Luchador Magnifico, light heavyweight champion, getting his personal rock on to some good ol’ fashioned Cyndi Lauper.  He tosses aside the hairbrush he’d been using as a microphone and dashes to press STOP on the stereo as Edwin and Mark stand in the doorway, doing their best to hold in some really, really uproarious laughter…

 

“…you saw nothing, esses.  Right?”  

 

“Right, Mags,” responds Edwin.  “As long as you’re buying tonight.”  Magnifico slumps against the stereo, shaking his head.

 

“I hate you guys so much…”

 

***

 

Settled in and sated with a particularly strong strawberry daiquiri, Edwin begins to unpack his duffel bag.

 

Mirrored sunglasses: check.

 

Hair dye: check.

 

Black eyeliner: proooobably not the best idea in Phoenix.  Too hot.

 

Ridiculously tight leather pants: see above.

 

Letter from Phoenix Nightingale: whoa.

 

Tucked away in the side pocket of Edwin’s industrial-strength duffel bag is a small letter mark with the unmistakable seal of the Perfect Drug.  Edwin pulls the neatly folded piece of paper from his bag and sits back on the couch--the paper is folded over and sealed, with a black “X” pressed in wax, and quite inviting.  With a flick of his fingernail, Edwin cracks the seal and pulls the paper apart, small, brittle chunks of wax falling aside as he separates it carefully.  “What do you have there, Edwin?” asks Mark, desperately trying to get his cell phone off roaming so he can see how his wife’s day was.

 

“Marky Mark…I’m not entirely sure at this moment.”  Edwin finishes unfolding, and reads the carefully inscribed message.

 

“E-

I’m out.  You know that.  Keep the faith, and STEP UP…it’s not the WF without a bit of an upstart.

 

-X”

 

“Huh.”

 

“What, Edwin?  What’s it say?”

 

“Well, not much.  I guess it’s some advice.  Phee—er, X, must have slipped it into my bag when I said goodbye to him the other night…”

 

“I still can’t believe he just took off like that,” says Stevens.  “Not after Stubby screwed us like that…hell, if I’m gonna fight that, I’d sure expect him to do it too.”

 

“Maybe he just needed some time?” pipes Magnifico, reading Spanish People over in the corner.

 

“I don’t know.  He went to Broadway, after all—honestly, I’m a bit jealous of the little guy—but I understand it.  I think good Sir X-A-Lot might have reached his breaking point after all those months of, erm, ‘kickin’ it raw with his gangsta Thugg.’”  

 

Mark stares at Edwin.

 

“Oh, all right, I’m still working on the bloody vernacular!  Pish-posh!”  Edwin shakes his head, chuckling, and looks back down at the letter.  “I don’t know why he’d leave this bloody little thing with little ol’ me, though.”

 

“…how many friends did he have left?  Not many,” says Mark, answering his own question and shrugging his shoulders.  “Maybe he just wanted to make sure that his work here didn’t go unfinished.  He didn’t wail away at Thugg for months just to see him get away and string Stubby…”  Mark pauses, and fumes for a moment at the name… “…and string Stubby along on his little god damn leash!”  Mark slams a fist into the table, then relaxes his fingers and speaks, a little more calmly.  “You’re the leader of this motley little crew, Edwin.  It makes sense.”

 

“But I’ve still got Sacred on my tail!  The advice is wonderful and quite the ego-stroke, but surely you don’t think X wants me to strap on my astronaut costume and go battling Thugg in the deep recesses of the Harlem universe now?”

 

“No,” says Mark, taking a drink from his own cocktail of choice (read: beer), “I doubt that.  Besides, I’ve still got enough of a grudge to settle with Thugg and Stubby, and hell, you know what—I don’t like Spider or Fallout all that much, but if they want to lay into Thugg for a few weeks, more power to them!  Maybe those guys can lighten each other up a bit…”

 

“Or,” chirps Mag, “maybe just beat the holy hell out of each other, heh heh heh heh…”  With a mildly devilish cackle, Mag goes back to reading an exciting expose on, erm, some Spanish People.

 

“Either way,” says Edwin, “I think we need some more drinks.  How’s about it, Mag-gie Mae?”  The luchador looks up.

 

“I’ve only got pesos!”

 

“And a credit card.”  Mark grins, and holds up Magnifico’s wallet.  “Spanish Visa, but it still spends American dollars…”

 

“Blahhhh!  Chupas muchas!”

 

“…I do like chalupas, now that you mention it.  Tacos and vodka, Edwin?”

 

“Ahoy!  Let’s set sail!”  The trio starts for the door, moving back down the hallway from whence they came, walking past the obvious Dance Dance Revolution fest going on behind closed Clan doors, striding past the narcotics-and-beats laden land of Da Pound…and out into the blistering heat.  Mark and Magnifico lead the way, getting into a mild argument about whether Arizona qualifies as a state with a high density of border-jumpers…

 

…but Edwin trails behind.  As he steps out the door, he looks to the side, to the dried, burnt grass.  In the broken, beaten blades of browned earth, the dried, paralyzed form of the two scorpions, intertwined, lays still, the barbed tail of each imbedded in the other’s back.  Twins, forced to fight for no good reason at all...Edwin shakes his head, and looks up to see Mark and Magnifico a good distance away him, already almost out to the parking lot.  The Mac Daddy looks up into the sun, and dips his hand into his pocket.  With a careful movement, he pulls the letter out and regards it one more time.

 

Scorpions.

 

Sunshine.

 

Phoenix.

 

Phoenix Nightingale.

 

Step up.

 

“I’ll do what I can, X…but no guarantees, my fun-loving friend.  No guarantees…yet.”

 

With a desperate hunger for alcohol and burritos, Edwin tucks the letter back into his pocket and darts after his friends in the distance.  “Mark!  Mags!  Don’t leave without your crown prince of fiesta and siestaaaa!”  The cumbersome company van rolls by, and Grand Slam’s head pops out the window, and Edwin runs frantically behind while the mischievous Carnies do donuts in the America West parking lot.

 

He’s got miles to go before he sleeps.  And at least a few blocks to the Taco Bell.

[Guest Thoth]

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS KOF RULES...

 

/me gets tapped on the shoulder...

 

Oh right... keep up the legacy, the joy, of X, Edwin.  Only you have the potential.  Or maybe me, if I were heffed up on goofballs.

[Guest HVilleThugg]

Edwin, I really liked that promo, although I'm not sure exactly sure what you were saying with it....but I liked it anyway.  Then again, I like everything you write, so...

 

Another phat promo...

 

Da "going back to his narcotics and late 90's hip hop beats" H

[Guest Edwin MacPhisto]

Not saying too much, actually.  Mostly a character piece with some foreshadowing and goofiness.  Just laying down groundwork for perhaps some stuff in the future, near or far.

 

And making fun of Thoth, but that's a given.

[Guest]

Beautiful promo.. I really liked the red and black scorpian, not to mention the genuine softness of ELM listening to Cindy Lauper. It doesn't get much better than that.

[Guest Grand Slam]

Now THAT is a promo!!  way to go Edwin!!  Whoo-Hoo!!!

 

I am constantly amazed at how well Edwin writes Grand Slam.  If you are ever having trouble getting a handle on writing Stevens, just ask the Mac Daddy!

[Guest Xstasy]

Edwin, this was a great promo, and a great use of Xstasy's character.

 

I can't even find the words.  Not too long, not too short.  Just perfect.  Almost made me want to come back!!