Promo: gonna' fly now!

[Guest realitycheck]

And now, some promo goodness to tide eveyrone over until Metal.

 

This was originally supposed to be just one part, but the first part was so long that I had to split it up. So, there are either going to be one or two more parts to this.

 

Bonus points to anyone who gusses what movie I'm ripping off. If you get it right, then I guess it's fair to say: You, are a supergenius.

 

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PROMO: Gonna’ Fly Now!

o/~ Getting strong now…o/~

 

Somewhere in paradise…

 

At a perfect 85°, the sun shone down a little bit of tropical paradise. The rays poured onto a deep blue sea, glistening like a million sapphires has been strewn across it. White sand beneath him, blue sky above him, gold around him, and a chilled drink in his hands, a certain brow haired, sideburned, chin stubbled individual was in heaven. He was loved, he was drunk, he was being tended to by many beautiful women. And, to top it all off, he was European Champion! Indeed, for Tom Flesher, life could not have been better. Lying in a chez lounge, in a painfully small pair of Speedo’s, and sipping his Pena Colonna, Tom turned his head to see a beautiful, buxom, dusky maiden, as she dabbed his nose with lotion. Tom smiled charmingly as she curled her lips.

 

“Tom…” The woman began, in the most sultry, seductive voice possible.

 

“Yea?” Tom absently responded, his mind clouded with hormones.

 

“Would you…” She began, staring him in the eyes. “…Like some extra towels?”

 

Flesher blinked.

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Housekeeping!” The woman warbled, in a high-pitched Latin accent. “Would you like some towels?”

 

Tom stuttered, looking for something to say. Before grasping the words, the woman raised her arm, bonking Tom in the head with back of her knuckles evenly three times. Tom jumped out of his chair, spilling his drink and landing in a heap in the sand…

 

Somewhere in Cleveland…

 

At a miserable 34°, the melancholy skies allowed only a smidgen of gray daylight to penetrate a grimy window. The floor was dirty, the bathroom unsanitary, and the bed was probably infested. He had no drink in his hands, although, most importantly, he was still European Champion. This could be obviously verified, seeing as he wore it over his boxer shorts. Tom Flesher murmured an obscenity as he hauled himself off the floor of the Motel 6. He stood up and rubbed the back of his head. Let’s see, he was having a fantastic dream, and something caused him to wake up and crash on the floor. Now, what the hell was it?

 

**Knock!Knock!Knock!**

 

“Housekeeping!”

 

THEM.

 

Those stupid, ignorant, illiterate, immigrant morons! Didn’t he TELL them he didn’t want to be bothered? Couldn’t they READ the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door!? With an indignant huff, Tom rose to his feet, marching resolutely to the door. He reached out and nearly ripped the door off of its hinges.

 

“What did I TELL You people!? Didn’t I say I wanted to—“

 

“HEY,BUDDY!!!!”

 

Tom paused in mid rant, stunned. There before him, in his usual attire, was his best ‘pal’ Z, with a megaphone in one hand, and a non-descript grocery bag in the other.

 

“GOOD MORNIN-”

 

Resisting the urge to reach out and strangle Z, Tom’s hand leaped forward, snatching up the megaphone and turning it off. Calmly, coolly, CAREFULLY, Flesher inhaled. Grinding his teeth and scrunching his face up, Tom began…

 

“Do… you… have… ANY… idea… what time it is?”

 

“Yep!” Z perkily replied, completely oblivious. “It’s time to start your intense physical training!”

 

Flesher blanched, and gave Z a empty look.

 

“Training?”

 

“Yeah!” Z said excitedly, while muscling his way by into the hotel room. “Since this is a pretty big match I figured that the least I could do was help you along!”

 

Tom’s empty look continued, as Z walked into the hotel rooms kitchenette, producing a grocery bag and placing it on the counter.

 

“Alex…” Flesher began, “I’m the European Champion! I’m in great shape!”

 

“I know that!” Started Z, “And, by the way, I’m not sure what’s creepier: The fact you sleep with your belt, or the fact that you wear your own personal underwear…” Z trailed off, indicating to the Tom Flesher® underwear, with the little Tom Flesher® heads on them, and the words ‘It’s superior. Trust me.’ written below them.

 

Tom took a moment to look down at his state of (un)dress, before shooting Z a dark look. “Get on with it.”

 

Z, “Okay… anyway, seeing as you’re having a match with Danny Williams tonight, I didn’t think we could be *too* careful. After all, he’s a dangerous opponent!”

 

Tom, “Z, I’ve beaten him twice. In my debut match, in the match for Euro Title No. 1 contendership…”

 

Z, “But still, he’s dangerous! Remember that thing he does!”

 

Tom, deadpan, “Thing? What thing?”

 

Z, exasperated, “You know, that *thing* that he does! With the thing and the… um… other thing… and…” Z trailed off again

 

“You’re an idiot.” Said Tom.

 

“Yeah, you’re right.” Replied Z, probably not hearing Flesher. “Anyway,” Z started again, “I doesn’t really matter what Danny does, all that matter is we’re prepared!” Exclaimed Z, as he went taking things out of the grocery bag, and laying them on the table.

 

Tom looked down at the objects, a small non-descipt siver package, and a carton of eggs. Reasonable enough. Then again, nothing was reasonable with Z. “So, anyway,” Tom said, ready to bite the bullet. “What did you plan on having making me for breakfast? Steak and eggs? Canadian bacon and toast? Maybe some German sausages and Pankakes?” Tom finished the last one looking ceiling-ward, obviously formulating some breakfast fantasies.

 

“Oh, nothing so *mudane,* Tom! I was thinking something hardy, something nutritious, something Rocky Balboa would eat!” Said Z, unsealing the silver package and putting its contents into the toaster. “I was thinking… a true breakfast of champions!” Z finished, with genuine flair.

 

“So, what am I having then?” Asked Tom, starting to fear for his life. (Or, at least, that of his stomachs.)

 

“Well!” Started Z, “I thought I’d get you off to a start with a nice glass of raw eggs! It works in the Rocky movies, it should work here, right?” Asked Z, as he opened the carton and cracked several eggs into one glass, and handing it to Tom.

 

As Z went back to the counter to tend to the toaster, Tom curiously peeked into the glass. No longer curious, he carefully set the glass down, so as not to cause it to combust, and asked… “Z? Where do these eggs come from?”

 

“Those eggs?” Replied Z. “They’re from Nantucket.”

 

“Um… okay…” Said Tom. “What I meant was: Why do these eggs have green yolks?”

 

“Ohhhh, that!” Responded Z, realization dawning about what Tom meant. “Well, I didn’t actually buy those from a grocery store, y’see. I went to 7-11 to buy this, but they had a new shipment of comic books in, and…”

 

“Look, I don’t care where you spent the money for groceries, I just want to know where you bought these!” Snapped Tom.

 

“Those? Well there was this guy *behind* the 7-11, I think his name was Haji, or something. He offered me a great price! Said that they were green because they were EXTRA nutritious!”

 

Tom’s face fell.

 

“Don’t give me that look!” Shouted Z. “Haven’t you ever read ‘Green Eggs and Ham?’ How do you know you don’t like them until you try!? Now, c’mon, drink up!”

 

Tom looked down into the glass, noticing the eggs had begun to bubble. He gimaced.

 

“Uh… tell you what, Alex, if I eat your breakfast, will you spare me the egg yolks?” He queried.

 

“Well…” Began Z, “You sure? I mean, I had the others this morning, and they were fine!”

 

Tom gave Z a questionable look.

 

“Well, relatively fine.” Z corrected himself. Just then, the breakfast announced itself with a snap, as the toaster popped up. “Okay, I’ll get the breakfast, and remember: You promised you’d eat it!” Reminded Z, who walked over to the toaster and placed the food on a plate, serving it to Tom on the table. Tom leaned over in his chair, looking down at the plate.

 

“Z…” Tom began, “ I really appreciate the effort you’re going to here, but, uh… this isn’t *quite* what I had in mind when you said ‘breakfast of champions’”

 

“Whadda ya’ mean!?” Shouted Z, angrily. “I eat this every morning, and look at me!”

 

“You eat BLUBERRY POP-TARTS every day for breakfast!?”

 

“Yep! Now eat up, you promised” Said Z.

 

Sighing, Tom picked up on eof the pop-tarts, screwing his face up in painmore with every bite. Finally horking  down the last pop-tart, Tom turned to Z and made a face. (Something like this: >_< )

 

“Alex?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I’m never eating this again.”

 

“Ok.”

 

Shaking his head, Tom rose from his chair. “So… now that I’ve eaten this crap, you’ll just bugger off until later tonight and--”

 

“Oh, Tom, Tom, Tom!” Z interrupted. “We’re just getting started! Come with me…” And with that, Z stepped out of the hotel room. Flesher sighed, knowing he didn’t want to go, but knowing he couldn’t refuse Z. He sighed again, it was going to be a long day.

[Guest redbaron51]

LMFAO

 

Flecher you are a funny man.

[Guest DiabloIIFreak1010]

<----- Marks out like fudign' crazy for Tom Flesher.

 

That was, becides "Chicken McNuggets For The Soul" and "Operation P.O.O.F.N.A.R.", the funniest promo...EVER. Keep up the work, man, I'm loving it...

[Guest realitycheck]

Wow, being compared to some of the Midnight Carnivals best stuff. That's heavy, man.

 

And by the way, guys... I'm Z! Z!! Flesher's promo is above... or below... or something. Also, I deeply, deeply resent being refered to as Tom Flesher.  Flesher probably deeply, deeply resents being compared to Z. Well, that and being called 'Flecher'

 

Ok, in all seriousness, I appreciate the complements. Now, whenever The Red Wings break my heart and destroy the Canucks, I'll write up the second part of this promo.

 

-Z

In case you didn't get it already.

[Guest Ace309]

Hey hey hey.

 

Now Z did write the entire promo, and came up with the initial scenario...

 

but I contributed about 45% of the dialogue, and that amazing "Flesher Wearing The Belt To Bed" part.

 

*nod*