PROMO: Gotta Lose Your Mind In Detroit...

[JJ Johnson 0]

Traffic is running smoothly along the Ambassador Bridge. It's not very busy at 9 PM - rush hour was three hours ago - but there are still a few cars crossing between Windsor, Ontario and Detroit, Michigan. One of the cars crossing into the States, a black Hummer H2 that assaults anyone driving close to it with the death metal blaring from within, is notable for two things; one, it's extraordinarily poor gas mileage, and two, the passengers it carries.

 

"Can we listen to something else?" whines Landon Maddix, laying across the backseat with his fingers plugged in his ears, struggling to be heard over the abrasive groove riffs and shrieking vocals of Strapping Young Lad's "Shitstorm." Jay Hawke, in the passenger's seat, nods in agreement, the bounds of his maturity stretching like a pilates master in order to keep from complaining further.

 

The driver, one JJ Johnson, shakes his head no, staring out over Lake Michigan - what he can see of it in the darkness - as he drums his fingers on the steering wheel, mouthing the words. This time last year, he could sing along, but his throat can't take the strain required to alter his voice so drastically. The Canadian reaches down near the gearshift and grabs a bottle of water, taking his hands off the wheel only momentarily to rip the cap off and take a swig.

 

"When you're driving, you can listen to what you want," says Johnson, firmly. Maddix sighs.

 

"Well, can I drive?" inquires Maddix, hoping that Johnson has grown weary of his transportation duties.

 

"I'll fight you for it," responds Johnson. Jay smirks despite himself, and Landon sighs again before cramming his fingers back in his ears. He doesn't want the station changed THAT badly.

 

Suddenly, the cacophony that is Devin Townsend's shrill screeching is interrupted by something that plays such a sharp contrast that Jay jumps - a MIDI version of Frank Zappa's "Dirty Love". Landon heaves another sigh, this one of relief, as Johnson reaches out and adjusts the volume to allow himself to hear, then whips out his cell phone before taking a quick glance at the caller ID.

 

PETERS

 

Johnson pours some more water into his mouth before flipping the phone open and bringing it up to his ear.

 

"Speak," commands the Canadian. From the other line comes a rush of static, almost like somebody sighing into the phone - both Johnson's musical tastes and phone manners have that effect on people.

 

"Johnson. Peters," barks the SWF's head honcho, fighting monoenumonical sentence with monoenumonical sentence, "got you booked for Lockdown."

 

"Damn straight you do, Peters," snaps Johnson, still bitter from being left off of the Toronto card some time back, "and it better be a title defense. I'm not going to sit on this belt." Johnson glances at Hawke in the passenger's seat. "Like some people."

 

"Well, you're in luck then," comes the Eminem-lookalike's voice from a phone tower between Detroit and Cleveland, "because it is."

 

Johnson smiles. "Good," he says, relaxing slightly, "against whom?"

 

"Zyon."

 

 

*SCREEEEEECHH!!!*

 

 

*WHAM!*

 

 

"OW, SHIT!"

 

 

"What was that?" asks Peters as Johnson slams on the brakes of the gas-guzzler, the seatbeltless Maddix rocketing into the seats in front of him before falling to the floor and sitting up, looking slightly disheveled.

 

"Nothing," says Johnson, a thoughtful look in his eyes, before muttering "bastard" under his breath.

 

With that, the Ultimate Fighter slams the phone shut, stuffing it in his pocket before reaching down and unbuckling his seatbelt as Jay gives him a funny look.

 

"What're you doing?" questions the Dean of Professional Wrestling as Johnson opens the door before looking back at him.

 

"Scoot over here and drive," says Johnson as Landon perks up, his eyes wide with anticipation, "I've got DVDs to study."

 

Shrugging, Jay moves over into the driver's seat as Johnson walks around the car, people passing by on the bridge giving him funny looks as he gets in the passenger's seat, pulling his portable DVD player out of the glove compartment, along with a few labeled "ZYON SEPTEMBER," "ZYON NOVEMBER," and "ZYON DECEMBER."

 

"Oh, and one last thing," smirks the Canadian as he flips the DVD player open.

 

 

 

"I call radio."

[Mr. S£im Citrus 0]

Goddamn, that was fast!

 

And Landon carries the H2 to **1/2...

[The Ill One 0]

Build up~!

[Toxxic 0]

Johnson is getting just as good at these amusing-promos-with-a-point as Landon. And that's just damn scary.