WWF Sunday Night Heat #1 - Y2J Problem
WWF Sunday Night Heat
Greensboro Coliseum
Greensboro, North Carolina
Synopsis: While Nitro runs wild on Raw, things are much different on Sunday Night Heat. Chris Jericho, fresh off of defeating Triple H in a grudge match at No Mercy before being attacked by the still-masked Nitro, has come to Heat in search of other possible conspirators, namely those who came from down south. Meanwhile, the WWF Hardcore Championship, held by Al Snow, is being hotly contested on Sunday nights. Since it's under 24/7 rules, anyone can take the title, anywhere. But Al's a fighting champion, and plans to defend it in matches regularly.
Deadline is Friday July 5th at 10am GMT
"HELLLLLLLLOOOOOOOOOOO LADDDDDIIIIESSSSSS!"
"Now The Big Valbowski understands that next week on Sunday Night Heat, he’s being asked to bring the heat to the Big Bossman.”
“See Bossman, I know you’re used to handling convicts behind bars that do hard time, but that’s not the kind of hard time Val Venis does.”
“When Val Venis does hard time, he’s going to pound town with a big bad truncheon.”
“Now I know you’ve got a truncheon of your own, Bossman. It’s big and it’s black and they say that once you go black, you never go back. Those chicks never met the Big Valbowksi.”
“My truncheon isn’t black, but it certainly is big and unlike you Bossman, I use it for pleasure, not pain. It’s a tight squeeze, don’t get Val Venis wrong, but with the right lubrication, a handful of spit and some manoeuvring, I always get it in.”
“Next week on Heat, we can compare truncheons if you like, but I promise you’ll be sorely outmatched in size and girth. I know you’re gonna want to take me out with the Bossman Slam..”
“The problem is, Bossman… The Big Valbowksi doesn’t swing that way.”
“Pity for you, I'm sure.”
Goldust relaxes on a couch, rubber chickens surrounding him as he rubs himself all too sensually.
"Ooooooooh Raven. My sweet, feathered friend. I've had my eye on you for far too long... You and that- " He gives a sharp inhale. "That big, comfy nest of yours. I've been rap, rap, rapping on your chamber door."
He chuckles, grabbing one of the chickens and giving it a squeeze, a small 'honk' sounding off. "All just so you might return the favor on mine. Wouldn't you like me in your little hen house?"
Another sharp inhale, another rubber chicken squeak as he adjusts on the couch. "I just can't help myself. You know what a male bird is called, don't you? Some call it a gander... But I call it a cock. And Raven? You may not be the biggest cock backstage, but you're definitely the most... Beautiful."
"And you're already nice and leathered up, aren't you?" The camera zooms in on Goldust as he licks his lips. "So why don't you let your tell tale heart beat in your chest, let me into your nest, and give Goldust a nice, long taste of the most exquisite, delicious cock that WWF has to offer?"
You know, there's something tragically poetic about you, Goldust.
You adorn yourself in gold and paint, a facade so luminous yet so hollow. It's not about gender or preference; it's about fear.
Fear of not being enough, fear that without that mask, the world will see what you really are... a scared little boy, crying out for a love that was never there.
Daddy didn't love you, did he? So you hide behind glitters and shadows, thinking it will fill that void.
But what about me? What about Raven?
See, I embraced my darkness.
My father's neglect didn't lead me to hide; it sculpted me, molded me into the enigma I am.
Every scar, every moment of isolation, it built me rather than broke me. You, though, you let it mask you. You hide because you can't face the world as just Dustin. You need to be Goldust.
And on Heat, all your gold won't glitter when all is stripped away, and you're left exposed.
No more masks, no more games.
When you look into my eyes, you'll see the abyss staring back at you, and you'll realize...
…you can't escape who you really are.
Quote the Raven... Nevermore.
“Picture this, Jerichoholics. Another glorious victory won by Y-2-J. When suddenly, three jackasses in black masks jump me and celebrate like they’ve won the Lottery.”
He claps, mockingly.
“Well, boys. You’re winners, all of you. You’ve won the opportunity to have my fist shoved down your throat.”
“Yet when I look out upon the masses of Y2J’s fans here in Greensboro, North Carolina,” Cheap pop… “Those three cowards are nowhere to be seen. Instead, they send their Poppa-Pump Dog instead.”
Jericho pretends to blow himself full of air.
“He’s a Big Doggie. The kind of Genetic Freak that has muscles on top of muscles. Hell, Steiner is so pumped up, he’s more balloon animal than beast.”
“You might be the Genetic Freak, Scotty, but you're looking at the best in the world at what I do. You strut around with your freakish biceps and your incoherent rants, but you can't hold a candle to the sheer greatness of Y2J!”
“While you were busy turning muscles into balloon puppies, I was solidifying my legacy as the greatest of all time!”
“The lesson here, Jericoholoics, is that brains beat brawn. So get ready, Big Poppa Pumped Up Biceps, because after I pop your balloon muscles, you will never…. EEEEVEEEEER be the same again!”
Ya know everbody knows wants to know why Scott Steiner has jumped ship to the WWF. Big Poppa Pump is the Biggest Man in this sport with the largest arms and the largest package for all his Freaks and those pussies in WCW were too scared to man up and fight Freakzilla.
But now I’m here at the competition and frankly I’m not impressed. You got depressed douchebags, golden fairyboys and the worst of them all, diet Americans or Canadians, same difference.
Chris Jericho, you think cause you beat up Triple Schnozz that means anything to Big Poppa Pump. You two playing games of grabass over some basic ass bitch, well Scott Steiner don’t play no games. Big Poppa Pump is interested in only three things, His Freaks. His Peaks and Kicking the ass of any loser who thinks he can hang with Freakzilla.
Fact of the matter is Jericho, at Heat I’ll show you just what a real man can do. When I beat you down, kick your crooked yellow teeth down your throat and lock in that Steiner Recliner, last thing you’ll hear is me whispering in your ear
Size Does Matter Bitch.
Al Snow: Will you relax? No. No, of course I won’t let him do that to you.
Head: …
Al Snow: You’re not that kinda girl, I know.
Head: …
Al Snow: Everyone loves Head, even DDP. Okay, so he might rather the kind of head he gets to be in the Diamond Cutter, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to allow him to abuse you like that, does it?
Head: …
Al Snow: I’m not giving him head.
Head: …
Al Snow: NO! I don’t care if it’d make you feel better. I’m not giving head to Diamond Dallas Page.
Head: …
Al Snow: Oh, you meant for the Diamond Cutter? Hmm. Wouldn’t that cost me the Hardcore title? I’m not sure that’d be good for either of us, missy. I have an idea, though.
Head: …
Al Snow: I wouldn’t call it a hairbrained scheme. How about, before either of us have to give him head, I give him head.
Head: …
Al Snow: It does too make sense.
Head: …
Al Snow: I take you, right… now hear me out… I take you and I bash him over his head with your head until his addled brains spill out of him.
Head: …
Al Snow: See! I told you! Everybody loves Head!
"HOLY LETDOWN!"
[The Hurricane stands, hands on hips, looking off into the distance with photo-ready smile.]
"Brock Lesnar, people used to look at you and see a BEAST. People saw you and their eyes got WIDE and full of FEAR. People might even call you a..."
[He looks into the camera as it zooms in.]
"SUPER VILLAIN!"
[The camera zooms back out.]
"Thankfully the people would have The Hurricane to save them.The truth of the matter is, though, that I don't even need to save them from you, because you have your little sidekick here do all your talking for you. WHATSUPWITDAT!?"
[He folds his arms and pouts.]
"See, The Hurricane thinks that maybe his special skills aren't going to be needed around here like the people thought. Because Brock Lesnar can't be a Super Villain if he's frozen, too scared to speak, like a little girl trying to sell her girl-scout cookies, but when she rings that door bell there's a doberman snarling and barking at her."
"Nuh-uh, Brock Lesnar is no threat at all to the people, and all The Hurricane needs to do is lay you down gently and rock you to sleep to get that three count."
[Whoosh! He flies off screen.]
DDP's face can be seen in a wide shot, flashing his pearly white smile as he stares at the camera unblinkingly.
"It's me! D...D...P!"
Beat.
"And I... am in Greensboro, North Carolina. Where I... have the honor of facing a fighting champion in Al Snow."
He smiles again as the crowd cheers.
"And when I face him, he's going to lose that belt to yours truly in a hardcore match."
The crowd now begins to boo.
"But that's not a bad thing! That... is a good thing! Why? Because by losing that belt, you won't have to destroy your body to entertain the bloodthirsty audience."
The boos become louder.
"You see Al, they only like you when you tear yourself apart. I, on the other hand, like you just as you are; a man that loves head as much as the next guy."
DDP flashes his teeth once more.
"And when I beat you for that championship, that head of yours will finally be screwed on tight enough to realize that you don't need a dummy head to keep you company."
Boos are pouring in.
"Because I... like you. and I will help you... like you too."
Smiling fade out.