Post by Bembe Brightwell on Oct 24, 2020 14:20:52 GMT
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
Tony Russo was perpetually angry, likely cultivated from a long string of failures in every aspect of his life. However, the bumpy furrows on his forehead were glowing a darker shade of red than Bembe had seen.
It brought him insurmountable joy. His only wish was that he could be there in person as opposed to seeing it by way of a FaceTime call.
“What’s wrong, buh-buh-buh-boss?”
Bembe knew exactly what was wrong. Yesterday, he’d spent hours frustrating the film crew, insisting on shooting multiple takes of what amounted to 15 seconds of footage. Russo pointed the phone toward his laptop computer to reveal a still of the PSA. There stood the figure of Bembe with a goofy smirk plastered on the part of his face that wasn’t covered by a beige latex body suit.
“THAT,” Russo hisses, pressing the play button.
“Hi kids! Professional wruh-wruh-wruh-wruh-wrestler Bembe Brightwell here, with an important Halloween safety tip for you!”
There was glaze slathered all over the exterior of the suit. A two-inch pocket of space separated the crown of the suit from the top of his head. His shoes had been covered with two enormous brown paper mâché spheres. Both globes appeared to have had multiple hair nets glued to their surface.
He was a walking condom.
“No matter what the forecast calls for, nothing c-c-c-can ruin a fun night out trick or treating like an unexpected storm,” Brightwell informs. “That’s why it’s ex-ex-ex-ex-ex…”
After years of dealing with his speech impediment, Bembe had the wherewithal by now to know that if the syllable goes more than four times, it will be until the next election cycle that he’s able to get the word out. So, he changes course.
“...very important to make sure you’re prepared! So, whether you’re going out as a goblin, a superhero, or a princess: always make sure you’re protected!”
Gesturing to his ensemble as if he were a runway model, Brightwell continues his informative presentation. “And how do you do that, you ask? Simple! Wear a coh-coh-costume made entirely of rubber! You see, rubber is resistant to lightning, which kills close to fifty people a year. Unlike ghassssssstly ghouls and wuh-wuh-witches that are only make believe, the threat of inclement weather is what should really send a chill up your spine.”
“So, when you get ready to enjoy some fun this All Hallow’s Eve, remember this,” Brightwell warns, a stern frown forming over his lips. “No matter how full those big sacks get this year, you can’t enjoy sweets if your puh-puh-puh-parents have to bury you six feet underground.”
Bembe lets the ominous cautionary phrase linger with a long pause. Then, his expression immediately changes to a reassuring smile as he closes out his message.
“This public service announcement and the actions herein accurately reflect the views and beliefs of Antonio Russo and Cheap Pops Pro Wru-wru-wru-wrestling.”
“I am this fucking close to firing your ass right now. You made a fool of yourself on television already, so I gave you a chance at redemption,” Russo derides. “This is what you do to repay my gratitude?”
Truthfully, the Living Lightning Rod had originally intended to play the part legit and went with one of the standard tropes of Halloween precautions. Despite being annoyed with his boss for once again asking him to participate in a cheap publicity stunt, he knew that he needed this gig to kickstart his career to eventually land something bigger than competing in car dealerships and pop-up retail stores.
However, that was before the reviews were in. Respected critics had seen his debut and gave it resounding praise. So, with this newfound leverage, Brightwell decided to put away his initial costume and call an audible.
“Mr. Russo, I’m not sure why you’re so upset! I did what you asked me to do! But, if you have to let me go, I guess I un-un-un-understand your decision. It’s been an honor and a pleasure working for you these past few weeks,” Bembe lies, desperately attempting to hide his glee.
Unfortunately for him, it wasn’t going to be that easy.
Tony had big plans for this kid. Not one part of him upon viewing this disaster of a PSA had brought forth the idea that he might have done this on purpose. He was young, stupid, and easily manipulated. Most importantly? He was marketable.
“Kid, you’re gonna give me a fuckin’ heart attack before I retire, I swear.”
Tony Russo was perpetually angry, likely cultivated from a long string of failures in every aspect of his life. However, the bumpy furrows on his forehead were glowing a darker shade of red than Bembe had seen.
It brought him insurmountable joy. His only wish was that he could be there in person as opposed to seeing it by way of a FaceTime call.
“What’s wrong, buh-buh-buh-boss?”
Bembe knew exactly what was wrong. Yesterday, he’d spent hours frustrating the film crew, insisting on shooting multiple takes of what amounted to 15 seconds of footage. Russo pointed the phone toward his laptop computer to reveal a still of the PSA. There stood the figure of Bembe with a goofy smirk plastered on the part of his face that wasn’t covered by a beige latex body suit.
“THAT,” Russo hisses, pressing the play button.
“Hi kids! Professional wruh-wruh-wruh-wruh-wrestler Bembe Brightwell here, with an important Halloween safety tip for you!”
There was glaze slathered all over the exterior of the suit. A two-inch pocket of space separated the crown of the suit from the top of his head. His shoes had been covered with two enormous brown paper mâché spheres. Both globes appeared to have had multiple hair nets glued to their surface.
He was a walking condom.
“No matter what the forecast calls for, nothing c-c-c-can ruin a fun night out trick or treating like an unexpected storm,” Brightwell informs. “That’s why it’s ex-ex-ex-ex-ex…”
After years of dealing with his speech impediment, Bembe had the wherewithal by now to know that if the syllable goes more than four times, it will be until the next election cycle that he’s able to get the word out. So, he changes course.
“...very important to make sure you’re prepared! So, whether you’re going out as a goblin, a superhero, or a princess: always make sure you’re protected!”
Gesturing to his ensemble as if he were a runway model, Brightwell continues his informative presentation. “And how do you do that, you ask? Simple! Wear a coh-coh-costume made entirely of rubber! You see, rubber is resistant to lightning, which kills close to fifty people a year. Unlike ghassssssstly ghouls and wuh-wuh-witches that are only make believe, the threat of inclement weather is what should really send a chill up your spine.”
“So, when you get ready to enjoy some fun this All Hallow’s Eve, remember this,” Brightwell warns, a stern frown forming over his lips. “No matter how full those big sacks get this year, you can’t enjoy sweets if your puh-puh-puh-parents have to bury you six feet underground.”
Bembe lets the ominous cautionary phrase linger with a long pause. Then, his expression immediately changes to a reassuring smile as he closes out his message.
“This public service announcement and the actions herein accurately reflect the views and beliefs of Antonio Russo and Cheap Pops Pro Wru-wru-wru-wrestling.”
“I am this fucking close to firing your ass right now. You made a fool of yourself on television already, so I gave you a chance at redemption,” Russo derides. “This is what you do to repay my gratitude?”
Truthfully, the Living Lightning Rod had originally intended to play the part legit and went with one of the standard tropes of Halloween precautions. Despite being annoyed with his boss for once again asking him to participate in a cheap publicity stunt, he knew that he needed this gig to kickstart his career to eventually land something bigger than competing in car dealerships and pop-up retail stores.
However, that was before the reviews were in. Respected critics had seen his debut and gave it resounding praise. So, with this newfound leverage, Brightwell decided to put away his initial costume and call an audible.
“Mr. Russo, I’m not sure why you’re so upset! I did what you asked me to do! But, if you have to let me go, I guess I un-un-un-understand your decision. It’s been an honor and a pleasure working for you these past few weeks,” Bembe lies, desperately attempting to hide his glee.
Unfortunately for him, it wasn’t going to be that easy.
Tony had big plans for this kid. Not one part of him upon viewing this disaster of a PSA had brought forth the idea that he might have done this on purpose. He was young, stupid, and easily manipulated. Most importantly? He was marketable.
“Kid, you’re gonna give me a fuckin’ heart attack before I retire, I swear.”