Post by Bembe Brightwell on Mar 5, 2021 3:22:40 GMT
Bembe Brightwell’s spirits were high. Once the morning alarm on his phone had sounded, he crawled out of his sleeping bag and stretched his arms as far as he could reach to greet the day. Not bothering to put anything on over his tighty-whities, Brightwell strolled out of the balcony and down the stairs to the snack bar to have a nutritious breakfast of Milk Duds and nacho cheese sauce straight from the nozzle. Life was good.
Bembe had made the trip to Bricktown the weekend prior to the event, opting to squat at the premises for a while. As the venue only hosted performances on Fridays and Saturdays, he’d attended the community production of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Cats and bribed the custodian with a hundred bucks to “forget” to lock the door when he left for the night.
While his original intention was to beat a storm predicted to hit the day of the show, he’d actually become quite fond of his living arrangement. The backstage came equipped with a spacious bathroom and shower, and there were a lot of costumes and props that he could play with! Hell, if he could convince that janitor to work out a long-term deal, it would be cheaper than renting his current place.
Unfortunately, after going into a junk food coma and falling asleep in one of the faux-velvet seats, Brightwell was discovered by the theater’s owner who had come in to make sure things were up to par for Russo. Since he was wearing nothing but a pair of Hanes, he was unable to convince the elderly woman that he was scheduled to wrestle there the next night. It certainly didn’t help matters when he offered to “give her a night she’d never forget until Alzheimer’s kicked in” to get out of trouble.
Bembe was released on bail a few hours before the Extravaganza. There was a slight problem, though. As the owner had no idea he was actually telling the truth, she’d discarded his gear bag in the dumpster. Sanitation had run on schedule that morning. This series of events was the real explanation as to why the Living Lightning Rod stands on the blue carpet dressed as a Cat.
“Look, it’s a special night, and that calls for special at-at-at-at-atti...clothes,” Brightwell stammers, hamming up the pageantry for the television reporter.
“That’s great. But I don’t seem to recall Rum Tum Tugger wearing a pink tutu in any version of the play I’ve seen."
Brightwell stares a hole through the eyes of the familiar face standing next to him. “I’m putting a modern spin on the character!” He hisses.
April Mayflowers, now pulling correspondent duty for Nice Afternoon, Channel 3!, chuckles and places a hand on the furry vest of the wrestling Jellicle. “Look, Bembe, I know that you and I have a bit of bad history. But I want to take this opportunity to bury the hatchet just for tonight. You are beloved by fans, and while I think you’re incredibly juvenile…”
Bembe of course takes this as a compliment, as if she means that he looks young and vibrant. He grins and puts his hands on his hips, jutting out his chest.
“...you are a saint compared to Johnny Dorn. So what do you say. Friends?”
A contemplative look forms across his face before replying. “You know what? Yes! Let’s let bygones be bygones.”
The two shake hands. Bembe pulls her in for a hug, which she reluctantly allows for a millisecond before pushing him back off of her.
“If me and a muh-muh-meterologist can set aside our differences and mend fences, there’s no stopping the puh-puh-possibilities for puh-puh-puh-peace! And later tonight, I will take the suh-suh-suh-second step towards bringing the world together by beating the CRAP out of Johnny Dorn! Everyone hates that jerk! Did you get a load of his last interview, April?”
She raises her eyebrows and nods in response, totally lying.
“Crying and wh-wh-whining and puh-puh-pitching a fit the entire time. ‘I’m not a scrub!’ Well, just like his beloved Cu-cu-cubs, I guess we’ll have to ‘wait until next year’ for him to prove it. You were a loser at Dean Austin’s, a loser over in HOW, and I guarantee you’ll be a lu-lu-loser here tonight. Just look at me. Do I look like someone who wouldn’t de-de-de-deliver on that promise?”
April glances down at the tutu-wearing leather daddy in tiger makeup, unable to voice her answer.
Bembe had made the trip to Bricktown the weekend prior to the event, opting to squat at the premises for a while. As the venue only hosted performances on Fridays and Saturdays, he’d attended the community production of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Cats and bribed the custodian with a hundred bucks to “forget” to lock the door when he left for the night.
While his original intention was to beat a storm predicted to hit the day of the show, he’d actually become quite fond of his living arrangement. The backstage came equipped with a spacious bathroom and shower, and there were a lot of costumes and props that he could play with! Hell, if he could convince that janitor to work out a long-term deal, it would be cheaper than renting his current place.
Unfortunately, after going into a junk food coma and falling asleep in one of the faux-velvet seats, Brightwell was discovered by the theater’s owner who had come in to make sure things were up to par for Russo. Since he was wearing nothing but a pair of Hanes, he was unable to convince the elderly woman that he was scheduled to wrestle there the next night. It certainly didn’t help matters when he offered to “give her a night she’d never forget until Alzheimer’s kicked in” to get out of trouble.
Bembe was released on bail a few hours before the Extravaganza. There was a slight problem, though. As the owner had no idea he was actually telling the truth, she’d discarded his gear bag in the dumpster. Sanitation had run on schedule that morning. This series of events was the real explanation as to why the Living Lightning Rod stands on the blue carpet dressed as a Cat.
“Look, it’s a special night, and that calls for special at-at-at-at-atti...clothes,” Brightwell stammers, hamming up the pageantry for the television reporter.
“That’s great. But I don’t seem to recall Rum Tum Tugger wearing a pink tutu in any version of the play I’ve seen."
Brightwell stares a hole through the eyes of the familiar face standing next to him. “I’m putting a modern spin on the character!” He hisses.
April Mayflowers, now pulling correspondent duty for Nice Afternoon, Channel 3!, chuckles and places a hand on the furry vest of the wrestling Jellicle. “Look, Bembe, I know that you and I have a bit of bad history. But I want to take this opportunity to bury the hatchet just for tonight. You are beloved by fans, and while I think you’re incredibly juvenile…”
Bembe of course takes this as a compliment, as if she means that he looks young and vibrant. He grins and puts his hands on his hips, jutting out his chest.
“...you are a saint compared to Johnny Dorn. So what do you say. Friends?”
A contemplative look forms across his face before replying. “You know what? Yes! Let’s let bygones be bygones.”
The two shake hands. Bembe pulls her in for a hug, which she reluctantly allows for a millisecond before pushing him back off of her.
“If me and a muh-muh-meterologist can set aside our differences and mend fences, there’s no stopping the puh-puh-possibilities for puh-puh-puh-peace! And later tonight, I will take the suh-suh-suh-second step towards bringing the world together by beating the CRAP out of Johnny Dorn! Everyone hates that jerk! Did you get a load of his last interview, April?”
She raises her eyebrows and nods in response, totally lying.
“Crying and wh-wh-whining and puh-puh-pitching a fit the entire time. ‘I’m not a scrub!’ Well, just like his beloved Cu-cu-cubs, I guess we’ll have to ‘wait until next year’ for him to prove it. You were a loser at Dean Austin’s, a loser over in HOW, and I guarantee you’ll be a lu-lu-loser here tonight. Just look at me. Do I look like someone who wouldn’t de-de-de-deliver on that promise?”
April glances down at the tutu-wearing leather daddy in tiger makeup, unable to voice her answer.