Ric: Forget it, it's too --WHOO, by God,-- risky doing that shit.

Arn: You always say that. The same thing every time: "I'm through, never again, too dangerous. . ."

Ric: I know that's what I always say. I'm always right, too. WHOOO!

Arn: But you forget about it in a day or two. Ya senile bastard.

Ric: WHOOO! The days of me forgetting are over and the days of me remembering have just begun. WHOOOO!

Arn: You know, when you go on like that, what you sound like?

Ric: I sound like a sensible WHOOO!ing man--by God, that's what I sound like.

Arn: You sound like a train. Whoo-whooo! Whoo-whooo!

Ric: Yeah, maybe, but take heart 'cause you're never gonna get to hear it again, 'cause I'm never gonna -- by God! -- do it again. You're never going to hear me WHOOO! about I'm never gonna do it again.

Arn: After tomorrow?

Ric: Correct. I've got all night to WHOOO! And style, and prooo-file!

A huge black guy lumbers over to their table, with a can of coffee in his hands.

Viscera: Can I get anyone more coffee?

Arn: Oh, yes. Thank you.

Viscera: Welcome.

He walks off.

Ric: I mean, the way it is now, you're taking the same risk as when you style and profile in them hardcore matches, WHOOO! by God, Arn! You take more of a risk, it's easy to be the man in hardcore matches. I mean, they're not going to give you any wrestling whatsoever! They're crap wrestlers only under contract to brawl. Why should they give a WHOOO? I heard about this one boy who tried to be the man. He styled and profiled into an arena with a --by God! -- singapore cane! WHOO! You don't even need to bring wrestling talent to the ring to be the man! Just stylin' and prooo-filin'! I mean, the guy walked into the ring with a WHOOO! --by God! -- singapore cane. Not a chair. Not knux made out of used-up duct tape. But a --by God!-- singapore cane!

Arn: Did it work?

Ric: By God it worked! The guy walks in with a damn singapore cane. Gets over, they didn't even raise an eyebrow for the lack of wrestling.

Arn: You wanna work hardcore matches?

Ric: I'm not saying I wanna work hardcore matches. I'm just illustrating that it'd be much easier to be the man if I did. Wouldn't have to use wrestling skills whatsoever. WHOOO!

Arn: No more World title matches?

Ric: What have we been talking about? Yes, no more stylin' and profilin' in World title matches. Besides, it's not what it used to be. It's too many stiffs that have title matches. Sid, Nash, Hogan, they don't know WHOO!ing wrestling. You tell them, "let's use some psychology", they don't know what the WHOO! -- by God, Arn! -- you're talkin' about. They make it too personal. We keep on, one of these stiffs is gonna make us get into a fight involving scissors again.

Arn (suddenly shaking like a leaf): I don't want that.

Ric: By God, Arn! I don't want that either. But it's probably gonna put us in a situation where it's us or them. And if it's not the stiffs, it's these old WHOO!ing eighties WWF guys who've owned this promotion for fifteen WHOO!ing generations.

Arn: Erm, I think you're confused again, Ric. Hogan and his friends arrived in 1994, and. . .

Ric (ignoring Arn): You got Grandma Elizabeth hanging on your back with a ladies' shoe! Try getting her to ride Space Mountain with nothing but a WHOO!ing singapore cane, see how far that gets you.

Arn (annoyed): What the. . . How the hell does Liz have to do with a singapore cane? I swear Ric, you're getting more and more senile every day that passes.

Ric (screaming): WHOO!, by God, Arn, you want a piece of the man? See, to be the man, you've got to beat the man. But being the man, and staying the man are two different things, Fat Boy! Somebody's gonna get to ride Space Mountain tonight! WHOO!

Arn (both angry at and ashamed for his friend's behavior): Oh, for crying out loud, Ric! Every time your tired old brain gets confused, you try to cover it up by the same old catchphrases. It's just embarrassing, Ric.

Ric (ignoring Arn): WHOOO! Shut up, fat boy!

Arn (sighs): Alright, Ric. You know I respect you and all, but just try and calm down, OK? So, you don't want to style and profile in world title matches. You don't want to style and profile in hardcore matches. What then, day jobs?

Ric: Not in this life.

Arn (relieved that his friend seems to be cooling off): What then?

Ric (screaming): Viscera! Coffee!

Ric (to Arn): This place.

Arn, immensely confused by this statement, just sits there silently while Viscera lumbers over with coffee.

Viscera: Viscera means 'gut'.

He then lumbers away, silently.

Arn: This place? It's a damn coffee shop, Ric!

Ric: What's wrong with that? Nobody ever styles and prooo-files in restaurants. Why not?

Arn: Are you serious? Do you even know what you're saying?

Ric (not hearing Arn, completely into his own ramblings): Battle royals, cage matches, world title matches, hardcore matches, you get your back sore stylin' up in one of those. But restaurants, you catch with their pants down.

Arn (realizing Ric's senility has hit again): This is just so sad. . .

Ric: They're not expecting to get quality wrestling. Not as expecting, anyway.

Arn (both angry and sad because of what's happening with his friend): Gee, I wonder why not. It's a God-damned coffee shop! You don't wrestle in a coffee shop, Ric! Man, it's just so tragic what's happening to you lately. . .

Ric (ignoring Arn): The president, he don't give a WHOOO!

Arn (sighs) : The presi. . .? I think you mean the manager. This is a coffee shop, not some damn wrestling arena!

Ric (ignoring Arn): He just wants you to bring the match home before you start chopping the fans.

Arn (more and more distressed for his friend's condition): Customers. Not fans, customers. . .

Ric (keeps ignoring Arn): Valets? WHOO! by God, forget it!

Arn (on the verge of crying): Waitresses, Ric. They're waitresses. Please, Ric. Calm down, you're making a fool of yourself. . .

Ric: And the announcers, some fat boys gettin' paid ridiculous sums to call moves wrong, really give a WHOO! if you happen to mess up a spot?

Arn (trying to hold back his tears): You're talking about the busboys, Ric. Please, try to get a hold of yourself.

Ric (starting to raise his voice): Fans, sitting there with their 3:16 signs, they don't know what's going on. One minute, they're buying overpriced T-shirts from the merchandise stand, the next, someone's stylin' and profilin' right in front of them. WHOOO!

As customers at surrounding tables start to giggle and whisper to each other about the "crazy old man", Arn starts to silently weep.

Ric: See, I got the idea last time we watched that RAW show. All those pre-taped segments from outside the arena kept coming along. Got higher ratings from those places than from segments in the ring. (stands up and shouts) WHOO! By God, they did!

Arn (his face wet from tears): Please Ric. I'm done. Let's get out of here. Right now.

Ric: I'm gonna style, and prooooo-file!

Arn: Please. . . (silently): I love you, Nature Boy.

Ric: I love you, double-A! (stands up on the table and starts to scream at the top of his lungs) WHOO! Everybody try to be the man, this is the Nature Boy!

Arn (silently to himself): Shit, this can't be happening. . . (wipes off his tears, then pops up from his chair, with a tire-iron in his hand, and shouts) Any of you fucking pricks laugh, and I'll tire-iron every motherfucking last one of you!