We're in Dusty Rhodes's office, and the bloated Southerner is conversing with The Big Show, Paul "Mr." Wight.

Dusty: By de way, how'sh Undertaker?

Mr. Wight: Undertaker? I haven't seen 'Taker for over six months.

Dusty: Ah thouft you two were a team.

Mr. Wight: We were for a little while. Did about four matches together. But we decided to call it quits.

Dusty: Why?

Mr. Wight: Ah, you push that Lord of Darkness/Apprentice thing too long, and it gets to you after a while. . .

Dusty: Whaff's he doin' now?

Mr. Wight: He injured himself while staying home, pulling his groin. Hell of a dead man. Good little crucifier. . . So, explain the telegram.

Dusty: Fahve mayhun job. Bustin' in an' bustin' ouf of a SmackDown! taping to steal a couple of WWF titul beltsh.

Mr. Wight: Can you move the gold afterwards? I don't know anybody who can move gold, so it usually just gets thrown into a trashcan, killing the credibility of the title. . .

Dusty: No pruhblem, we've gots boys waitin' fo' id. Hey, whadd happened to Demolition Ax, didn'f he alwaysh use to move gold through some Internet auction site or sumthin'?

Mr. Wight: He's doing twenty years. Independents.

Dusty: Twendy yeahs. . . Holy God, whadd fo'?

Mr. Wight: Well it's a big case of bad luck.

Dusty: Hehe. Ah gueth you could sayuh dat again.

Mr. Wight: What's the exposure like?

Dusty: Two minuth, topsh. But id's a tough two minuth. Daylight, durin' bidniss hours, dealin' wiff de crowd. Buth you'll hayuve de guysh to deal wiff de crowd.

Mr. Wight: How many employees?

Dusty: Ah'd say abouf twendy. Securidee preddy lax, made up of indy wohkers wiff nuffin' bettah to do. Dey most usually juth deal wiff boxesh. Yuh know, undecorated beltsh from J-MAR. But on dis here particulah dayuh dey're gettin' a muthershipment of brand new WWF tag beyultsh, wiff de logo an' everthin'. Dey're like a waystashone, ya know, like whenever Randy Savage getsh de WCW titul. Dey're gettin' picked up de nexsh day to get muthashipped to Stamford.

Mr. Wight: No they're not.

Wight and Dusty laugh.

Mr. Wight: What's the cut, papa?

Dusty: Juishy, juniuh. Real juishy. . .

We're back in the warehouse with Bret "Mr. Pink" Hart, the bloody and unconscious Hulk "Mr. Orange" Hogan, and Paul "Mr." Wight. Hart has just been to the bathroom.

Mr. Pink: Look man, you do what you want, I'm out of here, man, I'm gonna check into a motel for a few days. You know, I'll lay low and wallow in my self pity, and I'll call Dusty--. . .

He sees Wight squatting over Hogan's lifeless body.

Mr. Pink: Screw, did he screwin' job on us? Huh? Is he jobbed or what?

Mr. Wight: He ain't jobbed.

Mr. Pink: What is it?

Mr. Wight: I think he's just passed out.

Mr. Pink: Scared the screwin' screw out of me, man. I thought he was jobbed for sure.

The Big Show stands up.

Mr. Wight: That's because you're paranoid. But without medical attention, he will die for sure.

Mr. Pink: What are we gonna do, man? We can't take him to a hospital. They just laugh at wrestlers coming in with injuries.

Mr. Wight: Without medical attention, the goblin might not live through the night. The juicing from the belly is my fault. Now while that might not mean jack shit to you, it means a hell of a lot to me.

Mr. Pink: First things first, OK. Staying here is goofy, we've gotta book up.

Mr. Wight: What do you suggest we do, go to a hotel? We've got a guy who's got shot on in the belly. Can't walk. He juices like the Great Muta. When he's awake, he screams like Norman Smiley.

Mr. Pink: You got an idea, spit it out!

Mr. Wight: Dusty can help him. We get in touch with Dusty. Dusty could get him to a busty blonde EMT. He could get a busty blonde EMT to come to see him.

Mr. Pink: Assuming we can trust Dusty, how are we gonna get in touch with him? Huh? He's supposed to be here, but he ain't, which is making me very nervous about being here. Even if he is on the up and up. I don't think he's gonna be too happy with us, OK? He planned a robbery, he's got a screwjob on his hands now. He's got jobbed company boys, jobbed wrestlers, jobbed audience members. Jesus Castillo, I tend to doubt he'll have sympathy for our plight. If I was him, I'd leave town, get a weekly column in a newspaper and vent my frustrations there every week.

Mr. Wight: Before you got here, Mr. Orange was asking me to take him to a doctor, to the hospital. Now, I don't like the idea of turning him over to the company boys, but if we don't he's gonna job. He begged me to do it.

Mr. Pink: Well, alright, then I guess we'll take him to the hospital. I mean, if that's what he said, let's do it. If he don't know nothing about us, I say it's his decision.

Mr. Wight: Well, he knows a little about me.

Mr. Pink: What? Wait, wait. . . you didn't tell him your name, did you?

Mr. Wight: I told him my first name. And where I was from.

Mr. Pink (pissed): Why!?

Mr. Wight: I told him where I was from a few days ago. It was just a natural conversation.

Mr. Pink: What was telling him your name when you weren't supposed to!?

Mr. Wight: He asked! We had just gotten away from the company boys. He just got shot on! It was my fault he got shot on! He's a fucking .7 Muta! He's screamin'. . . I swear to God, I thought he was gonna job right then and there. . . I'm trying to comfort him. Telling him not to worry, everything's gonna be OK, I'm gonna take care of him. And he asked me what my name was. I mean, the man was jobbing in my arms. . .What the fuck was I supposed to do!?! Tell him "I'm sorry, I can't give out that fucking information?" "It's against the rules?" "IT DOESN'T MATTER WHAT MY NAME IS!"? Well maybe I should've but I couldn't! And fuck you and fuck Dusty!

Mr. Pink: I'm sure it was a very beautiful angle. . .

Mr. Wight: Don't fucking patronize me!

Mr. Pink: I don't wanna screw with you. Do they have a bio on you on wwf.com, where you're from?

Mr. Wight: Yeah!

Mr. Pink: Well that's that then, man. I mean, Jesus Castillo, I was worried about mug shot possibilities as it was. Now he knows a) your name, b) what you look like, c) where you're from, and d) what your finisher is! They're not gonna have to show him a hell of a lot of pictures from the WWF.com biographies section! I mean, that's it, right, you didn't tell him anything else that can narrow down the selection?

Mr. Wight: If I have to tell you one more time to back off, well it's gonna be a big slobberknocker.

Mr. Pink: We ain't taking him to a hospital.

Mr. Wight: If we don't he's gonna job.

Mr. Pink: I'm very sad about that, but some fellas are lucky and some ain't.

The Big Show does one of his patented "inches from connecting" headbutts to Hart's head.

Mr. Pink: What the screw you almost touch me for, man!?

Wight lands a bunch and Hart goes down. Wight stomps him repeatedly. Hart grabs one of Wight's legs, attempting to set up the Sharpshooter. Wight puts a choke hold around Hart's throat.

Mr. Pink: You wanna screw with me? I’ll show you who you're screwin' with!

Mr. Wight: You wanna shoot on me you little piece of shit? Go ahead, take a shot.

Mr. Pink: Screw you, Wight! I didn't create this situation by refusing to job in my home country even though it was supposed to be my last PPV, I'm dealing with it! You're acting like a first year screwin' David Flair, I'm acting like a professional! They get him, they can get you. They get you, they get closer to me, and that can't happen! You're looking at me like it's my fault? I didn't tell him my name, I didn't tell him where I was from! Screw, fifteen minutes ago, you almost told me your name! Your buddy got us stuck in a situation you created. So if you wanna throw bad looks somewhere, throw 'em at a mirror!

Chris Jericho has made his entrance. He is standing in his usual 'crucified' pose, holding a drink in his hand. Mr. Pink and Mr. Wight stop what they're doing and turn their eyes to him.

Mr. Blonde: You jerkys shouldn't play so stiff. Somebody's gonna start crying.

Bret Hart and The Big Show release their holds.

Mr. Pink: Mr. Blonde!

Hart stands up.

Mr. Pink (to himself, while holding his ribs): . . .stomping me. (to Mr. Blond:) What happened to you? Figured you were jobbed.

Jericho doesn't answer. He just gives them a funny face.

Mr. Pink: Hey! You OK? Did you see what happened to Blue? We didn't know what happened to you and Blue, that's what we were wondering about, what--. . .? Come on, man! Look, Brown is jobbed, Orange got it in the belly--. . .

Mr. Wight (interrupts): Enough is enough and it's time for a change! You better start talking, asshole! 'Cause we've got shit we need to talk about! We're already freaked out. We need you acting freaky like we need a fucking Scotsman with an artificial hip!

Mr. Blonde: OK, daddy-o, let's talk.

Mr. Wight: I think we've got a Stasiak in the house.

Mr. Pink: I guarantee we've got a Stasiak in the house.

Mr. Blonde: What makes you say that?

Mr. Wight: Is that supposed to be funny?

Mr. Pink: Look, we think this place ain't safe.

Mr. Wight: This place just ain't secure anymore. We're leaving, you should go with us.

Mr. Blonde: Nobody's going anywhere.

Mr. Wight: Piss in this fucking turd's gym bag! We're out of here.

Mr. Blonde: Don't take another step, Mr. Not-So-Light.

Mr. Wight: Fuck you, midcarder! It's your fucking fault we're in this trouble!

Mr. Blonde: What's this guy's problem?

Mr. Wight: What's my problem? Yeah I got a fucking problem! Well it's a big fucking problem! With any lionsault-happy midcarder who almosts gets me squashed!

Mr. Blonde: What. . . the HELL. . . are you talking about?

Mr. Wight: That fucking lionsault exhibition! In the arena, remember?

Mr. Blonde: Ah, fuck 'em. They rung the bell a bunch of times in succession, they deserved what they got.

Mr. Wight: You almost killed me! Asshole! If I'd known what kind of a guy you were, I never would've agreed to work with you.

Mr. Blonde: Are you gonna bark all day, little doggie. . . or are you gonna bite?

Mr. Wight: I’m sorry, I didn't catch that? For a second there, I thought you likened me to Rick Steiner. . . Could you repeat it? Mr. Blonde is smiling, amused and obviously extremely pleased with himself for coming up with the killer line.

Mr. Blonde: Are you gonna bark all day, little doggie. . . or are you gonna bite?

Wight is really pissed now, and goes to kick Jericho's ass. Bret Hart goes in between them.

Mr. Pink: Hey look, you two assholes, calm the screw down! Hey! We've got a backyard fed here, huh?! Am I the only professional?! You screwin' guys are acting like a bunch of ECW wrestlers, man! You wanna work like ECW wrestlers? Always talking about how they're gonna kill each other. . .

Mr. Wight (to Hart): You said yourself you thought about taking him out!

Mr. Blonde: You jamming said that?

Mr. Pink: Yeah I did, OK? I did, but then again, I say that about my own family. . . That was then. Right now, this guy is the only guy I completelly trust. And I mean in the entire world. He's too screwin' sloppy to be one of the company boys.

Mr. Wight: You're taking his side?

Mr. Pink: No! Screw sides, man, what we need is a little solidarity! Somebody's sticking a hot poker up our ass, and this time, it ain't Scott Keith! Look, I know I'm no piece of screw, because I'm the greatest Canadian hero that ever lived, and I'm pretty sure you’re OK. (referring to Wight). . . (to Jericho:) And I'm screwin' positive you're on the level. Let's try and find out who the bad guy is, OK?

Mr. Blonde: Well. . . (laughs) Very exciting. . . (to Wight:) I bet you're a big Steve Austin fan, aren't you?

Wight just laughs.

Mr. Blonde: Me too. I love that guy. . . My heart's beating so fast I'm about to have a heart attack. . .

Mr. Pink: Hey, are you gonna steal mine and Neidhart's move? I came up with that, then you come and try to screw me by stealing my move? First Montreal, then the Stasiak on this job, and now you--. . .

Mr. Blonde: Shut. . . the HELL. . . UP! I got something outside that I'd totally like to show you guys. . . So follow me.

Mr. Wight: Follow you? Where?

Mr. Blonde: To the mirthmobile!

Mr. Wight: What, you forgot your french fries to go with the soda?

Mr. Blonde: No, I had them already. I got something I think you might wanna see, though.

Mr. Wight: What?

Mr. Blonde: A surprise. I'm sure you'll like it. Come on, baby!

They go outside.

Mr. Pink: Hey, we still gotta get out of here, you know.

Mr. Blonde: No. We're gonna stay here and we're gonna wait.

Mr. Wight: What for, the company boys?

Mr. Blonde: No. Nice Guy Dustin.

Mr. Pink: Nice Guy Dustin? What makes you think he isn't on a plane halfway down to Puerto Rico, laughing at how he screwed me over?

They stop by Jericho's car.

Mr. Blonde: Because I spoke to him on the phone and he said he's on the way down here.

Mr. Wight: You talked with Nice Guy Dustin? Why the fuck didn't you say that in the first place?

Mr. Blonde: You never asked me, Mr. Not-So-Bright.

Mr. Wight: Jeff Hardy-fucking-har! What did he say?

Mr. Blonde: He said stay put. In the mean time, I'll show you guys something. . .

He opens the trunk. Bret Hart and Paul Wight laugh, shaking their heads. Jericho grins.

Mr. Pink: Jesus Castillo. . .

In the trunk lies one of McMahon's company boys with his hands tied behind his back. It's Mick Foley.

Mr. Blonde: Maybe the company boy here can answer some of these questions about this Stasiak business you've been talking about.

Mr. Wight (to Jericho): You're a piece of work, my friend.

Mr. Pink: This ain't a bad idea. Let's get him the screw out of here.

They reach down and pull Foley out of the trunk.