06-10-2019, 07:34 PM
The scene opens on this face...
![[Image: 12-michael-b-jordan.w330.h330.jpg]](https://pixel.nymag.com/imgs/daily/vulture/2018/11/12/12-michael-b-jordan.w330.h330.jpg)
Sitting in a directors chair. With his trademark cashmere smile warming up the screen he says.
“Welcome...”
Jeffrey pauses, he takes a deep breath. On the exhale he screams out.
“WELCOME.”
For dramatic reasons, he takes another deep breath. On the exhale he screams louder.
“I SAID, WEL-COME... TO THE DAWG-POUND.”
Insert random dogs barking. Stepping into the scene beside him is the real entrant of the Emerge Open Invitation Battle Royal, Marcus Briggs.
![[Image: c1d180bb330428dc398ae860ad44184f_400x400.jpeg]](https://pbs.twimg.com/profile_images/378800000655036119/c1d180bb330428dc398ae860ad44184f_400x400.jpeg)
Six foot four, four hundred pound of pure beef. Unlike Jeff he isn’t wearing a smile.
“What? Yall really think I’d rub elbows with peeps who can’t match my star power? Nergo please. Your boi has more important thangs to do. Yeah, this is for a shot at the Emerge Title, lets be real. Nobody showing up off the street to challenge for the Spirit Championship? Nah homie. RUSH? Negro please. Tag team championship? Now, that’s a thought. Black Hollywood is the most entertaining tag team this side of the galaxy. There be no team in Emerge with the star powah sustainable enough to roll with Black...HOLLY-WOOD. We ain’t carrying no one. Only one thang to do, grab the money, make it rain. Big Sexy here gonna challenge... Mitch Sanders?”
Marcus scoffs. Jeff doesn’t bother to repressing his laughter.
“Willow? She had it easy until now. When you stare into the eyes of a six foot four, four hundred pounds of mastodon, don’t matter how cray cray you be, when four hundred pounds splatters ya like a negro who just jumped off the roof of a very very tall building, you can be the Necro Demon. The Green Goblin. Hobgoblin. You don’t want none. Big Sexy, Marcus Alexander Briggs would humble ya, just like that. Try to come out the other side champion. K. Sit back. Relax. Bare Fn Witness as this open invitational battle royal turns into a slaughterhouse.”
Jeff licks his lips. Marcus expression, doesn’t change. He remains meaning.
“Yall can do the expected. Yall can gang up on my boi like a pack of lotus. Summon any army yall got connections too. Run to the back, bring out the entire Emerge roster. Have the SCW roster on reserve. Have GCW peeps on stand by. What yall need to come to grips with sooner, rather than later, that Marcus Briggs is starving. He has been starving for an opportunity like this all his life. Marcus got the size. The charisma. The beef! Bow down to all this beef. He don’t care who you be, where you come from, what section of the Hades you digging yo’ ass outta. Yall in the DAWG-POUND now. Yall gonna get chewed the fudge out. Big Jeffrey hopes the medics are on standby. There is gonna be alotta bodies hitting the flo, for sho. Ain’t a gawd damn thing yall can do about it. Ya heard?"
"That’s enough for now. Black. Hollywood... out."
Scene fades.
Sitting in a directors chair. With his trademark cashmere smile warming up the screen he says.
“Welcome...”
Jeffrey pauses, he takes a deep breath. On the exhale he screams out.
“WELCOME.”
For dramatic reasons, he takes another deep breath. On the exhale he screams louder.
“I SAID, WEL-COME... TO THE DAWG-POUND.”
Insert random dogs barking. Stepping into the scene beside him is the real entrant of the Emerge Open Invitation Battle Royal, Marcus Briggs.
Six foot four, four hundred pound of pure beef. Unlike Jeff he isn’t wearing a smile.
“What? Yall really think I’d rub elbows with peeps who can’t match my star power? Nergo please. Your boi has more important thangs to do. Yeah, this is for a shot at the Emerge Title, lets be real. Nobody showing up off the street to challenge for the Spirit Championship? Nah homie. RUSH? Negro please. Tag team championship? Now, that’s a thought. Black Hollywood is the most entertaining tag team this side of the galaxy. There be no team in Emerge with the star powah sustainable enough to roll with Black...HOLLY-WOOD. We ain’t carrying no one. Only one thang to do, grab the money, make it rain. Big Sexy here gonna challenge... Mitch Sanders?”
Marcus scoffs. Jeff doesn’t bother to repressing his laughter.
“Willow? She had it easy until now. When you stare into the eyes of a six foot four, four hundred pounds of mastodon, don’t matter how cray cray you be, when four hundred pounds splatters ya like a negro who just jumped off the roof of a very very tall building, you can be the Necro Demon. The Green Goblin. Hobgoblin. You don’t want none. Big Sexy, Marcus Alexander Briggs would humble ya, just like that. Try to come out the other side champion. K. Sit back. Relax. Bare Fn Witness as this open invitational battle royal turns into a slaughterhouse.”
Jeff licks his lips. Marcus expression, doesn’t change. He remains meaning.
“Yall can do the expected. Yall can gang up on my boi like a pack of lotus. Summon any army yall got connections too. Run to the back, bring out the entire Emerge roster. Have the SCW roster on reserve. Have GCW peeps on stand by. What yall need to come to grips with sooner, rather than later, that Marcus Briggs is starving. He has been starving for an opportunity like this all his life. Marcus got the size. The charisma. The beef! Bow down to all this beef. He don’t care who you be, where you come from, what section of the Hades you digging yo’ ass outta. Yall in the DAWG-POUND now. Yall gonna get chewed the fudge out. Big Jeffrey hopes the medics are on standby. There is gonna be alotta bodies hitting the flo, for sho. Ain’t a gawd damn thing yall can do about it. Ya heard?"
"That’s enough for now. Black. Hollywood... out."
Scene fades.