It doesn't involve any of my wrestler of the year nominees. No, no John Morrison, Zack Ryder, Daniel Bryan, Mark Henry, Cody Rhodes, Rey Mysterio, John Cena, CM Punk, Christian or Randy Orton. It's - you guessed it - the Huntertaker encounter at WrestleMania. Because it hadn't been put over enough already.
INT. JOEY STYLES' OFFICE, TITAN TOWER, STAMFORD, CONNECTICUT
JOEY STYLES is sat at his desk, dutifully typing away at his latest WWE.com article. He looks visibly older than when we last saw him, visibly worn down by having to deal with the stupid and the maniacal all day on Twitter. JBL, with two black eyes and a fat lip, sits unconscious in the corner.
Joey stops typing. There's a noise in the hallway. Chanting. Singing. It's getting closer. The door swings open, almost off its hinges. TRIPLE H bursts in, wearing a shirt which reads 'I DON'T WORK TUESDAYS.' He's followed by his acolytes; SEAN WALTMAN, KEVIN NASH, KHARMA (heavily pregnant) and SIN CARA (in full attire, in a wheelchair). Triple H calmly chews on a cheese and pickle sandwich as his stooges perform his theme music in the third person.
STOOGES (with worrying enthusiasm): He is the game, you don't wanna play him! He is control, no way you can shake him! He is heavy debts, no way you can pay him! He is the pain--!
Triple H raises a hand.
TRIPLE H: Alright, alright. Be quiet now. Daddy has to talk to the nice man.
The stooges stop singing and instead start to hum the tune. Dern-dern-dern. Dern-dern-dern. Triple H leans on the desk and opens his mouth. Before he can say a word, Sin Cara zooms across the room in his wheelchair and flies out an open window. Pause for laughs. Triple H visibly shakes it off.
TRIPLE H (to himself): Best signing I ever made...
JOEY STYLES: Paul, uh, can I help you?
TRIPLE H: Joey! Jo-ey! We're pals, right? Call me Hunter. In fact, call me Hunter Hunter Hunter. Or Triple H's for short. Or. Mr. H's. That's what my friends call me. Now, what's this stuff about you doing a "Best Matches of 2011" article on, uh, your little internet site?
JOEY STYLES: WWE.com?
TRIPLE H: That's the one!
JOEY STYLES: Well, Hunter, I was just putting the finishing touches to it. I've got Cena versus Punk as number one. Did you--
TRIPLE H: Joey, I'm gonna stop you right there. Look, I know you're a fan of, uh, "alternative wrestling" from your days at ACW--
JOEY STYLES: ECW.
TRIPLE H: Yeah, whatever.
Hunter chuckles. Kharma, Waltman and Nash burst into fits of laughter. Somewhere several storeys below, Sin Cara joins in. Waltman slaps Nash on the back. The force of this causes Nash's knee to buckle under his weight. He falls to the floor, clutching his leg. Still laughing.
TRIPLE H: Point is, that ain't what people want! Chicago? Yeah, they love MC Chunk, sure - they got a thing for skinny fatasses. But you know who they love more? You know who everyone loves more? Mr. H's. And it just so happens that Mr. H's and his good friend JohnnyCashLover1992 had the best match of all-time this year, and it'd just be insane if that wasn't at the top of the list, now, wouldn't it?
JOEY STYLES: Hunter--
TRIPLE H: Mr. H's!
JOEY STYLES: Mr. H's, look - I respect you, I really do. But I couldn't possibly change this list. Everybody knows I run WWE.com. It's my duty to be truthful to myself, to represent myself as sincerely and honestly to the fans as--
TRIPLE H: Joey, Joey - say no more. I know where you're going with this. You're afraid. You're no poet. You're no great American writer. You're a hack. You couldn't hope to possibly capture the majesty that was a Mr. H's match, let alone the greatest Mr. H's match of all time. But relax, not only is Mr. H's the greatest wrestler ever, he's a master of the English language. You ever see The Chaperone? I won three Oscars for best actor, best supporting actor and best editing. All my scenes? Improvised. I am a wordsmith. Here, take this; I wrote a little something up for you.
Triple H hands Joey a folded up piece of paper. Joey unfolds it, stares at it disbelievingly, then begins to read aloud.
JOEY STYLES: "Although The Undertaker's streak at WrestleMania is not dead, it is now dead. Because Mr. H's - the game, the king of kings, the cerebral assassin, the best WWE superstar ever - killed it. He killed it dead. He killed the crap out of it. Why? Because he is that damn good, Mr. H's is. He put on the best match ever and he did what no other man could do. Mr. H's is so much better than any other man, especially skinny fatasses and vanilla midgets. Vote of no confidence my ass! Mr. H's will wrestle a broom and kill its streak too. And he'll be a twenty time broom champion of the world. He's that awesome."
Joey folds the paper back up. He's visibly upset; crying. Triple H smiles broadly, his trousers tenting.
TRIPLE H: It's beautiful, I know.
Fade to black.
I imagine that's how it went down.
INT. JOEY STYLES' OFFICE, TITAN TOWER, STAMFORD, CONNECTICUT
JOEY STYLES is sat at his desk, dutifully typing away at his latest WWE.com article. He looks visibly older than when we last saw him, visibly worn down by having to deal with the stupid and the maniacal all day on Twitter. JBL, with two black eyes and a fat lip, sits unconscious in the corner.
Joey stops typing. There's a noise in the hallway. Chanting. Singing. It's getting closer. The door swings open, almost off its hinges. TRIPLE H bursts in, wearing a shirt which reads 'I DON'T WORK TUESDAYS.' He's followed by his acolytes; SEAN WALTMAN, KEVIN NASH, KHARMA (heavily pregnant) and SIN CARA (in full attire, in a wheelchair). Triple H calmly chews on a cheese and pickle sandwich as his stooges perform his theme music in the third person.
STOOGES (with worrying enthusiasm): He is the game, you don't wanna play him! He is control, no way you can shake him! He is heavy debts, no way you can pay him! He is the pain--!
Triple H raises a hand.
TRIPLE H: Alright, alright. Be quiet now. Daddy has to talk to the nice man.
The stooges stop singing and instead start to hum the tune. Dern-dern-dern. Dern-dern-dern. Triple H leans on the desk and opens his mouth. Before he can say a word, Sin Cara zooms across the room in his wheelchair and flies out an open window. Pause for laughs. Triple H visibly shakes it off.
TRIPLE H (to himself): Best signing I ever made...
JOEY STYLES: Paul, uh, can I help you?
TRIPLE H: Joey! Jo-ey! We're pals, right? Call me Hunter. In fact, call me Hunter Hunter Hunter. Or Triple H's for short. Or. Mr. H's. That's what my friends call me. Now, what's this stuff about you doing a "Best Matches of 2011" article on, uh, your little internet site?
JOEY STYLES: WWE.com?
TRIPLE H: That's the one!
JOEY STYLES: Well, Hunter, I was just putting the finishing touches to it. I've got Cena versus Punk as number one. Did you--
TRIPLE H: Joey, I'm gonna stop you right there. Look, I know you're a fan of, uh, "alternative wrestling" from your days at ACW--
JOEY STYLES: ECW.
TRIPLE H: Yeah, whatever.
Hunter chuckles. Kharma, Waltman and Nash burst into fits of laughter. Somewhere several storeys below, Sin Cara joins in. Waltman slaps Nash on the back. The force of this causes Nash's knee to buckle under his weight. He falls to the floor, clutching his leg. Still laughing.
TRIPLE H: Point is, that ain't what people want! Chicago? Yeah, they love MC Chunk, sure - they got a thing for skinny fatasses. But you know who they love more? You know who everyone loves more? Mr. H's. And it just so happens that Mr. H's and his good friend JohnnyCashLover1992 had the best match of all-time this year, and it'd just be insane if that wasn't at the top of the list, now, wouldn't it?
JOEY STYLES: Hunter--
TRIPLE H: Mr. H's!
JOEY STYLES: Mr. H's, look - I respect you, I really do. But I couldn't possibly change this list. Everybody knows I run WWE.com. It's my duty to be truthful to myself, to represent myself as sincerely and honestly to the fans as--
TRIPLE H: Joey, Joey - say no more. I know where you're going with this. You're afraid. You're no poet. You're no great American writer. You're a hack. You couldn't hope to possibly capture the majesty that was a Mr. H's match, let alone the greatest Mr. H's match of all time. But relax, not only is Mr. H's the greatest wrestler ever, he's a master of the English language. You ever see The Chaperone? I won three Oscars for best actor, best supporting actor and best editing. All my scenes? Improvised. I am a wordsmith. Here, take this; I wrote a little something up for you.
Triple H hands Joey a folded up piece of paper. Joey unfolds it, stares at it disbelievingly, then begins to read aloud.
JOEY STYLES: "Although The Undertaker's streak at WrestleMania is not dead, it is now dead. Because Mr. H's - the game, the king of kings, the cerebral assassin, the best WWE superstar ever - killed it. He killed it dead. He killed the crap out of it. Why? Because he is that damn good, Mr. H's is. He put on the best match ever and he did what no other man could do. Mr. H's is so much better than any other man, especially skinny fatasses and vanilla midgets. Vote of no confidence my ass! Mr. H's will wrestle a broom and kill its streak too. And he'll be a twenty time broom champion of the world. He's that awesome."
Joey folds the paper back up. He's visibly upset; crying. Triple H smiles broadly, his trousers tenting.
TRIPLE H: It's beautiful, I know.
Fade to black.
I imagine that's how it went down.
