SPOTLIGHTED PODCAST ALERT (YOUR ARTICLE BEGINS A FEW INCHES DOWN)...
EDITOR’S NOTE: This was originally published Oct. 7, 2003 on PWTorch.com…
(It’s morning in the suburbs, as Mr. and Mrs. Goldberg walk out the front door and head for the Goldberg family SUV.)
“Don’t tell me it didn’t happen, Bill. I actually watched that show. They told people that Triple H is paying $100,000 to anyone who injures you. You have to go to the McMahons and tell them to drop this whole stupid bounty thing.”
“Honey, this is my job. This is what I get paid for. Besides, I’m perfectly safe.”
(At that moment, a large, muscular man with a gut jumps from out of the bushes, carrying a length of lead pipe. He charges Bill Goldberg. Goldberg quickly sidesteps the man, grabs the pipe away from him, and rams him into the garage door. The man is reeling. He takes a swing at Goldberg, but misses. Goldberg raps him across the shoulder blade with the lead pipe, then delivers a perfect karate kick to the man’s midsection. The man falls over in pain on the driveway.)
“Bill, are you okay? I’m calling the police.”
“I’m fine. Hold on a minute. Marcus? Is that you?”
“(*cough*) Hey, Bill. Sorry I had to go after the bounty on you, but this body isn’t paying for itself the way it used to.”
“Don’t sweat it. Honey, you remember Marcus Bagwell, don’t you?”
“Uh… Hi.”
“Listen, Marcus, you shouldn’t be trying to get up. I think you might have broken ribs.”
“It’s all good, Bill. (*cough* *cough*) I’m Buff, and I’m still the Stuff.”
“Well, the least I can do is give you a ride to the hospital. Let me help you into the backseat, and I can drop you after I take her to work.”
“No, I couldn’t. Just point me to my Camaro, and I’ll be on my way. It’s good to see you, though.”
“Same here, Marcus. Give us a call.”
(The car door closes.)
“Bill, can’t you just tell your friends that it’s only a television show?”
“I wish I could, dear. But Hunter says that the problem with wrestling is that nobody believes any more. He says that as long as I have the World Heavyweight Title, I have to carry myself a certain way. If I admit there’s not really a bounty, it will send everyone the wrong message. And I can take care of myself.”
“Bill, that’s crazy. Those McMahons don’t care about you. All they care about is themselves.”
“Not now, dear. Be quiet.”
“Be quiet? You don’t think I’m smart enough to figure out this wrestling stuff? Is that why you’re saying that?”
“No. I’m asking you to be quiet because that pickup truck has been following us for the past mile.”
(The pickup truck taps Goldberg’s car from behind, trying to run him off the road.)
“Hang on!”
(Goldberg speeds up. The car behind him speeds up, tapping him again. Goldberg accelerates again, then brakes hard and does a U-Turn in the middle of the street, leaving a huge skid mark behind him. The truck tries to follow, but tips over and does a complete roll, coming right side up just in time to slam hard into the guardrail.)
“Bill, that man looked familiar.”
“I know. Let me handle this.”
(Goldberg pulls over behind the wrecked pickup and gets out. The windshield and side windows have been shattered. The driver, a large man in a Michigan baseball cap and a hunting jacket, is badly cut, but he’ s still conscious.)
“Hello, Rick.”
“Hi, Bill. Are you guys okay.”
“We’re fine. She’s calling 911 for you. It’s a good thing you were wearing your seat belt.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that, Bill. It’s nothing personal. But Hunter said anyone could collect the bounty on you. I was hoping to make enough to pay off the house.”
“I know. Anything I can do for you while you wait?”
“Yeah. Can you find my spit cup?”
(Goldberg gets back to his vehicle and gets in.)
“Bill, you have to put a stop to this.”
“No, I think I’m safe now. The only people who are big enough marks to believe this stuff are the other wrestlers, and I can handle them.”
(Goldberg waves to Rick and starts to drive off.)
“Could you at least stay at home for a few days?”
“Honey, I’m safe. After I drop you off, the only other thing I’m doing today is going to the gym. What could possibly happen to me there?”
(TO BE CONTINUED?)
<I> Pat McNeill of Fairfax, Virginia has been a Torch columnist since February 2001. He is kicking himself for missing the end of the Colts game. His PWTorch.com column appears twice a week. His longer, weekly column appears exclusively in the Torch Newsletter. Pat McNeill’s first book, “The Tables All Were Broken”, <a href =” http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0595224040/”> is available from many fine booksellers.</a></I>
Your feedback is always welcome here. Drop an e-mail to <a href=”mailto:pmcneill@pwtorch.com”> pmcneill@pwtorch.com</a>.
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