Post by teevee on May 11, 2018 16:11:51 GMT -5
The scene opens to show a large garage, piles of spare car parts, old computers in various states ranging between intact and "smashed to hell," and who knows what else. A keen eye will notice a Civil War vintage muzzle loaded rifle on the left, which looks more authentic than replica. In the center of the frame is...something large and complex. It appears to be a large, multijointed robot arm. From behind it can be seen a lot of sparks, the type one expects to see produced by professional grade welding gear.
A small figured female, looking very much like a miniature version of Tee Voland except for longer black hair hanging to her waist in braided pigtails, walks into the frame. The youngest (by quite a bit) Voland sibling is wearing blue jeans and a Sidney Crosby Pittsburgh Penguins jersey that looks to be at least two sizes too large.
Milla: Yo! Tracie!
The sparks from the welding briefly stop, just long enough for-
Tee Voland: Don't call me that!
Sparks resume and Milla crosses her arms under her very small, pubescent breasts.
Milla: Would you prefer Trixie?
Once again the welding stops, and Tee speaks from behind the mass of metal. More like growls loudly, actually.
Tee: Thank you for reminding me that I have to put hot sauce in Michael's underwear drawer for telling a fourteen year old about that.
Milla noticeably huffs.
Milla: You know as well as I do that I'm a very mature fourteen!
Tee: You call four foot ten mature?
Milla: So I'm short! I'm still more mature than at least nine out of ten kids my age in this country, in case you've forgotten how I spent my summers back in Russia?
Amid yet another shower of sparks comes Tee's voice, though this time she speaks in a language that some might recognize as Romani. Subtitles appear on the bottom of the screen.
Tee: <I know who our cousins are.>
Tee continues in English.
Tee: Speaking of physical maturity, a bonafide genetic engineer signed up for a membership to the gym yesterday. Works on making things grow bigger. Maybe you can volunteer as a test subject and get lucky.
Milla keeps her arms crossed and sneers.
Milla: Ha ha, very funny. Make fun of the one member of the family that didn't inherit the beanpole gene.
Tee: She did say she mainly works with corn, though. Speaking of maturity, we're both down to two days of birth control pills. Go to the pharmacy and get refills. Take the El Camino.
Milla: You still have to put in a promo for your match Sunday.
Tee: So that's why you brought the camera? The eighties sex god?
Tee's tone is clear that her description of Ronnie North was not meant to be flattering.
Tee: Only good things that came out of the eighties are me and Michael, and the jury's still out on him. Either way we actually matured during the nineties, which were at least slightly better. If you're gonna hang around hand me the hose over there.
Milla: Why is this insulated and coated in woven steel?
Tee: Because it's the fuel line to a flamethrower that'll make any Vietnam tunnel rat go into a PTSD coma when it goes off. Gimme.
Milla passes the heavy duty hose behind the mechanical mass and turns her head away from the potentially blinding sparks that almost immediately resume.
Milla: Anyway, I know that your preference for vintage porn is seventies. I've seen the stacks of Betamax cassettes in your closet.
A loud clang is heard and then Te stands up and steps out from behind the...contraption, and lifts the welder's mask from her face.
Tee: How many times do I have to tell you to quit going through my stuff?
Milla: At least one more, as usual.
Tee: Little smartass.
Milla: I hear it's a family trait.
Apparently lacking an appropriate reply to her bratty little sister, Tee walks over to a tool cluttered workbench and tosses her welding mask on it while unceremoniously flopping down in a simple but sturdy looking wooden chair. She then leans down and grabs a pair of twelve ounce bottles of Yuengling Black and Tan from the minifridge beneath the bench, tossing one backhanded to Milla just before opening the other and taking a big swig.
Tee: Ronnie North apparently has some skills. Most of his creds are as a tag teamer with his Jewish buddy, but that doesn't mean he can't get better. After all, Michael made his name as a tag wrestler before he got big. Hell, I've tagged with that blonde runt that likes to sleep in Michael's bed more than once. Short as she is she's still four inches taller than you.
Milla: Getting off subject.
Also, she's a pro kickboxer.
Tee: You should still drink more milk. Skills aside he's an idiot. Gotta watch out for idiots. Remember why?
Rolling her eyes over a more reserved sip of her own beer, Milla responds as if reciting something she has been made to memorize.
Milla: An idiot is a person who does stupid shit. They're not necessarily stupid, though, and when they get a flash of insight they can be dangerous.
Relaxing from the stiff backed oratorial pose she had briefly assumed, Milla continues.
Milla: You should let me come to ringside with you. I'll wear a leotard and tie my hair up short so the announcers can call me Mini-Tee. Nobody will expect shit from somebody my size and Michael's been teaching me how to use a folded chair as a weapon. He says I'm doing better at it than Lex.
Tee: You're underage and as your legal guardian I can't let you near a real wrestling match. Not even with your best fake ID. That jackass thinks bees are a good idea? Clearly he's never ran over a hive with a lawnmower. Made me a bit woozy from gettin' stung twenty-six times but it just pissed me off in the end. Came back with a gas can and a book of matches. Fire beats bees.
Tee looks at the camera directly for the first time, her icy blue eyes almost glowing.
Tee: Normally I'd say "Kiss my pale ass," but Ronnie just might take that as an invitation to engage in activities he ain't near worthy of doing with me.
The scene abrubtly cuts to black with an NGW logo.
A small figured female, looking very much like a miniature version of Tee Voland except for longer black hair hanging to her waist in braided pigtails, walks into the frame. The youngest (by quite a bit) Voland sibling is wearing blue jeans and a Sidney Crosby Pittsburgh Penguins jersey that looks to be at least two sizes too large.
Milla: Yo! Tracie!
The sparks from the welding briefly stop, just long enough for-
Tee Voland: Don't call me that!
Sparks resume and Milla crosses her arms under her very small, pubescent breasts.
Milla: Would you prefer Trixie?
Once again the welding stops, and Tee speaks from behind the mass of metal. More like growls loudly, actually.
Tee: Thank you for reminding me that I have to put hot sauce in Michael's underwear drawer for telling a fourteen year old about that.
Milla noticeably huffs.
Milla: You know as well as I do that I'm a very mature fourteen!
Tee: You call four foot ten mature?
Milla: So I'm short! I'm still more mature than at least nine out of ten kids my age in this country, in case you've forgotten how I spent my summers back in Russia?
Amid yet another shower of sparks comes Tee's voice, though this time she speaks in a language that some might recognize as Romani. Subtitles appear on the bottom of the screen.
Tee: <I know who our cousins are.>
Tee continues in English.
Tee: Speaking of physical maturity, a bonafide genetic engineer signed up for a membership to the gym yesterday. Works on making things grow bigger. Maybe you can volunteer as a test subject and get lucky.
Milla keeps her arms crossed and sneers.
Milla: Ha ha, very funny. Make fun of the one member of the family that didn't inherit the beanpole gene.
Tee: She did say she mainly works with corn, though. Speaking of maturity, we're both down to two days of birth control pills. Go to the pharmacy and get refills. Take the El Camino.
Milla: You still have to put in a promo for your match Sunday.
Tee: So that's why you brought the camera? The eighties sex god?
Tee's tone is clear that her description of Ronnie North was not meant to be flattering.
Tee: Only good things that came out of the eighties are me and Michael, and the jury's still out on him. Either way we actually matured during the nineties, which were at least slightly better. If you're gonna hang around hand me the hose over there.
Milla: Why is this insulated and coated in woven steel?
Tee: Because it's the fuel line to a flamethrower that'll make any Vietnam tunnel rat go into a PTSD coma when it goes off. Gimme.
Milla passes the heavy duty hose behind the mechanical mass and turns her head away from the potentially blinding sparks that almost immediately resume.
Milla: Anyway, I know that your preference for vintage porn is seventies. I've seen the stacks of Betamax cassettes in your closet.
A loud clang is heard and then Te stands up and steps out from behind the...contraption, and lifts the welder's mask from her face.
Tee: How many times do I have to tell you to quit going through my stuff?
Milla: At least one more, as usual.
Tee: Little smartass.
Milla: I hear it's a family trait.
Apparently lacking an appropriate reply to her bratty little sister, Tee walks over to a tool cluttered workbench and tosses her welding mask on it while unceremoniously flopping down in a simple but sturdy looking wooden chair. She then leans down and grabs a pair of twelve ounce bottles of Yuengling Black and Tan from the minifridge beneath the bench, tossing one backhanded to Milla just before opening the other and taking a big swig.
Tee: Ronnie North apparently has some skills. Most of his creds are as a tag teamer with his Jewish buddy, but that doesn't mean he can't get better. After all, Michael made his name as a tag wrestler before he got big. Hell, I've tagged with that blonde runt that likes to sleep in Michael's bed more than once. Short as she is she's still four inches taller than you.
Milla: Getting off subject.
Also, she's a pro kickboxer.
Tee: You should still drink more milk. Skills aside he's an idiot. Gotta watch out for idiots. Remember why?
Rolling her eyes over a more reserved sip of her own beer, Milla responds as if reciting something she has been made to memorize.
Milla: An idiot is a person who does stupid shit. They're not necessarily stupid, though, and when they get a flash of insight they can be dangerous.
Relaxing from the stiff backed oratorial pose she had briefly assumed, Milla continues.
Milla: You should let me come to ringside with you. I'll wear a leotard and tie my hair up short so the announcers can call me Mini-Tee. Nobody will expect shit from somebody my size and Michael's been teaching me how to use a folded chair as a weapon. He says I'm doing better at it than Lex.
Tee: You're underage and as your legal guardian I can't let you near a real wrestling match. Not even with your best fake ID. That jackass thinks bees are a good idea? Clearly he's never ran over a hive with a lawnmower. Made me a bit woozy from gettin' stung twenty-six times but it just pissed me off in the end. Came back with a gas can and a book of matches. Fire beats bees.
Tee looks at the camera directly for the first time, her icy blue eyes almost glowing.
Tee: Normally I'd say "Kiss my pale ass," but Ronnie just might take that as an invitation to engage in activities he ain't near worthy of doing with me.
The scene abrubtly cuts to black with an NGW logo.