Easter Holiday Special: Psycho Cannibal Jesus

For hundreds of years we’ve consumed his flesh …
Now he’s back to return the favour!

Say your prayers!

Say your prayers!

Troma Entertainment Presents …

PSYCHO CANNIBAL JESUS

INT. CATHOLIC CHURCH — NIGHT

A small church, packed with an assortment of ordinary god-fearing folk, as the decrepit, bespectacled REVEREND O’MALLEY presides over Communion. Outside, a raging thunderstorm terrorizes the night.

O’MALLEY
Deliver us, Lord, from every evil, and
grant us peace in our day. In your mercy keep
us free from sin and protect us from all anxiety
as we wait in joyful hope for the coming of
our Savior, Jesus Christ.

CRACK! Thunder crashes and a flash of lightning illuminates the interior of the church. The wind HOWLS angrily.

CONGREGATION
(in unison)
For the kingdom, the power, and the glory
are yours, now and forever.

CRACK! Another hit of thunder and lightning. The lights suddenly go out, plunging the church into darkness.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! A loud banging noise is coming from the other side of the large, heavy doors at the entrance of the church.

THE CONGREGATION

murmurs nervously in the darkness.

Flames pierce the darkness as O’Malley lights a series of candles near the altar. He turns to face the congregation.

O’MALLEY
Please, let us continue.
(beat)
Lord Jesus Christ, you said to your apostles:
‘I leave you peace, my peace I give you.’

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! The banging at the door continues — louder, more frequent.

THE CONGREGATION

murmurs again, frightened.

A WOMAN quickly crosses herself.

CRACK! More thunder and lightning. The wind picks up.

VOICE (O.S.)
Your wait is over, my son.

The congregation looks back to the direction of the voice — the entrance of the church.

The thunderstorm is relentless. In a flash of lightning, we see that the doors to the church have opened. A SHADOWY FIGURE stands in the doorway.

O’MALLEY

adjusts his glasses and squints, trying to make out the silhouette.

O’MALLEY

Who’s there? Show yourself!

The shadowy figure steps forward into the church, revealing himself to be JESUS CHRIST. Dressed in ancient robes and dripping wet from the rain, his eyes are intense, his face like granite.

JESUS
I hope I’m not late.

JESUS

walks up the aisle toward the altar. The congregation sits in their pews and stares as he passes by, awestruck.

O’MALLEY

removes his glasses, his hands trembling.

O’MALLEY
This … this cannot be …

JESUS

steps up to the altar and stands next to O’Malley.

JESUS
But it is.

Jesus gently puts his hands on O’Malley’s shoulders. O’Malley instantly drops to his knees.

O’MALLEY

looks up at Jesus, tears in his eyes.

O’MALLEY
Oh, Jesus … Oh, Lord …

JESUS

glares down at O’Malley.

JESUS
Tell me, my son, how does it taste?

O’MALLEY
Excuse me?

JESUS
I asked, how does it taste?

O’MALLEY
I … I don’t …

JESUS
(angrily)
How does it taste, motherfucker!

THE CONGREGATION

gasps and whispers.

JESUS

grabs O’Malley by the collar, forcing him to his feet.

JESUS
How many times have you eaten my
flesh, my son? How many times have
you sipped from my blood?

O’MALLEY
(terrified)
You … You told us to …

JESUS
I’d like to try this Communion thing, but eating my own
flesh would be so very wrong. Any ideas, Reverend?

O’MALLEY
They’re just crackers–

JESUS
You dare question me? I am your shepherd …

Still holding O’Malley’s collar, Jesus leans in closer. They’re nearly nose-to-nose.

JESUS (cont’d)
And it’s time to lead my sheep to the slaughter.

Jesus lunges at O’Malley’s, sinking his teeth into his throat.

THE CONGREGATION

SCREAMS AND SHOUTS. In a panic, many people leap from their seats and bolt for the exits.

JESUS

pulls back, completely tearing O’Malley’s throat out.

A SPLASH OF BLOOD

splatters against a nearby stained glass window depiction of Jesus. Thunder and lightning strike once more as the congregation SCREAMS hysterically in the background.

That ain't his blood.

That ain't His blood.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. CATHOLIC CHURCH — MORNING

The blood is now caked to the stained glass window. The morning light shines through into the church.

PAULSON (O.S.)
Jesus Christ …

DETECTIVE PAULSON, a stocky man in his 40s, kneels over the body of O’Malley. He shakes his head.

PAULSON
These people didn’t deserve this.

Paulson rises to his feet and scans the area.

PAULSON’S POV

There are bodies everywhere. In the aisle, draped over pews … men, women, and children alike have been slaughtered, their throats ripped out, their guts dangling from torn abdomens. The whole church has been stained with blood. SEVERAL COPS mill about, doing their business.

PAULSON

reaches into his pocket and pulls out a notepad and a pen. He looks down at the paper as he jots down some notes.

PAULSON
What in God’s name happened here?

VOICE (O.S.)
I might be able to answer that question.

Paulson looks up from his notepad.

THE POPE

stands at the doorway of the church, decked out in full ceremonial dress.

THE POPE
And if you act soon enough, Detective, you might
be able to stop him from killing again. Quickly, we
must go. I’ll explain on the way.

Good ... bad ... I'm the guy with the gun.

Good ... bad ... I'm the guy with the gun.

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Great Ideas: The Break Room

Are you feeling down in the dumps? Fed up with your lot in life? Want to punch the entire world in the balls just to show it how angry and frustrated you are? Then come on down to THE BREAK ROOM — the country’s only Destruction Therapy Centre!

Whether your girlfriend just dumped you, your pet hamster died, or you simply need to let loose all of the pent-up rage from a shitty day at the office, thanks to our revolutionary new techniques you’ll feel better in no time flat — or your money back!

What is Destruction Therapy?

You ever see the movie Citizen Kane? Remember that scene where Kane completely loses it after his wife leaves him and he starts smashing everything in her room? What? You don’t remember it, and in fact, you’ve never even seen the movie? That’s okay, we’re not all film snobs. Besides, it’s a long movie, it’s entirely in black and white … who could watch something that old, anyway?

Well, how about Office Space? In addition to the witty banter about staplers and TPS reports, you probably fondly recall the scene where the guys bust up the printer with a baseball bat. That scene grabbed us because, let’s face it, we’ve all been there before — so fed up that we wanted nothing more than to take a blunt object and reduce the things we hate to a pile of smoldering rubble.

And that’s the very essence of Destruction Therapy. Instead of bottling up all of your rage and frustration (which will fester inside you until the day you snap and shoot up a middle school), Destruction Therapy encourages you to just let it all out through the sweet, cathartic release of controlled mayhem and devastation!

Office Space - Printer Scene

A prime example of Destruction Therapy in practice.

At THE BREAK ROOM, we offer several different Destruction Therapy options to choose from, all of which can be completely custom-designed to meet your needs.

So, how does it work? It’s simple.

Step One: Choose Your Room

First, you need something to destroy. We offer our clients a variety of preset combinations to choose from, including favourites such as:

  • The Girl’s Room: Complete with an assortment frilly pillows, vanity mirrors, stuffed animals, and porcelain dolls for you to annihilate, it’s the perfect choice for all of the bitter, jaded, and heartbroken guys out there.
  • The Boy’s Room: If you’re a bitter, jaded, and heartbroken woman, then you’ll relish the opportunity to “stick it to the man” by demolishing this room, which can be customized with a variety of sports trophies, video game systems, automobile paraphernalia, and Dungeons & Dragons manuals.
  • The Office: Hate your job? Then you’ll love tearing apart this room, which is packed with computers, printers, copiers, cubicle walls, mini-fridges, and ancient microwaves. Mac and PC configurations are available.

Of course, you can also make your own Custom Room from scratch — just let us know the types of items you want to smash and we’ll order them in, just for you. Want to ravage a replica lawyer’s office or dentist’s chair? Your favourite sports team eliminated from the playoffs and you’d like to mutilate anything with your rival’s logo on it? Having cell phone troubles and want to take it out on RIM’s entire line-up? If you can dream it, we can build it … and then we’ll let you savagely destroy it.

Step Two: Choose Your Weapons

Second, you need to choose your weapons. Our team of certified Destruction Therapists carries a fully-stocked arsenal of high-impact tools, including sporting equipment and martial arts weaponry from across the globe. Whether you like the manly heftiness of a sledgehammer, the range of a hockey stick, the precision of a katana, or the personal touch of steel-toed boots, we have what you need to make short work of the room of you chose in Step One.

For the safety of our staff and clients, THE BREAK ROOM uses blunt and bladed objects only — no guns, explosions, or flammable weapons are permitted on the premises.

Just a small sample of our implements of destruction.

Just a small sample of our implements of destruction.

Step Three: Choose Your Therapy Method

Next, you need to choose the therapy method that works for you. We offer two distinct modes of engagement:

  • By The Minute: Our premium package, this therapy method allows you to purchase time in the room(s) of your choice in 10 minute blocks, allowing you as much time as you need to do as much damage as you want — perfect if you’re the type of person that needs to dispose of a lot of frustration. The only question is, will you smash everything in sight as quickly as possible in a demonstration of sheer rage, or will you take your time to deliberately and meticulously deconstruct every item in the room?
  • By The Item: Designed for the more conservative client, this therapy method is ideal if you’ve just had a really bad day at work, for example, and only need to smash a couple of things to lift your spirits. If you choose this option, we’ll charge you based on the total value of the items you destroy — nothing more, nothing less.

Step Four: Clobbering Time

Finally, once everything has been set-up to your specifications, we let you loose in the room — it’s time for some destruction!

While you’re learning what the inside of a computer monitor looks like, you’ll have peace of mind knowing that our staff is looking out for your safety. Our clients are required to wear complete head, eye, and hand protection at all times, and our video surveillance system and two-way intercoms allow us to watch and communicate with you every step of the way.

When your time’s up, come on out of your room for complimentary cookies and juice — you’ll need to replenish your energy, after all, because you’ll soon find out that smashing stuff is pretty hard work!

You've wanted to do this your entire life.

You've wanted to do this your entire life.

So what are you waiting for? Doctors across the country agree — bottling up your negative emotions is bad for you, it’s bad for your family, and it’s bad for the environment (it’s true, look it up). Don’t beat your wife when you just can’t take it any longer — take it out on the inanimate objects at THE BREAK ROOM.

If you’re in need of some Destruction Therapy, call THE BREAK ROOM today and reserve your custom-designed room in seconds — it’s that easy! Our expert staff can’t wait to show you a smashing good time!

The Cross-Eyed Bear

Dear Dave,

First of all, don’t get your hopes up. I’m sure you probably got all excited from the scent of my perfume on this letter, but I’m not writing this because I want to get back together with you. It will never, ever be the same between us after the things you’ve done. And don’t play dumb with me, asshole. You know perfectly well what you did. At least, you oughta know, but you’re an insensitive jerk, so you probably don’t.

Please give back Mr. Furryface. I miss him very much.

Please return Mr. Furryface. I miss him very, very much.

No, I’m writing this because of my precious Mr. Furryface. Remember how we laughed and laughed when you brought him home that first time? I wanted a dog, you came back with a grizzly bear … good times, good times.

But my life changed, you know, the very instant you gave me that adorable cross-eyed bear as a gift. And now that we’re no longer together, you’re going to deny me of my best friend on the entire goddamn planet? What part of the word “gift” don’t you understand, Dave? What gives you the right to take my bear away from me? It’s not fair!

Besides, why do you want him for, anyway? We both know that, deep down, you never loved Mr. Furryface the way I did! That bear is like family to me, and I demand that you return him to me, this instant!

Please, don’t do it for me … do it for the bear. I bet he’s scared and lonely in your shitty apartment. Hell, you probably don’t even know what brand of salmon he likes, do you? I could have you arrested on charges of animal abuse if I really wanted to, but I won’t, because I’m not a giant prick like some people I know.

If you have any compassion left in that broken shell you call a soul, you’ll give me back my Mr. Furryface. And if you’re man enough, you’ll meet me at the park (you know which one, stupid) and we’ll do the exchange — my cross-eyed bear for your stupid Jackalope puppet that I stole from you before you left.

Don’t be late.

Oh, and I’ll see you in hell, clown.

Love,

Alanis

Before They Were Superstars: Big Bossman

Not everybody is born to be a pro wrestler. For every Hulk Hogan and Ric Flair, there are countless others wannabes that have to work their way up from the very bottom, often working other jobs on the side just to make ends meet as they pursue their dreams of turnbuckled glory. But these people are the true legends of wrestling, for they display unparalleled dedication, hard work, and a pure will to succeed.

The Big Bossman is one of these people. And this is his story.

Big Bossman: Wrestling Legend.

Big Bossman: Wrestling Legend.

The following scene takes place in Cobb County, Georgia circa 1987:


The sweltering summer heat pounded down on the meticulously coiffed Vince McMahon Jr., the top wrestling promoter in the United States, as he walked the streets of Marietta, Georgia.

A pretty nice place as far as the south goes, he thought. But it sure as hell ain’t no Stamford.

Granted, it had been a while since he had been to Georgia. After all, this was NWA territory, and the idiots down here appreciated a much different style of wrestling compared to the more sophisticated tastes of the New York audiences. But things were changing. Hulk Hogan had just pinned Andre the Giant in front of 93,000 screaming fans in the Silverdome. It was time to break out of the regional territories and truly take the WWF national.

And if that meant pissing on the shoes of Jim Crockett and the NWA by holding a show in Atlanta — their own backyard — so be it.

Make no mistake, last night was huge. The Omni was sold out, packed to the rafters with 16,000 paying customers. Hogan and Kamala performed to the best of their abilities in the main event, a shitload of T-shirts were sold, and a lot of kids went home happy. Yes, last night will go a long way to solidifying the WWF’s presence in the southern market.

But what took place after the show was over — the very reason why Vince McMahon Jr., the top wrestling promoter in the United States, was sweating buckets under the Georgia sun as he walked the streets of Marietta — well, this was gonna be a PR nightmare.

Brutus “The Barber” Beefcake’s world was pitch black. His hands were bound, and he was pretty sure he was wearing some sort of hood or blindfold — but he doubted that the swelling of his eyes would allow him to see much of anything, anyway. His head was pounding. The taste of blood was still fresh on his lips.

He shook his head, trying desperately to clear the cobwebs. What the hell happened last night?

He remembers going out with Hogan and the boys after the show … but after that … nothing. A total blank.

The sound of echoing footsteps blasted through Beefcake’s cranium, each step penetrating his brain like a hot knife. Large, heavy footsteps. Probably the same monster that beat him senseless the night before. And the footsteps kept getting louder, closer …

Shit.

The top wrestling promoter in the United States.

Vince McMahon: The top wrestling promoter in the United States.

For a moment, he had actually considered letting Brutus Beefcake rot in Cobb County, Georgia. After all, he’s damn near useless as a performer, and it was getting harder and harder to find somebody who was not only willing to lose to the bum, but to also get their hair chopped off in the middle of the ring. But it’s never that easy. Beefcake is Hogan’s best buddy, and if there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that you gotta keep Hulk Hogan happy — no matter what the cost.

McMahon shook his head in disbelief. According to Howard Finkel, Beefcake pumped himself full of drugs at some cheap dive bar, went a little bit crazy, and started running naked through the streets of Atlanta screaming about demons and demi-gods. And then he vanished into the night.

It was until this morning when Gorilla Monsoon got a phone call from the Cobb County Sheriff’s Office that the company finally learned of Beefcake’s whereabouts. In his drug-fuelled insanity, he had somehow ended up in Marietta. And now here was Vince McMahon Jr., the top wrestling promoter in the United States, walking the sun-soaked streets about to post bail for one his drug-addled employees.

The jail cell door creaked open and the heavy footsteps got closer. Beefcake could feel the presence of the massive behemoth looming over him. He didn’t move. He was too terrified.

Crunch. Out of nowhere, a field of stars illuminated the darkness as he felt one his ribs explode. With the the blindfold on, there was no way he could see the kick coming.

The booming voice of his assailant echoed throughout the cell. “Git to yer feet, boy!”

Beefcake coughed and sputtered. More blood. Fresh blood.

“I said, git to yer feet!”

Crunch. Another kick. Beefcake groaned. “Stop … please … why …”

Big Bossman: Wrestling Legend.

Big Bossman: Wrestling Legend.

In one quick motion, the man removed Beefcake’s blindfold, and through the narrow slits he now called eyes, he could see the true form of his attacker. Not a demon like he had believed the night before. No, it was a large man, well over 300 pounds, wearing a cop’s uniform.

Crouching down, the cop violently grabbed Beefcake’s face. Although he was wearing sunglasses, Beefcake knew he was staring a hole through him.

“Why? Why? Because when you take a trip down to Cobb County, Georgia, you better read the signs and respect the law and order,” the cop barked. “Or else you’ll be servin’ hard time, boy.”

With that, he spat in Beefcake’s face, laughed, and rose to his feet. The cop then reached toward his belt, where he unsheathed a nightstick. It was caked in blood. He tapped the nightstick in the palm of his hand a few times before rattling it across the bars of the cell.

Clank-clank-clank.

“Somebody’s here to take you home, boy,” the cop snarled.

Clank-clank-clank.

“But I ain’t done with you yet.”

Clank-clank-clank.

“You done disgraced my city, punk. The city where my momma’s lived her entire life! You think she wants to live in a place where junkies like you run the streets?”

The rage in the cop’s voice was reaching a crescendo, when suddenly … silence. Beefcake braced for the worst.

The cop was now calm, collected. “And for that, I’m gonna make you walk the line.”

In a flash, Beefcake could see the red-stained nightstick hurtling toward him. And then his world went black once more.

Vince McMahon Jr. was tired of waiting. He was told Beefcake would be out in a minute. It had been fifteen. Dammit, he was the top wrestling promoter in the United States! He had a company to run! He didn’t have time for the dog-and-pony show of some hillbilly redneck police department!

That’s when Beefcake emerged from the back room of the police station. But he wasn’t doing so on his volition — he was knocked unconscious, being carried like a sack of potatoes on the enormous shoulders of a massive cop.

The cop stopped in front of McMahon. “Is this yours?”

McMahon looked at the cop incredulously. “Excuse me?”

“I said, is this sack of crap yours?”

McMahon couldn’t believe his eyes. Yeah, it was Beefcake, no doubt about that. At least, it used to be.

“Jesus Christ,” uttered McMahon. “What the hell happened to him?”

The cop unceremoniously tossed Beefcake to the floor.

“The Big Bossman happened to him,” the cop replied. “Now pick up your trash and get out of my county, boy.”

The cop turned to leave when McMahon grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Now hold on just a damn second,” McMahon growled. “Who did this to him?”

The cop tore off his sunglasses. There was a crazed glint in his eyes.

“What are you, boy? Deaf? Dumb?” The cop pointed to his shirt, the name Big Bossman stitched above his breast pocket. “You break the law in Cobb County, you gotta answer to me — the Big Bossman.”

McMahon’s eyes lit up, a sly grin creeping across his face. “How much do you make here in Cobb County, Bossman?”

“Enough to help my momma get by,” he answered.

McMahon nodded, then circled around the Bossman, sizing him up. “You’re a big fella. You get into lots of scraps here in your line of work?”

“Ain’t a man alive that can beat me, boy,” boasted the Bossman. “I’m the biggest, meanest, nastiest cop in all of Georgia, and that’s the truth!”

McMahon nodded again. “I see. Tell you what, Bossman. How’d you like to be a professional wrestler with the WWF?”

The Bossman didn’t answer.

“Just imagine. Money … fame … and you get to beat up punks like this for a living,” McMahon said, gesturing toward the motionless body of Brutus Beefcake. “And best of all, it’s completely legal, which means no Internal Affairs checking into reports of inmates with fractured skulls, that sort of thing.”

The Big Bossman paused momentarily before raising an eyebrow and leaning closer to McMahon. “Just how much money are we talking about here?”

On that day, the Big Bossman became a professional wrestler, and he received all that Vince McMahon promised him — and more. Although he never really won any championships of note, his career will be celebrated for generations to come due to his ferocity, tenacity, and a really awesome theme song.

He continued to work part-time for the Cobb County Department of Corrections until Internal Affairs stripped him of his badge in 1993. His dedication to law enforcement never wavered, however, as he juggled his impressive new career in the squared circle with dabblings in vigilantism and private security.

The Big Bossman is a shining example of how blue collar fatsos can make a decent living in the world of professional wrestling with very little actual training. Indeed, his is a true inspirational story. And for that, we salute him.

Big Bossman: Wrestling Legend.

Big Bossman: Wrestling Legend.

Great Ideas: Xtreme Weddings & Events

So you’re getting married, and like any happy couple, you want your special day to be absolutely perfect. But let’s face it — if you’ve seen one boring wedding in a church, you’ve seen them all (that is, if you could actually manage to stay awake for the whole thing).

You don’t want your guests to be bored to tears during the ceremony … do you? You don’t want them to pelt you with rotten, maggot-infested vegetables for wasting their precious time … do you? You don’t want them to burn down the church because your incessant lameness has unleashed some sort of primitive, unspeakable rage … do you?

Of course you don’t! You want your friends and family to talk about your nuptials for generations to come! You want the mayor to declare your special day a civic holiday on account of how much you rock! You want your in-laws to keel over dead right then and there, not because they will always disapprove of your sham of a marriage, but because they’ve been bombarded with lethal doses of in-ya-face, mind-shattering awesomeness!

Yes, if you’re looking to make your “day to remember” an actual day to remember — and I’m talking forever, like the days recounted in the Bible or Harry Potter — then you need to take your ceremony to the max with …

XTREME WEDDINGS & EVENTS

CURRENT WEDDING SPECIAL — “THE DESCENT”

Here comes the bride … from 20,000 feet! Take your vows TO THE XTREME as your entire wedding party leaps out of the rusted underbelly of a C-130 Hercules airplane! Our skydiving instructor / reverend is fully-trained, fully-equipped, and fully-ordained to ensure your ceremony is a soaring success!

Remember, when you’ve dropped so far and so quickly, there’s only one place for your marriage to go from here — and that’s up!

TO THE XTREME!

TO THE XTREME!

And hey, just because you’re approaching terminal velocity doesn’t mean you can’t also get the wedding video of your dreams! Shot from five different angles as you’re free-falling through the stratosphere (including Helmet-Cams on both the bride and groom) and edited on the premises by the same geniuses behind Michael Bay’s Hollywood blockbusters, your high-definition Blu-Ray wedding video will be so spectacular and action-packed it’ll make your pathetic bridesmaids cut themselves out of sheer jealously knowing that their wedding (yeah, as if that’ll ever happen) will never be as XTREME as yours!

BONUS OPTION:
If you really want to “take the leap” into marriage, then you’ll definitely want choose our famous Ring Toss Special! The sacred bands of matrimony gets thrown from the plane first, followed shortly by the bride and groom. If you catch the rings, you get married! If you miss, well, it simply wasn’t meant to be! It’s like playing a live-action game of Sonic the Hedgehog — TO THE XTREME!

TO THE XTREME!

TO THE XTREME!

THEME ROOMS FOR ALL OCCASIONS

Many conference centres and banquet halls have theme rooms such as “The Olympus” and “The Athena” … but what are these but empty labels? At XTREME WEDDINGS & EVENTS, when we name one of our rooms after something, we fucking mean it! Choose from a variety of themed rooms, including the following favourites:

THE SPARTAN

In these tough economic times, it simply doesn’t make sense to spend tens of thousands of dollars on tuxedos, wedding dresses, and decorations. So why not take you wedding back to a simpler time, when men were men and women were reduced to secondary plot devices?

When you hold your event in “The Spartan”, all of the men will be required to wear speedos and red capes, while the women will wear flimsy, see-through white togas. Better bring your cough drops, because yelling is mandatory for the guys — and savagely enforced by shock collars wired to decibel meters found throughout the room. To complete the experience, when the final vows have been made, you’ll get the opportunity to kick our Hollywood-trained stuntman / non-denominational minister into a bottomless pit!

TO THE XTREME!

MADNESS? THIS ... IS ... XTREME!

THE DIONYSUS

Named after the Greek god of wine and celebration, when you host your wedding reception or business event in “The Dionysus”, it’s all wine, all the time. Everybody has to drink — in fact, we have ex-Mossad private security officers stationed at every exit to test your blood alcohol levels. If you ain’t completely shit-faced, then you ain’t leaving! Complimentary taxi chits not included — because that’s not taking drunkenness TO THE XTREME!

TO THE XTREME!

TO THE XTREME!

THE OCTAGON

Isn’t it a pain in the ass trying to figure out who to put in your wedding party? Why not make the decision-making process part of the wedding ceremony itself? Yes, it’s time to find out who the “best man” really is.

When you hold your event in “The Octagon”, the two top contenders for each position will enter the cage — but only one will leave. Battered and bloody, the victors will take their place by your side as you say your vows. No longer will they feel like inanimate objects intruding on your special day — that feeling of awkward uselessness will be replaced with an irreplacable bond that can only be formed after defeating another man in hand-to-hand combat for your amusement and approval.

Traditional wedding presents such as toasters and coathangers will be replaced by the cold, hard cash produced by the wagers placed on the fights. And for those situations when wedding rings simply aren’t XTREME enough, our fully-sanctioned referee / cutman / holy father will award the bride and groom with matching championship belts.

TO THE XTREME!

TO THE XTREME!

BOOK YOUR SPECIAL EVENT TODAY!

No matter what type of event you’re looking to have, our XTREME-certified wedding planners can fully customize any of our packages to turn your experience into a truly one-of-kind, memorable spectacle for the ages. Contact us today to learn just how easy it can be!

When you want to take your special day to the max, say “I DO” to XTREME WEDDINGS & EVENTS!

Before They Were Superstars: Duke “The Dumpster” Droese

Not everybody is born to be a pro wrestler. For every Hulk Hogan and Ric Flair, there are countless others wannabes that have to work their way up from the very bottom, often working other jobs on the side just to make ends meet as they pursue their dreams of turnbuckled glory. But these people are the true legends of wrestling, for they display unparalleled dedication, hard work, and a pure will to succeed.

Duke “The Dumpster” Droese is one of these people. And this is his story.

Duke Droese: Wrestling Legend

Duke Droese: Wrestling Legend

The following scene takes place in Mount Trashmore, Florida, circa 1993:

EXT. STREET — MORNING

It’s mid-morning, not a cloud in the sky. A garbage truck, with two GARBAGEMEN hanging from the back, slowly rumbles down a very ordinary suburban street.

One of the garbagemen is DUKE DROESE. Dressed in plain blue coveralls and wearing a backwards baseball cap over his flowing mullet, Duke is in his mid-20s and built like a former college football player — a large frame (but not exactly chiselled from granite), standing about 6’6′” and tipping the scales close to 300 lbs. As the truck comes to a stop, Duke SIGHS and wipes his brow with his sleeve.

Duke half-heartedly hops off of the truck and walks towards the curb. His partner, BARRY, is already walking back to the truck, effortlessly carrying a garbage bag in each hand. Barry is older the Duke — lines of experience are etched into his tanned and leathery face.

Barry tosses a look of disappointment Duke’s way as he tosses the garbage into the back of the truck.

BARRY
Come on, Duke. Move it.

Duke picks up an aluminum trash can from the curb and walks back to the truck.

DUKE
How long has it been?

BARRY
Has what been?

Duke starts emptying the contents of the trash can into the back of the truck.

DUKE
Since you started working this shit job?

Barry shrugs.

BARRY
Goin’ on eighteen years now, I reckon.

DUKE
That’s a fuck of a long time, Barry.

Duke tosses the empty can towards the curb and steps onto his perch on the back of the garbage truck.

DUKE (cont’d)
A fuck of a long time.

Barry looks at Duke, hesitates, but says nothing. He steps onto his perch and bangs his fist on the side of the truck.

The truck lurches into motion and moves towards the next house. Mere seconds later, the truck stops again, and Duke and Barry hop off. Dozens of trash cans and garbage bags litter the sidewalk, while a pair of old tattered couches sit on the front lawn.

BARRY
Huh. Looks like the Thompsons finally moved out.
Been talkin’ about it for some time, you know.

Duke and Barry both pick up a pair of trash cans and head back to the truck.

DUKE
Yeah, I’ve been thinking about moving, too.
Gonna go up north. Connecticut, probably.

Barry empties his trash cans into the truck.

BARRY
That so?

DUKE
I’m not like you, Barry. I got bigger things
planned for my life, you know?

Barry steps aside as Duke empties his trash cans.

DUKE (cont’d)
I took Frankie to that WWF show at the
Coliseum a couple weeks back. You know,
Hulk Hogan and all that shit? Well, it really got
me thinking, seeing all those big old bastards up there
doing their thing. I said to myself, holy shit, I could do that.
I could be a fucking  pro wrestler, no sweat.

Duke and Barry walk back to the curb, tossing the empty trash cans onto the lawn.

BARRY
Lorenzo thinks you’re a real natural, you know.
He don’t say that ’bout too many garbagemen.

DUKE
I know, I know. This ain’t easy. (beat)
It’s just that Frankie deserves better than
growing up in Mount Trashmore.

Duke sits down on the arm of one the old couches. He wipes the sweat from his brow.

Barry grabs another trash can and takes it back to the truck.

BARRY
Hogan’s a real big fella, Duke.

DUKE
Yeah, so?

Barry unloads the trash can.

BARRY
I saw him doing autographs down at the mall.
Hands the size of hams, Duke. He could kill ya.

Barry nonchalantly tosses the empty can onto the lawn. He then takes a seat on the other arm of the couch and turns to face Duke.

BARRY (cont’d)
Please, think of Frankie. Think of Janine.
I’m sure Lorenzo will give ya a raise, if you ask.

DUKE
(calmly)
You don’t believe me, do you?

Barry stands up. Turning his back to Duke, he reaches for another trash can.

BARRY
Come on Duke. Move it.

Duke stands up.

DUKE
No! Anything he can do, I can do better!

Duke bends at the knees, wraps his arms around the end of the couch, and with considerable effort, hoists it up to waist level. His legs tremble and shake.

Duke GRUNTS, his face turning red.

With considerable effort, Duke GROANS and lifts the entire couch up over his head for a brief second before slamming it to the ground.

DUKE
(out of breath)
Yeah! You see that? Bodyslam, motherfucker!

Duke GRUNTS as he dives elbow first onto the broken couch. As he gets back to his feet, he kicks over one of the nearby trashcans, spilling its contents all over the sidewalk.

DUKE
(yelling)
You see that, Hogan? I’m coming for you!
I’m gonna destroy you!

Duke picks up a garbage bag. Holding it at chest height, he SNARLS as he tears the bag open like Hulk Hogan tearing a T-shirt, his arms fully extended as he stretches the flimsy plastic.

Duke seems oblivious as old pizza crusts and dirty diapers land on his feet.

Duke drops the shredded remains of the garbage bag as he lets loose A PRIMAL, GUTTERAL SCREAM. He then crouches, arms resting on his knees, panting and out of breath.

Barry puts his hand on Duke’s shoulder.

BARRY
Come on, Duke. Time to go.

DUKE
Yeah. Time to go.

Duke slowly rises to his feet and follows Barry to the garbage truck. Barry climbs onto the back of the truck, but Duke stands his ground.

DUKE
Go on without me, Barry. I’m done.

BARRY
But what will you do?

DUKE
I’m gonna get on the next bus to Connecticut,
march into Vince McMahon’s office,
and demand that he gives me a job!

BARRY pauses for a moment, then smiles.

BARRY
If you say so, Duke. If you say so.

Barry pounds on the side of the garbage truck. It slowly drives away from Duke.

BARRY (cont’d)
What do you reckon I should tell Lorenzo?

DUKE
Tell him that from this moment on, I am
a garbageman no longer! And when he sees me
next, it’ll be as WWF Heavyweight Champion
of the entire goddamn world!

A man of his word, Duke Droese made the trek to Titan Towers, and somehow, actually convinced Vince McMahon to give him a job as a professional wrestler. However, by that time, Hulk Hogan had already left the company, and Duke was saddled with the unfortunate moniker of “The Dumpster” due to his previous occupation and hilariously alliterative name. To make matters worse, McMahon really low-balled him on his contract, and to make ends meet Duke had to moonlight part-time as a garbageman in Stamford, Connecticut. He truly could not escape his destiny.

Duke “The Dumpster” Droese would go on to have a remarkable unnoteworthy career in the WWF, but dammit, he followed his dreams, and for that, he is a true legend of wrestling. And we salute him.

Duke Droese: Wrestling Legend

Duke Droese: Wrestling Legend

Gently Rapping

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

Stop! Hammertime.

Stop! Hammertime. But ... you know ... gently.

“‘T’is MC Hammer,” I muttered, “rapping at my chamber door —
MC Hammer, and nothing more.”