Now, for your feature presentation...

Written and directed by the magnificent...

Glorious...

Stunning...

Absolutely flawless...

Enigmatic...

Ripplemagne.

* * *

(But not really...)

* * *

[Current Track: "Imperial March" by Metallica]

* * *

Episode I
EPIC WIN

It is a period of uncertainty. International federation, Action Wrestling League, is in a state of repair. With its talent lacking, the Republic has taken a measure and has turned to a saving grace.
Salvation is within their grasp as talent has faded, gold is distributed to the classless and the Empire has seized unparalleled power. In a final act of desperation, the Republic has signed a contract that may very well change the face of the galaxy. Informally trained Jedi, Ripplemagne, has taken the podium and has raised his lightsaber against the tyranny and decadence of the Imperial rule.
It is prophecised that the fate of the universe rests in the hands of the young Ripplemagne's ability to redefine Action Wrestling (League) and the sport as a whole.

* * *

The camera pans right into a black screen, where text appears...

* * *

And now, for your feature presentation...

* * *

The black screen opens up in a circular motion, displaying a darkened room with a red curtain in the background. A beige rope swaggers back and forth in the upper right hand corner of the screen as a young man with chin-length blonde hair leans back, arrogantly, with his hands behind his neck in a director's chair. A haughty smirk is pasted on his face as the lighting accentuates his glistening blue-green eyes.

Clad in a skin tight pink t-shirt and a long ebony trench coat with the cuff-buttons opened wide, a pair of glistening silver dog tags hanging from his slender neck, the rather movie-star-esque lad releases an almost imperceptible titter before speaking...

???:
"A little over the top, no?"

The voice comes from off-camera; it's warm and feminine with an English accent lavished with a touch of an undisclosed European enunciation.

The young man in the chair bats his long eyelashes and monotonously gently sheers his passive, angular arms down to chest level, gently twirling his left index finger beneath his chin, while grasping his left tricep with his right hand. It's noted that the collar of his jacket is popped almost entirely, giving off a rather fashionable, flamboyant demeanor to him as he digs into the pocket of his light blue, 1960s jeans. He pulls out a nozzle of cherry chapstick and smears it, delicately, across his lips. He rolls them together and makes a popping sound as he looks upward into the direction the voice came from...

???:
"You just don't understand the Ripplemagne's incomparable ingenuity. That, bonny, was a masterpiece of an accomplished virtuoso that transcends the ages and captivates the soul of the wimmenz. Neither George Lucas nor William Shakespeare nor Ernest Hemmingway nor Leonardo DaVinci could capture such bliss in a mental still-frame and transgress it into such beauty.

But wimmenz don't understand such complex matters. So, I don't blame you for not seeing the grandeur status of it, Izzy-bella."

His voice was calm and as egotistical as his appearance attested to. But he didn't seem to put emphasis or passion into any of his words, which made them really sink in when he said them. His words were delicate with a noticeable New York accent spicing them up.

The voice of the girl was soon met with a striking visualization. A young girl -- likely in the same age range as the young guy -- with mid-length blonde hair, soft features and heart piercing aqua-marine eyes. A knitted scarf was thrown around her shoulders with a fashionista archetype; she seemed to have a very attractive frame and aesthetic sense. From where she was standing, it was hard to make out what else she was wearing, but it consisted of some type of white shirt or jacket.

She stepped into frame as the camera panned back to give a shot of both individuals...

Izabel:
"Oh, please. Not this again. Lets not have this argument again. Just cut your promo'."

Ripplemagne:
"Mon amie, mon amie. Not a moment sooner than when I am compelled to will I pierce the Heavens with the gifted hand of the Ripplemagne..."

He spoke in somewhat of a playful tone as she seemed amused, but tried to keep a straight face. It didn't really work. He sat back in his seat as she stared a hole in him.

A lovable smirk appeared on his face as he giggled to himself as he flicked his hair to the side and dusted his white-gloved hands together. Finally, the silence was cut as Ripplemagne cleared his throat...

Ripplemagne:
"I'm ready now."

Sensing a disturbance in the force, Izabel stepped out of frame. Jedi instincts, yo. No more than three seconds later, Ripplemagne bolted out of the director's chair, sending it hurtling backward. He careered out of the seat toward the camera, looking deep into the lenses. By the motioning of the camera, we can tell that the cameraman is shuffling around, a bit unsure of how to react. Ripplemagne with a big smirk, wraps his white linen gloved left hand around the lens and "manually adjusted the view."

He cocks his neck as Izabel is heard muttering something we can't pick up. The enigmatic Ripplemagne looks over the view of the camera, presumably to say something to the cameraman behind it before looking back down.

Ripplemagne:
"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages... Degenera--

...Allow me to introduce myself, so you too... can see why critics... are raving."

Izabel:
"Oh, boy..."

Ripplemagne:
"Silence, female! I'm trying to make my debeauty!"

Izabel:
"Don't you mean 'debut'?"

Ripplemagne:
"I meant what I said and said what I meant.

Ahem... as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted!"

With a level of scorn that one could pick up was satire and out of jest, Ripplemagne glared at Izabel and turned back to the camera before shifting gears as his tone changed to a rather passionate, dramatic sequence of words...

Ripplemagne:
"Take a gander; remember my face, remember my name because history, certainly, will. I... am the magnificent, the infamous, the magnanimous, the grandiose... the picture of perfection... the Patriarch of Pretty... Ripplemagne...! "

Izabel:
"Woo..."

Ripplemagne:
"Who the Hell said you could speak!? Make yourself useful and make me a sandwich, wimmenz!"

Ripplemagne's satirical reaction to her sarcasm was met with him getting hit with a flying projectile in the form of a pen, which met the side of his head. Though Ripplemagne did a very good job of breaking the monotone shifts of his voice -- from dramatic to soft and calculating -- by yelling in a rather eccentric fashion.

Ripplemagne:
"That's it! You're getting beaten with the wall mounted telephone when this is over with!"

Izabel:
"Don't you think it would be a better idea to actually make your debut instead of trying to fratire and argue with m--"

Ripplemagne:
"What the Hell are you doing out of the kitchen?! Oh, we're going to have a long talk about this later."

An audible sigh is heard from Izabel, from out of camera view. Ripplemagne, once again, clears his throat to speak with a somewhat pretentious and delighted look on his face...

Ripplemagne:
"Now, if there are no further interruptions, I'd like to ask the Action Wrestling League Reunion committee just one damn question before I get in the ring...

...How hot are the female competitors? To be honest, I haven't really watched the show, but generally, the wimmenz are quite delectable. Scrumptious, even. So, I was just, y'know, wondering... being that we're going to be co-workers and all. I don't think it's very fair for someone as gorgeous as myself to be associated with a federation that doesn't have an estrogen-charged counterpart or two... or three... maybe six... to match.

Hm... scratch that. It's impossible for match my dashing good looks and pulchritudinous aura. A quarter of my excellence will suffice... for now."

Izabel:
"We're on a strict time frame here!"

Ripplemagne:
"You're just jealous because you're not as pretty as me, honey bunches of oats.

Hm... what was I going to say? Oh, right! My debeauty! It will be a sexy debeauty! Full of 'sex' and 'y'! And let me tell you... the 'y' is pretty damn emphatic! Ah, the long lineage of the glory that is 'y' and how awesomely it relates to the epitome of perfection that is the Ripplemagne..."

Izabel:
"Um... Rippie... maybe you should... um... not go into a history lesson about the onomatopoeia of 'y'. Yes?"

Ripplemagne:
"...Well, what would you suggest that the Ripplemagne spends his precious time discussing?"

Izabel:
"The AWL Reunion? AWL? Your match? The superstars in the AWL? William Reign? The tournament you're involved in?"

Ripplemagne:
"Ah, yes! The Action Wrestling League and William Reign. Well, well, I have a list of demands for you peoples that will all be acknowledged and approved or the Ripplemagne is taking the championship title and departing on my merry, illustrious way!"

With that, Ripplemagne stands up from the stool and begins plundering the depths of his trench coat pocket, looking for something and then pulls out a parchment of some sort and pulls something out as the paper drops down to the floor, forming a long scroll that doubles over itself several times on the ground."

Izabel:
"Um... Ripplemagne, I don't know if you should go making demands in your first match. And uh... you don't have a championship title."

Ripplemagne:
"Semantics!"

Izabel:
"But--"

Ripplemagne:
"Lies! Slander! Deceit! Duplicity! Heresy! Blasphemy! Shenanigans!"

A sigh escaped the lips of the young girl as she sat down on a nearby, out-of-frame sofa and mounted her chin in her palm.

Ripplemagne:
"Ahem... item number one...! The Ripplemagne requires all of his beverages to have a lemon on the rim of it and two little red straws, so that he can be lazy and not tilt his cup.

Item number two... in spite of item number one, the Ripplemagne will always have a servant -- preferably female with an immodest rack -- to navigate said straws into his mouth.

Item number three... Frenchmen are gay.

Item number four... Canada sucks.

Item number five... should Santa Claus fail to visit the Ripplemagne's home in December or provide him with a demure gift such as 'coal' again, the Action Wrestling League will reimburse this terrible, unfortunate dilemma by providing the Ripplemagne with many toys, electronics and wimmenz.

Item number six... all your base are belong to the Ripplemagne.

Item number seven... Leeroy Jenkins.

Item number eight... the Ripplemagne is the best at everything with no exceptions. If there is someone better than the Ripplemagne -- an impossibility -- he must, immediately, be assassinated by cybernetically and genetically altered ninja chimpanzees with sausage links that they will use as nunchakus.

Item numb--"

Izabel:
"How many demands did you, actually, make?"

Ripplemagne:
"Only seven-hundred and ninety-three. I tried to keep it modest."

After a brief stare down between the two, Izabel sat up from the sofa, dusted off and calmly walked over to Ripplemagne, who seemed to whimper as she approached him. After blinking several times with a stoic expression on her face, Izabel snatched the list from his hands as he tried, in vain, to retrieve it, as she slapped him on the nose, forcing him to sit down with a defeated look on his face.

Ripplemagne:
"But I didn't even get to talk about the underground Mole People invading the Lost City of Atlantis and how Captain Underpants would save the Liliputians from their fate at the hands of the dreaded Hunter Weiss."

Izabel:
"Hunter Weiss? You're familiar with the Action Wrestling League's monster?"

Ripplemagne:
"Nope."

Izabel:
"...But you just mentioned his name."

Ripplemagne:
"No, I didn't."

Izabel:
"Yes, you did. I heard you."

Ripplemagne:
"You must be imagining things. Ash Koopa is just the name of the guy I created for my Birdman fanfic."

Izabel:
"We're not talking about Ash Koopa! We're talking about Hunter Weiss!"

Ripplemagne:
"Did I ask you?! Gawsh! What is it?! Like twenty questions or something?! Damn it! Man... no respect at all."

Izabel:
"And we weren't talking about this apparent 'Birdman fanfic' either. We were talking about the underground Mol-- you know what? Do whatever you want."

Ripplemagne:
"Fine!

So, I'm rather interested in working with names like Sai Eros, Ash Koopa, Hunter Weiss and Jin Ryusaki. An--"

Izabel:
"Now you're going to address them? When we're almost out of film?!"

Ripplemagne:
"Well, gawsh! If you don't want me to, then I won't!"

The two argue and bicker amongst one another as the camera runs out of film and blacks out.

* * *