Crazy Capitalist News

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It was a fairly small office with eclectic marble floors covered by a thick crimson carpet laid out beneath an enormous oak wood desk. Atop the oak wood surface was several stacks of papers, three or four portfolio folders, a moderate-size desk lamp flickering at the base due to the bulb going dead, among a few nooks including a family photo in a star-shaped frame, a Jester Smiles bobble head and one of those toys where you pull the pants down and it pees.

A name plate was slapped on the flat edge of the front of the desk where it read "WILLIAM REIGN". It had a thin layer of dust over it, which was made visible from the sun peering through the white blinds of the window in the corner. Despite the frigid weather, New York did have fairly sunny skies at the moment.

Propped in a large black leather computer chair with rather defined arm rests was William Reign, hunched over the desk, writing something on a piece of paper. Presumably business stuff...

The camera finally turned to the mauve, wooden door, clad in golden locks that were left open. A few screams were heard outside as William Reign looked up, raising his eyebrow as he realized that one of the voices was that of one of his security agents.

After a few seconds, the door blasted open to a white sneaker thrusting into it. Upon this, William Reign jumped and raised an eyebrow to see the foot lower. A figure with dark blonde hair, piercing blue-green eyes and a haughty demeanor stood with his hand on his hip.

Beneath his ebony trench coat was a royal blue t-shirt with the acronym "WKUK" and "Whitest Kids You Know" written beneath it in small print. Beyond that, he was clad in mismatched sneakers, white linen gloves, 1960s jeans and dog tags...

Rather irritated by this, William Reign identified the man as the newly signed Ripplemagne. Thinking it was better just to see what he wanted, William Reign sat up and plopped his chin in his palm; the same arm with his elbow propped up in the arm of his chair...

Ripplemagne:
"Hey! Billy!"

William Reign:
"Normally, I wouldn't tolerate this kind of behavior, but seeing as you're new, I'll let it slide this once. What is it?"

Ripplemagne:
"I have a question!"

William Reign:
"Shoot."

Ripplemagne:
"Are we allowed to say 'you're gay' on television?"

Putting air quotes up when he said 'you're gay', Ripplemagne stood up straight with a curious look on his face...

William Reign:
"Have you ever seen one of Hunter Weiss' segments? We've heard a Hell of a lot worse than that. Yes, you can."

With an expression of glee, Ripplemagne turned back to the doorway, shouting back into the other room.

Ripplemagne:
"Billy just said we can say he's gay on television!"

As Ripplemagne bolted out of the room to tell God knows who about this recollection, William Reign boiled with anger and chased him out of the room...

View the original.

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And now, for your feature presentation...

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The scene opened up with a shot of white tiled floor; a brown one every few spaces or so. There was one, in particular, with a crack down the middle of it, zig zagging and corroding while the one next to it was becoming a faint yellow color. In the background, it sounded like a Christmas song was playing, but you couldn't really decipher what it was, though we garner the words "I don't care who, but someone just grabbed my ass" from it. Eerie.

The camera slowly motions upward, getting a shot of the camera, showing the cameraman and his trusty... camera. Waving to it, he slowly rotates around as we get full view of a bathroom of some sort. A round, bowl like sink with a fairly thin drain and those push-button faucet controls. It looked like the mirror had a scratch down the middle of it like someone slashed it with a thick diamond...

The walls were painted pink, but didn't match the white ceiling that kind of clashed with it. There was only one stall and it was closed, but no one was in it. Instead, next to it, there was a man half sitting down and half leaning against the wall, his face buried in his white linen gloved hands and his body covered in a black coat of some sort. His silken, glistening hair hung down over his hands as he looked up with a D: face on...

Ripplemagne:
"It has happened. I have been defeated. So naively, I attempted to one-up the amazing Rurik Krychek by lamenting his fecal-residue breath on a broadcast of mine. How could folly overtake me so drastically and lead me down this self-defeatist path? And why did he have to shatter my ego with his hurtful words! It has finally happened and my soul is shattered by this series of unfortunate events -- was that movie any good...?

Blast! My cover is blown."

Finally, he stands up straight to reveal his piercing blue eyes and pearl white teeth as he grinned a big trail of them. Despite blowing his cover at the last second, he was a fairly good actor. Though, blowing his cover was likely done intentionally. A chuckle escaped his lips as he stood upright with his shoulders up and chest out...

Ripplemagne:
"Did I wound your pride, Rury? Such venomous words for such an innocent comment; so much so that you dedicated quite a hefty... hefty, hefty, hefty... wimpy, wimpy, wimpy...

...Er... dedicated... er... what was I gonna say? Oh, right. You dedicated quite a significant portion of your broadcast to lambasting me on as many levels as you could, despite the fact that my remark was clearly done in jest -- perhaps even chaffing -- as I've never been face to face with you. And given the context of the discussion, where we went back and forth in hyberbole and even outright duplicity -- even though I did, once, make popcorn on my stove, blindfolded with one hand tied behind my back, while juggling on a unicycle -- it should have been made obvious that such things were not intended to 'get one over on you'.

Communism. srs bsns.

But, clearly, you're a well read man who takes pride in his keen intellect. That is a glorious thing, but being an intellectual is not mutually inclusive with being a lone ranger, paranoid that everyone is out to do him harm. But the damage is done; apparently, I hit a little too close to home on Rury and he felt the need to mask his halitosis by making me the focal point of discussion.

Fair enough. I know that you make a past time out of discussing such topics with others and I'm rather enthralled with this aspect of you, so I'll give you the tools you need to try and psychoanalyze me by addressing each of your points.

Your first criticism stagnates on the idea that the wimmenz are not worth the Ripplemagne's time and that I am either too into myself or the alternative is at play. Rather interesting deduction, I must say, but I'd like you to clarify before I specify my sexual orientation; where did you deduce this from? Where has the Ripplemagne cited that the wimmenz were not worth his time?

Let me guess, you took the fratire of the Ripplemagne's first broadcast literally, didn't you? Lets bar the fact that satire eludes your scope of reality for just a moment and consider if the Ripplemagne did mean it literally. You following?

How does that correlate with the Ripplemagne thinking that they are not worth his time? Like much of society, you confuse sexism with misogyny. One can acknowledge gender differences without hating the opposite sex.

...Hehe... I said sex on television...

...Accursed attention span. I've lost my place a gain!

...Oh, yes. You needn't believe in gender equality to be a heterosexual, Rury. Did you notice how Izabel didn't storm off the set or throw a tantrum? Did you actually pay attention to her facial expressions? It clearly indicated laughter because the undertones indicated that the claims were not legitimate.

Beyond that, however, you take a striking interest in my sexual orientation. Why is that? You claim you're not homophobic and that affirms that you're not afraid of homosexuals, but what do you have against them? Hypothetically speaking, lets assume that the Ripplemagne were homosexual -- what business would it be of yours?

You see, Rury, you entertain me. I don't hate you or think ill of you. A lot of people probably view you for the image you try to portray; as you cited -- cold, cruel and bitter. That's the case with most individuals; they develop an image of what they wish to view themselves as and they play fantasy, trying to live up to that mold they've created.

You said it for me, yourself; 'Unlike Bill Hicks, I mean to sound like that, and therefore I do sound like that.' Under the surface, you're an average, ordinary man, living his life like anyone else. Granted, I will, certainly, give you that you know your material, that's the only difference between you and the average man. The facade you put on is, merely, a figment of your imagination.

Someone who was cruel, cold, distant and bitter wouldn't need to say that they are such because it would be self-evident. John F. Kennedy, once, said 'If we are strong, our strength will speak for itself. If we are weak, words will be of no help.'

No doubt you enjoy educating yourself, so when you read this, look up 'method acting'. It's a form of acting in which a person plays the role of their character twenty-four and seven to better get into the attitude of the individual.

Individuals who go on tangents, attempting to describe themselves are, in essence, trying to give the observer a pre-conceived notion, so that others will view them for what they hope for them to believe.

I'm sure you've come across them; they, typically, say things like 'I'm crazy', 'I'm a bitch', 'I'm smart', 'I'm funny', 'I am eccentric', et cetera. Wherein it's a factor of self-reflection or impartial observation -- for example, if I were to acknowledge the fact that I am beautiful -- then it doesn't really pertain to the anatomy of propagating ideas.

In other words, citing 'I am cruel', you're projecting what you want people to view you as into their mind before they get a chance to meet you. Personally, the Ripplemagne does not think you are cold, distant or bitter.

In all honesty, I think that you feel the rush of the crowds booing you and love to be hated. That attention drives you into a state of bliss; being acknowledged -- whether good or bad and lets face it, bad is much easier. So, you've developed this Marinate persona to do so.

There is, of course, the off chance that my psychoanalysis of you is pure shenanigans, but perhaps you should reflect on that, yes?"

Finally, there was movement other than Ripplemagne's hands when he was speaking -- an Italian quirk -- as he stood up and walked passed the camera man and opened the door, passing an individual about to enter into that bathroom.

Now, they were along an aisle of some sort with seats lining both sides. With white, oddly shaped walls and windows by each seat, it was easy to deduce that they were on a plane.

The cameraman followed Ripplemagne back to his seat, where he propped down and looked back at the camera...

Ripplemagne:
"As you've probably guessed, I am currently on my flight to Toronto... and... very bored. Curse my attention span! Where are my lentils!?"

Stewardess:
"Sir, we don't have lentils. I can get you a bag of nuts, if you like..."

Ripplemagne:
"Hush your filthy mouth! We are on broadcast right now!"

Stewardess:
"Sir...?"

Ripplemagne:
"Fine, fine. But wait until we land; doin' the dirteh on a plane gives me the willies. And giving you the will--"

Stewardess:
"What!?"

Ripplemagne:
"Nobody has to know..."

Thrusting his body forward, he batted his eyelashes very overemphatic and purred...

Stewardess:
"Sir!"

Ripplemagne:
"Alright, fine! You can tell one friend!"

Stewardess:
"I'm going to the back..."

The brunnete girl turned and began to walk off...

Ripplemagne:
"In the back?! Whoa. We've just met! What if your pooper is brown instead of pink? The Ripplemagne does not think he can live with that kind of-- hey! Come back!

...Tease!

...I'm sorry. You're not a tease. Come back...

...TEASE!

...She wants me."

Now mounted above the seat of the irritated person in front of him, Ripplemagne plopped down on his seat and turned back to the camera...

Ripplemagne:
"She was totally hurtin' for a squirtin'.

Anyway, yes, we're going to Canadia -- home land of Hockey... Maple Leaves... and uh... not too much else. Which means I'm departing from my hometown for the first time in my wrestling career. So, I wanna give a shout out to my peoples back in New Yawk! Tyler, Billy, Skell, Jay, Harry, Jason, Ashley, Greg, Bad Chris and Ugly Chris! And as we all know, there is no Good Chris..."

Producer:
"Wouldn't you be?"

Ripplemagne:
"Huh?"

Producer:
"Isn't your nam--"

Ripplemagne:
 "Look! It's Fred Flintstone!"

Producer:
"Really?!"

The Producer looked back as Ripplemagne chuckled to himself and leaned back with a smirk on his face, garnering some glares from the people on the plane as the scene cut out...

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