There is a hushed silence as the multi-weight world champion, Floyd ‘Money’ Mayweather, enters the press conference, everyone is waiting to hear him reveal just who he will be fighting next.
Will it be the other stand-out fighter of this generation, Manny Pacquiao? Or will Floyd again go for one of the young guns in Amir Khan? Maybe a rematch with Victor Ortiz, or a bout against Timothy Bradley?
No one knows for sure who Mayweather will share a ring with next, and as he sits down to address the crowd, we get the first glimpse of who won’t be his opponent.
Standing in the crowd behind Floyd’s trainer and advisors is Vicious Victor Ortiz. What is he doing wearing a Money Mayweather baseball cap? Floyd takes the microphone, and introduces his newest team member, a man who will be devoting his whole life to the whims and pleasures of Mayweather, Victor ‘Snogger’ Ortiz himself.
Looking at Floyd like a love-sick adolescent, Ortiz stakes centre stage for a moment to explain his position, and states that he just can’t help himself, the Pretty Boy makes him all excited (in a very special way), and he wants to sacrifice his own career to help Mayweather become the greatest fighter ever.
“If it means helping Floyd with a daily kiss and cuddle, then I don’t mind at all” Says Victor in a loving manner. “I’m sure I can think of some interesting ways that Floyd and me can ‘work out’ together!”
“Yeah well, who’s surprised about that?” Yells one of the assembled reporters, “You practically had the condoms out in that fourth round after you butted Floyd. I thought you were going to have his trunks off the way you were carrying on!”
Everyone in the crowd roars with laughter and Victor sits down looking a bit sheepish, but he keeps shooting Floyd amorous glances as Mayweather takes the microphone once more. “You don’t know shit!” Screams Floyd at the reporter. “If Ortiz wants to help me then so what? Now shut your head and let me do the talking.”
Mayweather then goes onto explain that his next fight won’t be with Timothy ‘Khan Ducker’ Bradley as he’s not a big enough name, and that Amir ‘The Bolton Bell End’ Khan isn’t in his league, so he won’t be fighting him, now or at any time in the future.
Suddenly there’s a commotion at the back of the room, and Amir Khan rushes up on to the stage to confront Mayweather. “I’m ready for you Floyd, you’re a chicken, I’ve got your number and you know it!”
Floyd stares back impassively, and grinning at Khan retorts, “Listen shit, you ain’t got my number man, you ain’t even got my telephone number you little runt. Now beat it, p****!”
Mayweather then clicks his fingers and Amir is jumped on by Ortiz, who cracks Khan over the back of the nut with an enormous out-sized vibrator, (from his personal collection), which lays poor Khan flat on his back, and out cold.
Mayweather laughs out loud at Amir’s demise, as does everyone the world over, and continues to explain who he’ll be facing next. To everyone’s astonishment, Floyd states that his next foe will be Pacquiao, and that he’s looking forward to settling the #1 P4P question once and for all.
A buzz goes around the room at the thought of this great match-up, and one of Mayweather’s lackeys goes on to explain their reasoning, and the terms for the Pacman bout, but he is interrupted by yet another commotion backstage.
The next thing everyone sees is the unconscious body of Ortiz flying through the air and landing with a thud against the far wall. He’s been hit from behind with a humdinger of a punch by none other than the blast from the past himself, Larry ‘T-Rex’ Merchant!
Kicking over the tables on stage, Merchant is confronted by one of Floyd’s personal entourage of tossers, the twat known as P Diddy. “Out of my way, Squiddy!” Screams Merchant as he karate chops his way Bruce Lee style through the musical moron, and whacking him in the face with a huge marble codpiece, moves onto his next target, the cretinous, fatuous arse known as 50 Cent.
There’s no stopping Larry now as he fires out a Tommy Hearns style right cross to the scrotum of 50 Cent, who clutching his now throbbing plums, sinks to the floor groaning in agony. “And fecking well put that baseball cap on straight, you miserable little shit” Roars Merchant to the (c)rapper, who’s next record will see him singing soprano after Larry’s brutal assault to the knackers.
Roger Mayweather rushes toward Merchant, and is stopped in his tracks by Max ‘The Cock’ Kellerman, who starts swinging blows. Roger casually pulls out of his pocket a three foot long diamond-encrusted hypodermic needle, and pokes it in Kellerman’s eye.
“Get Roger for me Jim!” Orders Merchant, and Jim Lamppost duly batters the senile old cretin into submission with a two-tonne mummified hedgehog that’d been soaked in pink gin.
‘T-Rex’ Merchant now stands face to face with a rather angry looking Floyd Mayweather, who screams obscenities into the face of the wrinkled one. Larry is pumped up though, and ignoring the trash coming out of Floyd’s mouth, he grabs him by the throat and nuts him into submission before whacking him with his overfilled colostomy bag, which bursts it’s foul contents over Mayweather’s face.
“You ain’t fighting Manny next, you’re fighting me!” Rants Larry. “I’m gonna kick your ass like I said I would, YOU don’t know shit, and you’re getting KO’d, trust me on that. Pacquiao’s retired anyway, him and Marquez are forming a singing duo, and touring the world’s premier gay bars with their act. So it’s time for you to get what’s coming to you, feeble Floyd!”
“What a great idea!” Pipes up Jose Sillyman, “We can make the fight for our inaugural WBC ‘Fossil’ belt, and we can have the WBC Interim ‘Can’t Think Up A Name For It But It’s Another Sanctioning Fee’ belt up for grabs too.”
“Yeah, and I’ll promote the fight.” Mutters a pus-filled, pile-ridden, poor excuse for a human being, who is revealed to be none other than Frank ‘The Excremental Smear’ Warren.
“Fecking hell, who let him in here?” Enquires a group of boxing writers, who getting into the spirit of things, leap on Frank and proceed to beat him to a bloody pulp, to the pleasure of all in attendance.
Once order is restored, the fight is formally agreed, and it’s also decided that with catchweights being all the rage, both fighters can weigh what they like for the fight. Sillyman then announces that the catchweight will have a new name, it’s to be called Wrinkleweight, in honour of Merchant’s age, which some scribes put at nearer 125,000 years rather than the hitherto accepted eighty.
And so to fight night itself. The final fight before the main event is a rematch between David ‘This Little Piggy’ Haye and Audley ‘Pant Crapper’ Harrison. The former WBA champ is trying to get himself back into the mix, and a hopefully a shot at Vitali, but unfortunately for David, things don’t quite go to plan.
In the pre fight build up Audley had promised to be more forthcoming with his punches, and he actually does make more of an effort to throw more than one punch every four rounds. A look of fear is still in his eyes as Haye tries to get him out of there, but unbeknown to everyone, Harrison has a sure fire plan to win the fight.
After five rounds of Audley retreating and Haye posing, Harrison strikes! With deadly accuracy he viciously stamps on Haye’s left foot, and a loud cracking sound is heard. David screams out in agony as his toes break, and collapses to the floor to be counted out.
Audley celebrates his upset win, and after waving his foot in everyone’s face, Haye hops back to his dressing room in disgrace, his career in tatters, and his shot at Vitali now likely going to Harrison.
Commentating at ringside, Ian Darke gets a laugh when he wonders just what Haye would’ve waved in everyone’s faces if he’d lost after being hit with a low punch!
Preliminaries over, it’s now time for the main event of the evening, and as is usual on these big fight nights, Michael Buffer introduces the proceedings.
“Will you all now please rise as here is a tone-deaf, talentless, saggy breasted old boiler in too much make-up, here to warble the national anthem in the awful manner you’re all used to on these occasions.”
The crowd groans with earache as the singing rings out over the speakers, followed by the sound of a skull being cracked open with a blunt instrument, which is in fact a concrete custard pie, wielded by the assailant, none other than Buffer himself. Having disposed of warbling cow, he continues his introductions.
“Oscar De La Hoya’s Transvestite Promotions in association with HBO’s Neanderthal Promotions, and Frank Warren’s Arse-Wipe Promotions are proud to present, ‘Blast From The Past!’ Fifteen rounds for the usual collection of belts that are worth about 20p and a pickled egg.
Sponsored by Bum-biter’s Baked Beans, fart like a champion.
Ricky Hatton’s Hat-Lax, lose those pounds with lightning fast speed.
Hayemaker’s Steel Toe-Capped Boots, protect those piggies.
Pacquiao Records, serenade your loved ones.
Ortiz Kissagrams, apologise with a hug and a kiss.
The officials brought back from the dead for this contest are as follows, your Timekeeper, Atilla The Hun. Counting the knockdowns, Abraham Lincoln. Doctors in attendance are Florence Nightingale and Dr Crippen. Steward in charge for the Nevada State Athletic Commission is Julius Caesar, assisted by Alexander the Great.
Your judges are Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder, and that well known blind Englishman, Dave ‘Where’s Me White Stick?’ Parris. The referee for the contest is that flabby-arsed cretin, the man who is completely clueless, Joe ‘Err, What Day Of The Week Is It?’ Cortez.
And now ladies and gentlemen, it’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for, LETS GET READY TO WRINKLE!
Born and raised during the last ice-age, and wearing a pair bejewelled tartan comms, he weighed in at fifteen stone six pounds. He’s the man who oversaw the creation of the universe, kept a pet dinosaur, and was for many years Wilma Flintstone’s secret lover. Known variously as the ‘Fighting Fogey’, the ‘Punching Pensioner’ and ‘Captain Colostomy’, it’s Larry ‘T-Rex’ Merchant!
And in the opposite corner is the man who cares nothing for world title belts, that’s why he carries them all into the ring with him, the clueless oaf. He’s a man who has all the charm of a herd of pubic lice, the most err, um, oh sod it, who cares? I can’t be arsed, you all know who it is.”
Floyd doesn’t look too happy at that rather unusual introduction, and Cortez calls the two of them together for their final instructions. Mayweather has his usual chief second, and also Ortiz in attendance. Merchant has his cornerman, Jim Lamppost with him at his side.
Cortez commences his final instructions, “Larry, do you take this man to be your lawful wedded husband?”
“I do!” Whispers Ortiz in Floyd’s ear, as Cortez tries to work out what planet he’s on today.
After trying to christen Floyd, and having finally worked out that he’s refereeing a prize fight, Cortez gives the usual pep talk to the two fighters, and in a sudden burst of awareness, motions the fight to begin.
The bell sounds and Merchant goes straight onto the offensive, but Mayweather is too fast, and dancing away, keeps the jab in the old octogenarian’s face for the whole round.
The second and third rounds are better for Merchant, as he gets closer to Mayweather, and begins to pummel away at his ribcage. Floyd’s more precise punching takes both rounds however, and Larry has to endure warnings from Cortez, who’s not happy when Merchant gets close and roughs Mayweather up.
The fourth round is won by Merchant’s strong body-punching, although it seems Floyd has taken the round off for a breather. Mayweather gets back on his bike in the fifth and takes it easily with some superb jabbing as Larry tries to work his way in.
Early in the sixth round, Cortez gets in between the two fighters to break them, and gives Merchant a warning for a low blow, when in fact, the blow was legal. This angers Larry, and he remonstrates with Cortez who refuses to budge. “Sod this for a game of toy soldiers” mutters Merchant, and he grabs Cortez, swings him around above his head, and throws him out of the ring in a manner that would make many a professional wrestler jealous.
Poor Joe lands on his copious belly, and bounces back up skywards, eventually going into orbit around Mars, where he gets a job refereeing fights between aliens for the WBC Martian belt. The sanctioning bodies will stoop at nothing to make more loot it seems.
Back on planet Earth, Merchant is beginning to get more into the fight. It’s the seventh round, and his body-punching is starting to have a much greater effect on Floyd, who seems to be a little tired. It seems things are about to get interesting as Larry is definitely coming on the stronger as the eighth round gets underway. Floyd though isn’t finished yet.
As Merchant rushes forward once more, Mayweather times a beautiful one-two, and Larry crashes to the canvas, looking rather dazed and confused. The replacement ref, Kenny Bayless, begins the count and as he reaches ‘seven’, Jim Lamppost shouts from the corner to Merchant, “Larry, fifty years younger remember?”
Those words have a strange effect on Merchant, and he leaps to his feet with youthful energy, and as the fight resumes, starts to really go for it. Floyd looks a little startled as this turn of events, but as ever, his defence is keeping him out of harm’s reach.
Between rounds, Bayless goes to Floyd’s corner and gives him a final warning about his use of the elbows, ducking below the waist, and leaning his head back over the ropes to avoid punches.
The bell goes for the start of the ninth round, and Mayweather, heeding the ref’s warning, decides the time has come to put an end to proceedings. He pounds Larry all over the ring, but the punches don’t seem to be having any effect on the older fighter. If anything, Floyd’s assault looks to have tired him badly, and Merchant, seeing his chance, leaps forward with a cracking left hook, and astonishingly, down goes Mayweather!
Floyd’s up at nine, and the bell goes to save him from any further punishment, but he does look the worse for wear. Larry is back in his corner grinning from ear to ear as Jim Lamppost gives him his instructions, and tells Merchant that he’s here to kick Mayweather’s ass.
Fired up by the words from Lamppost, Larry comes out determined to do just that, and taking advantage of Mayweather’s exhaustion, rips punch after punch into Floyd’s body and head.
A sizzling right cross land squarely on Mayweather’s jaw, and he falls on his knees to the canvas, facing out into the crowd. He’s badly dazed, and as the count reaches ‘eight’, he falls forwards onto his head, with his posterior sticking up in air, as if kneeling forward to pray.
Bayless counts to ten and Mayweather is out! The ref then signals to Merchant and asks if he’d like to administer the coup de grace. Larry steps forward, and with a mighty swing of his boot, kicks Floyd’s ass, just as he said he would!
Poor Mayweather lands in the arms of ‘Snogger’ Ortiz, who proceeds to kiss him better all over, and Merchant takes the acclaim of the crowd. However, he has one more surprise up his wrinkled old sleeve.
While being interviewed in the centre of the ring by Max ‘The Cock’ Kellerman, Merchant states that there’s something he’s always wanted to do. He grabs the mike from Kellerman’s hand, shoves it roughly up his nose, and then boots him straight in the cobblers. “That’s for thinking you could take my place on the HBO team, you spotty-arsed little runt!”
The Bolton Bell End aka Amir Khan then gets into the ring and challenges Merchant to a fight, saying that Roach has the perfect plan to beat him. Larry simply smiles, and turning to Amir he whispers menacingly, “Don’t you ever shut up, you loud mouthed limey?” He then plants his knee sharply in Khan’s feebly small genitals, and strolls off into the sunset, point well and truly proven.
