"Boy, look at those clouds!" Fat Guy Guaranteed said to himself. Maneuvering his 1985 Mazda RX-7™ through midday traffic, the last of a race gazed at the horizon through his light blue tinted windshield.
"Yes, indeed," he smiled. "Those clouds are omenous. Not like 'ominous,' which would be bad. No. Surely these majestic clouds are a good omen, like when it started to rain in The Natural.'"
As if on cue, the finale from Antonin Dvorak's 8th Symphony started on Fat Guy's discboy™, and appropriately enough, he floored the gas pedal. Unfortunately, the Subaru™ ahead of him wasn't moving too quickly, and its back fender went SKRUNCH.
Fearing the worst, Guaranteed reached for his 12-gauge, but relaxed when an old woman stumbled out, assisted by a stainless steel walker™. Little did the overweight ombudsman know this little old lady was the same one who beat the hell out of Gabriel Byrne with her purse in the Coens' Miller's Crossing.
"OH SHIT!" Guaranteed gasped. "I thought she was dead!!"
He hit the gas again.
Granny shook her crumpled walker™ as she receded in the rear-view mirror, cursing the Fat Guy like some kind of vulgar old woman.
Guaranteed gave her the finger, shouting "YOU GOT NO BALLS" as he sped away.
Jack Bronstein sipped his burFresca and smiled at the Guaranteed One
"You're sure you don't want me to pick up the tab?" he said.
"Mr. Bronstein, you can pay me back as soon as you make the first million dollars off this splendid movie I just cooked up over at the canto factory!"
When Guaranteed grinned stupidly and gave Bronstein a hearty thumbs-up at the end of his sentence, Jack was quick to note that the Fat Guy engineers seemed to be taking a lot of liberties with his original design.
"Y'know, a whole legion of you cows seemed like a really good idea . . ."
(And so, Jack Bronstein cloned an entire race of genetically superior Fat Guys from one fat guy, and the results were quite stunning.)
"BANK!!" Fat Guy Guaranteed shouted, putting away another Vanilla Flavored Burrito. "Money in the bank, Jack. Wait until you hear this!"
Bronstein said, "What do you mean, wait? You mean I can't tell you what I think of the idea until I know what the idea is? What the hell is wrong with you? How could I do that, Einstein? HOW COULD I DO THAT?"
"Excuse me, Jack. You seem upset."
"I seem upset? I MADE you, you stupid cheese melt! What the hell do you know? And if you call me Jack again, I'll-I'll-"
Someone walked by whistling the main melody from the second movement of Beethoven's Seventh, and the color seemed to flee from Jack Bronstein's face.
"You'll what?" Fat Guy Guaranteed laughed. "Kill me? The Fat Guys are your legacy on this planet, Mr. Bronstein. You were foolish enough to kill the others ... Fat Guys Platonic, Discount, Aquatic, Genuine Article (a misnomer if ever I heard one), Vengeance, Clandestine-I think you get the idea. I'm all that's left, Jack. It was you who destroyed the Fat Guy Trans-Generator™ back in '96. So either you hid another one in your avocado orchard, or I'm all you've got left. So you make this movie ... or smoke it." Bronstein looked up at the Bruno Bronson Jr.™ 2000 security cam and remarked sheepishly, "It seems that the hunter has become the hunted."
Dimitri Donskoi may have banished the Mongols from Russia in the 1300s, but he wasn't even half as fat as Fat Guy Guaranteed.
After Jack had made the phone call notifying the entire college of Gods that this movie was 'Guaranteed' to be a success, he opened the last burFresca and dimmed the lights.
"The floor is yours ... fat guy."
Guaranteed took the offensive at once. In a mere two hours he headed 'crosstown' to Lenny T's Blockbluster Endodermment™, rented a DVD™, paid his $25 fine, grabbed The Empire Strikes Back 1998 Revamped Cotton-Lined Laserdisc Aspect Ratio Director's Edition©, and set up the full 'dokken' right there before Jack's eyes.
Fuller of himself than he was of burritos, Fat Guy Guaranteed chuckled "most omenous indeed" and instructed his sidekick Tubby to start the movie.
"Here is the scene," Guaranteed declared, pointing at the giant 72" x 60" Sony™ Trinonomicon® TV Set gizmo with a ruler. "Bear in mind this would be even 'mor dokken' if it were in HDTV™. The Rebels™ are under attack from General Veers and his Imperial Walkers™. Some call them 'Snow Walkers™,' while their offical name is 'All-Terrain Armored Transport™,' or 'AT-AT™.'"
"Jerk-off," muttered Bronstein. He smiled. "Please go on, Guaranteed."
"Ahem. This is a moment of great terror for Luke Skywalker™ and the Rebellion™. Although the formidable Ion Cannon™ manages to make some headway against the approaching Imperial Starfleet™, their Snowspeeders™ are no match for the lumbering Walkers™. This is where Lucas failed. Instead of asking Irvin Kershner to think up some nifty 'action moves' he should have gone for comic relief. Namely, Andrew Clay Silverstein's 'walkers' bit. Tubby, hit the audio."
The laserdisc continued to play Empire, but there was a new audio track. It was none other than Andrew Dice Clay's 1991 release 'Dice Rules.'
"... They got Walkers. They got fuckin' Walkers. And they're slow as shit!!"