Bad PR....

(The camera opens on a cerulean blue wall with the words "Dubya Sea Dubya" written in big, repeating, purple, diagonal letters. From stage left comes Senor Pinchy sporting a tweed jacket over a salmon pink shirt. His usually bald head is covered in what appears to be white suds in the vague helmet shape of a curly mullet. He looks deep into the camera as he lifts the microphone up to his lip flaps.)

Senor Pinchy: "I fought tooth and tomalley in that battle royal, papi chulo. Crusty Roe, he threw all the competition overboard 'til it came down to "Fisherman" Jacob Striker and your "Crustacean Dweam". We went clubberin' and blubberin' like a couple a' beached Beluga Whales until he showed he had more mussel than I had tussle, papi! He put hard shell times on Crusty Roe and his family. You don't know what hard shell times are though, papi. Hard shell times are when the new season starts and Deadliest Catch hit the coast. Hard shell times are when your madre e padre kick you outta their shell to find your own, but all j'ou find es McDonald's hamburger box for por troubles! Hard shell times are when disease strikes and we tell our schools of fishes to go home! And hard shell times are when a crab cracks his claws down to the white meat tryna' make all the fins out in the audience happy, only for Clyde to kick'em right up the tomalley an' send'em packin' because Striker done took his place! That's hard shell times, papi! An' Jacob Striker, you put hard shell times on Lucha Mundo by takin' Crusty Roe out. That's hard shell times. We all had hard shell times together. And I admit I don't look like an athlete. My shelly's just a li'l big. My cluster's just a li'l thick, but hermano, I am bad fish! and they know I'm bad fish! "Fisherman" Jacob Striker, that victory belongs tuh me an' my fins, papi!"

(Pinchy shakes his head in wild frustration, causing the suds to disperse and reveal his antennae beneath. As his intense beady black eyes stare down the camera lens, he extends a claw toward the camera.)

Senor Pinchy: "I'mm'a reach out right now, an' I want j'ou su casa to know my claw is pinchin' your mano."

(Pinchy's mandibles waggle as he growls under his breath unnaturally. Suddenly, he spits through his mask into the camera lens.)

Senor Pinchy: "I rule j'ou! I rule DOMINION! Los cangrejos volverán a caminar por la tierra: The crabs will walk the earth again! Maybe es hoy no. Maybe manana no! but pronto! Soon I shall rule j'ou all an' for j'ou that will be the hard shell times!"

"CUT!"

(The camera suddenly turns on it's side as a studio bell rings. Pinchy knits his eyebrows impatiently under his mask as an approaching man in a director's hat places an unwanted hand on his shoulder.)

Senor Pinchy: Why stop? I was on...how j'ou say...a lobster roll.

Director: Pinchy, baby, hermano, you're trying to get these people on your side yes?

Senor Pinchy: J'es. I do the...ehh...Crusty Roe character you speak of. I was Crustacean Dweam.

Director: It's 'dream', babe.

Senor Pinchy: Eh, si. Dweam.

Director: Look, I know you want to be a big star and lord it over TJ Thompson and Jacob Striker, but in order to do that you need to get these fans on your side.

Senor Pinchy: I rule them!

Director: Right, but you've gotta rule with honey and not vinegar. I'll level with you, crab man. I need you to succeed if I expect for this branch of Wrestleworld's entertainment department to stay open. They're cutting budgets left and right, I mean they got rid of Epicenter for Pete's sake. No one's safe! I feel like they sent you to me as a test of my abilities, and if I can't get these people to love, hate, or care about you in any sort of way, then they're throwing me into a boiling pot and serving me up to the Architects with melted butter.

Senor Pinchy: No!

Director: Si! So let's try this again. You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours.

Senor Pinchy: J'ou are trying to claw through my shell, fancy hat man? I will no scratch a'your back! I PINCH YOUR BACK! I RULE J'OU!

Director: No, it's a turn of phrase. Calm down! Think of it this way, one claw washes the other.

Senor Pinchy: Ah...si...Crabs are a'very sanitary. I would not mind a maniclaw or a pediclaw.

Director: I'll get you all the pampering you want, just get through this next take for me will ya, Reel Big Fish?

Senor Pinchy: I'a am not a fish, and ehhhh pampers make for bad shells. Muy biodegradable.

Director: Uh huh, right. I'm hearing you, and I'm listening to your needs. So what's it going to take for you to get this promo done before post-brunch, pre-lunch smoke break? You want a bigger trailer? we'll get you a bigger trailer.

Senor Pinchy: Ehhh...I would not mind bigger shell home. Sounds muy bueno.

Director: Perfecto! Now we're speaking the same language.

Senor Pinchy: Tu habla Espanol?

Director: Ummm..right...-o. Right-o. Muy right-o.

Senor Pinchy: Por favor...eh...please, no more. My shell is splitting with ehhh...how j'ou say...debilitating migraine.

(The director stares at Senor Pinchy with a hint of doubt suffocated under a whole lot of 'don't care' in his expression. Without saying another word, he walks behind the camera.)

Director: Aaaand ACTION!

Senor Pinchy: I RULE J'OU!

Director: CUT! CUT! UMMMM CUT-O!

Senor Pinchy: No. No a'cut. A'PINCH!

(Pinchy charges the camera with his claws akimbo. It goes flying off of it's tripod and crashing to the floor, only catching the sight of snipped cords flying, Pinchy's feet shuffling off, and the director's lifeless body falling in front of the lens with his embroidered director's beret vandalized and modified to read 'Die'. As he blankly stares into the camera with his pupil's dilating and his breathing increasing, the shot begins to fades to black.)

Director: I knew I should've told him I worked on 'Blackfish'...