Author's Note: If you're thinking that I'm abandoning the Criminal Minds/WWE crossover, think again. After watching Little Shop of Horrors for the zillionth time, the whole AJ/Punk/craziness, and Drew, Heath, and Jinder forming a stable. I couldn't help but to write a parody of LSOH, with a bit of the '88 version of Hairspray and Grease. The lyrics and stuff belong to the late Howard Ashman, Alan Menken, John Waters, Jim Jacobs, and the late Warren Casey-I just tweaked them a little.
The cast are as follows:
Seymour Krelborn - CM Punk
Audrey - AJ Lee
Mr. Mushnik - Paul Heyman
Voice of Audrey II - Sheamus
The Dentist - Wade Barrett
Arthur Denton - Daniel Bryan
The Urchins - 3MB (Drew McIntyre, Heath Slater, and Jinder Mahal)
Enjoy!
There stood Howard Finkel on the podium at an old movie theater. In the audience were the children of the Beat Generation, as well as the children of the Baby Boomers. The Fink, as they would call him, pulled out a page from an old book from the Sixties, and he read,
"On the 23rd day of the month of September,
In an early year of a decade not too long before our own,
The human race suddenly encountered a deadly threat to its very existence.
And this terrifying enemy surfaced, as such enemies often do...
...in the seemingly
...not so innocent
…and likely of places..."
Then, a flashback. The flashback took us into 1962, and it became reality. Suddenly, music was played. A beat you could dance the Twist to, and there was a thunderstorm hitting the town. On the streets slept the homeless drunks and junkies, while whores catered to the johns.
"Little ring, little ring of horrors." There was singing, off-key, and so wannabe doo-wop. "Little ring, little ringside terror. Call a cop! Little ring of horrors. No, oh, oh, no-oh! "
Then, from the alleyway next to a flower shop called, Mushnik's Flowers, came a trio of Urchins: A tall, long-haired Scotsman, a Southern-bred ginger, and a tall, Sikh Indian with a blue turban. They all were wearing suits, like groups such as The Four Tops were wearing. They sang off-key, and they danced.
"Little ring, little ring of horrors. Bop-sh'bop, little ringside terror. Watch 'em drop! Little ring of horrors. No, oh, oh, no-oh!"
The Scotsman sang, "Shing-a-ling, What a creepy thing teh beh happenin'!"
"Look out!" cried the Ginger.
"Look out!" cried the Indian.
"Look out!" the Scotsman cried again.
"Look out!" they all bellowed into the streets.
Then the Indian sang, "Shang-a-lang, feel the strum and drang in the air."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!" the others agreed.
Just then, the Urchins ended up on the balcony of an abandoned building. They did poses like the Motown groups.
"Sha-la-la, stop right where you are, don't you move a thing," sang the Ginger.
"You better! You better! Tellin' you, you better. Tell your mama, somethin's gonna get her. She better, everybody better beware."
Then, rain poured down the street, darkening the dreary, slum-like environment. Magically, the Urchins appeared on the sidewalk, dancing, not giving a damn if they're about to get wet.
"Ohh, here it comes, baby," they sang as they danced on the street. "Tell the bums, baby. Oh, oh, noo! Oh, ohh, oh, hit the dirt, baby. Red alert, baby. Oh, oh, no! Oh, oh, noo!"
They strut down the sidewalk and in front of the flower shop as the Scotsman sang, "Alley-oop, hurry off teh school, child, I'm warnin' ye!"
"Look out!" cried the Ginger.
"Look out!" cried the Indian.
"Look out!" the Scotsman cried once again.
"Look out!" they all yelled at a cab passing by them, almost splashing them with rainwater.
"Run away! " the Indian sang. "Child, you gonna pay if you stay, yeah!"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!" the others agreed.
They entered the shop where a portly, balding Jewish man sat on a stool near the cash register reading a newspaper with the heading about an unexpecting total eclipse of the sun.
"Look around, somethin's comin' down, down the street for you!" The Ginger sang.
The Jewish man remained unaware of the Urchins' presence, their cheap imitation of Motown groups, and their horrific singing.
"You betcha," they sang. "You betcha. You bet your butt, you betcha. Best believe it. Somethin's come to get ya. You betcha, you better watch your back and your tail!"
Suddenly, the Urchins descended down the stairs into the basement of the shop, where there was a young, awkward looking man, with his dark brown hair slicked back, glasses, and a stubbly beard similar to a hobo. He was trying to stack pots in a makeshift shelf located near his cot.
"Woo!" yelled the Indian.
"Come-a, come-a, come-a," sang the Scotsman.
"Little ring, little ring of horrors," they joined him. "Bop-sh'bop, you'll never stop the terror! Little ring, little ring of horrors. No, oh, oh, no, oh, oh, no, oh, oh, noo!"
The Urchins mysteriously disappeared as the young man fell with the pots, the cot breaking his fall, but the pots shattered into pieces, the noise ascended upstairs into the shop. It interrupted the Jewish man's reading as he yelled, "Seymour, what's going on down there?!"
"Very little, Mr. Mushnik!" responded the young man called Seymour Krelborn.
He cleaned up the mess, and turned on the radio. "...and at his press conference today," the reporter spoke, "President Kennedy fielded questions concerning last Thursday's total eclipse of the sun, an astrological phenomenon which has baffled the nation."
Across the street from the flower shop, a petite Puerto Rican girl stepped out of her apartment building sporting a red blouse, a black pencil skirt, pink stiletto heels, and a polka dotted hairband that lovingly hugged her long brown hair. What didn't match her attire was the black eye she had on her face. She went inside of the flower shop where Mr. Mushnik greeted her with sarcasm, "So she finally decides to come to work!"
"Good morning, Mr. Mushnik," she sweetly responded as she went into the backroom.
"What morning? It's almost closing time, not that we had a customer." Mr. Mushnik heard another crash from the basement as he headed into the backroom where the girl was trying to cover her black eye with the little foundation she had left in her compact. "Seymour! What in the name of God is going on down there? Audrey, would you go down and see what he's—where did you get that shiner?"
"Uh, shiner?" Audrey went into the front of the shop.
"Audrey, that sleazy British punk of a boyfriend of yours is beating up on you again? I know it's none of my business, but he's maybe not such a nice boy."
Then Seymour came from the basement. "I got these pots unloaded for you, Mr. Mushnik," he said before tripping over and smashing the pots.
"Seymour, look at what you've done with the inventory!"
"Don't yell at him, Mr. Mushnik!" Audrey cried as she helped Seymour clean up the mess.
"Hi, Audrey," Seymour shyly greeted her, then noticed her face. "You look radiant today. Is that new eye makeup?"
"Uh, I'll help him clean it up before any of the customers get here." The Puerto Rican picked up the pieces and dumped them in the trash, then handed Seymour a dustpan.
"That should give you plenty of time!" exclaimed Mr. Mushnik. "Oh, God, what an existence I got: Misfit employees, bums on the sidewalk, business is lousy! My life is a living hell!"
All of a sudden, he heard loud chatter echoing the glass window. More like bar room chatter after the last call for beer. The chatter belonged to the Urchins, dressed as greasers with leather jackets, denim jeans, and motorcycle boots. The Scotsman had his long, brown hair down past his shoulder blades, and he was sharing a Playboy magazine with the Ginger, who also had his strawberry blond hair down to his shoulders, and the Indian, who had his hair greased back. "Man, oh, man!" cried the Ginger. "Would ah love ta have mah hands on that rack!"
"Ye wish!" the Scotsman snorted, chewing a piece of bubble gum before blowing a bubble and popping it, annoying the Ginger. "She probably wouldn't want yeh type. Chicks these days dig accents!"
"Dream on!" cried the Indian. "Like they could understand you!"
They started arguing a bit before Mr. Mushnik tapped the window of his shop. "Hey, you! Urchins!" he yelled at them, causing the Scotsman to roll up the dirty magazine before he and his friends stepped away from the window, popping another bubble. "Move! Move!" Mr. Mushnik continued yelling, even stepping outside. "Go away! No loitering!"
"Man, I wasn't loitering!" the Indian yelled. "Were you, Drew?"
"Not meh, Jinder!" said the Scotsman. "Were yeh, Heath?"
"You boys oughta be in school!" Mr. Mushnik continued.
"Oh, yeah?" yelled Heath. "We're on a split shift!"
"Right," added Jinder. "We went to school 'til Fifth Grade, then we split."
"That's a 'cause y'all ain't got papers!" Heath snickered.
Drew and Jinder grabbed Heath by the shirt and threatened to kick his ass. "At least my dad's not in the can for fucking my sister!" Jinder scoffed.
"Oh, doncha dare start 'em fightin' words!" The Ginger became Southern-fried as he also shoved Drew, who was laughing. "And doncha be laughin', Drew!"
"Greasers!" scoffed Mr. Mushnik.
"Kike!" they yelled back.
"Wop!"
This caused Jinder to pull out his switchblade knife before he was pushed into putting it back into his pocket.
"So tell me, boys," Mr. Mushnik asked the question. "How do you intend to better yourselves?"
This caused the pink bubble in Drew's mouth to pop as he tapped his friends' chests. "Better ourselves?" he scoffed. "Ye hear what he said, lads? Better ourselves? Mister, when yeh from Skid Row, ain't no such thing."
Just then, in the alleyway, Kaitlyn, sporting a blond and brown bouffant hairdo (A-la Tracy Turnblad) and cat's eye glasses, dismally dragged her feet down the dark alley. She had come from a long hard day at work uptown, and in her arms was a bag of groceries.
"Alarm goes off at seven," she began to sing, "and you start uptow-w-nn. You put in your eight hours for the powers that have always been."
She walked past by Jinder, who was now wearing a lavender suit. "Sing it, soniye!" he said.
" 'Til it's five-pm-m-m!"
"Then you go..." went Matt Striker and Josh Matthews, the bums on the sidewalk.
"…Downtown, where the folks are broke," the Urchins, all in their lavender suits, danced as they and Kaitlyn sang and walked towards her apartment. "You go downtown, where your life's a joke. You go downtown, where you buy a token and you go-oh...home to Skid Row-oh."
"Home to Skid Row-oh," sang the Urchins as they copied The Temptations.
"Yes, you go..."
"Downtown, where the cabs don't stop," sang Zack Ryder, mouthing an, Are you serious, bro? at the passing cab.
"Downtown, where the food is slop!" cried Dolph Ziggler as he threw out leftovers from a large pot out the window.
"Downtown, where the hop-heads flop in the snow-oh, down on Skid Row," the inhabitants all sang in the dismally gray neighborhood.
"Uptown, you cater to a million jerks," the Urchins appeared by the train stations, doing a cheap Motown dance. "Uptown, you're messengers and mailroom clerks, eating all your lunches at the hot-dog carts. The bosses take your money and they break your hearts. In uptown, you cater to a million whores. You disinfect terrazzo on their bathroom floors. The jobs are really menial— you make no bread, and then at five-o'clock you head—
"By subway..." said R-Truth.
Just then, Audrey went to take the trash out, and she sighed. "Downtown, where the guys are drips," she sang.
"Downtown," sang the inhabitants.
"Where they rip your slips."
"Downtown."
"Where relationships are no go-oh, down on Skid Row!"
"Down on Skid Row."
"Down on Skid Row."
"Down on Skid Row."
"Down on Skid Row."
"Down on Skid Row."
"Down on Skid Row."
By the shop, Seymour swept the floor, singing, "Poor, all my life I've always been poor. I keep askin' God what I'm for. And he tells me, 'Gee, I'm not sure. Sweep that floor, kid!'"
Then he stepped out of the shop and wandered the streets of Skid Row. "Oh! I started life as an orphan, a child of the streets, here on Skid Row! He took me in gave me shelter, a bed, crust of bread and a job. Treats me like dirt and calls me a slob, which I am...So, I live …"
"Downtown," moaned the people.
"That's your home address, you live—
"Downtown."
"When your life's a mess, you live—
"Downtown."
"Where depression's just status quo."
"Down on Skid Row."
As Seymour wandered into an alley, he just stared into the fence. What was behind it? "Someone show me a way to get outta here," he moaned. "'Cause, I constantly pray I'll get outta here. Please, won't somebody say I'll get outta here? Someone gimme my shot or I'll rot here!"
"Downtown," behind the fence were bums, threatening the space. "There's no rules for us!"
"Show me how and I will, I'll get outta here".
"Downtown."
"I'll start climbin' up hill and get outta here."
"'Cause it's dangerous…Downtown..."
"Someone tell me I still could get outta here." Seymour ran and then strolled on the sidewalk with the rest of the people.
"Where there rainbow just doesn't show-oh!"
"Someone tell lady luck that I'm stuck here!"
"When you get...Downtown."
And Audrey joined him, "Gee, it sure would be swell to get outta here."
"Where the sun don't shine," sang the people.
"Bid the gutter farewell and get outta here."
"Downtown."
"I'd move heaven and hell to get outta Skid—
"Past the bottom line."
"I'd do I dunno what to get outta Skid—
"Downtown."
"But a hell of a lot to get outta Skid—
"Ask any wino, and he'll know-oh!"
"People tell me there's not a way outta Skid—
"Downtown! Downtown! Downtown!"
"But believe me I gotta get outta Skid Row!"
TO BE CONTINUED….
Post Autthor's Note: Not bad, eh? There will be more to come. Please, please review! Your positive feedback encourages me to write more. Thanks!
Lucky (Artemis Phoenix)