Versus: Jay vs. Tommy Wiseau.

"You should see my movie, young man."

"No thanks, brah. Maybe some other time."

"But it is a very good movie. Many people have seen it."

"I told you, man. I'm good. Now can you please leave me alone?"

Jay didn't know where this creepy guy had come from, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. He looked like a zombie. Some strung-out meth head junkie, probably. Certainly not one to be interested in partaking of his psychedelic wares, so why was he bothering him like this? The creepy guy was short, maybe five foot with elevator shoes on, with stringy black hair and a gaunt and pale face. Yup. He looked just like a member of the insidious undead. Jay had to suppress a giggle. As annoying as some people could be, it was never nice to laugh at them, especially over their appearance.

"But you will like it. I promise. Please! See my movie. It is called The Room, and many people have-"

Jay was starting to lose his patience. "Look, man. I'm sure your movie is great, and any other time I would love to watch it with you, but right now I'm waiting for somebody very important." He was. His supplier was supposed to arrive in twenty minutes, and Enrique wouldn't conduct a deal with this suspicious French guy hovering around. He wanted to get this deal done, get the grass, and smoke about an ounce of it before hitting the streets and pushing it. He hated being the middleman, but his own personal harvest wouldn't come in until March, and he needed to get his smoke on because-

He was so lost in thought that he didn't realize the French Zombie Man was talking. "What did you say, man? I wasn't listening. My bad."

The French Zombie smiled, the expression chilled Jay to the bone. "Oh. I was just talking about how renowned I am. What are you doing out here, anyway? You should be seeing my movie. This dark street is no place for a young boy like you. Come, we'll go see my movie at your house. I always carry a copy with me. I also keep dawgie with me. Would you like to see dawgie? He is in my movie too..."

Jay finally lost his patience. "Look, man! I'm trying to get some fucking drugs to sell! I am not interested in seeing your damn movie! Now if you don't get the hell out of here before my surly and gang-related supplier gets here, I'm going to smash your fucking skull!"

The French Zombie jumped at Jay's aggressive response, looking startled. Jay immediately felt bad. He didn't mean to fly off the handle at the guy, who for all Jay knew might have been mentally retarded, and he certainly didn't want to incur any bad karma tonight. "Look, man. I'm sorry. It's just... I haven't had any weed in like, two weeks. I tend to get irritable when I don't smoke. I'm sorry for snapping at you. Now if you would just go wait somewhere, I promise I'll meet you and watch that movie with you, okay?"

The French Zombie didn't seem to think this was okay at all. In fact, The French Zombie was about to make the dumbest mistake of his life just to show how not-okay he thought this was. "You are dealing drugs!? That is wrong! Very wrong! You are a bad boy! A very bad boy! I will tell the police at once! Unless you see my movie, then I will keep it secret."

Jay's jaw dropped. He had never been blackmailed before in his life, and now here was some pasty nutjob, probably wanting to molest him, doing exactly that. The stress of the past two weeks had finally gotten to him, and something inside him seemed to snap. He didn't respond to The French Zombie's threat verbally, but the swift kick to the asshole's sternum seemed to be answer enough. The guy went flying out of the alley, knocking over several trash cans as he went.

The Green Angel was in full-on attack mode now. Not allowed to be the Zen Stoner, he resorted to being the Red Demon. The angry and violent child that he was before he discovered the wonderful and relaxing effects of marijuana, meditation, and spiritual tranquility. Now he was the beast his classmates on the playground had feared in elementary school, and with the addition of six years of martial arts training, The French Zombie was sure to go to an early grave.

He approached the man slowly, watching with a spiteful and sadistic satisfaction that he hadn't felt in years as the asshole tried to get up, coughing and muttering incoherent things that sounded like dialog from a bad drama film. A bad drama film that some idiot might try to ham-fistedly play off as a black comedy. A bad drama that said idiot would sue popular internet reviewers famous for wearing glasses over. "Now you've done it." Jay said. He was breathing heavily, and he had a metallic taste in his mouth. "Now you've gone and fucking done it, dawg."

The French Zombie got up quickly enough to see the teenage drug dealer advancing, and he dove desperately for the nearest weapon: A trash can lid. He threw it like a frisbee, and by sheer stupid luck it managed to strike Jay squarely on the forehead. He winced and staggered, bending forward and holding his gashed head.



This was the only successful blow that Tommy Wiseau would land that night.



Jay recovered relatively quick, his rage making him largely immune to pain, and looked up just in time to see The French Zombie clutching a discarded beer bottle and shaking like a leaf. "What are you gonna do, man?" He snarled, advancing at the same slow and deliberate pace. "I seriously wanna know just what the fuck are you gonna do?!" He kept walking. The man threw the bottle, but it missed by three feet. Not wanting to risk the fucker pulling another weapon and getting lucky, Jay picked up a broken broom handle. He wielded it like a bō, and charged the quivering creep. The French Zombie ran like a bitch.


Chasing him through alleys, Jay found his rage intensifying as each minute slipped by. The fucker was quicker than he thought, and Enrique would be arriving any minute, but he wanted this guy to die. Painfully. He wanted to watch him flounder in his blood and void his bowels before letting out his last breath in a whimper. He didn't care about anything else at the moment. Unless a miracle happened, and even a devout Christian like him put little stock in miracles unless it was an ICP video, this cocksucker was going to die.

He finally had him cornered. The dumbass had run directly into a dead-ended alley. The French Zombie put his back to the wall and stared at the advancing Red Demon, pleading to have his life spared, begging and offering bribes, trying to appeal to reason. Jay was having none of it. He was going to have this cocks-

"Hey! Jay? Jay Sparka?"


Jay blinked, unsure if he had really heard the voice. He turned around and saw a short man of Latino lineage standing beside a nondescript blue van. Enrique had arrived.

Instead of waiting for an answer, Enrique simply reached into the van and retrieved a large brown satchel. He walked over to Jay and handed the bag to him. "Here you go, man. Claudio expects to be paid in three weeks. We know your ounce policy, so don't bother paying for the ounce you dip. It's on us, man." The short Latino hopped back into the van and drove away.

Jay looked in the bag and smiled.

It was a motherfuckin' miracle.

Tommy Wiseau watched in apprehension as the boy loaded a pipe and lit up. He wanted to get out of here, but the crazy kid was blocking the exit. He watched as the kid took hit after hit, his angry demeanor becoming more calm and giddy as the pot took effect.

Jay looked over at The French Zombie, and found that he couldn't remember why he was pissed at him. Dude was funny lookin', true, but that was something that made him happy. He liked looking at the dude's funny face. He thought it was one of the most awesome faces in the world. He giggled. "C'mere, man. Sit down and smoke this with me."


Prepared to suck the terrifying boy's dick if he thought it would keep him alive, Wiseau apprehensively did as he was asked. He sat down and began smoking with Jay. He hadn't smoked pot since high school, and even then he didn't like doing it all that much, but if it would spare his life...

After a few minutes, Jay looked at the dude. "So, what's your name? I don't think I caught it, brah."

"Tommy Wiseau." The French Zombie replied.

"Wiseau?" He asked. "Heh. Heheheheheh." He took another hit. "Wiseau sirius? Hehehehehehehehhehehe!" He was cracking up over this one for almost twenty minutes. As long as it keeps him happy and keeps me from getting killed, he can make fun of my name all he wants. Tommy thought.

After the bowl was cashed, Jay turned his red eyes to Tommy, who was only slightly buzzed because he mostly just pretended to inhale whenever the pipe was passed to him. Survival instinct, and all that. "So...you were saying about this movie?"

Tommy's egotistical eyes lit up at the mention of his movie. "Yes! It's called The Room. Do you still want to watch it?"

Jay grinned. "Fuck yeah, I wanna watch it! You got popcorn?"

Tommy nodded. "I also have soda and candy."

Jay: "Well alright, then. Let's go!"



The movie actually turned out to be pretty hilarious, especially when one had managed to smoke a dime bag in just under ten minutes and chased it with three joints throughout the film, severely lowering their mental faculties for a temporary period. Jay clapped, laughed, and ate all of Tommy Wiseau's snacks. Before leaving, he bought an autographed copy of The Room on DVD, and went home having made a new best friend that he absolutely would not remember a goddamn thing about in the morning.