Killing Hasselhoff

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Barry, do you hear that?

Superhero. The Musical! I'm telling you,

I know what I'm talking about.

Get on the phone. Call the heads of

all the studios. This is gonna be huge.

Chris!

No!

I don't know what's worse,

a half-naked oiled-up David Hasselhoff

or this bullet in my chest.

You're probably asking yourself

how I got into this situation.

Let's go back a few days.

Tommy's house. Where it all started.

He's a reality TV producer.

Anyway, we're all there for Tommy's

annual Celebrity Death Pool party.

That's me, Chris.

I own a nightclub called Habitat

that's barely making ends meet.

My pick in the pool every year

is David Hasselhoff.

I almost won last year as the Hoff

nearly plunged to his death

skydiving blind on his reality show.

As usual my luck didn't pan out

while Hasselhoff's did.

I mean, as far as death pools go,

I figured that was like drafting LeBron

right out of high school.

What started out

as an innocent game with my boys

ended up being

one of the worst weeks of my life.

Six years ago today,

18 men, all of whom are here,

chose one celebrity

and put $500 into a bank account.

We then made a gentleman's agreement

that whoever's celebrity died first,

that man would walk away with $9,000.

- And what's the total now, Tommy?

- A staggering, a shocking,

may I say life-altering amount?

$567,000.

Buy a lot of weed with that.

So you want Hasselhoff to die

but you also booked his after party.

- Isn't that a conflict of interest?

- I like to hedge my bets.

I'm just curious. Would you rather have

the money or a lifetime of awful karma?

So you wanna have the wedding

at Chuck E. Cheese?

They have a house band there.

It's all animatronic robots.

If it's cool with you,

it's cool with me.

It's definitely cool with me.

Sounds like the best wedding ever.

You don't even have to buy gifts.

You could win 'em with tickets.

It's amazing! Why is no one doing this?

Time to re-ante.

Let me hear it, people. Come on.

With these contracts

so begins the Celebrity Death Pool 2016.

Yes!

I remember a friend of mine

once saying to me...

A joint chequing account with Chris?

Chris Kim?

- And of course I objected.

- Ann, your trust will soon be rewarded.

This is gonna be our year.

This man is definitely going to die.

I can feel it in my motherfucking bones.

- You're pathetic.

- Thank you.

I just want you to know, I'm doing

this godawful terrible thing for us.

Love you.

Yeah, yeah, I know, it's a little

sad that we bet on celebrities to die,

but, hey, what can I say?

I don't have many hobbies.

Think maybe he's dead?

Fish? Did you kill yourself?

Because if you didn't kill yourself,

answer the door.

- Hey.

- Hey.

Six years

and you've never missed a re-ante.

Where were you, buddy?

Well, where shall I start? Oh, I know.

My girlfriend's being probed

on a regular basis

by some Antonio Banderas-looking

motherf***er with a massive dick.

- So there's that.

- What are you talking about?

Yesterday I accidentally hacked

into Jenn's Facebook account,

like I normally do,

and I'm reading her inbox,

two messages in, boom, there it is.

A big description of some bastard

with a huge cock.

- What?

- Here it is.

- Sebastian Hollingbone.

- Damn!

I know, right? It's like he's born

to be on the cover of a romance novel.

He is the Latin Fabio. Oh, my God,

he is beautiful. Just chiselled and...

Calm down, Tommy. Thank you.

You're not f***ing helping.

It's not natural.

What makes you think Jenn is banging

this roided-out meathead anyway?

This. And I shall recite.

I long to stroke

on your foot-long cock,

to lick it all over

from the base to the top.

Once it is hard I'd like it inside me,

to poke and to prod

and to lead me to extacy.

- F***! I've gotta stop reading it.

- Damn, that is graphic.

I mean, what the f***?

Almost three years

and she's writing this guy dick poetry.

OK, yeah, that is a cock poem.

But on the bright side

it is a terrible cock poem.

Yeah. The metre's abysmal.

The rhymes are forced.

She'll never get it published.

Is... That's what you're telling me?

That it's not gonna get published?

You f***ing d*ckheads!

That's not the point!

The point is, why is she doing it?

Jenn's barely even touched

my tiny knob recently.

Let alone use iambic pentameter

to describe it.

And now I know why.

Because of Sebastian.

Every f***ing picture of him

is shirtless!

It's like he's allergic to shirts!

I wear shirts.

You guys, you got shirts? Yeah?

- Wearing a shirt right now.

- Yeah, cos you're f***ing normal.

OK, dude, dude. Come on, man.

F*** this guy. F*** Jenn.

Who the hell does she think

she's cheating on?

You're Paul 'The Fish' Fishman.

Thanks, Tommy.

But I've gotta be honest.

I don't have a very big dick.

OK, you know, neither do I. Just more of

a Korean genetic thing, but that's fine.

That's why we own a Hollywood club.

We overcompensate. That's what we do.

Once we renovate

you'll be knee-deep in all the p*ssy

a 25 per cent investor

with a mediocre member can handle. Huh?

How do you like that?

Yeah, obviously that...

that sounds good, you know.

But I think I'm losing it. You know,

everywhere I look I see Sebastian.

Everywhere. He's behind you, by the way,

mocking my tiny penis.

Hey, gotta remain positive.

Where's the old optimistic Fish?

Come on.

I don't know. I think he's been

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