I was able to catch up with a refreshed Kevin Bacon at an undisclosed location in the seedy veil of Manhattan. "Frankly I'm shocked," said Bacon. "I've always respected Nick for the work that he does - did he put you up to this? No? Are you sure?" Bacon went on to describe, off record and in a hushed tone, his primal fear of Cage. He relayed a short tale of a night with Cage, fueled by what he referred to as several South Central Iced Teas, and the subsequent week long detainment in Cage's underground compound on the outskirts of the New Mexico desert, where he was chained to a radiator. "The man is an animal at his craft," Bacon went on to say.
"Wow! Nicolas Cage Award... Nick! That sounds really incredible," said a pedestrian Christopher Walken, whom no one asked.
"I'm proud to extend this award, which takes my namesake, and I'm glad to see it go to an actor with such tenacity. I'm humbled. He's a powerful ally and an even more powerful foe," said a disheveled Nicholas Cage. "I'd love to one day bite him and really find out..." Cage's performances have long been established as movie-ruining (with the exception of Raising Arizona (1987) and 8MM (1999), which were—and are—testaments to the craft). His performances could be described as that of a scared dog which has been foolishly tied up to a free-standing sheet metal sign outside a convenience store near a busy intersection, who has been spooked and has bolted, dragging the sign, flopping and banged like lightning, until the poor dog tired itself out. "My award speaks for itself," said a confident Cage, who then turned paranoid. "But the question remains: what are they going to do to Kevin next?"