De-Stressing, Driver's Licenses and the Deep State
Nov 5, 2022 14:10:34 GMT -5
TheNewBreed likes this
Post by markflynn on Nov 5, 2022 14:10:34 GMT -5
OOC: Continued from adambarker1981.proboards.com/thread/15663/deep-clean
The camera pans across a newspaper…
Las Vegas Wrestling Monthly.
Flipping through the pages is a familiar face. The front desk clerk at the Velvet Rabbit.
She’s sporting a red-and-green striped polo shirt. A pair of sunglasses pulled over her eyes…
CLACK! A bubble bursts in her gum-chewing mouth, as she slowly and methodically flips through the magazine’s pages…
“*ahem*”
…
“COUGH, I said.”
…She leans her head backward… juuuuuuuuust enough that the glasses slip up above her eyes. Obviously, much easier than just raising her sunglasses with her hand.
Meeting her at eye-level, trying his best to smile in a friendly way…
Is ‘The King of the Midcarders’ Mark Flynn.
…Of course, friendliness is so alien to Flynn, he just sort of ends up baring his teeth like a cornered dog.
“Hello!”
…
Flynn glances down at the employee’s chest.
The clerk exhales. “If you’re interested in ogling this evening, may I recommend the gentlemen’s club inside the hotel?” Her tone is flat and disinterested. “There are fewer layers of shirt between your eyes and the breasts-in-question.”
Flynn sneers. “I’M LOOKING FOR YOUR NAMETAG.”
…
…Flynn clears his throat again. “So, I can address you… RESPECTFULLY.”
Flynn returns to visually scanning her chest.
“Let me assure you, I feel thoroughly respected right now.” The clerk flips to the horoscopes section.
Aha! There we are! A laminated nametag.
“Tammy!” Flynn says with a smile.
…
Followed by a frown. And an excusatory pointing to the clerk’s face.
“...That’s not your name.”
‘Tammy’ stretches her arm out to a pencil cup atop her desk… She grabs a pair of scissors…
“Pretty sure it is, sir.” She retorts as she starts clipping out the Capricorn horoscope.
Flynn’s narrow with irritation. “No, it’s not. It was ‘K’ something.” He closes his eyes, snapping his fingers, trying to mentally recall… “Kandace… or Kameron?”
“Sir, without challenging your equally-valid worldview about my name… it is Tammy. If it weren’t, why would I be wearing a nametag with ‘Tammy’ on it?” With one last snip, the horoscope clipping drops onto the desk.
…Flynn’s eye is twitching, brimming with rage.
…Flynn mean-mugs ‘Tammy’. The clerk responds by lowering her sunglasses back over her eyes.
In ‘Tammy’’s sunglasses, Flynn catches a glimpse of himself.
Smiling and waving.
“Hey Flynn! Another rage-induced hallucination? Have you checked out betterhelp.com? Maybe they can help you work out your anger issues?”
…Flynn inhales.
Stop being angry. Being angry got you disqualified from that FUCKING Tara Fenix match…
”One.”
Flynn closes his eyes… He exhales.
Being angry lost you a LAY-UP of a debut match against Vaughnie…
“Twooooooooo.”
...You’re at your best when you’re in control.
Flynn peeks his eyes open.
He sees the clerk… And glancing into her sunglasses… He sees his own reflection. Red-in-the-face. Executing deep-breathing exercises.
There you are. THAT’S YOU. Not that weird hallucination. You’re in control…
Phew, okay. No hallucinations, no hallucinations… Just… get through this interaction quickly and try and bypass this woman’s stupidity.
Flynn bares his teeth again.
“Well...” Finger-quotes. “TAMMY. I think we got off on the wrong foot last time I was here.”
“Mmm.” Tammy grunts, not looking up to acknowledge this customer. From under her desk, she’s grabbed a scrapbook… And a jar of rubber cement.
“Last time I was here, I tried to check-in and there was an issue with…” Flynn exhales. “My agent made a… booking snafu. And, naturally, YOU…” Flynn puts a little more bite on that ‘you’ than maybe he meant to… “...Enforced company policy by not giving me… MY room.”
…
“As is your job.” Flynn finishes, doring a terrible job hiding the bitterness under his thin veneer of placidity.
“What a detailed and colorful summary of our last encounter, sir.” Tammy replies… She lifts her sunglasses up to her hairline… As she gently and methodically brushes down a square of adhesive onto an open page. “So lush in detail. I feel like I was taken there by magic... Have you considered becoming a novelist?”
…
Flynn’s fists tighten. His nostrils flare.
‘Tammy’ lowers her face to the page, meticulously detail-oriented over this STUPID FUCKING ARTS AND CRAFTS BULLSHIT…
“Hey!”
Flynn glances up from staring daggers into ‘Tammy’’s head… And sees his smiling face in her sunglasses. Reflection-Flynn’s
“Flynn! I’ve got the answer! We should start our own hotel! Put the Velvet Rabbit out of business!”
“FUCK YEAH WE SH-”
…
…Flynn inhales… A happy couple of newlyweds checking in at the desk beside Flynn look over at his sudden outburst.
It’s NOT a good idea. The market is bad and the well is already full of straws. You’re just angry… And fueled by spite…
Flynn squeezes his temples, moving his fingers in concentric circles…
Remember when that guy at Starbucks told you you couldn’t legally fight a panda? So you angrily spent six months visiting zoos, and emailing black market animal smugglers… And you bought an acre of land in Oklahoma where that sort of thing was TECHNICALLY LEGAL. AND paid the Oklahoma Fight Commission WAY TOO MUCH MONEY to register the panda as a human fighter… Then had to SHAVE the panda for weigh-in to carry this facade that you were fighting a man suffering from facial gigantism and CLAWS…
Trying to squeeeeeeeeze oxygen from his veins to his brains like a goddamned Go-Gurt tube…
It wasn’t even until the knockout punch in round 4 that it dawned on you that you never even WANTED to fight a panda… you were just doing it because it made you angry that someone said you couldn’t.
Doing everything chemically possible to… REMAIN… CALM…
Lessons learned though, right?
nothing is illegal in Oklahoma
You shouldn’t get angry and do things out of spite just because someone is irritating you
Panda Fur Coats are terribly uncomfortable. Panda fur is just wool on steroids. And people will not listen to your explanations that the panda wasn’t harmed until AFTER you sewed the coat….
Flynn exhales…. Caaaaaaaaaaalmly.
‘Tammy’, with a set of tweezers, gently lays the horoscope cut-out onto the glue square…
Flynn (caaaaaaaalmly) sets a hand on the desk.
“I would like to check into my room, please.”
‘Tammy’, without missing a beat, shift the angle of her chair so her arm’s rest over the computer behind her desk. She’s clearly spent years mastering the art of moving in the smallest increments possible to work behind this desk.
“Name on the reservation?”
Flynn leans in, clearly enunciating to eliminate any chance of error. “MATT. FLYNN.”
…’Tammy’’s eyebrow twitches. The first time her face has moved in Flynn’s presence.
“...Excuse me, sir. I thought your name was… Something else.”
Flynn smiles and reaches into his wallet. “Without challenging your equally valid worldview about my name, ‘TAMMY’...”
…Late fingerquotes.
Flynn slips out an ID card and slides it across the desk.
“If my name weren’t ‘Matt’, why would I have THIS driver’s license?”
…Perfectly played. Done with total tranquility. Took 30 minutes of photoshop and a Las Vegas library card. See? No need for anger.
…Tippity type, clickity clack. “Tammy”’s fingers whir across the keyboard with mechanical precision.
…
DING!
“Yes, here you are, Matt. Two nights at the VIP Suite.”
…FLYNN SLAMS HIS FIST AGAINST THE DESK. The pencil cup leaps a foot into the air, before clattering, scattering a few pens onto the floor…
“YES!” Flynn says, clapping his hands, followed by an emphatic fist-pump. “THAT’S WHAT I’M FUCKING TALKING ABOUT.”
‘Tammy’ is already scanning a keycard through the coder for the VIP Suite. “My, oh my, sir.” She says, retaining her mild affect. “This is why I got into hospitality. To see reactions like that as people celebrate their well-earned hotel stay.”
“Just give me the fucking key, you cretin.” Flynn says, his fingers beckoning, eager for this transaction to be done… Having reached his tranquility ceiling.
…Not noticing behind him, two men in suits walking up...
The keycard finishes scanning… And prints out. ‘Tammy’ picks up the card…
Flynn just about reaches across the desk to snatch it out of her hand…
When he feels a hand on his shoulder.
“Excuse me, sir. Are you Mark Flynn?”
…
Flynn eyes ‘Tammy’... whose wrist tilts upwards… leaving it juuuuuuust out of his plucking range.
“...Can this wait, like, eight to ten seconds?”
“No, sir. This is a… pressing matter.”
Remember, Flynn. Caaaaaaaaaaalm.
Exasperated, Flynn turns around…
…
And finds himself face-to-face with two of Las Vegas’ finest.
The Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department. Both sporting sunglasses indoors and wielding nightsticks.
Clearly, Flynn’s reputation precedes him on this one.
In the officer’s sunglasses, Flynn sees his reflection change into a 100-watt smile.
“Hey Flynn! What’s going oooooo…?”
Reflection-Flynn glances downward. And sees two coppers.
His smile vanishes. His face whitens.
“Oh, shit!” The Reflection looks up. “Flynn, get out of there! RUN!”
Nooooooooooo. No no no. That’s even worse than starting a hotel chain out of spite. We’re not running from Police Officers… in a city where we’re contractually obligated to re-appear in.
Just… be smooth. And deny, deny, deny.
…
Flynn’s eyebrow twitches. “...Is this about the Motel Six?” Flynn shakes his head. “If it was, I’m TELLING you, that room was covered in jelly BEFORE I got there.”
…Smooooooooth.
…The two cops look at each other and then back to Flynn.
“Sir, this… matter has nothing to do with a Motel 6 or… jelly. We’d like to invite you to come down to the station and talk this out with us.”
Aha! An invitation! Tell these guys to hit the bricks and come back with a warrant!
…Politely.
The reflection-in-the-cop’s-glasses waves his arms, desperately trying to flag Flynn’s attention. “FLYNN. I AM TELLING YOU: RUN!”
…Flynn smiles, looking like a huge weight was lifted off his shoulders.
“Oh! An Invite!” Flynn clears his throat. ”Well, then, as a private citizen and non-permanent visitor of this shithole den of debauchery you call a town, I will be DECLINING your INVITATION.”
…Dial back the aggression a few degrees, but otherwise, perfect.
The officers don’t twitch a muscle at this rejection.
“Sir, we have …orders to bring you in. At this point in our investigation, cooperation is non-optional.”
…Flynn’s eyes narrow.
…Okay. Not taking no for an answer. So, ‘invite’ was an inaccurate word.
Clearly, whatever these boys want with you… This is serious.
“RUN! RUN NOW!”
Flynn. Deep breaths. Remain calm…
…
Maybe there’s a LEGAL way we can dodge these cops: Sanctuary!
…
Flynn claps his hands.
“Boys, I would love to answer any and all questions…” Flynn bares his teeth again, trying (and failing) to appear as amenable as possible.
“Just… Um…” Flynn sticks a finger in the air, “One moment.” He utters as he spins back to the front desk. ‘Tammy’ hasn’t moved from her spot.
“Say…” Flynn glances down as the employee’s chest once more. “Tammy. What are the Velvet Rabbit’s policies around… *throat clear*... sanctuary?”
“...Sanctuary?”
“Right. That thing where, HYPOTHETICALLY, a non-law-abider goes into a… Church or something… And the Church prevents… law enforcement from arresting… aforementioned… non-law-abider.”
“...You mean that thing that Quasimodo calls in the church in Disney’s Hunchback of Notre Dame?”
…Oh shit, that IS where we got that idea from, isn’t it?
“...Yes.” Flynn coughs, scratching his neck. “Kinda sounds stupid when I say it out lo-”
In a flash, ‘Tammy’ has dumped a damn COMPENDIUM of company policies, in a red three-ring binder onto the desk. It is of such mass and weight that the desk quakes under it.
‘Tammy itches the tip of her nose. “Yeah, we do that here.”
…Flynn is taken aback. “Really?”
HAHA! YES!
“In order to declare sanctuary in the state of Nevada, you require a chapel and a room. Velvet Rabbit offers seven different chapels to accommodate the various religious beliefs of our guests, including a drive-thru chapel and the first ever CURBSIDE PICKUP chapel, which we setup during COVID.”
…Flynn’s brow furrows in confusion. “So, for that, a priest marries you in your car?”
“In roller skates.” ‘Tammy’ nods, somehow maintaining zero affect as she describes this absurd thing. “A pandemic shouldn’t get between you and true love, sir.”
Amen
…Flynn shrugs. “Great, so as a guest, I can declare sanctuary and you’d tell these cops to beat it?”
“Of course, you could, sir.”
Yesssssssss! Home freeeeeeeeeeee!
Flynn grins wickedly as he reaches across the desk, eager to scoop the keycard.
…Just as it’s peeled out of his reach.
“You *could*... if your name matched the one on the reservation. Unfortunately, given these police officers are identifying you as ‘MARK Flynn’, that raises an identity dispute, which we’ll have to process before I can give you your key.”
…
Caaaaaaaaaalm.
….Flynn’s eyebrow twitches. A vein starts pumping in his forehead… He is seething with rage.
“How. Long. Will. That. Take.”
‘Tammy’ scratches her nose again.
“Not long at all… Just have to call the number associated with the room.” As ‘Tammy’ finishes itching her nose, she glances down at her wrist. Her brow betrays the slightest, SMALLEST IOTA of emotion. “...Unfortunately, it will have to be performed AFTER my mandatory 15-minute break.”
…
Without moving from her seat, ‘Tammy’ lifts the newspaper back up above her eyes.
…
…Okay, I’m a voice in your head dedicated to inner peace. And even, I’M getting pissed off now.
Flynn inhales. Ready to unleash venom and bile.
…But, stay caaaaaaaaalm.
“‘Tammy’... Before this point, you have been but a mild inconvenience to me. But, this? This decision right now? Is one that I *promise* you. I will make you regret.”
Tammy flips the page, not acknowledging Flynn’s threat.
Flynn sighs. He spins around… to the two cops towering over him.
Flynn glares at the cop’s sunglasses angrily…
The Reflection-Flynn has his hands… clasped in prayer?
“Flynn. Listen. RUN. Disappear into the crowd. LOSE THESE FLATFOOTS.”
“…”
“Flatfeet? Whatever the plural is for ‘pig’, SCRAM!”
That remains a TERRIBLE idea, Mark. If they don’t have a warrant, the arrest will get thrown out. Go with them, ask for a lawyer the moment you sit down and they’ll cut you loose.
…Flynn exhales.
“Fine, I’ll cooperate. Let’s just get this over with.”
The cops look at each other and nod.
One reaches into his belt… And retrieved a pair of handcuffs.
Flynn exhales. “That’s… really unnecessary.”
“Standard police procedure, sir.”
Standard police procedure, Flynn. Remain calm.
“DO NOT LET THEM HANDCUFF YOU.”
…Flynn sighs. And puts his hands behind his back.
One cop takes the lead… The other closely follows… As Flynn is walked out the front door of the Velvet Rabbit in handcuffs.
…
Behind the front desk, ‘Tammy’ flips the page of her magazine once more.
…Her nose furrows. Her brow wrinkles. She waves a hand in front of her face, trying to clear odor.
“Oh My God, all of a sudden, it’s smells like bong water and dirt weed in here…”
WHAM! When a bouquet of roses hits the desk in front of her.
‘Tammy’ glances up!
“Hey hey!” ‘Chronic’ Chris Page, the proud owner of WGWF and part-owner of the Velvet Rabbit stands before her. “Has the VIP Suite guest checked in yet?”
…
“Let me check.”
…Wordlessly, ‘Tammy’ scrolls up and down the computer screen…
All that on the screen is a game of Candy Crush, (where Tammy is on Level 2237…)
Tammy shakes her head.
“Not yet.”
Page snaps his fingers. “Perfect! When he swings through, give him these!” Page pushes the bouquet across the desk.
The note in the bouquet says ‘To my favorite client, Matt Flynn!’
As Page hands it over, he sees the magazine… He gasps!
“It’s here! Did it just arrive?” With incredible finger dexterity, he plucks it out of ‘Tammy’’s hands…
…So deftly in fact that it seems to take a moment for her to realize she’s reading thin air.
Page rapidly flips through the pages… Before his face contorts in disappointment.
“Aw man!” Page says, opening the magazine… to the horoscope section, with one rectangle missing.
“How is it that every time I have Las Vegas Wrestling Monthly Delivered here… Someone cuts out my horoscope?!?”
“It’s a mystery, Mister Page…” ‘Tammy’ says as she pushes her scrapbook of horoscopes under her desk…
***
Three sets of footsteps in perfect time. Out through the double-doors.
Past troves of tourist families and degenerate gamblers.
Past the packed first rows of parking spaces, jammed to the gills with travel sedans.
And at the outer edge of the lot… They stop at a squad car.
“RUN.” Flynn’s pocket screams.
Flynn glances down at his pocket. Under his bounds hands, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in his cell phone screen.
“FLYNN. GET OUT OF THERE.”
Flynn, you’re doing the right thing. These guys haven’t even read you your Miranda Rights! Amateur hour! You’ve got, like, seven legal avenues to dismiss these charges in a courtroom.
The officer in front walks up to the backseat…
Everything’s gonna be fiiiiiiine.
The cop…
Walks past the backseat.
And pops the trunk open.
…
Then turns to Flynn silently.
“Get in.”
…Hmmm.
That’s not… standard police procedure.
Flynn’s eyes narrow. “Mmm.” He doesn’t move.
He feels the cop at his six o’clock put a hand on his shoulder.
“RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN.”
Flynn digs his heels, bracing his head forward.
Flynn. New tactic.
The cop wraps his mitts around Flynn’s bound hands…
Flynn reels his head against his chest…
Let’s run.
The cops lifts Flynn’s arms his back… driving him forward…
Swoo.
WHAM! In a perfect arc, Flynn reels his head back and HEADBUTTS the cop backwards, ramming the back of his head in the cop’s face!
The other cop leaps forward… Flynn leaps off his left foot… SPRINGBOARDS off the side of the squad car!
KLAP! Step-up enzuigiri to the cop’s face!
Flynn lands! He spins to keep the offense u-
BZZZZZT! Taser to the neck!
Flynn flops to the ground… His limbs vibrating and seizing with electricity…
Like a sack of potatoes, he’s heaved off the concrete…
“Hold on.”
Flynn, with his limited wherewithal, feels a presence in his thigh.
“NO NO NO.”
…It’s a hand digging in his pocket.
The cop pulls out Flynn’s phone. Wrapping both hands around it.
“NONONONON-.”
SNAP. The phone breaks in two.
THUMP. Like a dummy, Flynn is heaved into the trunk of a vehicle.
Hey Flynn? Call me crazy.
The trunk slams shut.
But I’m starting to think these cops aren’t on the level..
***
Darkness.
The low, muffled sound of an engine hum.
…
Click.
A standard-issue police flashlight.
Illuminating the face of Mark Flynn.
Lying on his face.
Hands tied behind his back.
Flynn exhales, his face against the trunk’s fuzzy interior.
“Boy, rough few weeks for your ol’ pal, Flynn, huh, kids?”
“Somehow, Vaughnie managed to get a fistful of tights AND both feet on the ropes.”
“Then, I went out to Waikiki Beach for the Tara Fenix Charity Clusterfuck… And after blowing through three out of five of Corey Black’s Action Wrestling Dream Team like a goddamn WRECKING BALL… The HACK official decided to FABRICATE a reason to disqualify me.”
Flynn tucks his face closer to the light.
“Cuz lemme GUARANTEE kids. If that official had played it by the book, Team CCPE would have won 4-0 instead of 1-0.”
“But, here I am. The ‘Mark Flynn Conquers The World’ Tour starts off with a bullshit roll up finish and a DQ elimination.”
“…See, when I peeked my head out of XWF… I tried to keep a positive fucking attitude. TRIED TO BE A HAPPY FUCKING CAMPER.”
“I told myself… Theo and Vinnie… of course, THEY have a grudge. Every time I step in an XWF ring, I expose them for the FRAUDS that they are. Two so-called legends that lack the fucking ability to TIE MY BOOTS… Let alone keep up with me in the ring.”
“But. BUT. James Raven? The so-called GOAT. Chris Page? My fucking agent. What do they have to gain from fucking me out of victory? Of stacking the deck against me.”
“Guess I gotta figure that out.”
“Because Week #1: Despite out-wrestling Vaughn. Out-working Vaughn.”
“Somehow, Page hired a referee with fucking TUNNEL VISION. Who can’t see FEET ON THE ROPES A WHOLE FOUR INCHES FROM THE PIN. And he stole a victory.”
Flynn side-eyes the camera.
“Guess luck… flowed his way.”
“Then, James Raven. JAMES FUCKING RAVEN. The fucking so-called GOAT. Shits the bed and goes out first in our big elimination match. Doubling my workload. Making me look like an asshole for not trusting the rest of the clowns to pull their weight.”
“…Now? In my second week of competition? With forgiveness in my heart? Who does my Agent put me up against?”
“SAM. VOXX.”
Flynn spits.
…Of course, he’s lying sideways in a trunk, so it just winds up in front of his face.
“SAM. VOXX. THE WITCH.”
“When Page KNOWS from his XWF days how much I HATE MAGIC.”
“Maybe that’s the plan, huh? Maybe that’s the game. James and Page invited me to Vegas on a biweekly basis to humiliate me. To fucking SILENCE my claim to the FUCKING MOUNTAINTOP.”
…Flynn, with his front teeth, bites into the fuzz of the trunk… And drags his neck forward to get closer to the mic.
“NEWSFLASH, FUCKS. If you think you can humiliate Mark Flynn into packing his bags and going home… I spent ten years of degradation… Ten years of abuse… TEN YEARS OF FUCKING INDIGNITY… To get one shot at the highest honor in this industry.”
“If you think a couple rough weeks and a teenage girl with a pocketful of twigs is enough to stop Mark Flynn… Get ready to watch me roast this witch like I’m Judge John Hathorne.”
“You think I’m fucking afraid of a witch? Please. I’m…. MILDLY DISCOMFORTED… By WIZARDS.”
“Y’know why? WIZARDS can’t be killed by getting dropped in a lake with rocks in their pockets.”
“If witches DID have magical powers like flight, why the Hell would they live in a shithole like MASSACHUSSETTS?”
“Oh, but Sam Voxx isn’t just a witch! She’s the Forest Fae of Wrestling! She speaks for the trees!”
Flynn guffaws.
“Sammy, global warming is destroying 10,000 acres of rainforest every day. The California sky looks like the fucking endtimes 9 months out of the year. America’s last unicorn probably just got her meadow paved over to make a parking lot for a Vegan Cat Cafe.”
“And, instead of defending the forest as it slowly dies… You’re out here wrestling… And losing.”
“Since NINE MONTHS AGO… I’ve run the gamut, winning every single crossover event I’ve appeared in. DPI? 1 Win. Cannabis Cup? 5 Wins. Tara Fenix Charity Event? 1 elimination, 1 win.”
“What’s your industry representation? You’re the bottom of the first cut in the World Series of Wrestling. Literally with ONE POINT separating you from packing your bindle and flying back on your broom to the SWAMP.”
Pictured Above: ONE. FUCKING. POINT
“Barely keeping your head above the dredge of FAILURE. Just like you’ve done your entire career.”
“You’re a goddamn embarrassment. To wrestling and to witchkind.”
“FUH-KING MEE-DEE-OH-KUR.”
“...And you’re about to face the XWF Universal Champion.”
“The UNDEFEATED CHAMPION WRESTLING MAGIC USERS.”
“THE.”
“GREATEST.”
“WRESTLER.”
“OF.”
“ALL.”
“TIME.”
“Since Day One.”
…Flynn grins insidiously.
“And if think you can call on some strange magic… If you think the Witching Hour is going to bring a surprise…”
Flynn tsk-tsks… And lowers his chin against the light.
“Hate to say it, but Halloween is over, Sammy. Can’t have a Cinderella Story when the pumpkins have all rotted.”
“To.”
“The.”
“Core.”
Click.
Darkness.
The camera pans across a newspaper…
Las Vegas Wrestling Monthly.
Flipping through the pages is a familiar face. The front desk clerk at the Velvet Rabbit.
She’s sporting a red-and-green striped polo shirt. A pair of sunglasses pulled over her eyes…
CLACK! A bubble bursts in her gum-chewing mouth, as she slowly and methodically flips through the magazine’s pages…
“*ahem*”
…
“COUGH, I said.”
…She leans her head backward… juuuuuuuuust enough that the glasses slip up above her eyes. Obviously, much easier than just raising her sunglasses with her hand.
Meeting her at eye-level, trying his best to smile in a friendly way…
Is ‘The King of the Midcarders’ Mark Flynn.
…Of course, friendliness is so alien to Flynn, he just sort of ends up baring his teeth like a cornered dog.
“Hello!”
…
Flynn glances down at the employee’s chest.
The clerk exhales. “If you’re interested in ogling this evening, may I recommend the gentlemen’s club inside the hotel?” Her tone is flat and disinterested. “There are fewer layers of shirt between your eyes and the breasts-in-question.”
Flynn sneers. “I’M LOOKING FOR YOUR NAMETAG.”
…
…Flynn clears his throat again. “So, I can address you… RESPECTFULLY.”
Flynn returns to visually scanning her chest.
“Let me assure you, I feel thoroughly respected right now.” The clerk flips to the horoscopes section.
Aha! There we are! A laminated nametag.
“Tammy!” Flynn says with a smile.
…
Followed by a frown. And an excusatory pointing to the clerk’s face.
“...That’s not your name.”
‘Tammy’ stretches her arm out to a pencil cup atop her desk… She grabs a pair of scissors…
“Pretty sure it is, sir.” She retorts as she starts clipping out the Capricorn horoscope.
Flynn’s narrow with irritation. “No, it’s not. It was ‘K’ something.” He closes his eyes, snapping his fingers, trying to mentally recall… “Kandace… or Kameron?”
“Sir, without challenging your equally-valid worldview about my name… it is Tammy. If it weren’t, why would I be wearing a nametag with ‘Tammy’ on it?” With one last snip, the horoscope clipping drops onto the desk.
…Flynn’s eye is twitching, brimming with rage.
…Flynn mean-mugs ‘Tammy’. The clerk responds by lowering her sunglasses back over her eyes.
In ‘Tammy’’s sunglasses, Flynn catches a glimpse of himself.
Smiling and waving.
“Hey Flynn! Another rage-induced hallucination? Have you checked out betterhelp.com? Maybe they can help you work out your anger issues?”
…Flynn inhales.
Stop being angry. Being angry got you disqualified from that FUCKING Tara Fenix match…
”One.”
Flynn closes his eyes… He exhales.
Being angry lost you a LAY-UP of a debut match against Vaughnie…
“Twooooooooo.”
...You’re at your best when you’re in control.
Flynn peeks his eyes open.
He sees the clerk… And glancing into her sunglasses… He sees his own reflection. Red-in-the-face. Executing deep-breathing exercises.
There you are. THAT’S YOU. Not that weird hallucination. You’re in control…
Phew, okay. No hallucinations, no hallucinations… Just… get through this interaction quickly and try and bypass this woman’s stupidity.
Flynn bares his teeth again.
“Well...” Finger-quotes. “TAMMY. I think we got off on the wrong foot last time I was here.”
“Mmm.” Tammy grunts, not looking up to acknowledge this customer. From under her desk, she’s grabbed a scrapbook… And a jar of rubber cement.
“Last time I was here, I tried to check-in and there was an issue with…” Flynn exhales. “My agent made a… booking snafu. And, naturally, YOU…” Flynn puts a little more bite on that ‘you’ than maybe he meant to… “...Enforced company policy by not giving me… MY room.”
…
“As is your job.” Flynn finishes, doring a terrible job hiding the bitterness under his thin veneer of placidity.
“What a detailed and colorful summary of our last encounter, sir.” Tammy replies… She lifts her sunglasses up to her hairline… As she gently and methodically brushes down a square of adhesive onto an open page. “So lush in detail. I feel like I was taken there by magic... Have you considered becoming a novelist?”
…
Flynn’s fists tighten. His nostrils flare.
‘Tammy’ lowers her face to the page, meticulously detail-oriented over this STUPID FUCKING ARTS AND CRAFTS BULLSHIT…
“Hey!”
Flynn glances up from staring daggers into ‘Tammy’’s head… And sees his smiling face in her sunglasses. Reflection-Flynn’s
“Flynn! I’ve got the answer! We should start our own hotel! Put the Velvet Rabbit out of business!”
“FUCK YEAH WE SH-”
…
…Flynn inhales… A happy couple of newlyweds checking in at the desk beside Flynn look over at his sudden outburst.
It’s NOT a good idea. The market is bad and the well is already full of straws. You’re just angry… And fueled by spite…
Flynn squeezes his temples, moving his fingers in concentric circles…
Remember when that guy at Starbucks told you you couldn’t legally fight a panda? So you angrily spent six months visiting zoos, and emailing black market animal smugglers… And you bought an acre of land in Oklahoma where that sort of thing was TECHNICALLY LEGAL. AND paid the Oklahoma Fight Commission WAY TOO MUCH MONEY to register the panda as a human fighter… Then had to SHAVE the panda for weigh-in to carry this facade that you were fighting a man suffering from facial gigantism and CLAWS…
Trying to squeeeeeeeeze oxygen from his veins to his brains like a goddamned Go-Gurt tube…
It wasn’t even until the knockout punch in round 4 that it dawned on you that you never even WANTED to fight a panda… you were just doing it because it made you angry that someone said you couldn’t.
Doing everything chemically possible to… REMAIN… CALM…
Lessons learned though, right?
nothing is illegal in Oklahoma
You shouldn’t get angry and do things out of spite just because someone is irritating you
Panda Fur Coats are terribly uncomfortable. Panda fur is just wool on steroids. And people will not listen to your explanations that the panda wasn’t harmed until AFTER you sewed the coat….
Flynn exhales…. Caaaaaaaaaaalmly.
‘Tammy’, with a set of tweezers, gently lays the horoscope cut-out onto the glue square…
Flynn (caaaaaaaalmly) sets a hand on the desk.
“I would like to check into my room, please.”
‘Tammy’, without missing a beat, shift the angle of her chair so her arm’s rest over the computer behind her desk. She’s clearly spent years mastering the art of moving in the smallest increments possible to work behind this desk.
“Name on the reservation?”
Flynn leans in, clearly enunciating to eliminate any chance of error. “MATT. FLYNN.”
…’Tammy’’s eyebrow twitches. The first time her face has moved in Flynn’s presence.
“...Excuse me, sir. I thought your name was… Something else.”
Flynn smiles and reaches into his wallet. “Without challenging your equally valid worldview about my name, ‘TAMMY’...”
…Late fingerquotes.
Flynn slips out an ID card and slides it across the desk.
“If my name weren’t ‘Matt’, why would I have THIS driver’s license?”
…Perfectly played. Done with total tranquility. Took 30 minutes of photoshop and a Las Vegas library card. See? No need for anger.
…Tippity type, clickity clack. “Tammy”’s fingers whir across the keyboard with mechanical precision.
…
DING!
“Yes, here you are, Matt. Two nights at the VIP Suite.”
…FLYNN SLAMS HIS FIST AGAINST THE DESK. The pencil cup leaps a foot into the air, before clattering, scattering a few pens onto the floor…
“YES!” Flynn says, clapping his hands, followed by an emphatic fist-pump. “THAT’S WHAT I’M FUCKING TALKING ABOUT.”
‘Tammy’ is already scanning a keycard through the coder for the VIP Suite. “My, oh my, sir.” She says, retaining her mild affect. “This is why I got into hospitality. To see reactions like that as people celebrate their well-earned hotel stay.”
“Just give me the fucking key, you cretin.” Flynn says, his fingers beckoning, eager for this transaction to be done… Having reached his tranquility ceiling.
…Not noticing behind him, two men in suits walking up...
The keycard finishes scanning… And prints out. ‘Tammy’ picks up the card…
Flynn just about reaches across the desk to snatch it out of her hand…
When he feels a hand on his shoulder.
“Excuse me, sir. Are you Mark Flynn?”
…
Flynn eyes ‘Tammy’... whose wrist tilts upwards… leaving it juuuuuuust out of his plucking range.
“...Can this wait, like, eight to ten seconds?”
“No, sir. This is a… pressing matter.”
Remember, Flynn. Caaaaaaaaaaalm.
Exasperated, Flynn turns around…
…
And finds himself face-to-face with two of Las Vegas’ finest.
The Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department. Both sporting sunglasses indoors and wielding nightsticks.
Clearly, Flynn’s reputation precedes him on this one.
In the officer’s sunglasses, Flynn sees his reflection change into a 100-watt smile.
“Hey Flynn! What’s going oooooo…?”
Reflection-Flynn glances downward. And sees two coppers.
His smile vanishes. His face whitens.
“Oh, shit!” The Reflection looks up. “Flynn, get out of there! RUN!”
Nooooooooooo. No no no. That’s even worse than starting a hotel chain out of spite. We’re not running from Police Officers… in a city where we’re contractually obligated to re-appear in.
Just… be smooth. And deny, deny, deny.
…
Flynn’s eyebrow twitches. “...Is this about the Motel Six?” Flynn shakes his head. “If it was, I’m TELLING you, that room was covered in jelly BEFORE I got there.”
…Smooooooooth.
…The two cops look at each other and then back to Flynn.
“Sir, this… matter has nothing to do with a Motel 6 or… jelly. We’d like to invite you to come down to the station and talk this out with us.”
Aha! An invitation! Tell these guys to hit the bricks and come back with a warrant!
…Politely.
The reflection-in-the-cop’s-glasses waves his arms, desperately trying to flag Flynn’s attention. “FLYNN. I AM TELLING YOU: RUN!”
…Flynn smiles, looking like a huge weight was lifted off his shoulders.
“Oh! An Invite!” Flynn clears his throat. ”Well, then, as a private citizen and non-permanent visitor of this shithole den of debauchery you call a town, I will be DECLINING your INVITATION.”
…Dial back the aggression a few degrees, but otherwise, perfect.
The officers don’t twitch a muscle at this rejection.
“Sir, we have …orders to bring you in. At this point in our investigation, cooperation is non-optional.”
…Flynn’s eyes narrow.
…Okay. Not taking no for an answer. So, ‘invite’ was an inaccurate word.
Clearly, whatever these boys want with you… This is serious.
“RUN! RUN NOW!”
Flynn. Deep breaths. Remain calm…
…
Maybe there’s a LEGAL way we can dodge these cops: Sanctuary!
…
Flynn claps his hands.
“Boys, I would love to answer any and all questions…” Flynn bares his teeth again, trying (and failing) to appear as amenable as possible.
“Just… Um…” Flynn sticks a finger in the air, “One moment.” He utters as he spins back to the front desk. ‘Tammy’ hasn’t moved from her spot.
“Say…” Flynn glances down as the employee’s chest once more. “Tammy. What are the Velvet Rabbit’s policies around… *throat clear*... sanctuary?”
“...Sanctuary?”
“Right. That thing where, HYPOTHETICALLY, a non-law-abider goes into a… Church or something… And the Church prevents… law enforcement from arresting… aforementioned… non-law-abider.”
“...You mean that thing that Quasimodo calls in the church in Disney’s Hunchback of Notre Dame?”
…Oh shit, that IS where we got that idea from, isn’t it?
“...Yes.” Flynn coughs, scratching his neck. “Kinda sounds stupid when I say it out lo-”
In a flash, ‘Tammy’ has dumped a damn COMPENDIUM of company policies, in a red three-ring binder onto the desk. It is of such mass and weight that the desk quakes under it.
‘Tammy itches the tip of her nose. “Yeah, we do that here.”
…Flynn is taken aback. “Really?”
HAHA! YES!
“In order to declare sanctuary in the state of Nevada, you require a chapel and a room. Velvet Rabbit offers seven different chapels to accommodate the various religious beliefs of our guests, including a drive-thru chapel and the first ever CURBSIDE PICKUP chapel, which we setup during COVID.”
…Flynn’s brow furrows in confusion. “So, for that, a priest marries you in your car?”
“In roller skates.” ‘Tammy’ nods, somehow maintaining zero affect as she describes this absurd thing. “A pandemic shouldn’t get between you and true love, sir.”
Amen
…Flynn shrugs. “Great, so as a guest, I can declare sanctuary and you’d tell these cops to beat it?”
“Of course, you could, sir.”
Yesssssssss! Home freeeeeeeeeeee!
Flynn grins wickedly as he reaches across the desk, eager to scoop the keycard.
…Just as it’s peeled out of his reach.
“You *could*... if your name matched the one on the reservation. Unfortunately, given these police officers are identifying you as ‘MARK Flynn’, that raises an identity dispute, which we’ll have to process before I can give you your key.”
…
Caaaaaaaaaalm.
….Flynn’s eyebrow twitches. A vein starts pumping in his forehead… He is seething with rage.
“How. Long. Will. That. Take.”
‘Tammy’ scratches her nose again.
“Not long at all… Just have to call the number associated with the room.” As ‘Tammy’ finishes itching her nose, she glances down at her wrist. Her brow betrays the slightest, SMALLEST IOTA of emotion. “...Unfortunately, it will have to be performed AFTER my mandatory 15-minute break.”
…
Without moving from her seat, ‘Tammy’ lifts the newspaper back up above her eyes.
…
…Okay, I’m a voice in your head dedicated to inner peace. And even, I’M getting pissed off now.
Flynn inhales. Ready to unleash venom and bile.
…But, stay caaaaaaaaalm.
“‘Tammy’... Before this point, you have been but a mild inconvenience to me. But, this? This decision right now? Is one that I *promise* you. I will make you regret.”
Tammy flips the page, not acknowledging Flynn’s threat.
Flynn sighs. He spins around… to the two cops towering over him.
Flynn glares at the cop’s sunglasses angrily…
The Reflection-Flynn has his hands… clasped in prayer?
“Flynn. Listen. RUN. Disappear into the crowd. LOSE THESE FLATFOOTS.”
“…”
“Flatfeet? Whatever the plural is for ‘pig’, SCRAM!”
That remains a TERRIBLE idea, Mark. If they don’t have a warrant, the arrest will get thrown out. Go with them, ask for a lawyer the moment you sit down and they’ll cut you loose.
…Flynn exhales.
“Fine, I’ll cooperate. Let’s just get this over with.”
The cops look at each other and nod.
One reaches into his belt… And retrieved a pair of handcuffs.
Flynn exhales. “That’s… really unnecessary.”
“Standard police procedure, sir.”
Standard police procedure, Flynn. Remain calm.
“DO NOT LET THEM HANDCUFF YOU.”
…Flynn sighs. And puts his hands behind his back.
One cop takes the lead… The other closely follows… As Flynn is walked out the front door of the Velvet Rabbit in handcuffs.
…
Behind the front desk, ‘Tammy’ flips the page of her magazine once more.
…Her nose furrows. Her brow wrinkles. She waves a hand in front of her face, trying to clear odor.
“Oh My God, all of a sudden, it’s smells like bong water and dirt weed in here…”
WHAM! When a bouquet of roses hits the desk in front of her.
‘Tammy’ glances up!
“Hey hey!” ‘Chronic’ Chris Page, the proud owner of WGWF and part-owner of the Velvet Rabbit stands before her. “Has the VIP Suite guest checked in yet?”
…
“Let me check.”
…Wordlessly, ‘Tammy’ scrolls up and down the computer screen…
All that on the screen is a game of Candy Crush, (where Tammy is on Level 2237…)
Tammy shakes her head.
“Not yet.”
Page snaps his fingers. “Perfect! When he swings through, give him these!” Page pushes the bouquet across the desk.
The note in the bouquet says ‘To my favorite client, Matt Flynn!’
As Page hands it over, he sees the magazine… He gasps!
“It’s here! Did it just arrive?” With incredible finger dexterity, he plucks it out of ‘Tammy’’s hands…
…So deftly in fact that it seems to take a moment for her to realize she’s reading thin air.
Page rapidly flips through the pages… Before his face contorts in disappointment.
“Aw man!” Page says, opening the magazine… to the horoscope section, with one rectangle missing.
“How is it that every time I have Las Vegas Wrestling Monthly Delivered here… Someone cuts out my horoscope?!?”
“It’s a mystery, Mister Page…” ‘Tammy’ says as she pushes her scrapbook of horoscopes under her desk…
***
Three sets of footsteps in perfect time. Out through the double-doors.
Past troves of tourist families and degenerate gamblers.
Past the packed first rows of parking spaces, jammed to the gills with travel sedans.
And at the outer edge of the lot… They stop at a squad car.
“RUN.” Flynn’s pocket screams.
Flynn glances down at his pocket. Under his bounds hands, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in his cell phone screen.
“FLYNN. GET OUT OF THERE.”
Flynn, you’re doing the right thing. These guys haven’t even read you your Miranda Rights! Amateur hour! You’ve got, like, seven legal avenues to dismiss these charges in a courtroom.
The officer in front walks up to the backseat…
Everything’s gonna be fiiiiiiine.
The cop…
Walks past the backseat.
And pops the trunk open.
…
Then turns to Flynn silently.
“Get in.”
…Hmmm.
That’s not… standard police procedure.
Flynn’s eyes narrow. “Mmm.” He doesn’t move.
He feels the cop at his six o’clock put a hand on his shoulder.
“RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN.”
Flynn digs his heels, bracing his head forward.
Flynn. New tactic.
The cop wraps his mitts around Flynn’s bound hands…
Flynn reels his head against his chest…
Let’s run.
The cops lifts Flynn’s arms his back… driving him forward…
Swoo.
WHAM! In a perfect arc, Flynn reels his head back and HEADBUTTS the cop backwards, ramming the back of his head in the cop’s face!
The other cop leaps forward… Flynn leaps off his left foot… SPRINGBOARDS off the side of the squad car!
KLAP! Step-up enzuigiri to the cop’s face!
Flynn lands! He spins to keep the offense u-
BZZZZZT! Taser to the neck!
Flynn flops to the ground… His limbs vibrating and seizing with electricity…
Like a sack of potatoes, he’s heaved off the concrete…
“Hold on.”
Flynn, with his limited wherewithal, feels a presence in his thigh.
“NO NO NO.”
…It’s a hand digging in his pocket.
The cop pulls out Flynn’s phone. Wrapping both hands around it.
“NONONONON-.”
SNAP. The phone breaks in two.
THUMP. Like a dummy, Flynn is heaved into the trunk of a vehicle.
Hey Flynn? Call me crazy.
The trunk slams shut.
But I’m starting to think these cops aren’t on the level..
***
Darkness.
The low, muffled sound of an engine hum.
…
Click.
A standard-issue police flashlight.
Illuminating the face of Mark Flynn.
Lying on his face.
Hands tied behind his back.
Flynn exhales, his face against the trunk’s fuzzy interior.
“Boy, rough few weeks for your ol’ pal, Flynn, huh, kids?”
“Somehow, Vaughnie managed to get a fistful of tights AND both feet on the ropes.”
“Then, I went out to Waikiki Beach for the Tara Fenix Charity Clusterfuck… And after blowing through three out of five of Corey Black’s Action Wrestling Dream Team like a goddamn WRECKING BALL… The HACK official decided to FABRICATE a reason to disqualify me.”
Flynn tucks his face closer to the light.
“Cuz lemme GUARANTEE kids. If that official had played it by the book, Team CCPE would have won 4-0 instead of 1-0.”
“But, here I am. The ‘Mark Flynn Conquers The World’ Tour starts off with a bullshit roll up finish and a DQ elimination.”
“…See, when I peeked my head out of XWF… I tried to keep a positive fucking attitude. TRIED TO BE A HAPPY FUCKING CAMPER.”
“I told myself… Theo and Vinnie… of course, THEY have a grudge. Every time I step in an XWF ring, I expose them for the FRAUDS that they are. Two so-called legends that lack the fucking ability to TIE MY BOOTS… Let alone keep up with me in the ring.”
“But. BUT. James Raven? The so-called GOAT. Chris Page? My fucking agent. What do they have to gain from fucking me out of victory? Of stacking the deck against me.”
“Guess I gotta figure that out.”
“Because Week #1: Despite out-wrestling Vaughn. Out-working Vaughn.”
“Somehow, Page hired a referee with fucking TUNNEL VISION. Who can’t see FEET ON THE ROPES A WHOLE FOUR INCHES FROM THE PIN. And he stole a victory.”
Flynn side-eyes the camera.
“Guess luck… flowed his way.”
“Then, James Raven. JAMES FUCKING RAVEN. The fucking so-called GOAT. Shits the bed and goes out first in our big elimination match. Doubling my workload. Making me look like an asshole for not trusting the rest of the clowns to pull their weight.”
“…Now? In my second week of competition? With forgiveness in my heart? Who does my Agent put me up against?”
“SAM. VOXX.”
Flynn spits.
…Of course, he’s lying sideways in a trunk, so it just winds up in front of his face.
“SAM. VOXX. THE WITCH.”
“When Page KNOWS from his XWF days how much I HATE MAGIC.”
“Maybe that’s the plan, huh? Maybe that’s the game. James and Page invited me to Vegas on a biweekly basis to humiliate me. To fucking SILENCE my claim to the FUCKING MOUNTAINTOP.”
…Flynn, with his front teeth, bites into the fuzz of the trunk… And drags his neck forward to get closer to the mic.
“NEWSFLASH, FUCKS. If you think you can humiliate Mark Flynn into packing his bags and going home… I spent ten years of degradation… Ten years of abuse… TEN YEARS OF FUCKING INDIGNITY… To get one shot at the highest honor in this industry.”
“If you think a couple rough weeks and a teenage girl with a pocketful of twigs is enough to stop Mark Flynn… Get ready to watch me roast this witch like I’m Judge John Hathorne.”
“You think I’m fucking afraid of a witch? Please. I’m…. MILDLY DISCOMFORTED… By WIZARDS.”
“Y’know why? WIZARDS can’t be killed by getting dropped in a lake with rocks in their pockets.”
“If witches DID have magical powers like flight, why the Hell would they live in a shithole like MASSACHUSSETTS?”
“Oh, but Sam Voxx isn’t just a witch! She’s the Forest Fae of Wrestling! She speaks for the trees!”
Flynn guffaws.
“Sammy, global warming is destroying 10,000 acres of rainforest every day. The California sky looks like the fucking endtimes 9 months out of the year. America’s last unicorn probably just got her meadow paved over to make a parking lot for a Vegan Cat Cafe.”
“And, instead of defending the forest as it slowly dies… You’re out here wrestling… And losing.”
“Since NINE MONTHS AGO… I’ve run the gamut, winning every single crossover event I’ve appeared in. DPI? 1 Win. Cannabis Cup? 5 Wins. Tara Fenix Charity Event? 1 elimination, 1 win.”
“What’s your industry representation? You’re the bottom of the first cut in the World Series of Wrestling. Literally with ONE POINT separating you from packing your bindle and flying back on your broom to the SWAMP.”
Pictured Above: ONE. FUCKING. POINT
“Barely keeping your head above the dredge of FAILURE. Just like you’ve done your entire career.”
“You’re a goddamn embarrassment. To wrestling and to witchkind.”
“FUH-KING MEE-DEE-OH-KUR.”
“...And you’re about to face the XWF Universal Champion.”
“The UNDEFEATED CHAMPION WRESTLING MAGIC USERS.”
“THE.”
“GREATEST.”
“WRESTLER.”
“OF.”
“ALL.”
“TIME.”
“Since Day One.”
…Flynn grins insidiously.
“And if think you can call on some strange magic… If you think the Witching Hour is going to bring a surprise…”
Flynn tsk-tsks… And lowers his chin against the light.
“Hate to say it, but Halloween is over, Sammy. Can’t have a Cinderella Story when the pumpkins have all rotted.”
“To.”
“The.”
“Core.”
Click.
Darkness.