Elvises or Elvii? (Tag Team RP Pt 1)
Jan 14, 2023 14:40:56 GMT -5
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"The Peoples GOAT" James Raven likes this
Post by markflynn on Jan 14, 2023 14:40:56 GMT -5
Icebergs adrift in a brown sea.
Crystalized white powder drops…
Weight enough that the ice-at-rest bobs up and down.
“Hrrrrrrrrgh.”
Pat Bilko, gumshoe wrestling reporter, looks up from the she’s dumping pink packets into.
“What?”
…Mark Flynn, sitting across from Bilko, has a blood vessel, noticeably pulsating in his forehead.
He inhales… He presses the sides of his temples with his palms, as if he’s manually pushing the vein back in...
“Nothing.”
…Bilko shrugs, as she shakes the last few sugar specks into her drink.
…Flynn’s face de-tenses.
Until Bilko’s fingers dip, retrieving another two pink packets.
“HRGH.” Flynn shuts his eyes tight, nearly choking.
Bilko squints up at Flynn.
“WHAT is your problem?”
Flynn exhales, trying to relax his accelerating heart rate.
“The human body is a MACHINE. It is designed to run on fuel that YOU provide it.”
“...Okay.”
“And you are poisoning yourself with artificial sweeteners.”
…
“You mean Sweet ‘n Low?”
“I mean, FAKE SUGAR.” Flynn sticks a finger in Bilko’s face. “Studies have connected FAKE. SUGAR.” The venom spittles off Flynn’s mouth. “To increased risk of STROKE… DIABETES… DEATH. Every one of those goddamn POISON packets you’re DUMPING into your beverage takes approximately 47 SECONDS off your life.”
…
“Dude. First off, I’m less worried about dying from malnutrition than ASSASSINATION. You know, from the guys that just tried to kill us?!?”
“Exactly. Don’t do their job for them. Dump out your drink.”
“Secondly, YOU can’t lecture me about healthy choices, when you picked a DENNY’S to eat at.”
…Yes, the pair were sitting in a booth with faded red leather, under the faded paint of a red-and-yellow Denny’s logo.
“...I like Denny’s.” Flynn snorts. “The service is *perfectly* terrible. Staff only stops by in 45 minute chunks… Half the time, they forget you’re even here. Perfect place to hide in plain sight.”
…
“Plus, I love a good plate of hash browns.”
Bilko is stirring the sugar substitute into her drink… When she double-takes at Flynn’s last words…
“Wait… Are we hiding right now?”
“Considering we just escaped being crushed to death in the trunk of a police cruiser, yes. We’re hiding.” Flynn sips at his bottled water. “Since those two cops split before making sure the job was done, whoever tried to nix us must think we’re dead… For now.”
Bilko is mouth-agape. “Ahhhh. And the longer we keep it that way…”
“The more time we have to turn over rocks before another assassination attempt.” Flynn taps his nose. “You don’t send MORE assassins after dead people.”
“Good thinking!” Bilko smiles, as she cheerses with her tea. “Okay, so, low profile…” She swigs her drink. “What else should we do?”
“Spit that out.”
Bilko’s eyes widen. She sputters and gags, bending over the booth’s and expelling tea straight onto the linoleum floor!
“Oh God…” She spits, using her fingernails to brush what flecks remain on her tongue. “Was it… poisoned, ya think? Cyanide?!?”
“No. But, it’s bad for you.”
Pat looks up astonished,tea spittle dribbling down her chin. “What?!?”
“You asked ‘what else should we do’. *You* should order something else.”
“WHAT ELSE SHOULD WE DO ABOUT NOT GETTING KILLED?!?
…To their left, a table of three drunken Elvis impersonators (cuz Vegas) glance over at the hubbub…
…Flynn clears his throat.
A Denny’s janitor walks by with a mop, completely unfazed by the mouthful of tea on the floor. He runs the mop’s fibers over the liquid. Bilko blushes and mouths ‘sorrrrrrry’ to the service employee.
…Eventually, the Elvises turn back to their burnt omlettes…
Flynn leans in across the table.
“First.” He whispers. “We probably shouldn’t *yell* in a public place. Hence, whole ‘keeping a low profile’ thing.”
…Bilko delivers a thumbs-up.
“Second…” Flynn grits his teeth, ruefully. “You still think Page might help us figure out who’s trying to kill us?”
Bilko nods.
“If rubbing us out has *anything* to do with Pam D’Monium’s death? Page WAS the last one to book her.”
…Flynn sighs, squeezing his temples.
“Goddammit.”
He extends a hand across the table.
“Phone.”
…Bilko fishes into her pocket, frowning.
“You *could* say please…” The journalist mutters as she stretches o-
FWIP! Flynn snaps the phone out of her hand. “I COULD.” Flynn spits back.
Deftly, Flynn’s fingers punch a number. The King of the Midcarders shakes his head, groaning.
Pat tilts her head curiously.
“Why grumble? Page is *your* agent. I’m sure he’d love to help you out…”
As the phone rings in Flynn’s ear, he shakes his head.
“Chris Page loves Chris Page. The only thing I know is whenever I need a favor, he j-”
Flynn grimaces. The boat horn is so loud, even Bilko across the table flinches!
“Y’ello! If you’re trying to get ahold of ‘Chronic’ Chris Page, I’m currently at a charity boat wrestling event… But NOT that one. Not a cruise! Just a standard-issue wrestling event! On a boat! For charity!”
…
Flynn grits his teeth, flinching again…
“...I’m not on the boat currently, I just bought a boat horn. For my home.”
…
“Anyway, leave a message.”
BEEP.
“This voicemailbox is full. Goodbye.”
SMASH! Flynn’s fist crashes into the tabletop.
…
Flynn covers his face with his hands.
“Worst. Agent. EVER.”
…
Bilko sips her drink.
“...So? How’d the call gooooooo?”
Flynn grimaces.
“Page is at some charity boat thing.”
“...Okay. So, do we lay low in the meantime?”
Without turning his head, Flynn side-eyes across the way…
…At the Elvis’ table, a stumbling-drunk gold-sequin-jacket Elvis lifts up his cell phone… His eyes squint and dilate as he struggles to text.
Flynn’s eyes narrow.
“I get the vibe that our ‘laying low’ window is already closing. We need to move now.”
“Hmm. Okay.”
Bilko reaches out and plucks the phone from Flynn’s hand. Flynn’s face scrunches angrily, furious to have his own impoliteness thrust back upon him.
Bilko rapidly texts.
“So, Google says there are… Eight boat-charity-wrestling events in the Las Vegas area. And that’s just today!”
…Flynn sighs.
“Goddammit, what is it with boats, wrestling, and charity…”
Bilko bites her lip thoughtfully.
“Well, maybe someone could tell us which one Page is at?”
…Flynn squints.
“Hmm… HMM!” Flynn nods. “Yeah.”
SNAP! Flynn takes the phone back.
Bilko pouts, smacking Flynn on the arm as he retracts the device. ”Get your own phone!”
“Can’t. Mine got busted by those fake cops…” Flynn punches in a number…
…
Then deletes it.
…
He exhales… He types again.
Bilko’s brow twitches curiously.
“Problem?”
“...Another CCPE member would know where Page is.”
Bilko nods. “Great! Call one! Aren’t there like 50 of ‘em?”
“Yes. And I don’t trust ONE to NOT be a part of this cover-up/murder plot.”
“...Really? NONE of them?”
…Flynn scratches his chin.
“I… SORTA trust Peter Vaughn. But, knowing him, he’s fighting some secret twin brother over control of that secret janitorial illuminati he’s a member of.”
“...There’s a secret janitorial illuminati?”
“...No, forget I said that.”
Flynn shakes his head.
“...After Vaughn, who else is there in Vegas? I honestly can’t remember which Montouri is on our side half the time…”
Bilko itches her chin. Then, her eyes spark!
“Oh! Fred Debonair? He’s got social clout out the wazoo! He owns his own jet AND mansion!”
…Flynn’s teeth grit in dread.
Bilko frowns.
“What now?”
…Flynn inhales.
“Fred’s a great call. He’s… just about perfect for this problem.”
“Yeah! So?”
…
“I’ve been… trashing him for weeks.”
Bilko squints, perplexed.
“Aren’t you guys on the same WGWF team?”
Flynn scoffs. “It’s complicated.”
…Flynn’s thumb hovers over the talk button…
…
…As he does, the drunken golden-garbed Elvis leans back against his chair and squares up a selfie.
…The Elvis’ selfie *would* put Flynn and Bilko in the background… Are they spotted?
“For God’s sake.” Bilko cuts in, surprising Flynn. “Stop being a teenage girl and call him already.”
Flynn grimaces, his manhood bruised. “...FINE.” He punches ‘talk’.
Riiiii-.
“Don’t be surprised if that diva lets it go to voi-...”
“*click*It’s Fred...”
Flynn is taken off-guard. “Wow. D’You even let the phone ring?”
“Not if I can help it.” A confident laugh. “I like to keep whoever calls my number on guard. Now, who’s this? Before I hang up again… If this is you, Rabbit…”
…Flynn coughs, awkwardly. “Uh, well, Fred. It’s… uh… MarkFlynn.” Flynn tries to say his name rapid-fire, as if sneaking it through.
“Ahhhhh, my WGWF pal from CCPE! The guy who’s been helping me sort things with Cable, Tristan and Co!”
…Flynn squints, trying to detect sarcasm in Debonair’s friendly, easy tone… He finds none. He delivers a quick thumbs-up to Bilko, whose fists shake with excitement.
“Uh… yeah. That Flynn. Listen, Fred. I’m in kind-of-a… JAM. I need help.”
“Welp, luckily I’ve got no weird shit going on right now, I can be there shortly.”
Flynn stutters. “Uh… That’s unnecessary. I just ne-”
“Nah I insist, Flynn. You need help and the best way to provide that help is to be there in-person to understand the full scope and nature of your… ‘jam’.”
“Uh…” Flynn shakes his head. “Alright. I’ll… uh… text you our location, I guess?”
…Debonair chuckles. “C’mon hoss. When you’re as well-connected as I am, you know where everyone is.”
Click.
Flynn double-takes at the phone. The line’s dead.
Bilko’s eyes widen expectantly. “Sooooooo? Did he tell you where Page is?”
…Flynn sniffs. “He’s…on his way.”
Bilko’s brow waggles. “...What? Why?”
Flynn sneers at being questioned. “I dunno! He’s… pushy! …In a polite way! I didn’t know how to handle it.”
“So… What do we do ‘til he gets here?”
…A cash sound. Flynn’s ears perk.
Across the way, the golden-jacket Elvis grins crookedly. He elbows a white-jacket Elvis, in a drunken stupor next to him…
They slowly drunkenly rise… Stumbling non-chalantly… A few feet away.
Flynn tilts his head toward the duo… “I have a feeling we’ll find a way to pass the time…”
The Elvis’ are arm-in-arm, seemingly trying to keep each other balanced…
WHOOP! They trip over each other’s feet! They catapault together like a bowling ball! Directly ONTO Flynn’s table!
Beverages fly into the air! One crushes Bilko against her seat!
“Hey!” She protests! “Watch I-”
WHAP! Elvis’ palm smacks Bilko in the face, as he appears to try and pick himself back up onto his feet!
Flynn scowls furiously!
“Hey!” Flynn slides out of his chai-BLOCKED by the other Elvis who scoots into the booth!
Flynn tries to shove the Elvis out… But, the Elvis slips to the side!
“Ah uh huh!” The Elvis bleats as he latched onto Flynn’s arm!
Flynn’s eyes widen. ”What the f-”
“HOOOO!” The Elvis slurs, as he twists his body! The Elvis JUDO-THROWS Flynn onto the tiled floor of the Denny’s!
THUD! Flynn’s back flops against the floor!
“Oh fuck…” Flynn groans. “Drunken Kung Fu Elvises…”
…
“Or… Is it Elvii?”
The Elvis (singular) grabs Flynn around the throat.
Flynn gasps and coughs.
He struggles…
…
His vision blurs…
DING! The Dennys’ front door opens.
“HEY HOSS!”
The Elvis choking Flynn looks up!
WHAM! He takes a thrown dining chair to THE FACE!
In the doorway.
Fred Debonair.
“Let’s dance.”
***
Black screen. Wind.
“Trust.”
“Is.”
“Valuable.”
Fwip! The camera scope opens. We see the ocean.
The camera pans down. At a cliff’s edge.
Suddenly, a hand grabs the camera… And flips it.
Mark Flynn.
“I’m a record-setting, multi-time tag-team champion. So, I know, more than anyone, what it takes to succeed in a tag-team environment.”
“TRUUUUUUST.”
“Not just any trust.”
“A specific trust.”
“When I say TRUST. I mean, the intersection of reliability and predictability.”
…Flynn grins.
“While we’re talking about predictability…”
“TRISTAN.”
“SLATER.”
…
“Funny how things change, isn’t it?”
“Ten years ago? In the XWF? YOU were the shining star. The PEAK. Your dominance was as CONSTANT AS FUCKING GRAVITY.”
“Beloved by fans, critics, Hollywood, the late night talk-show circuit… Everyone from ages 1 to 100 loved Tristan Slater.”
“Then, I fucking TARNISHED you. I took the wrestling industry’s 20-something golden child and I beat the shit out of him until the shine was gone.”
“I dedicated my every THOUGHT. Every SYNAPSE in my brain to RUINING your career.”
…
“And here we are, in the glorious new year of 2023.”
“Was your goal at the West Coast Rumble to win the WGWF Title? To reclaim your former glory?”
“No chance.”
“Your SINGLE goal was eliminating ME and PETER VAUGHN. For once, you tried to spoil an unstoppable reign of dominance.”
“And how’d that go for you, Tristan?”
“You didn’t stop Peter Vaughn.”
“And in that match, *I* ELIMINATED *you*.”
“Tristan Slater. Former two-time XWF World Heavyweight Champion?”
“Finished with ZERO eliminations.”
“He wasn’t in the final four.”
“Hell, he didn’t finish in the TOP FUCKING TEN.”
“Tristan Slater, the man who started his XWF career 22-and-0… lasted eleventh-longest… OUT. OF. TWENTY.”
“Hysterical, huh, Slater? TEN YEARS after YOU dubbed ME ‘King of the Midcarders’… You became MIDCARD TALENT.”
…
“Slater’s pretending that the score’s still even between us. Because he eliminated me as well…”
“But, Slater returned to the ring ILLEGALLY. Ambushing me AFTER Vaughn and I already outlasted NINETY PERCENT OF THE FIELD.”
Flynn grins naughtily.
“Funny how ten years later, Slater STILL only accomplishes his goals… by CHEATING!“
Flynn laughs.
“But, now, you’re tag-teaming, Slater.”
“An environment you might think you have an advantage in…”
“After all, you and Mac Bane are old pals, chumming it up on his ranch… ‘Cowboy Shit’, as I’ve heard Buck-toothed hicks wearing Mac Bane shirts say.”
“You might THINK you trust Mac Bane.”
“You might trust him to give you a ride to your… *supplement* guy.”
“But do you trust him to get the job done in the ring, Slater?”
“Mac Bane - The Guy Who abandoned Team CCPE at the TFCC?”
“Who couldn’t make ONE IOTA of difference at XWF WarGames?”
“If you wanna pretend you trust Mac Bane to do what it takes? To win? At all costs?”
Flynn scoffs.
“You’re kidding yourself, Slater.”
“Meanwhile, is Fred Debonair my buddy? My pal? Mi amigo?”
“No.”
“But, can I rely on Fred to win? Like he beat four other competitors to secure his slot at the West Coast Rumble?”
“Can I trust Debonair to do whatever it takes to win?”
Flynn taps his nose.
“I’d bet my life on it.”
Flynn wraps his arms around the camera…
“Why’d you lose the West Coast Rumble? Cuz you shoved Cable outta the way and got blasted out the ring.”
“That split-second? You didn’t trust Cable to take the kick.”
“YOU.”
“LACK.”
“TRUST.”
…
“My words are embedded so deep in your fucking head… You’re drowning in an ocean of doubt. You don’t know which way is up.”
“You’re lost. Hopeless. You can’t trust yourself.”
…Flynn leans backward.
He and the camera drop off the cliff.
“Trust ME, Slater…” Says Flynn, as the winds whip and the waves crash around him!
SPLASH!
“You’re already dead.”
Crystalized white powder drops…
Weight enough that the ice-at-rest bobs up and down.
“Hrrrrrrrrgh.”
Pat Bilko, gumshoe wrestling reporter, looks up from the she’s dumping pink packets into.
“What?”
…Mark Flynn, sitting across from Bilko, has a blood vessel, noticeably pulsating in his forehead.
He inhales… He presses the sides of his temples with his palms, as if he’s manually pushing the vein back in...
“Nothing.”
…Bilko shrugs, as she shakes the last few sugar specks into her drink.
…Flynn’s face de-tenses.
Until Bilko’s fingers dip, retrieving another two pink packets.
“HRGH.” Flynn shuts his eyes tight, nearly choking.
Bilko squints up at Flynn.
“WHAT is your problem?”
Flynn exhales, trying to relax his accelerating heart rate.
“The human body is a MACHINE. It is designed to run on fuel that YOU provide it.”
“...Okay.”
“And you are poisoning yourself with artificial sweeteners.”
…
“You mean Sweet ‘n Low?”
“I mean, FAKE SUGAR.” Flynn sticks a finger in Bilko’s face. “Studies have connected FAKE. SUGAR.” The venom spittles off Flynn’s mouth. “To increased risk of STROKE… DIABETES… DEATH. Every one of those goddamn POISON packets you’re DUMPING into your beverage takes approximately 47 SECONDS off your life.”
…
“Dude. First off, I’m less worried about dying from malnutrition than ASSASSINATION. You know, from the guys that just tried to kill us?!?”
“Exactly. Don’t do their job for them. Dump out your drink.”
“Secondly, YOU can’t lecture me about healthy choices, when you picked a DENNY’S to eat at.”
…Yes, the pair were sitting in a booth with faded red leather, under the faded paint of a red-and-yellow Denny’s logo.
“...I like Denny’s.” Flynn snorts. “The service is *perfectly* terrible. Staff only stops by in 45 minute chunks… Half the time, they forget you’re even here. Perfect place to hide in plain sight.”
…
“Plus, I love a good plate of hash browns.”
Bilko is stirring the sugar substitute into her drink… When she double-takes at Flynn’s last words…
“Wait… Are we hiding right now?”
“Considering we just escaped being crushed to death in the trunk of a police cruiser, yes. We’re hiding.” Flynn sips at his bottled water. “Since those two cops split before making sure the job was done, whoever tried to nix us must think we’re dead… For now.”
Bilko is mouth-agape. “Ahhhh. And the longer we keep it that way…”
“The more time we have to turn over rocks before another assassination attempt.” Flynn taps his nose. “You don’t send MORE assassins after dead people.”
“Good thinking!” Bilko smiles, as she cheerses with her tea. “Okay, so, low profile…” She swigs her drink. “What else should we do?”
“Spit that out.”
Bilko’s eyes widen. She sputters and gags, bending over the booth’s and expelling tea straight onto the linoleum floor!
“Oh God…” She spits, using her fingernails to brush what flecks remain on her tongue. “Was it… poisoned, ya think? Cyanide?!?”
“No. But, it’s bad for you.”
Pat looks up astonished,tea spittle dribbling down her chin. “What?!?”
“You asked ‘what else should we do’. *You* should order something else.”
“WHAT ELSE SHOULD WE DO ABOUT NOT GETTING KILLED?!?
…To their left, a table of three drunken Elvis impersonators (cuz Vegas) glance over at the hubbub…
…Flynn clears his throat.
A Denny’s janitor walks by with a mop, completely unfazed by the mouthful of tea on the floor. He runs the mop’s fibers over the liquid. Bilko blushes and mouths ‘sorrrrrrry’ to the service employee.
…Eventually, the Elvises turn back to their burnt omlettes…
Flynn leans in across the table.
“First.” He whispers. “We probably shouldn’t *yell* in a public place. Hence, whole ‘keeping a low profile’ thing.”
…Bilko delivers a thumbs-up.
“Second…” Flynn grits his teeth, ruefully. “You still think Page might help us figure out who’s trying to kill us?”
Bilko nods.
“If rubbing us out has *anything* to do with Pam D’Monium’s death? Page WAS the last one to book her.”
…Flynn sighs, squeezing his temples.
“Goddammit.”
He extends a hand across the table.
“Phone.”
…Bilko fishes into her pocket, frowning.
“You *could* say please…” The journalist mutters as she stretches o-
FWIP! Flynn snaps the phone out of her hand. “I COULD.” Flynn spits back.
Deftly, Flynn’s fingers punch a number. The King of the Midcarders shakes his head, groaning.
Pat tilts her head curiously.
“Why grumble? Page is *your* agent. I’m sure he’d love to help you out…”
As the phone rings in Flynn’s ear, he shakes his head.
“Chris Page loves Chris Page. The only thing I know is whenever I need a favor, he j-”
Flynn grimaces. The boat horn is so loud, even Bilko across the table flinches!
“Y’ello! If you’re trying to get ahold of ‘Chronic’ Chris Page, I’m currently at a charity boat wrestling event… But NOT that one. Not a cruise! Just a standard-issue wrestling event! On a boat! For charity!”
…
Flynn grits his teeth, flinching again…
“...I’m not on the boat currently, I just bought a boat horn. For my home.”
…
“Anyway, leave a message.”
BEEP.
“This voicemailbox is full. Goodbye.”
SMASH! Flynn’s fist crashes into the tabletop.
…
Flynn covers his face with his hands.
“Worst. Agent. EVER.”
…
Bilko sips her drink.
“...So? How’d the call gooooooo?”
Flynn grimaces.
“Page is at some charity boat thing.”
“...Okay. So, do we lay low in the meantime?”
Without turning his head, Flynn side-eyes across the way…
…At the Elvis’ table, a stumbling-drunk gold-sequin-jacket Elvis lifts up his cell phone… His eyes squint and dilate as he struggles to text.
Flynn’s eyes narrow.
“I get the vibe that our ‘laying low’ window is already closing. We need to move now.”
“Hmm. Okay.”
Bilko reaches out and plucks the phone from Flynn’s hand. Flynn’s face scrunches angrily, furious to have his own impoliteness thrust back upon him.
Bilko rapidly texts.
“So, Google says there are… Eight boat-charity-wrestling events in the Las Vegas area. And that’s just today!”
…Flynn sighs.
“Goddammit, what is it with boats, wrestling, and charity…”
Bilko bites her lip thoughtfully.
“Well, maybe someone could tell us which one Page is at?”
…Flynn squints.
“Hmm… HMM!” Flynn nods. “Yeah.”
SNAP! Flynn takes the phone back.
Bilko pouts, smacking Flynn on the arm as he retracts the device. ”Get your own phone!”
“Can’t. Mine got busted by those fake cops…” Flynn punches in a number…
…
Then deletes it.
…
He exhales… He types again.
Bilko’s brow twitches curiously.
“Problem?”
“...Another CCPE member would know where Page is.”
Bilko nods. “Great! Call one! Aren’t there like 50 of ‘em?”
“Yes. And I don’t trust ONE to NOT be a part of this cover-up/murder plot.”
“...Really? NONE of them?”
…Flynn scratches his chin.
“I… SORTA trust Peter Vaughn. But, knowing him, he’s fighting some secret twin brother over control of that secret janitorial illuminati he’s a member of.”
“...There’s a secret janitorial illuminati?”
“...No, forget I said that.”
Flynn shakes his head.
“...After Vaughn, who else is there in Vegas? I honestly can’t remember which Montouri is on our side half the time…”
Bilko itches her chin. Then, her eyes spark!
“Oh! Fred Debonair? He’s got social clout out the wazoo! He owns his own jet AND mansion!”
…Flynn’s teeth grit in dread.
Bilko frowns.
“What now?”
…Flynn inhales.
“Fred’s a great call. He’s… just about perfect for this problem.”
“Yeah! So?”
…
“I’ve been… trashing him for weeks.”
Bilko squints, perplexed.
“Aren’t you guys on the same WGWF team?”
Flynn scoffs. “It’s complicated.”
…Flynn’s thumb hovers over the talk button…
…
…As he does, the drunken golden-garbed Elvis leans back against his chair and squares up a selfie.
…The Elvis’ selfie *would* put Flynn and Bilko in the background… Are they spotted?
“For God’s sake.” Bilko cuts in, surprising Flynn. “Stop being a teenage girl and call him already.”
Flynn grimaces, his manhood bruised. “...FINE.” He punches ‘talk’.
Riiiii-.
“Don’t be surprised if that diva lets it go to voi-...”
“*click*It’s Fred...”
Flynn is taken off-guard. “Wow. D’You even let the phone ring?”
“Not if I can help it.” A confident laugh. “I like to keep whoever calls my number on guard. Now, who’s this? Before I hang up again… If this is you, Rabbit…”
…Flynn coughs, awkwardly. “Uh, well, Fred. It’s… uh… MarkFlynn.” Flynn tries to say his name rapid-fire, as if sneaking it through.
“Ahhhhh, my WGWF pal from CCPE! The guy who’s been helping me sort things with Cable, Tristan and Co!”
…Flynn squints, trying to detect sarcasm in Debonair’s friendly, easy tone… He finds none. He delivers a quick thumbs-up to Bilko, whose fists shake with excitement.
“Uh… yeah. That Flynn. Listen, Fred. I’m in kind-of-a… JAM. I need help.”
“Welp, luckily I’ve got no weird shit going on right now, I can be there shortly.”
Flynn stutters. “Uh… That’s unnecessary. I just ne-”
“Nah I insist, Flynn. You need help and the best way to provide that help is to be there in-person to understand the full scope and nature of your… ‘jam’.”
“Uh…” Flynn shakes his head. “Alright. I’ll… uh… text you our location, I guess?”
…Debonair chuckles. “C’mon hoss. When you’re as well-connected as I am, you know where everyone is.”
Click.
Flynn double-takes at the phone. The line’s dead.
Bilko’s eyes widen expectantly. “Sooooooo? Did he tell you where Page is?”
…Flynn sniffs. “He’s…on his way.”
Bilko’s brow waggles. “...What? Why?”
Flynn sneers at being questioned. “I dunno! He’s… pushy! …In a polite way! I didn’t know how to handle it.”
“So… What do we do ‘til he gets here?”
…A cash sound. Flynn’s ears perk.
Across the way, the golden-jacket Elvis grins crookedly. He elbows a white-jacket Elvis, in a drunken stupor next to him…
They slowly drunkenly rise… Stumbling non-chalantly… A few feet away.
Flynn tilts his head toward the duo… “I have a feeling we’ll find a way to pass the time…”
The Elvis’ are arm-in-arm, seemingly trying to keep each other balanced…
WHOOP! They trip over each other’s feet! They catapault together like a bowling ball! Directly ONTO Flynn’s table!
Beverages fly into the air! One crushes Bilko against her seat!
“Hey!” She protests! “Watch I-”
WHAP! Elvis’ palm smacks Bilko in the face, as he appears to try and pick himself back up onto his feet!
Flynn scowls furiously!
“Hey!” Flynn slides out of his chai-BLOCKED by the other Elvis who scoots into the booth!
Flynn tries to shove the Elvis out… But, the Elvis slips to the side!
“Ah uh huh!” The Elvis bleats as he latched onto Flynn’s arm!
Flynn’s eyes widen. ”What the f-”
“HOOOO!” The Elvis slurs, as he twists his body! The Elvis JUDO-THROWS Flynn onto the tiled floor of the Denny’s!
THUD! Flynn’s back flops against the floor!
“Oh fuck…” Flynn groans. “Drunken Kung Fu Elvises…”
…
“Or… Is it Elvii?”
The Elvis (singular) grabs Flynn around the throat.
Flynn gasps and coughs.
He struggles…
…
His vision blurs…
DING! The Dennys’ front door opens.
“HEY HOSS!”
The Elvis choking Flynn looks up!
WHAM! He takes a thrown dining chair to THE FACE!
In the doorway.
Fred Debonair.
“Let’s dance.”
***
Black screen. Wind.
“Trust.”
“Is.”
“Valuable.”
Fwip! The camera scope opens. We see the ocean.
The camera pans down. At a cliff’s edge.
Suddenly, a hand grabs the camera… And flips it.
Mark Flynn.
“I’m a record-setting, multi-time tag-team champion. So, I know, more than anyone, what it takes to succeed in a tag-team environment.”
“TRUUUUUUST.”
“Not just any trust.”
“A specific trust.”
“When I say TRUST. I mean, the intersection of reliability and predictability.”
…Flynn grins.
“While we’re talking about predictability…”
“TRISTAN.”
“SLATER.”
…
“Funny how things change, isn’t it?”
“Ten years ago? In the XWF? YOU were the shining star. The PEAK. Your dominance was as CONSTANT AS FUCKING GRAVITY.”
“Beloved by fans, critics, Hollywood, the late night talk-show circuit… Everyone from ages 1 to 100 loved Tristan Slater.”
“Then, I fucking TARNISHED you. I took the wrestling industry’s 20-something golden child and I beat the shit out of him until the shine was gone.”
“I dedicated my every THOUGHT. Every SYNAPSE in my brain to RUINING your career.”
…
“And here we are, in the glorious new year of 2023.”
“Was your goal at the West Coast Rumble to win the WGWF Title? To reclaim your former glory?”
“No chance.”
“Your SINGLE goal was eliminating ME and PETER VAUGHN. For once, you tried to spoil an unstoppable reign of dominance.”
“And how’d that go for you, Tristan?”
“You didn’t stop Peter Vaughn.”
“And in that match, *I* ELIMINATED *you*.”
“Tristan Slater. Former two-time XWF World Heavyweight Champion?”
“Finished with ZERO eliminations.”
“He wasn’t in the final four.”
“Hell, he didn’t finish in the TOP FUCKING TEN.”
“Tristan Slater, the man who started his XWF career 22-and-0… lasted eleventh-longest… OUT. OF. TWENTY.”
“Hysterical, huh, Slater? TEN YEARS after YOU dubbed ME ‘King of the Midcarders’… You became MIDCARD TALENT.”
…
“Slater’s pretending that the score’s still even between us. Because he eliminated me as well…”
“But, Slater returned to the ring ILLEGALLY. Ambushing me AFTER Vaughn and I already outlasted NINETY PERCENT OF THE FIELD.”
Flynn grins naughtily.
“Funny how ten years later, Slater STILL only accomplishes his goals… by CHEATING!“
Flynn laughs.
“But, now, you’re tag-teaming, Slater.”
“An environment you might think you have an advantage in…”
“After all, you and Mac Bane are old pals, chumming it up on his ranch… ‘Cowboy Shit’, as I’ve heard Buck-toothed hicks wearing Mac Bane shirts say.”
“You might THINK you trust Mac Bane.”
“You might trust him to give you a ride to your… *supplement* guy.”
“But do you trust him to get the job done in the ring, Slater?”
“Mac Bane - The Guy Who abandoned Team CCPE at the TFCC?”
“Who couldn’t make ONE IOTA of difference at XWF WarGames?”
“If you wanna pretend you trust Mac Bane to do what it takes? To win? At all costs?”
Flynn scoffs.
“You’re kidding yourself, Slater.”
“Meanwhile, is Fred Debonair my buddy? My pal? Mi amigo?”
“No.”
“But, can I rely on Fred to win? Like he beat four other competitors to secure his slot at the West Coast Rumble?”
“Can I trust Debonair to do whatever it takes to win?”
Flynn taps his nose.
“I’d bet my life on it.”
Flynn wraps his arms around the camera…
“Why’d you lose the West Coast Rumble? Cuz you shoved Cable outta the way and got blasted out the ring.”
“That split-second? You didn’t trust Cable to take the kick.”
“YOU.”
“LACK.”
“TRUST.”
…
“My words are embedded so deep in your fucking head… You’re drowning in an ocean of doubt. You don’t know which way is up.”
“You’re lost. Hopeless. You can’t trust yourself.”
…Flynn leans backward.
He and the camera drop off the cliff.
“Trust ME, Slater…” Says Flynn, as the winds whip and the waves crash around him!
SPLASH!
“You’re already dead.”