[Flynn enters the Bourbon Dojo, heading for Bobby’s office. Inside, he discovers… Irwin and Miss Tote!]

IRWIN!

WHERE YOU BEEN?

...Um. Doing stuff.

With this Tate MINX no doubt!

Hey!

This is my office!

If anyone’s having an outburst in here, it's me!

Also, her name is Tote!

Actually, my name is Stephanie Wilson and…

Not now, Miss Tote!

Tote/Tate/Wilson closes her tablet, standing.

Mr. Bourbon, I have errands to attend to. Irwin, follow.

UNACCEPTABLE!

My stooge-slash-lackey shall remain by my side!

Tate/Tote/Wilson holds something up in her hand.

Irwin, treat?

Oh boy! Chewing gum! It's *like* a snack! Except it distracts me from nutrition!

GODDAMIT, IRWIN.

GUM IS DUMB!

Irwin succumbs to the gum rather than his glum psuedo-chum, Miss Tote has him wrapped ‘round her thumb. They both exit the scrum. Mark sits on Bobby’s couch. Bobby smiles at Mark.

So, finally here to train in my dojo?

...Scuzi? Isn’t this an office park for your retail business!

The zoning says commercial and dammit it will be!

...

YOUR HEADQUARTERS IS A SHOPPING MALL?

Bobby half-shrugs. He stands, opening his office door. A security guard rolls past on a Segway scooter. A mother and daughter share an Auntie Anne's pretzel.

Bourbon closes the door.

Damn. I never noticed.

...Back to your question… SCOFF!

You think YOU could teach ME anything?!?

The audacity! THE IMPUDENCE!!!

Well, put yourself in my position.

…Alright.

Mark escapes the couch, slipping into Bobby’s office chair behind his desk.

Now do you get what I'm saying?

I WILL NEVER GET WHAT Y-OhmyGod, is this Corinthian leather?

Flynn’s fingers trace the fine Mediterranean upholstery.

Bobby shakes his head as he sits on the couch in his office.

I know!

…Flynn squints.

Bourb-o, momentarily forgetting that I DESPISE YOU… I'm pleased you’re here.

Me too. If I didn't, I'd be responsible for entertaining myself!

SILENCE. I’M TALKING NOW.

Our opponents…

My friends! PALS! AMIGOS MEJORES!

Be their friend all you want, I'm the ace in the hole.

Mark and Bobby stand!

They circle!

They switch seats.

You’re just an ACE-hole!

…

Wait, no.

Flynn squeezes his temples.

Godammit, clever comeback… Come to me.

…

You’re… FUCK YOU!

How dare you!

Mark and Bobby rise, glaring at one another, ready for fisticuffs! Bobby circles around his desk as Mark steps away from the couch. Both men circle until Mark’s back in the desk chair and Bobby’s comfy on the couch.

Full disclosure, Bob-a-Tea…. I’m… uncomfortable.

With the chair?

NOT WITH THE CHAIR.

…I’ve never trash-talked a FRIEND before.

I usually trash those I LOATHE.

...Y’know. Like YOU.

Don’t worry.

I know how to handle these guys.

Ned, for starters…

NOT YET!

I PREFER DOING THINGS THEN ADDRESSING OPPONENTS.

…It’s comfortable.

Oh. Sometimes I talk shit then do stuff, but hey, you're the host.

Huh?

Bobby’s laid out on the couch.

I'll nap, you do things then…

UNACCPTABLE!

Mark stands. Subsequently, Bobby stands, lest he surrender the high-ground.

Fine! C'mon!

Bobby leads Mark out of his office, down a hallway to seemingly nothing. Bobby stops at an elevator.

Mark, what do you know about science?

…Mark sweats.

Uh…

Bill?

..

Bill Nye…

THE SCIENCE GUY

Flynn sprinkler-dances, repeating “BILL! BILL! BILL! BILL!”

SCIENCE RULES

Mark’s theme song croonery’s so sweet and loving, it jerks tears from your soul. Bobby shakes his head ‘no’.

Missed the Mark there.

FFFFFFFFUCK.

You finally PUNNED! And it was PUNDERFUL.

Better than ‘ace hole’.

SILENCE.

Bobby presses his thumb to the wall, and leans his eye up to a retinal scanner. An elevator door opens. Bobby gestures forward with a palm… Mark hesitates. Bobby rolls his eyes, entering in first. Mark springs in behind him, lest he surrender the not-elevator-ground.

Bobby presses a button.

So, Roberto, what’s this about science?

I like doing science.

I do science as much as I can.

…

And this whole place REEKS of science.

Metaphorically, you mean?

Um…

..

Radon, actually.

…

The elevator stops, enunciating its arrival.

MORGUE

The doors slide open! Bobby gingerly steps out of the elevator. Mark stands, struck.

YOU HAVE A MORGUE?

You don’t?

…I did… Once.

Bobby walks in, checks the clipboard within. He nods, before returning to the elevator. Another button-push.

…Wow, that’s… TOO many dead people. EVEN FOR ME.

Two-thirds of science is proper disposal.

Another stop, another floor announcement!

CLASSIFIED

Wait, this floor is just… “classified”?

The elevator’s already secret! Why call a floor “classified”?

Mark.

There’s some science I technically can’t do.

Banned in North America.

...Is it meth? Is it abortions?

…Bob, are you aborting methamphetamine in here?

Meth-making is for plebs and peons.

…

If I met the right doctor I’m sure I could open an abortion clinic though.

Have either of us?

The doors open. Within, several tanks filled with pink fluid.

Do you remember Dolly the Sheep?

...DUH!

What kind of FOOL doesn’t remember Dolly the Sheep?!?

…

The sheep that wrote ‘Jolene’, right?

Right.

Really?

No.

FUCK.

Anyways.

Human cloning was soon banned shortly after Dolly, around twenty-five years ago.

Mark’s brow furrows.

Rewind, Bobb-o. Cloning’s illegal? That mean… Ya need a lawyer?

Mark pulls a mustache out of his back pocket.

Put that away.

…Mark begrudgingly slips the mustache back.

It’s Christmas. You gotta fight your friends, I haven’t heard from nor seen mine.

What?

I haven’t heard from TK or D.

It happens.

We’re dissociative.

Those Bastards.

Bingo.


GET TO THE POINT. I’m INSIDE your ILLEGAL CLONING FACILITY. WHY?

I got you a Christmas gift.

Mark looks concerned.

If you cloned a Hitler to kill, I’ll be NON-PLUSSED.

…

Not about killing Hitler, mind you. The… cloning Hitler part.

Nope, we don’t do that, people have been willing to pay insane money for one but no.

Bobby leads Mark past the tanks, filled with pink fluid. Some have what look like embryos actively growing within.

Test tube clone-babies, eh?

Didn’t Dolly have an actual mommy sheep?

Yes, we use surrogates. These are for decoration so it looks more like a movie cloning facility.

AHA! VISUAL STORYTELLING!

Bobby opens a door, leading Mark into a Nursery. A team of nurses attend to an infant.

Bobby, what the…

Merry Christmas, Mark.

Bobby slides the baby into Mark’s arms. Mark peers it at perplexed.

…No.

Then, horrified.

It can’t be… He looks just like…

That’s right.

The North Korean War Baby.

…Shit.

You’re a mom now.

I DON’T WANT ANY BABY! LET ALONE A COMMIE BABY!

You’re a good guy, Mark. You’ll raise that baby right.

…

I think.

I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT ANARCHO-SOCIALIST CHILD-REARING!

I’m also going to take notes for a study on nature-versus-nurture, sell it to the highest bidder, and get another Nobel Prize!

Another? Where’d the first come from?

eBay.

So, have I done a thing?

AN INSANE THING.

That’s something.

Ned.

Nedward J Kaye.

Nice.

I say it *ironically*.

Your wordplay’s giving me a PUN-cussion.

This was supposed to be the year of Ned.

How many times did we hear that 2023 was *your* year?

Ned had a fine year!

Yeah.

Then I happened to it.

Bobby grins at Mark.

Sound familiar?

GET FUCKED, YOU ROTTEN TUNA.

Bobby goes wide eyed.

Damn.

I’ve never been called that.

Noted.

Anyways, the third dude who’s momentum I almost halted was Isaiah.

I thought I couldn’t anymore as tag team champion.

But, I can.

I respect the Universal Champion.

I respect Ned Kaye.

Solely as competition.

Otherwise they’re absolute dipshits who speak of the horrible with no grasp of it.

…

They don’t grasp that they’re horrible.

Talented athletes, but untested intellects.

Well we’re talented athletes too. Only better because we’re *salty*.

Mark swaddles NKWB.

Dammit, we have to take care of a baby now? HOW?!?

I was about to ask you! After all, you take care of Ned and Isaiah!

REBUTTAL! You’re friends with TK!

He loves strained peas.

I-...What?

Ned Kaye is a third-rate tactician, way too into his own career without any credence. He wrestled. We won. He competed. We dominated. He’s coming in hoping to have a good match, we make damn sure whatever match we’re in is the match-of-the-fucking-night, night-after-night, because we’re the best wrestlers in the XWF, nay, the Western Hemisphere!

THE GLOBE.

Believe that, because I can’t stand that man but I do. Then there’s Isaiah, and all I have to say is one goddamn thing.

…

Defend that fucking belt with your life. You represent all of us. You’re, by all measure that means anything, the best of us.

However, me and my partner…

My partner and I*.

We’re the best of us. You’re great because you worked at it. We’re great because greatness needed fucking icons.

Gracias.

Bring the bodies to the XWF.

Make them think they can topple you. Make them think you’re untested, and vulnerable.

To me and my partner?

MY PARTNER AND I.*

That’s what I SAID!

NO IT WASN’T!

THOSE ASSHOLES ARE FUCKING CARRION TO US!

CARRYING THEM ISN’T THAT EASY!

TELL ME ABOUT IT!

…Nederick.

What I’m about to say?

Comes from a place of love.

Cuz you NEED to hear it.

…

You wanna be the GUY?

The FUCKING MAN?!?

GET OUTTA YOUR OWN WAY.

Flanders, you could actually be something. You HAVE POTENTIAL!

YOU COULD BE GREAT.

If you’d get in the mud and SCRAP! ACT LIKE YOU FUCKING WANT IT.

…

But, no.

You’d rather play hard-to-get with SUCCESS.

Instead of marching out to the ring? DEMANDING YOUR OPPORTUNITY?!?

You’d rather puff out your lip, think pretty thoughts, and sit on the BENCH… Hoping some champion decides to ask you to dance.

Praying for an opportunity to FALL INTO YOUR LAP.

…Why? That stick-up-your-ass. Your sick, twisted sense of morality. Your MISGUIDED BELIEFS!

That guys who SCRAP? Who fucking SELF-ADVOCATE?

Loudmouths!

Not you, though! YOU’RE doing it right.

Waiting… with Fingers-crossed.

Like your hero, Rob Main, right? Main EARNED every title he got, huh? Main’d NEVER STEAL A SPOT.

…Ned.

I’ve got NEWS for you.

Main? Your hero? Lost to Engy, 1-2-3… Then immediately cashed in on him end the XWF’s Longest Uni Reign

For Rob Main’s BIGGEST victory?

HE TOOK THE COWARD’S OUT!

THE OLD FLYNN’S WAY OUT!

…

Know why, Ned?

Because ROBERT MAIN, for all his flaws?

Knew when to strike.

OMEGA knew EXACTLY when to call his own number.

When to TAKE HIS SHOT.

Robert Main, your idol? Is NOTHING LIKE YOU.

And he’s everything like ME.

Hahahaha.

…Speaking of guys like me.

King.

Zay-zay.

His Royal Highness.

Universal Champion.

I couldn’t be prouder.

The Kido-Killer.

The Corey-Conqueror.

The Thunder-Knuckle-DUSTER!

And every moment of your ascent, I beamed! Screaming “THAT’S MY BOY”.

ISAIAH FUCKING KING.

Is there a guy more deserving of this spot?

…Me.

I beat Corey, Dock, Main, Lady-King (twice), Kido, TK…

But… KING… ‘deserved’ it.

Fine.

Congratz, Izzy! You’re the champ.

…

Know what that means, though, King?

Can you see the big picture?

Feel the ground moving under your feet?

The dynamic is shifted.

The roles are reversed.

The ULTIMATE HUNTER, ISAIAH KING.

Is now The PREY.

And King? My little monarch butterfly?

Staying at the top? Whole ‘nother ballgame.

As challenger? Raion Kido beat ALIAS.

As champ? Pinned in WarGames Round ONE.

Challenger Sidney Grey RULED THE WORLD.

Champion Lady King? Deposed in FOUR WEEKS.

My point, Zay?

You thrived as the hungry invader, demanding the throne.

But now?

You’re the crownkeeper.

The tide’s coming in.

King Zay-Zay’s castle-of-sand?

Is set to get SWEPT AWAY.

And King’s too proud to change.

I could’ve coached you. I MADE THE TRANSITION. In NINE MONTHS? Not ONE Uni champ reigned HALF AS LONG AS ME.

Flynn grins at Bourbon.

I reigned six months. Bob reigned six MINUTES.

GET ROT, YOU TUNAFUCKER

But, no. You’d rather spat with Ned. A FAILURE-WORSHIPPER. COMMITTED to MEDIOCRITY.

…Boys? This beatdown?

It’s a wake-up call.

You *really* think you’re on OUR level?

You’re dreaming.

Time to wake-up.

Bask in the GLOW of our WRESTLING GENIUS.

Open your eyes.

AND

SEE

THE

LIGHT.