Bobby and TK, having finished making and releasing their film in less than two weeks, was better than anything direct to DVD ever.

Post-credits scene?

EPILOGUE

To celebrate their achievement in film, Bobby and TK are seen in a pool hall. Both men look exuberant at the product they've both put forward, and they both grip their pool cues with huge smiles on their faces with the balls scattered across the table in front of them. It's a friendly game by the looks of the balls as they're assorted, neither man playing specifically to destroy one another in a pool hall, the tray that holds the balls empty beside them save a piece of well used blue chalk sitting within. Beside the tray is a half eaten plate of nachos, a plate of chicken wing bones beside ramekins of dressing, either ranch or bleu cheese, neither tell tale since they're just some whitish goop in a small container, both of which are stained with fiery orange-red streaks from where the wings were dipped.

TK steps to the table and bends over, readying his shot. He eyes a straight shot leading from the cue ball to the seven, the stick in his right hand, his knuckles relaxed in grip, less than bulging but still, quite thunderous. Bourbon grabs a fork and scoops a heap of nachos from the plate into his mouth, quite gracefully, nary a smidgen nor tidbit of nacho landing anywhere but inside him. He washes it down with a hefty gulp of beer, exactly which unknown, but golden, foamy, and leaving a lacing down the side of the pint glass regardless.

Seven ball, side pocket.

Bet.

TK readies himself, and glides the cue stick over his left thumb a few times, the head of the cue ready to make contact with a white, blue chalk smattered orb en route towards a maroon orb destined to succumb to gravity. With a crack, TK hits his mark, and the cue ball strikes the seven, knocking it into the side pocket. The cue then ricochets over to hit the two ball. The yellow ball sinks into the corner. As it does, the cue ball careens off a bank and hits the three ball. A red ball goes into the opposite corner. Shortly after, the ball slows down.

Damn, you're good at this.

I told you I was. Why are we in Chico's Pool Hall? We just shot a motherfucking Hollywood blockbuster. Like, we're A-fucking-listers now, we should be doing a big premier!

Bobby grins as he polishes off the rest of his beer.

Oh, I kinda like this spot. I figured it was perfect for us.

TK rolls his eyes.

If you say so, motherfucker, we're doing Grauman's Chinese Theater the next movie we make.

Fair. So long as it isn't a fucking romcom.

TK gingerly steps around the table, setting up his next skilled shot. His eyes glare at the four ball, as round and purple as a grape. He leans in, pulls back his shot, and makes good, sinking the four. The cue ball then splits off and strikes the orange ball, number five, which then enters a hole. TK chuckles.

The way I'm playing pool against you just isn't fair.

Just save my balls for me.

Heh, you got it broski.

TK steps back as the waitress returns with a cheeseburger, fries, and a fresh beer for Bobby. TK cocks an eyebrow.

I think I got ripped off when you said you'd pay for pool and I'd pick up the bar tab.

Bobby shrugs.

You keep winning at pool, I don't know why you're complaining.

Bobby winks at TK and turns to the waitress. He nods at her.

"You need anything else?"

No, thank you.

She smiles and turns, walking back to the bar. Bobby takes a massive chomp out of his burger, gnashes it a few times within his maw, and washes it down with a gulp of beer. TK approaches Bobby and nudges his well fed, beered up partner.

So, what do you think?

Huh? The burger's pretty good, the wings were okay. The nachos can take a pass.

No.

TK blinks hard and shakes his head.

I meant the waitress.

Bobby shrugs.

I mean, the service is alright considering.

TK snortles.

Don't you think she's hot? She seems into you.

The camera turns to show the waitress, She's young, leaning at the bar, and gesturing towards Them No Good Bastards. She giggles and then raises her hand way above her head, indicating how tall something is, then looking back at Bobby and TK quite agog. She then makes some movement to indicate how wide someone is, still quite impressed. The camera turns back to show Bobby slowly eating a fry while looking back while TK smirks.

Why not, big dog?

She's working.

Bobby answers quickly, sharply, and decisively.

She has absolutely no say-so whatsoever regarding any interaction with me besides employment or unemployment. She has bills to pay and mouths to feed, maybe more than we can comprehend. Her being friendly and attentive is her job, and I shall tip her well for it.

Damn...

TK turns back to the table and readies his next shot.

You're a fucking boy scout, you know that?

Bobby cocks an eyebrow and flushes down his beer. As he does, he rolls his eyes and shakes his head slowly. TK takes his shot, sinking the six ball. He then turns and prepares to sink the eight ball. Bobby sets his glass down slowly, watching as a trio of men in khaki work pants and hoodies, the classic Fred Durst get-up, all donning scraggely beards, none of whom look like they've seen a shower in months. Bobby smirks.

Not quite.

TK sinks the eight ball.

Well, that's the third in a row I've got you. You sure you want to keep playing pool, big guy?

Nah, I think I'm good right about now.

Bobby sets his hamburger down back onto its plate. TK looks at the act with the curiousity of a toddler, as though Bobby putting food back down is perplexing.

Look, Bro.

I really appreciate the movie we made together.

But I have to respect Betsy and Atara.

They're strong women, coming to work, earn their keep, because they have mouths to feed. They're working the same job as us, flat the fuck out. On the road, nonstop, beating one another's brains out for the entertainment of the people. It's rough, and it's a common bond we share.

Along the way, Betsy and Atara grew bonds with Shawn Warstein and James Raven. They're a part of Legacy.

We, well, aren't.

We're anything BUT Legacy, you get that?

They're living the high life.

When we book seats in coach, it's because they already got into first class.

When we get to catering and all the coffee is gone, it's because someone came down and poured them their cups for them.

Now, have they earned that? Maybe.

The thing is, for all our differences, I have to respect the bond that Betsy and James have with each other, however little it is I understand it, even though on the surface it looks nothing like what I would have in a relationship. Especially because of that.

Furthermore, I respect Betsy for more than her relationship or her ability to sustain one, I respect her as a peer.

Same as Atara.

Even if they can't do what I do, and combined they'll never do what we do.

The fact is, I'm not the Romeo type waiting to court a Juliet.

I'm the Mercutio waiting to fight to the death.

One of the hooded goons grabs the waitress that had been serving TK and Bobby. A bloodthirsty grin creeps across Bobby's face as he lifts the nine and the fifteen balls. With a heave, he hurls the nine ball across the pool hall, and the yellow striped orb connects with one of the thugs. His two other friends look towards Bobby as he readies the fifteen in his right hand. Another fastball flies from his fingertips as it connects with another hoodied hoodlum's skull, sending him crashing to the floor. The last of them charges, and Bobby catches him, hoisting him up vertically. TK, with the immediacy, catches the prick, and send him crashing through a pool table with the Rainbow Laser Death Sequence.