I don't know how long I've been out here.

Bobby is seen sitting on a rock somewhere in the woods.

You can lose track of time easily in the wild. Here I am, all alone save this camera on my phone. No distractions, no luxuries, no comforts that come prepackaged and ready to consume, just the natural air and my own thoughts in solitude. I walked for some time, who knows how far or for how long. I have had plenty to consider.

How does Charlie Nickles still live like a homeless man after having been here for so long? He literally stayed in the same hotel as most of the boys when we were in Chicago.

Who is vetting the talent that comes here? Some of these guys are absolutely batshit.

Who really put the bop in the bop-shu-bob-shu-bop?

If a tree falls in the woods, and I'm the only one who hears it, do I have to tell anyone?

That doesn't change the encounter I had when visiting with sick kids. That kind of stuff can really change a man. Maybe a woman or a non-binary person, I dunno, I'm just a man after all. Two eyes, two ears, a nose, legs, arms, belly, penis, and a butt. There are other parts, but you don't need the anatomy lesson.

~~~~

Bobby is standing bedside in St. Jude's. The occupant of the bed, a girl no older than eight, is looking up at Bobby.

I thought you'd be Centurion.

He couldn’t make it. Besides, as much as we bust his balls I'm pretty sure you're even too young for him.

Oh, okay. Why are you fighting Alias?

Well, because it's what I do, is fight people, and he’s just a dude named George anyway.

George?

Yep, that's his name.

The doctor says I'm not getting better.

Bobby takes a deep breath.

Well, that's because life sucks sometimes. Just when you want it to get better for you it grabs you by the gonads and yanks.

What’s a gonad?

Bobby’s eyes widen as he rolls them quickly.

It's, uh, another word for toenails.

So I have ten gonads?

A nurse steps in.

No, you do not.

The nurse shoots a nasty look at Bobby. Bobby shrugs.

What?

Bobby?

Yes?

I wish you had a mustache. You look dumb and a mustache would help.

Bobby touches his upper lip, then furrows his brow in disdain.

Yeah, well, you look dumb with your cancer!

~~~~

What kind of buffoon has a mustache these days?

George doesn't rock a 'stache.

Seriously, that little girl was relentless. She hurt my feelings. Here I am, all six-feet and five inches, all two-hundred and ninety-three pounds, and yeah, I put on some weight, a fucking dynamo of an atomic venom spewing wrecker who damages people, and she thinks I'm somehow incomplete without a mustache. It's the most thoughtless, harmful statement I have heard since I found out I was fighting George.

Too bad for George. Little girls are meaner than he is. Little girls dying of cancer, no less.

Bobby stands. We see a wonderful shot of his panted shins and rather snazzy sneakers as they approach. His massive hand is seen, and the view from his phone's camera shifts abruptly, almost assaulting the senses. It settles on his face as it looks upward at him, the sounds of motion resonating as he walks.

You know, talking to yourself is okay. Answering yourself is alright too, it's called coming to grips. It's when you get baffled by the mysteries of the universe in the middle of internal dialogue that you got a problem. Or lousy drugs.

Now, I get that I gotta be entertaining or some such leading into a match, hype and all, especially since George either can't be bothered to entertain or he just thinks morose is the new hip. I've seen cologne commercials less pompous than the drivel that fool comes up with. Now, George seemed really keen on me doing another incredible movie adaptation, and I promise you, the great minds at BastardNet have a real genuine treat lined up for you, but without a proper crew, alone out here in the woods, I don't think we'll be getting to any of those. Nice of you to harken for more, though.

No clue why that Andrew Morrison promo showed up, maybe you can circle back to that one and explain how that ties in? Unless you got too esoteric even for your own sake.

As for character growth, well, that'd be plum fascinating if I were, in fact, a fictional creature or some myth, which I'm not. I'm the cold, hard reality waiting for you Saturday night, then maybe a Tuesday afternoon, perhaps a Monday morning, or heck even brunchtime on a Thursday. See, that whole across space and time thing doesn't conflict me at all. While you thought fire was spooky and mystifying, I showed you a lighter. If you think eating is impressive, you should check out a restaurant. I have no problem showing you how calendars, Google Maps, history books, or a watch work too, they explain space and time fairly well. Maybe we'll be in some ancient colosseum, a bunch of smelly people who didn't bathe daily and think diseases are caused by curses chanting at us in Latin. Maybe we'll be on the bridge of some fantastical spaceship that somehow has Earth-like gravity with lasers. Maybe we'll be there on a box, maybe we'll be there with a fox, oh boy! All the hypotheticals we could delve into, and how you'll survive them all!

I'm not doubting your ability to survive, George. Not one bit. Rats do it. So do cockroaches. And cancer cells, for that matter. It doesn't really make it all that novel an endeavor to really flaunt. The guy on the street begging for change to buy a pint of mouth wash to get drunk off of is surviving too. The weeds in the fields get it done. Have I hammered it home by now, or do you prefer I waste words on it?

You'll survive our match. I haven't killed an opponent, not literally, in my entire career. I get your concern, here I am, a fucking gladiator, and there you are, vermin. Surviving, though, isn't thriving. It's not victory. It's living to fight another day. It's the ability to slink back into whatever comfort zone you made for yourself and nurse wounds.

Sorry if you think I'm being argumentative, you're just coming off a little slow. Cranky I can drown out your bullshit much? You keep bringing D'Ville up, if you gotta carry a torch and distract yourself from me, well, I guess we all have survival techniques. Wait! THAT'S the point of the Andrew Morrison promo, isn't it!

I'm going to do more than survive, though. Survive is your word, George, and you can keep it. I won't take it from you, and hey, spend another couple of hours of your life focusing on how wrong the big awful Mr. Bourbon is and cooking up fruitless talking points. My word? Inevitability. The fire dies out. The hunger sated. The survivors tell their tale. It's inevitable.

~~~~

He's lying on the floor of the forest now. Face down, his head tucked into the crook of his arm, Bobby has decided to take a little snooze. It's the woods, kind of boring for someone who generally needs company to feel entertained in the slightest. A bevy of adorable woodland creatures have gathered around Bobby. Deer, birds, squirrels, and rabbits, all seemingly more interested in a guy in a tasteless t-shirt than whatever they normally would be doing. Also, very fortunately, no predators, like bears, foxes, or coyotes to attack the damn things while they watch Bobby sleep. Nothing ooky either, no snakes, spiders, or centipedes. Just the cute creatures of the woods as noted. A rabbit approaches Bobby and nuzzles its nose into his hairline. Bobby looks up with a start.

Ooooh!

The animals all panic and scramble, but not too far away. Most of them only distance themselves a yard or two away, taking cover behind felled trees and other set pieces flora. A few of the adorable blue birds peek out from a nearby nest they retreated to. Maybe Bobby fell asleep by their home, maybe they conveniently found it. Who are you to judge? Deer, along with squirrels and bunnies, show their natural comradery (as they do) and glance over a felled tree in unison.

Please! Don't run away, I won't hurt you!

Even more insanely cute woodland creatures peer from behind rocks and inside hollowed tree trunks and whatnot.

I'm awfully sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you, but you don't know what I've been through. And all because I was afraid. I'm so ashamed of the fuss I've made.

The creatures of the woods all seem to understand Bobby’s English perfectly. A trio of birds swoop down and land on a small branch, all facing Bobby.

What do you do when things go wrong?

The birds all chirp in unison.

Oh, you sing a song!

The birds nod, because so far they've been content to let Bobby carry the conversation. Bobby rubs his chin then looks at the camera.

Well, there you go, there's your movie parody. I figured you kept bringing up Doc all Bashful like in the Dopey way you do and were getting Grumpy I hadn't done one yet, I would be Happy to oblige but I got Sleepy. Ah-choo!

Bobby sneezes.

Fucking allergies, I need an Allegra or something. Stupid rabbit dander.

The woodland creatures all still seem enamored with the bulky man in their midst. The birds continue to chirp as cheerful music starts to play. Bobby looks skyward to the forest canopy, and slowly rubs his upper lip.

You know what, forest animals? You're right. I could just grow a mustache to bring delight to that little girl!

Bobby smiles, his heart warmed by the egging on from woodland creatures for him to be more pleasant. To be more cheerful. To exhibit signs of maturation and growth on a screen so superficial and pointless it puts the greeting card industry to shame. Nothing says 'I care' like a total of ten dollars, including postage, for a piece of thick paper with water colors and someone else's words, at least not until today. Bobby’s demeanor quickly shifts as the music dies with a record scratch.

Nah, she'll be dead by the time it grows in.

Bobby looks at all the woodland creatures. He then points at a deer.

Welp, looks like venison for dinner!

The adorable creatures never had a chance. Bobby snags a buck by its antlers and gives a vicious, sudden jerking twist. With a loud crack, the beasts neck breaks and it goes limp. The surviving animals all flee in terror. Bobby pulls out a pocket knife.

This is the way we field dress meat...

~~~~

A man and his son are watching TV.

"Dad, I thought we were here to be inappropriate!"

"Who cares, it's about time something good was on."

"Good? That was just a trashy homage to Snow White, and Bobby didn't grow as a character at all, he's still a nihilistic asshole!"

"You’re adopted."