Riiiiiiiiiiing.

Riiiiiiiiiiing.

Riii-.

The phone comes off the hook. Up to Mark Flynn’s furious face.

“WHADDYA WANT?”

“Ooooh, somebody’s grumpy.” The sound of billowing smoke followed by a stoner’s cough.

“Ah… Page.”

“Which is great.” Page adds quickly, reeling back the accusation of maladjustment. “Cuz that’s your brand. Love it.”

Lengthy bong rip. Followed by a cloud of smoke so audible, it almost travels through the phone line into Flynn’s nostrils.

“Just checkin’ in. How’s my favorite client doing?”

…Flynn presses the phone into his chest… He peeks his head around the corner

Kato has NK resting across the hotel room’s couches, pressed together into a makeshift bed.

Which was an odd thing to do, because the hotel was already a double. They had their own bed they could have used.

Kato presses a stethoscope from his bindle against NK’s chest…

“How do you feel, sir? Is your body staving off the… Reefer Madness?”

NK shudders… “I… I feel nothing, Kato! I am numb! My senses deprived! The high is taking me!”

“Sir, remain calm! I believe you’re exhibiting simple paranoia.”

“Yet another symptom of that wacky tobacky, Kato! It’s nearly too late! Soon, I shall have the munchies! My stomach lining already craves Cool Ranch Doritoes!”

NK desperately rubs his throat. “And my esophagus burns for Mountain Dew: Code Red!” NK surges forward and wraps his grubby mitts around Kato’s wrist. “Quick! Give me your smokeless, virgin lungs!”

Kato smacks his commander’s hand in one stroke. NK hisses like a cat, stuffing his struck hand into his mouth.

“SIR! DO NOT TOUCH! I MAY RECEIVE A…” Finger quotes. “CONTACT HIGH.”

Kato reaches into his bindle, retrieving a bottle. He douses his touched wrist with medical alcohol.

Flynn sighs, ducking behind the wall again, pressing the phone to his ear.

“We’ve got a… minor situation.”

“Word. Well, the big press Cannabis Cup junket is in 45 minutes. Sound check’s in 15, sooooooooooooooo… Just bandaid up your problem and get down here.”

Flynn scratches his neck.

“Yeeeeeeeeeeeeah, I dunno if this problem is… band-aid-able.”

“...Flynn, my guy. I hope I don’t need to remind you of the Cannabis Cup entry contract you signed.”

Flynn scoffs. “Of course not. My guy read it forwards-and-backwards.”

“Great. Then, you already know, if you and-or NK skip a promotional event, your spot to compete in the Cannabis Cup is revoked…”

“Whatever.”

“You’ll be penalized $50,000 for contract-breach.”

“Put it on my tab.”

“And your wrestling record will be marked with a loss.”

…

……

Flynn rapidly blinks. His fist tightens around the phone. The buttons on the touchpad bulge outwards…

“...The fuck you just say to me?”

“If you miss the press conference, it’ll count as a forfeit. You’ll have a loss on your record against Diamond Steele.”

…

“Lohan.”

Flynn swiftly punts the wall. A bit of plaster shoots off around his shin, to the floor, as his foot rests in the newly-excavated wall-hole.

“I would NEVER have agreed to that.”

“Double-check your contract, Flynn. And when you’re done being wrong, pop down here for sound check.”

Flynn seethes angrily, spitting venom.

“If there’s a single loophole in this contract, I’ll fucking find it, Page. You’ll be hearing from my attorney, Chrisopher K. Clinton! You FUCK.”

“Clinton? Flynn, ol’ pal…”

A long stoner-y giggle on the other end of the line.

“Who do you think I hired to draft your contract?”

The line snaps dead.

***

11 MINUTES LATER

The ceiling tiles above hang drearily… Dripping slowly… So slowly… That it appears as if they do not move at all.

…Wait, or are they moving?

…No, they’re ceiling tiles. They’re not moving.

Right?

On the floor, NK is lying down, feeling the shag carpet betwixt his fingers.

Kato lies beside him, donning a surgical mask, crossing his hands across his hert to minimize contact with his patient-slash-commander.

“Kato…”

“Yes, sir?”

“What is our purpose in this world?”

“To advance and promote the interests of the North Korean people, sir.”

“...No, not OUR purpose. But our purpose.”

“You said the same thing twice, sir. Just with different emphasis.”

…NK sighs.

“You don’t comprehend it, Kato. Our purpose. The purpose of all people. All humanity. Across all dimensions. All universes. Why IS life? Why ARE we here?”

Kato scratches his nose through his surgical mask, eyebrows scrunched, genuinely considering this riddle.

“I have read in my studies that many wise men have pondered this conundrum, commander.”

“And? What did they find the answer was?”

“The great Greek thinkers, men like Socrates and Plato, speculated at the purpose of life, but found that the answer was unfathomable and personal to each individual.”

“BAH!” NK waves his hand through the air, dismissing the notion. “BALDERDASH! The GREEKS, their thoughts poisoned by WESTERN thought… FEH! The individual is meaningless, Kato. It is only the collective! And the collective must have a purpose together!...Individually! I will prove it to you!”

NK lazily claps, still lying on his back.

“Fetch me my notebook, Kato.”

“...It rests upon your chest, sir.”

…

NK slowly tilts his neck downwards… And sees his jetblack notebook…

Sailing on his beating heart, like a dinghy sailing across choppy waters.

Like the choppy waters the True Korean’s heart sails upon.

“GOD DAMMIT!”

THUD!

…

THUD THUD!

…

The door creaks open, hanging broken off its hinges. Flynn emerges from the bedroom through the crippleddoor, then spins and

THUD

slams it again.

Kato casually sits up, resting backwards, elbows resting on the ground.

“How did your contract review go, Coach Flynn?”

….Deep inhalation.

“It’s ironclad. My attorney fucked me. Drank from both sides of the well.”

Flynn side-eyes his compatriots on the floor.

“Christopher K. Clinton just made my fucking list.”

“Yes, about that.” Kato says, shifting into criss-cross applesauce position. “Why would Christopher Clinton would work against you?”

“Lawyers…. Treacherous scum-sucking rats, Kato. Never forget that.”

“...Yes, true. But, aren’t you and Clinton… *cough*... the… same… PHYSICAL… person?”

…Flynn glares at Kato, eye twitching furiously.

NK, still lying on the floor, extends his arms upward slowly.

“My dear Kato. Aren’t we all the same person? Occupying different bodies?” NK sets his hands on his head, then expands them outwards like he’s blown his own mind.

Flynn snaps his fingers.

“No. And shut up. I’m talking now. Sound check is downstairs. Starts in four minutes.”

Kato nods. “Of course. I shall monitor and observe the commander’s…” Finger quotes. “…TRIP. You handle your contractual obligations.”

Flynn sighs, squeezing his fist angrily. “The contract specifies an appearance from BOTH tag-team champs.”

NK sits-up gasping, the air vacuumed from his lungs.

Eyes wide, astonished, at both his hotelmates.

A shocked Kato crab-walks backwards away from his commander, looking horrified.

“MARK FLYNN! KATO!”

…

“WE! SHOULD START! A BAND!”

***

The hotel door opens.

Flynn emerges in his suit, adjusting his cufflinks.

Then Kato, sporting a surgical mask, but his military outfit looking quite sharp.

…

……


Kato peeks back inside the open door.

“Coming, sir?”

“Naturally, Kato.”

…

……

Flynn steps up and hammers the door frame.

“Clock’s ticking, bud. Let’s move.”

“After you.”

Flynn’s eye twitches.

“NK, we’re out. It’s already AFTER US.”

“...Ah. I have an issue.”

Flynn and Kato peek around the corner.

We see NK dressed in his immaculately stainless, spotless camouflage fatigues.

Standing perfectly still.

“What is the matter, sir? Have you forgotten something?”

“...Yes, I have. Um… How do legs work?”

NK lifts his right knee… His eyes widen with fascination as it lifts into his chest.

He then lowers it back to the floor. He is even more fascinated.

“Wow.”

Flynn’s spitting angry now.

“NK, stop fucking around.”

NK shakes his head… Well, his neck… It actually ends up kinda being his entire torso.

“Yes, of course! Legs must be like bicycles! One never truly forgets how to… DO them!”

NK shifts his weight, extending his right leg into the air.

…

And immediately this shift in his center of balance sends him tumbling backwards onto his ass like a game of QWOP.

“Ah! My legs! My leg-chains are broken!”

Flynn pinches his temples, furiously. He glances at his wrist… Two minutes.

Flynn glances up over his watch at NK, clawing at the air, stuck on his back like a turtle.

“Okay… We need a plan.”

Suddenly, the door opens across the hall. …

“And that’s all your luggage…”

Flynn turns around… The same bellhop that Flynn ‘tipped’ earlier steps outside, rolling a luggage cart in front of him. Stepping out from behind the door… Is a balding little goblin-creature, drenched in his own flop-sweat and dollar store cologne.

XWF’s longest-tenured correspondent without tenure… or medical benefits. Steve Sayors.

He heaves a CVS bag full of Pepto Bismol and DayQuil onto the floor. He exhales heartily, like carrying one grocery bag was an equal feat to the bellhop hauling all his luggage for him.

“I very much appreciate the help. I’d do it myself, but... It’s difficult to develop musculature when you’re born with hollow bones…”

The bellhop nods politely. “Of course, sir.” The blond beefcake extends his hand out, towering over the shrimpy commentator. “Tip?”

…If you thought Sayors was sweaty already, try asking him for money. Like he stepped out of a car-wash-water-park.

Sayors’ hand twitches… he reaches narrowly to the side…

“O-o-oh sure, young man! I have money! I’m a wrestling journalist! And that pays… money! Lemme just… get my wallet… from behind this doorknob…”

Sayors grabs the doorknob, swinging with all his might! Grunting like a Hungarian lady tennis player!

“Hauuuuuuuuur!”

Before the door slams, the bellhop jams the meat of his elbow in its way.

And just as Flynn suggested, it rebounds backwards, flipping and catching Sayors in his nose.

“Oh goooooob! My nobe!” Sayors covers his face, flopping backwards onto the floor.

The bellhop cracks the knuckles of his right hand.

“TIP. SIR.”

He steps firmly into Sayors’ hotel room… And closes the door behind him.

The bellhop Flynn tipped earlier beats the spare change out of Steve Sayors like a nickel-filled piñata.

Leaving that empty luggage cart…

Flynn strokes his chin.

“Welp, I paid some kindness forward.”

Flynn grabs him off the floor by the scruff of his neck.

“Time to cash-in.”

***

The CCPE dressing room.

A booted foot shakily nudges the door open.

“All right, take ‘er in. Whoa, cut left! LEFT!”

Kato desperately clings into the cart’s front, easing it in… Shifting it narrowly to his left.

“LEFT, FOR FUCK’S SAKE!”

Kato exhales, exhaustedly. “Your left or my left, Coach Flynn?”

As the cart edges deeper into the room, we see NK splayed across the whole cart like a beached whale.

“What IS a left, Kato, but three rights? Or seven rights? Or…” NK gasps. “An infinite number of rights… IS an infinite number of lefts… Can’t you both see? …Left IS right!”

“Ignore that shit, Kato. Obviously, I mean MY LEFT.”

The cart finishes crossing through the doorway… Flynn kicks his end inside and slams the door behind him.

Kato exhaustedly drops in a rolling chair in the corner, its wheels gliding him back toward the wall.

Flynn wrings the dust off his hands, walking to the room’s center.

“Phew. Hard part’s over. Now, we just get out there, piss off the crowd, call some journalists fake news, then we roll to fuckin’ Denny’s.”

“Huzzah! The Moons Over My-Hammy shall be ours!”

“Can’t wait. Denny’s is the perfect munchies spot.”

Kato and Flynn spin around… Flynn grimaces.

Peeking his head in the doorway, is of course…

“‘Chronic’ Chris Page.”

“Glad you made it.” Page delivers a thumbs up.

Flynn eyes his agent with palpable detest. Page doesn’t seem to notice.

“Already gave the tech-boys your intro. Just go out there and hit the right notes. Move those PPV buys! Aaaaaaaand, special treat!”

Page reaches behind his back and… Has two little canvas bags.

“SWAG! All talent gets ‘em. Just… uh… find something you like in there and put it on. Helps merch sales!”

Page drops the bags just inside of the door…. And, leaving a literal puff of smoke, he’s gone.

“...How eccentric.”

“Yeah, something about booking shows instead of wrestling in them… Just saps the soul out of your fucking body…”

Flynn walks over and picks up a bag… His hands rifle through its contents… He pulls out a DVD Box Set of Every Cheech & Chong movie, covered by a smiling Chris Page sticker.

He rolls his eyes… tossing the boxed collection of classic stoner humor to the floor.

“All right, NK. Ready to play the hits?”

…

“NK?”

Flynn extends his leg and taps NK’s boot. NK lies across the luggage cart, staring at the ceiling, a saliva pool rapidly filling the corner of his mouth…

Kato leans down and waves a hand in front of the totalitarian’s face.

…His heavily-dilated pupils don’t follow the motion.

"Goodness gracious!” Kato dives forward and presses his ear to NK’s chest.

Flynn’s head tilts, perplexedly.

“Is he dead?”

Kato listens… Bobbing his head.

Flynn grits his teeth. “Fuck… Is that a yes?”

Kato retreats from his commander, just narrowly dodging a drool trail.

“I apologize, I was nodding along to his heartbeat. He lives, but in some… cannabinoid catatonic condition.”

Flynn sighs with an air of relief. “Great.” He returns to disinterestedly picking through the swag bag, retrieving a pair of sunglasses, but the rims are pot leaves. “Well, wake him up. We’ve got a peanut gallery to mock.” Flynn snaps his fingers to get Kato to pick up the pace.

“That is a…no-go.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know how to treat a… cannabis coma.”

“Goddammit, I thought you knew first aid, Kato!”

“NONE OF THIS IS FIRST AID, COACH FLYNN! …I’ve mastered bandaids, tourniquets and neosporin! I can’t fast-forward three weeks worth of marijuana through the commander’s metabolism!”

Flynn exhales.

“Fuck. What time is it?”

Flynn reaches into the swag bag… And finds a watch. It says 4:20pm.

Flynn sighs, relieved… “Phew, at least we’ve got a chance to plan… something.”

“IT’S FIVE O FUCKING CLOCK! THE WRESTLING SHOW OF THE YEAR IS HOURS AWAY! AAAAAAAARE YOOOOOOOOOOOu REEEEEEEEEEEEEADY?”

Flynn squints confused, and checks his wristwatch.

The watch-time flips a minute forward to 5pm.

The swag-watch does not… A message just above the display on the swag-watch… It’s 4:20 somewhere!

“For Fuck’s sake, Page, get a second personality trait...” Flynn groans.

Kato grimaces terrified, cradling his head in his hands. “What shall we do, Mark Flynn?!?”

Flynn grits his teeth, thinking… He squeezes his fists…

And feels…

The potleaf sunglasses.

Flynn looks to the room’s corner. And sees the rolling chair Kato collapsed into…

Then, his eyes fall on the catatonic North Korean.

…

“Okay. Kato.”

Kato snaps to attention.

“You ever see Weekend at Bernie’s?”

***

“And NOW! The 7th (soon-to-be-FIRST) Longest Reigning XWF Tag-Team Champions! The team that beat TNGB FOUR! COUNT ‘EM! FOOOOOOOOOOOOOUR TIMES!”

The spotlights rip across the stage! The drumline rolls! The anticipation builds!

“The duo you’ve been waiting to loudly start hating! Boo your fucking hearts out! For MAAAAAAAAAAAARK FLYNN! AND NORTH KOREAN WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR CRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMINAL!”

The spotlight shines on the stage’s side-curtain!

…

……

“MAAAAARK FLYNN! AND NORTH KOREAN WAAAAAR CRIIIIIIIMINAL!”

A banner drops from the ceiling, reading ‘XWF Tag Champs!’. One trumpet toots a tune.

…

…..

“Mar-“

“SHUT YOUR GODDAMNED INTRO-HOLE, WE’RE HERE!”

The curtain flies open… And Mark Flynn bursts out, pushing a rolling-chair with a potleaf-sunglasses-donning War Criminal in front of him.

Flynn shoves NK’s chair to the press conference table. NK leans backwards against the chair, looking casual and aloof and totally-not-unconscious.

Flynn yanks out the chair beside his tag-team partner and seats himself, retrieving from his collar clip, his own pot-leaf sunglasses.

He eyes them, enjoying one last moment of dignity…

…

Groan.

Then he slips them over his eyes.

“Let’s get this over with. You.” He points down into the pit of journalists.

A blogger sporting square sunglasses and a hairbun stands. “Flynn. As a tag-team wrestler, do you think you’re poorly-suited to go all the way in a singles tournament like the Cannabis Cup?”

Flynn takes a deep breath.

“What’s your name?”

“Todd Rogers, Ain’t Wrestling Cool? News Dot Com News.”

Flynn opens his mouth. Then closes it.

“Checks out. Stupid fucking name, stupid fucking site, stupid fucking question.”

Flynn reaches forward and yanks the mic out of the arrangement of press mics. He tugs it under his nose.

“Anyone that’s done their research knows I’m one of the most dominant wrestlers of all-FUCKING-time.”

“I went from my first XWF Title win in October 2012, to becoming a grand slam champion THREE MONTHS LATER. The FASTEST and ONLY grand slam champ of the Potato Era.”

“Tristan Slater? The next big thing when I debuted? The guy who claimed he was God’s gift to this business? Cut his slam circuit one belt short, because I FUCKING BEAT HIM. Now, ten years later? Slater’s wrestling a curtain-jerking tag match, sidekick to Jonathan Fucking Cable, while I headline the whole fucking show.”

Flynn scans his finger across the room, full of doubters and nay-sayers.

“You think I can’t win this tournament? I won my second world title in a one night go, beating FOUR MEN IN ONE NIGHT. One of whom is now in the god-damned Hall of Legends.”

“I’ve beaten THREE GODDAMNED inductions to the Hall of Legends, TEN former Universal Champions and FOURTEEN of the XWF’s Top 50 of All-Time, including five names higher than mine on that list.”

Flynn spits on the ground.

“The Media likes to pretend I’m the fucking longshot. The fluke. The fucking mistake. It’s been ten motherfucking years and I JUST KEEP WINNING. I’m not the dark horse, kids. I’m the only fucking horse in the race you’ll make money betting on.”

Flynn shoots a finger into the pile of hands.

A clearly bruised and beaten face emerges. “Steve Sayors! XWF News! This next question is for the War Criminal!”

Under the table, Flynn taps his foot against corner of NK’s chair… Just enough to rotate him towards Sayors. Sayors takes that as permission to ask.

“Mister Criminal, If Mark Flynn WASN’T in the Cannabis Cup… Who would be your second pick to win?”

NK flops forward… Just enough that his eyes peek atop of his sunglasses.

Flynn narrowly nudges the chair backwards, pushing NK back against his seat.

“NK won’t dignify that stupid hypothetical with a response. Cuz the answer is NO ONE. If I weren’t in this fucking cup, they’d be wrestling in an empty goddamned arena.”

Sayors sheepishly hides behind his clipboard of questions.

“W-w-well, what about your former stablemate, Corey Smith? Or Dickie Watson? Or one of Them No Good Bastards?”

“Let’s get one thing fucking straight. Thad Duke pitched Genesis to me as a chance to RULE over the fucking wrestling industry. But, it turned into Thad and Corey’s secret clubhouse of bullshit. Corey’s not fucking Superstar of the Month material, let along Superstar of the Industry.”

“Genesis was a team for one match and I carried that team on my back over The Exiles. Corey couldn’t even lead his own squad. He had his chance to take his fucking shot against Alias and climb the mountaintop, but he fucking turned tail, cashed in on my and Thad’s five-star match, then wrestled mediocre meatslabs until his contract expired and he peaced out. Corey is already dead in the water. And if he fails upwards in this tourney like he has his whole career, and ends up against me in the Finals, he’s gonna get run-the-fuck-over.”

“Dickie Watson? Guy wracks up a list of minor league titles and starts calling himself the Greatest-of-All-Time? Motherfucker, I have made my CAREER crushing fucking pretenders. Slater? Vaughn? Madison? Duke? These guys didn’t have trophy rooms, they had trophy mansions. And I fucking came in like a wrecking ball and tore their flimsy altars of self-worship into splinters and ash so everyone could look on their destroyed works and despair. And Dickie Watson wants to come in here with a third of those accomplishments and play dress-up like he’s on my fucking level? The FIGHT champion is in for the fucking fight of his life.”

“And as for Bobby & TK, well…”

SLAM!


The whole room spins away from Flynn. Flynn looks to his left… And sees NK smashing his fists on the press conference table.

“WHO ARE WE?!?”

“Aw fuck, he’s awake…” Flynn mutters under his breath. “And still having an existential crisis…”

Flynn turns back to the press, who are rapidly flashing pictures.

NK smashes his fist against the table.

“WHY ARE WE HERE?!?”

Flynn strokes his chin…

“WHY ARE WE HERE?!?”

Flynn climbs atop his chair.

“WE’RE THE TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS!”

“WHY ARE WE HERE?!?”

“WE BEAT THE BASTARDS FOUR FUCKING TIMES!”

“WHY ARE WE HERE?!?”

“WE’RE THE GREATEST GODDAMNED TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS WHO EVER LIVED!!!”

The press audience starts rapidly jotting down notes… The table buckles under the force of NK’s manic forearm smashes.

“WHAT IS RIGHT?!?”

“THAT WE TAKE TK’S X-TREME TITLE!”

“WHAT IS RIGHT?!?”

“THAT WE TAKE THE CROWN OFF BOBBY’S HEAD!”

“WHAT IS RIGHT?!?”

“THAT WE TAKE OVER THE INDUSTRY!”

“WHAT IS RIGHT?!?”

“THAT WE TAKE OVER THE WOOOOOOOOOOORLD!”

The press is on their feet, snapping pictures and calling out questions! It’s a rapidly whirring mass of energy and enthusiasm.

“WHAT TIME IS IT?!?”

Flynn hops down from the chair. “IT’S OUR FUCKING TIME!”

“WHAT TIME IS IT?!?”

Flynn walks up to the press conference table… “IT’S OUR…” He plants a boot on the rim. “FUCKING…” He kicks it! “TIIIIIIIIIME!”

The table turns over and flops into the first row! The room is a chaotic frenzy of people screaming and hollering.

Flynn pushes the mic into face.

“ONE OF YOU FUCKS TRY TO FOLLOW THAT SHIT!”

He drops the mic onto the stage… Then pushes down a War Criminal who has no idea where he is or where the table he was hitting went… And walks the rolling chair back off-stage.

***

The crowd is still in a fucking fever pitch.

Chris Page, standing just inside the tag-champs’ dressing room, is feeling his fucking phone fill up with notifications. The Twittersphere is a-fucking-buzz.

The rolling chair clears the curtain as NK and Flynn roll beside Page.

Page pockets his phone and slaps Flynn on the back.

“Well, that’ll put some asses in the seats. Officially, I wouldn’t change a thing. Unofficially, we’re gonna have to negotiate later who’s covering the damage to that press table.”

Flynn looks up at Page irritated. “We had to make fuckin’ do. Wouldn’t have had to break stuff if you hadn’t sent a metric fuckton of edibles to our room.”

Page’s right eyebrow slings upwards. “Whaaaaaaaaaaaaat?”

“The snack tray you sent. At 4:20pm? NK started eating sweets like a fucking dog in a room with low-hanging chocolate. Sent himself on a fucking space expedition.”

Page chuckles, patting Flynn’s shoulder.

“Flynn, my guy… Those were non-cannaboid edibles. From O’Dweeds.”


This promo is brought to you by O’Dweeds

“...What?”

“You’re clean-livin’. Why would send my sober client edibles?”

…Flynn looks at NK. Who upon hearing this news, is patting his chest.

“Hmm… now that you mention it. Perhaps my euphoria, lack of self-awareness and comatose-paralysis were… all psychosomatic.”

…

……

Flynn smacks NK in the back of the head.

“You goddamn idiot! I did a Weekend at Bernie’s routine and YOU WEREN’T EVEN HIGH!”

NK desperately shields his neck and head.

“Mark Flynn! The O’Dweeds product line perfectly simulates the taste and flavor of cannabinoids! My mind merely went to the next logical place!”

Flynn hammers him with furious backhanded smacks, until NK has flopped tothe floor in the fetal position.

Page slips the door open a peek… Journalists charge up the ramp, gathering outside of their dressing room… chasing the story of the XWF Tag Champs declaring war on the wrestling world.

“Fellas, your stock just hit… A stratospheric high.”