“You’re on camera! You’re on camera! Hahaha! What are you going to do?”

The teenaged boy is practically jumping up and down, pointing at an old man seated at some unknown fast food dining room booth. The older gentleman wearily looks onward, continuing to eat slowly, physically ignoring the youth beside him.

“That’s right, you’re just an ugly old man in a fast food place, and you’re on camera!”

The kid laughs, a sound which must be grating as the man maintains some dignity by not responding. Elsewhere, in the same restaurant, we see Bobby Bourbon seated in a booth across from Stephanie Wilson, his image consultant. As opposed to Stephanie, who has half of a sandwich in front of her sitting atop a yellow paper wrapper, a mountain of discarded boxes, chicken bones, wrappers, and yet even more unopened food is beset in front of Bobby.

Mr. Bourbon, do you really think it’s wise to eat so much of…

Bobby looks directly at Miss Wilson, the woman assigned to him by the XWF to act on his behalf. He unwraps a cheeseburger.

Miss Wilson, your opinions do not matter here. I am hungry.

Bobby crams the entire cheeseburger into his mouth, and as big as his mouth can seem at times he struggles to chew through it. He lifts a cup to his lips and purses them around a straw, filling his gullet with fluid to help.

Mr. Bourbon, that can’t be healthy.

With a hearty gulp, Bobby looks back at Stephanie.

Miss Wilson, frankly, with the exception of the absolute win of my career, I have lost every match I have been in throughout the calendar year. Something has got to give, and frankly a good many of your ideas have NOT helped me win whatsoever.

Mr. Bourbon, you haven’t used any of my ideas.

That’s not the point, Miss Wilson.

Stephanie blinks, breathing slowly and deliberately, Bobby’s words frustrating her to the core. She had left better jobs than this in the past, but the promise of being around Bobby when he’s successful only could benefit her. His time as the Xtreme Champion did gain her a tidy bonus. Hey, wait, what the hell, is this third person omniscient? Since when does all of this happen in a Bourbon promo? I guess we really are hand holding the reader through this, nuanced dialogue betwixt characters be damned.

Stephanie longed for better opportunity, but as stressful as it could be to work for Bobby, it was fun sometimes, and she felt herself to be in the safest company imaginable. Bourbon’s history of impulsive behavior always meant harm for someone, be it Davey Dunham an opponent or his own, but never for his associates. She wondered if Bobby saw her as a friend or a necessity, as she often only saw him as a kid who never grew up. Man, this third person omniscient style sure is a great way to kill making rapid fire jokes. I really hope none of the dialogue that happens is an ironic play on all of it, because as fun as that would be it’s just not how to be a successful in the XWF.

Well, what do you think it takes to be successful in the XWF Mr. Bourbon?

Damn it, Stephanie, we’re not supposed to make jokes between the narration and dialogue, what aren’t you getting about catering to lowest common denominator reading levels and comprehension? God forbid a metaphor leaks out somewhere, then we’re really in trouble.

I gotta start at the bottom to get to the top.

Well, strong work, jackass, you’re fucking up your own promo here, now using metaphors. Bobby’s metaphor, which alludes to only knowing success upon understanding the pain of failure, seems to strike with Stephanie. One of the benefits of working with him is the occasional wisdom that leaks out when he’s not trying to sound intelligent. For yours, the reader’s sake, I hope you’ve been paying attention, there will be a quiz following the piece you are reading and if you can’t pass you can’t judge it.

Stephanie considered what Bobby said, a feeling of inspiration growing within as I realize I’m putting third person omniscient writing into a fucking screenplay that ultimately should key off of character interactions, but sometimes you have to sacrifice of yourself to appease the mind of a child. After all, we’re only as strong as our weakest link.

Well, Mr. Bourbon, don’t you think eating a couple hundred dollars worth of junk food is hitting bottom?

I do…

Stop it, Bobby, this is third person omniscient.

Oh, sorry.

Right, I gotta butt in between every line of dialogue because that’s quality writing. Bobby barely hesitated to answer Stephanie.

“…”

“Was that it?”

“I literally could have just responded to her, and the lack of hesitation in response would have been implied.”

Stephanie looked confused as Bobby addressed his creator in such a way, completely unaware she was a literary device used to convey concepts to the reader. Quotation marks began to encompass his speech suddenly, as the format of screenplay and, as such, my personal writing style evaporated. The piece was becoming more and more in tune with how everybody else in this hobby writes. Lucky you.

Elsewhere, within the dining room, the rambunctious youth carried onward to another table. The teen wanted to be an influencer, wanted recognition, wanted to be famous and rich for nothing. He was always granted platitudes and room to expand upon himself by hapless parents convinced their child was indeed special. This is a complete and absolute analogue to how any writer in the hobby treats their characters, because we know better than to leave metaphors and analogy up to the discernment of the anonymous.

This was when the teen approached a table of four girls, a few years his junior younger than he was (Ed. note; fixed to be middle school reading level). His phone camera was aimed at all of them.

“Hey! Hey! You’re on camera! You’re all a bunch of ugly snots, and you can’t do anything, I have you on camera!”

The girls all look up at the teen, feeling him to be obnoxious and rude. One of them thought he was somewhat cute, but in seeing her friends disgusted with his behavior dashed any notion of declaring as such. Man, look at this third person omniscient style go, you’re even getting insight into the feelings of people so insignificant they won’t even be given a name.

It should be noted, since you’re reading this, that third person omniscient is a style of writing where a narrator gives you every bit of detail, not allowing you as a reader any form of independent thought. Third person limited, on the other hand, was a tool for writers who wanted characters to develop, change, and react in different indirect ways. It has it’s benefits, but often requires the reader to think, thus lending itself to horror and mystery writing more readily, and absolutely comedic stylings. However, it looks like not everything that J.K. Rowling is known for will be canceled after all. Hooray third person omniscient.

Bobby opened a grease encrusted box, pulling a fried mozzarella stick from within, and eyed it. It had been quite some time since Bobby indulged in something like this, his basic diet comprised of hot dogs and coffee not allowing space for a piece of cheese that is breaded and fried. He bit into the cheese stick, and savored the morsel in his mouth as the rest of the snack slowly stretched away from his lips until finally snapping at a point the strand was so thin the friction of the air broke it. Bobby slowly chewed, and Stephanie cleared the air.

“Mr. Bourbon,” Stephanie began, “maybe you should try doing something different for a change, try mixing it up.” The guise this was a screenplay had been completely shattered. Something inside someone somewhere had died, or given up.

“I am,” Bobby replied after swallowing. “I’m eating mozzarella sticks, I’ve never done that before a match, and I need to be ready considering my opposition doesn’t get easier as I get older.” Bobby pushed the remainder of the fried cheese into his mouth, and savored it. Bobby felt that when one had even the simplest of snacks only so often, they could be delicacies, a sentiment which would have sounded a lot cooler if this was third person limited.

Honestly, I can’t wait until I’ve delved into match writing like this, having chewed up a few pages of a match where we explored what the referee thought about what was offered in catering as opposed to having to have read some character page and then took what I had read there and made it flow in a way that it seemed action oriented.

“Mr. Bourbon, I meant something besides just eating cheese. You’ve goofed around with some bizarre television show while your relevance in the XWF has been on a steady decline.” Stephanie didn’t show caution when addressing Bobby so frankly, and she didn’t have to. There were those who wanted to protect his feelings, but that wasn’t her job in the slightest. She needed to prepare Bobby for the harshities of criticism, and violence. “Maybe you could go sit on a bridge and have a thought or two instead of actually doing something.”

“Hey, I could sue the XWF!” Bobby nodded, chomping on another mozzarella stick. He continued on with his mouth half full, his words muffled as he spoke, but fortunately this is third person omniscient and I don’t have to write the words as muffled whatsoever and hope for your inference, I just told you, motherfucker. “It’s the XWF’s fault I’ve lost! If I hadn’t wrestled I would be undefeated! I’m calling my lawyer!”

Bobby pulled his phone out, and dialed, setting his phone on the table beside the smorgasbord of garbage he had created. The phone rang several times until a voicemail message played.

“Hi, you’ve reached the law offices of Christopher K. Clinton. I’m unavailable to take your call at this time, please leave a message, and remember, we’re all doing this for the cure.”

Bobby hung up on the voicemail before leaving a message, a jet of air rushing from his nostrils in frustration. He hoped his lawyer could have been the answer, but alas, it wasn’t. Stephanie looked curious about the meaning of the message itself.

“Mr. Bourbon, what did he mean when he said ‘we’re all doing this for the cure’?”

“I don’t really know, I think it might be the band from the 80’s.”

The young man who had been pestering the guests of this dining establishment finally made his way to Bobby.

“Hey, you’re big and goofy looking, and you’re on camera!”

“I am?” Bobby immediately perked up. He looked at the young man as joy rushed throughout his body, the depths of his soul enriched by the opportunity to do something in front of a camera instead of plodding through a narrative.

“Yeah, you’re ugly and goofy looking, and you can’t do anything about it because you’re on camera!”

“My dude, I have done all sorts of things on camera!” Bobby reached up and snatched the young man’s hand, and with quickness unbecoming someone of his stature, he stood just as quickly and set in a basic top wristlock.

“Ow! You’re hurting me! I’m recording this!”

“Excellent, I hope you do! You’re recording yourself being made to look like a little bitch! I want you to take this footage and make it go viral!” Bobby looked overjoyed as he cinched the top wristlock in deeper, and with a sudden jerk, broke the young man’s wrist entirely with a vicious snap.

“But I’m recording, you’re on camera, you can’t do that!”

“I just did!” Bobby sneered, knowing I hit 2001 total words despite agreeing with the handler of Spencer to keep it to 2000.