Amateur Hour

(Monday, June 8th 2020. Location: The interior foyer of a little diner just a few miles out from Wrestleworld Capital. The Professional stands in front of a hostess podium, impatiently waiting to be seated by one of the busy waitresses. His eyes dart to and fro, watching the only waitress in the lobby go to every other table with a coffee pot in one hand and a stack of plates in the other. He anxiously taps his pants pocket, causing a faint crinkling of a cigarette pack and a barely audible metallic jingle of loose change.)

"I pride myself to be a patient man. I've waited in the shadows for a long time to find the perfect timing to strike. I've studied my foes who've enacted the same meticulous and trying fate upon me. I've picked my spots. No one should know that better than you Nobi. I'm a man of temperance and iron will who doesn't go off like a stray bullet in some comical deputy's pocket. My aim is always measured and exact. My trajectory's always true when a target's caught flush in my cross hairs. I've been left with plenty of time to think as I've narrowed my sights. I've thought about the reasons that brought me to this cursed island. I've contemplated the nature of relationships. I've studied the intense migraines I've suffered through years of head trauma, some of which have led to brain surgery in my past. I've traced the scar on my crown over, and over, and over again. I've marveled at how it's shaped like the most perfectly written "J" in the history of calligraphy or printed word. I've pondered what toll such scars have taken on my psyche, wondered if I was truly driven by my own motivations, or that of a scar tissue teratoma whispering lies and paranoia inside of my skull. I've questioned reality. I've pondered my own sanity. I've wondered as you so bluntly put it if all of this punishment had left me an invalid incapable of computing or reasoning with the outside world. I've spent nights shivering in my hospital bed wondering if I would be the same after the surgery. I've thought about what put me in that bed, what negligence and absence of remorse or friendship that laid me out on a pallet in some run down O.R. I've closed my eyes and I've seen your face. Not Drake, not Jones, not Lannister, or even Ares Vendetta. I see you, Nobi. I see you in the back acting like a homer, hanging out with the men and women you look up to and not feeling their contempt for you acting like such a fanboy while my skull's being bludgeoned in out in the ring. I think of Claudia's eyes rolling every time she passed you in the hallway and called 'sister' as she kept walking by as if she'd never heard you. I think of hushed conversations between me and Lioncross that were abruptly cut short by you entering a room because we didn't want to hurt your feelings. I think of all the times I've stuck up for you to stars bigger than the both of us who wanted to cut line and let the big fish in our oh so small pond take you and do with you as they so please. I think of you calling Claudia Michaels and I a cunt. The word 'retard' rings in my ears like a long forgotten insecurity that I wouldn't expect my worst enemy to prey upon, much less a former friend. Someone of which I've staked my reputation for on countless occasions when Hollywood, Wrestleworld, and even OWA weren't even bothering to struggle to remember your name. I think about all of that, coupled with your denial and backpedaling. I think of that, I take a deep breath, and then I pull the trigger Nobi. You think it would be a heartbreaking ritual. You think it would traumatize me every single time I do it, but all it's done is make me grow cold as ice. All it's done is steady my hand. With every passing day, week, month, it gets easier and easier until I feel nothing but my finger squeezing bitingly cold metal trigger as my regard for you grows even colder."

(A waitress finally appears behind the podium, abruptly snapping the Professional out of his intense monologue.)

Waitress: What can I do for ya, huh?

The Pro: Table for...

(Andrew feels a light tap on his shoulder. Without even turning around he sighs and let's his head drop as he holds up two fingers. Percy giddily claps his hands behind him and races the confused waitress to a nearby corner booth as Andrew begrudgingly follows up the rear. As he sits down across from his longtime silent partner, Andrew gives the menu a cursory glance before pointing to an enticing picture of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. Percy rubs his hands together as his eyes visibly run over every single word on the menu, before his big fat finger plops down on a picture. The waitress nods and hurries off to the sound of an impatient glass rattling with ice coming from another table. Andrew drops the menu and stares down the pleased as punch Percy with exhausted contempt.)

The Professional: You know, I planned on coming here alone.

(Percy nods perceptively as he begins stacking a pyramid of creamers.)


The Professional: This is my special place away from the castle where I can collect my thoughts without interruption or prying eyes.

(Percy bites his tongue as he eyes up the creamer like a studied architect or an artist contemplating his next move.)

The Professional: I didn't expect to be followed on this special little morning outing.

(Percy suddenly looks up and the Professional and smiles a warm smile as he rolls his eyes at his own actions and points to himself in an embarrassed aw shucks sort of way.)

The Professional: So you understand?

(Percy shakes his head with a hint of self-awareness and embarrassment in his expression before turning back to his meticulous task of balancing creamers. Andrew, annoyed with Percy's presumably willful ignorance slams his fists on the table, both starting Percy and sending his structure of saccharine cream tumbling down.)

The Professional: LEAVE!

(Percy's entire face turns into a frown. Realizing he's pushed his simple friend too far, The Professional weighs his options of fight or flight for a millisecond before finding himself standing chest to chest across the table from his long time travel partner ready to square up.)


????: You boys mind some company?

(Both men's neck snap around angrily in search of whoever dared step between their heated dispute, only for both men's faces to drain of all color at the sight of Fertility Lynch standing at the head of the table. She gently shoves both men back into their seats, but a feather could've knocked either over just as easily.)

Fertility Lynch: Scoot over, Lobo.

(Without putting up so much as a hint of an argument, Percy hugs the wall, putting as much space between himself and the spa worker as humanly possible. Color begins to fill The Professional's face once more as the masseuse lays eyes directly on him.)

Fertility Lynch: Now are you two sweet boys following li'l ol' me?

(The fiery blush leaves The Professional's cheeks as his meek gaze hardens with suspicion.)

The Professional: Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing.

Fertility Lynch: Me? I come here all the time. Granted, work usually only permits visits on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. I thought I'd scope out the breakfast options since I happened to have the day off. What brings you two here.

The Professional: That's quite the convenient alibi. I usually come on Monday and Wednesday mornings. What brings you here this morning other than curiosity?

Fertility Lynch: I must confess, I'm prone to indulging in a hot mug of coffee and a sweet slice of cherry pie. They have the best on the island. I was going to try something difference, but I do believe I'll let my indulgences take me.

The Professional: I don't believe you. As a matter of fact, I wouldn't be surprised if this was the first time you'd ever set foot in this place.

(As the waitress busily passes by, Fertility coldly shouts over her shoulder.)

Fertility Lynch: Hey Rose? I'll take the usual.

Rose the Waitress: You got it, hun.

(The Professional leans back, letting his guard down slightly. Sensing she's won, Fertility gives Andrew a familiar smile that's both equal parts coy and vicious.)

Fertility Lynch: Someone's on edge.

The Professional: Pardon my apprehension. It's hard to make small talk with a woman who spent a day torturing you.

Fertility Lynch: You're still hung up on a little torture? It wasn't even that intense. I know you've been through worse than a few pins and needles.

The Professional: Is that what Claudia told you?

Fertility Lynch: Oh, so we're still in interrogation mode huh? Okay, Professional. How 'bout we play a little quid pro quo to see what conclusions we can draw about one another's character before having a peaceful brunch among coworkers?

The Professional: Sounds fair. I'll go first: What's your real name?

Fertility Lynch: Comin' outta the gates with a fast ball, huh?

The Professional: I don't like when questions are answered with questions. That's a freebie factoid on me, now answer.

Fertility Lynch: Kimberly Johansson, I wasn't lying about being Swed-Asian. My parent's coupling might seem unique, but they lacked in originality when it came to naming. How'd you know Fertility Lynch wasn't my real name?

The Professional: I've met at least three during my time in wrestling, all of which were red headed sex workers. Are you a sex worker?

Kimberly Johansson: No, rude!

The Professional: Then why did you take up the mantle?

Kimberly Johansson: Here's a freebie from me: I don't like compound questions when it comes to quid pro quo so quit cheating.

The Professional: I wouldn't have to compound questions if you didn't try to dodge answering.

(Kim sighs and rolls her eyes. The Professional could almost see her mind working behind her eyes to avoid divulging more than what's necessary. Sensing his studious gaze, her shoulders drop as she stares at him in disbelief at how dense and sheltered he is.)

Kimberly Johansson: I'm a massage therapist, Andrew. I may not be a hooker, but that doesn't stop some of my clients from acting like Johns. The red hair and name, along with the reputation proceeding it, keeps them from asking the cute mixed Asian girl for something both equal parts inappropriate and racist. Whose the big lug who follows you around like a lost puppy?

The Professional: Percy? An old friend who apparently tagged along so closely that I didn't even know he was on the island until like a month ago. I'm not quite sure what brought him here.

Kimberly Johansson: Why do you stay at the castle?

The Professional: No, it's my turn-

Kimberly Johansson: No, you asked two in a row so I'm asking two.

The Professional: I stay at the castle because that's the easiest way to keep Claudia in my sights. I am her paid bodyguard after all. Why do you stay in the castle?

Kimberly Johansson: Same reason as you. I'm paid to be there. Why do you come here?

The Professional: Sometimes I want to be alone.

Kimberly Johansson:...but you're not alone.

The Professional: Well, I didn't intend to go dutch on the bill with a coworker, nor did I intend for Percy to follow.

Kimberly Johansson: No, I mean you're in a very cozy public place. I'd go as far as to call it intimate. Even with the quarantine spacing between tables people are still on top of one another in this joint. It's hard to not draw the public eye sitting in here.

The Professional: Please, this isn't some Chateaux Bistro.

Kimberly Johansson: That's exactly my point. A hoity-toity restaurant would afford you the luxury of being away from the masses. You're in some greasy spoon mom & pops diner that every car passes leaving the capital. You'd be more isolated if you stayed in your room at the castle, that is if you had the nerve to kick Lennie here out.

The Professional: His name's Percy.

Kimberly Johansson: Why do you care what I call him if his presence here annoys you?

(A tense silence falls over the table, freezing The Professional and Kim in a stare down as Percy continues to obliviously balance condiments. Both are shocked back into reality as the waitress drops their respective plates in front of them. Without breaking their staring contest, Kimberly sternly thanks the waitress as she picks up her coffee cup and takes a long and annoyingly matter-of-fact sip of the black crude.)

The Professional: What're you trying to say?

Kimberly Johansson: You don't like being alone. Your buddy Nobi even pointed it out; you always have an entourage surrounding you. Why is that?

The Professional: It's my turn to-

Kimberly Johansson: No. The game's over. I've drawn my conclusions. I've figured you out. It doesn't benefit me to answer any further line of questioning that you have for me.

(Kimberly sternly puts her cup down and lifts her fork. She takes a big bite of her cherry pie and pounds the table with gratification as Andrew awkwardly pokes at his eggs with his fork.)

Kimberly Johansson: Son. Of. A. Bitch. That's a good pie. How's yours?

The Professional: I didn't order pie.

Kimberly Johansson: Oh I disagree. You ordered a big ol' heaping helping of humble pie. I can see it, right there on your plate. I see the beaks peeking out from beneath the crust, too. Did you know you were ordering crow this morning?

The Professional: Why did you torture me?

Kimberly Johansson: I thought I said the game was over. I won. Besides, you already know the answer to that question. You might not want to, but ya do.

The Professional: After inflicting all of that violence, that body horror, that...that insidious charade of a spa day, why'd you end it by merely tickling me in the end?

Kimberly Johansson: Because it's the only thing that you haven't developed a callous for.

The Professional: Tickling?

Kimberly Johansson: No dummy, intimacy. You're a hard man, Andrew. You really are. I swear, I did half of what I did to you to that mole that sewed Wraith's camera into your jacket and she was in tears before the massage was over. You're used to being thrown through tables, rammed into urinals, and beaten to a bloody pulp. It's kind of sad that the one thing that could break you was a woman's touch, and not even one of a sexual nature. You were brought to your knees by the same torturous treatment that mothers enact upon their children in play. The only thing that I could do to you that would bring tears to your eyes was an act so innocent and based in emotional bonding that only toddlers craving attention from their parents beg for it. Does it make you blush to know that you can be destroyed by something so juvenile? Does it make that humble pie of yours taste all the more savory to know that the most basic act of intimacy broke you in a way that I knew bamboo chutes and a belt sander couldn't?

(The Professional averts his eyes, trying not to look at anyone as his cheeks turn red once more. After taking a moment to savor her handiwork, Kimberly takes one last swig of coffee and one last victorious bite of pie before getting up from the table and making a beeline for the door. Andrew looks up just in time to see her clasp her perfectly manicured fingers around the exit's handle. He almost rises out of his seat to stop her. Sensing his desperation for company, Kimberly regards him with that same sadistic grin that cuts through him like a knife.)

Kimberly Johansson: You're a hard man Andrew. A hard man whose still just a little boy crying for attention. Claudia doesn't need another brat tugging at her apron strings. She has plenty of children out there that she's already attentively smothering with torture and misery.

The Professional: Then why did she make you torture me for being insubordinate if she doesn't care?

Kimberly Johansson: You've answered your own question. Why waste her precious time on you when there's a bastard Vendetta vying for her attention? She doesn't need a son, Andrew. She already has one to psychologically and physically dismantle. Why not have a staffer take care of her light work, i.e.; you?

The Professional: I don't believe you.

(These words of distrust halt Kimberly's gloating. Andrew begins to smile as the faux Fertility lets go of the door and turns back to him with a somber look of defeat on her face.)

Kimberly Johansson: That might be the smartest thing you've ever said to me. Unfortunately for you, you've picked the wrong point in the conversation to say it. I'm sure we'll pick up this conversation some other time though, ja?

(Without giving The Professional a second chance to interject, Kimberly Johansson pushes her way through the diner door. A visibly annoyed Andrew begins to rise out of his booth to give chase, only to find himself stopped in his tracks by the long arm of Percy reaching out to block the aisle. He glares at his long time companion, only to be met by an unexpectedly sympathetic doe eyed expression. Andrew lets his anger slowly leave his body as he lowers himself back into the booth. Anxious and unsure what to do with his frustration, Andrew thumbs the bill in agitation.)

The Professional: She dine and ditched on us, Percy. I should just tell the owner to put it on her tab. After all, she'll be back. She loves the pie here.

(Percy stares at Andrew with an unreadable dumbfounded expression. Letting his frustration get the best of him, Andrew snaps at Percy.)

The Professional: What?!

(Percy points at an item on the menu. Upon reading it, The Professional's face turns flush with a mixture of shame, anger, and annoyance. He takes the menu from Percy and stares with dread at a picture of a slice of pie resting on a saucer complete with coffee mug. In the big, bold, emblazoned words "The Usual" hangs over the meager meal with a quaint little blurb next to it.)

The Professional: "sick of being viewed as a tourist to the area? why not order like you've been here before. Get 'The Usual' Our succulent cherry pie and damn fine coff-" Jesus Christ....she was following us.

(Percy and The Professional look at each other with the understood expressions of two doomed men set for the gallows in the morning. They both turn to look out the window in unison as the tingle of the bell just above the diner door alerts them to someone coming in just as the camera cuts to black.)