Perfect Strangers

[10:45 PM, Friday July 17. Location: the top floor of a parking garage in Mexico City, staring down at the buzzing arena across the way. The Professional cowers and peaks over the parking deck ledge, careful to avoid getting spotted by any fan with a vigilante streak who may have decided to follow him out of the venue. He's so preoccupied staring down at the city lights that a hulking man in tattered clothes approaching from behind doesn't catch his attention until it's too late to do anything about the gargantuan interloper. The Professional's eyes blink hard as a giant meaty hand clamps down on his shoulder from behind.]

"That your handiwork, friend?"

[The Professional gently grabs one of the massive digits clasping his shoulder and guides the catcher's mit sized hand off of his shoulder with no resistance from the owner.]

The Professional: I suppose you could say that. Who might you be?

[Quickly but cautiously, the Professional snaps around to face his interrogator. His eyes meet with the gangly man's belt line. He lifts his head to stare up at the giant bearded fellow before him.]

"Oh...I don't know. I suppose you can call me champion."

The Professional: Are you a champion?

"Yeah...well...no, not yet...but soon!"

The Professional: I'm going to take a wild swing in the dark and guess you're a wrestler too.

"'Wrestlin'? No, I s'pose I've never done any 'wrasslin'. I'm more of a fighter, a survivor, hell a thrive'er if you will."

The Professional: I wont, but I am curious what you want from me. I know it appears from my three pieced suit and well manicured appearance that I might be rich, but I assure you that I have no change on me at the moment.

"Change? Oh I don't need change, mister. Not the kind you're talking about anyway..."

The Professional: That accent of yours is quite unique. I take it you're not native from that pasty skin of yours. Whereabouts you from, old timer?

"Oh, here and there."

The Professional: Well, I must say this is quite the enthralling discussion of riddles we're having here, but there seems to be no reason behind it. You seem reluctant to give details about yourself, and I'm reluctant to give you...whatever it is you want. Don't be fooled from my small stature either, I'll mess you up if you try getting handsy.

"Yeheheah I suppose you would, Professional. That is what you call yourself isn't it? 'The Professional'?"

[Instinctively, Pro reaches into his lapel pocket and pulls out his card and presents it to the Goliath before him. The big man gently plucks the card from The Professional's outstretched hand and holds it up into the light.]

"Well I'll be..."

The Professional: If you happen to need something, or perhaps come across the kind of dough that would afford a man such as yourself a permanent 'fixer' of problems, hit me up.

"Oh I have money. 'least a million dollars at this point shoved into a mattress...somewhere 'round here..."

The Professional: Sure you do. Say, you know everything about me now so why don't you tell me about yourself.

"...Interested?..."

The Professional: Well not really, but in truth I'm trying to kill some time before my boss can commandeer a limo to take us to an airfield north of here where we'll escape in a private jet, never to be seen on the mainland ever again.

"You're one of 'em island folk, aren't'cha? Yeah I heard about that. Great idea, poor execution if'in your askin' me."

The Professional: Yeah, I didn't, but if I were gonna who would I be "askin'"?

"Oh, beg my pardon. I've been a very rude host haven't I? They call me The Derelict, and I'm about to be OWA Heavyweight Champion."

The Professional: Host...say, are you sleeping here or something?

The Derelict: I've got a few places, yeah.

The Professional: Do you enjoy being vague, or does it just come naturally to you?

The Derelict: Force of habit, I suppose. I've never been accused of being a man of brevity or transparency, but in all due respect I'm not the one flying down to Mexico to beat up some guy out of the blue. Is he a job? is that what you do? are you a mercenary like that April Song woman?

The Professional: Yeah, something like that.

The Derelict: Oh come on now. You can't accuse me of being tight lipped and then clam up once the conversation starts to get interesting.

[The Professional stares at The Derelict blankly for a moment before shrugging and posting up on the parking lot's ledge. On cue, The Derelict settles down into a seated position in the nearest parking space and pulls his bindle out from behind one of the parking blocks. As he unravels the handkerchief on the end of the stick, Pro pops out a pack of Red Apple cigarettes, taps the bottom, and then slides one out. The two stop what they're doing at look at one another. Pro offers the loosened smoke toward Derelict, and Derelict offers up a murky looking bottle of Night Train Express. Both hold up a hand to abstain and go about the ritual of taking in their own poisons. Pro lights up with a Zippo as The Derelict twists the bottle open with his teeth. They take a respective drag of their vice of choice in unison and then let out a satisfied sigh.)

The Professional: A long time ago I met Nobi. He kind of hung around me like an annoying little brother until my friends became his friends and my success became equal part his. I always kind of resented him for riding my coattails, but I didn't speak up until he did like any annoying sibling would and took my coat without asking, or so to speak.

The Derelict: He stole your spotlight. I follow the analogy.

The Professional: I was left out in the cold alone without a friend in the world while he rose to mega stardom in Hollywood after our former place of employment gave us an ultimatum to either be men of honor or stick around and be someone's bitch.

The Derelict: So you had some rich lady pay you to attack him? How very capitalist and un-bitch of you.

The Professional: It's not about the money...or it is, but not in the way you think. The money's a symbol of everything he's become at my expense. I don't know what's going to happen after tonight. I just cost him another belt. If that doesn't get his attention back on me I don't know what will. Even scarier, I don't know what I'll do next if this doesn't work. I've done some pretty horrible things to him already. I suppose I'll have to up the ante if I plan on continuing this charade of being Nobi's true reflection. I honestly don't know what that man will drive me to do next. Maybe I'll play off of his crumbling home life..or perhaps run into an old mutual acquaintance. I don't know. It scares me that I don't know what comes next.

The Derelict: Why?

The Professional: Up until now everything's been planned out in advance. I knew I'd inevitably cross the ocean again just to screw with him. Claudia and I planned in advance for weeks before I even showed up to cost him the American Dream Championship. We saw it all coming; the chamber, World's Finest, the sponsorship drop off. It was all orchestrated meticulously before I even set foot on the island. Now? after this stunt at Meltdown? I don't know what's next, but I do know that I'll do whatever it takes to get my hands on him once and for all, especially after what he and those cretins that call themselves World's Finest did to Claudia at Kingdom Come.

The Derelict: This Claudia, do you care about her?

The Professional: I've been struggling with my feelings toward her from the start. I wanted it to be straightforward business as usual between us with no messy relationships, but now? I don't know. I look up to her, but it's more than just that.

The Derelict: ...you love 'er?

[The Professional's cheeks grow red as he averts his gaze from the prying hobo. After a moment, the blush in his cheeks is replaced with a grim grin of clarity. He looks up to answer the Derelict's question, but is snapped out of his train of thought by the blaring honk of 'La Cuckaracha' coming from a long white stretch limo with red horns on the hood. The Professional starts to wave goodbye and walk toward the limo when The Derelict grabs his wrist and pulls him back, shaking his head no somberly. Just then the back window of the limo rolls down to reveal a cheshire cat grin below a pair of blueblocker shades.]

Saul Abzu: Your chariot, m'lord!

[The Professional and Saul lock eyes for a moment. Both men's faces fill with a vague and leery expressions of recognition.]

The Professional: You know this guy?

The Derelict: Yeah, he's been wining and dining me for a few months now in hopes of convincing me that I'm a fabled paradigm shift that's going to bring some ancient desert civilization back into global prominence.

The Professional: I've known men like him before. Might I suggest checking for a price tag next time you take him up on one of his lavish gifts?

The Derelict: He's harmless. I reckon I'll string him along for a bit and see how much I can mooch off of him before he gets wise.

Saul Abzu: I'm right here, ya know? I can hear you.

The Derelict: Can you? because I've been telling you to fuck off for quite awhile now and you never seem to get the hint.

[Before the conversation can go any further, a newer model crimson limo pulls up beside the white one. The door opens and Claudia Michaels steps halfway out.]

Claudia Michaels: Get a move on, Andrew. We shan't tarry in such a hostile environment. Besides, Meltdown's bound to let out soon and it's probably in our best interest to get out of town before it does...who are these weirdos?

The Derelict: Aren't you Roxy's mom?

Claudia Michaels: How dare you.

The Derelict: Yeah, you sound like her. How would a gentleman like myself get a hold of such a dainty flower as Roxy? You wouldn't happen to have her number on you, would ya?

[Claudia stares at Derelict with consideration for a moment, before rolling her eyes and kicking the limo door open.]

Claudia Michaels: Even I'm not that mean...come come, Andrew. We've wavered among these ruffians for long enough.

[The Professional turns to The Derelict and shrugs.]

The Professional: She's not wrong. You guys are kind of weird.

The Derelict: Speak for yourself, lapdog. It's not like we don't share the same bizarre first name.

The Professional: Oh my god, do you think my first name is 'The?'.

Claudia: ANDREW!

The Professional: Alright, alright. Coming.

[Both me leave their reposed states and head for their respective limos as Claudia and Saul hold their limo doors open.]

The Derelict: You oughta take notes from me on how to handle these people lookin' to pour money into your pockets, young man. Granted, my concierge isn't as easy on the eyes as yours. He does mind me though.

The Professional: Oh yeah? well our limo's bigger.

The Derelict: You're an insolent little shit, aren't ya?

Claudia Michaels: You don't know the half of it. He goes pouting off to his room whenever something changes in the castle.

The Professional: Mooooom

Claudia Michaels: ANDREW! You know I hate the 'm' word.

Saul Abzu: Andrew...Andrew...I feel like I've heard that name before. Perhaps from a past life? or a future one at that.

The Professional: Trust me, I don't have much of a future lined up for me.

Saul Abzu: Oh, now I don't know about that. I'm sure I'll be meeting you in the not too distant future where the brimstone meets the highway.

[The Professional watches on as Saul shuts the door behind Derelict and rolls up the window, his shades glinting in the light unnaturally as he does so. The Professional shakes off the feeling of someone walking over his grave and dives into the limo. At that, the two long stretch Mercedes circle and then disappear down the ramp way, never to cross paths again..]