Cameras stand outside the Classic Studios with the film crew milling around waiting to record whatever vignette King Kong Frank has cooked up. Much to their chagrin, a DMC DeLorean pulls up front.
As soon as the car stops, its passenger side door bursts open a la Back to the Future and the largest man in CW history begins a slow and obviously painful process of extraction. As the large man struggles, a much slimmer and more fit figure with boyish good looks bounces out of the car with ease. Dressed in classic zubaz pants, a GOLD’s Gym wife beater, and a fanny pack hanging loosely around his waist, the kid looks at the Studio. An innocent smile forms along with a look of wonder in his eyes, as the man known as Lunchbox Larry stands gaping in awe of the building in front of him.
“Barry!” The larger man bellows, dragging Larry out of his revelry, as he finally frees himself from the DeLorean, sweat pouring down his forehead. “Get the bags! We don’t wanna be late.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Bobby, sir!” Larry offers a friendly, and oddly sincere, salute before rushing toward the trunk.
Bobby Dean walks around the car and takes a moment to soak it all in. Dressed in similar fashion as his youthful cohort, he leans back for a good stretch, causing his fanny pack to peek out from under a massive fat roll. He begins to rest his hands across his vast belly, rubbing it in small circles as if he were petting a dog.
“Barry, I can’t believe we’ve finally made it! The guys and gals of the UPN won’t know what’s hit ‘em, that’s for sure!”
Having somehow managed to stuff six suitcases and a small lunchbox around his shoulders, waist, and hands, Larry waddles over and stares at Bob a bit perplexed. “I think you mean the CW?”
“What? No, I thought this was still UPN?” Bobby asks, quite perturbed at being corrected by the youngster. “Don’t tell me they changed it again! First the WB, then UPN, and now the CW!? Do they still have that funny looking frog with the top hat at least?”
“The wha-?” Larry asks.
“Nevermind, let’s just head inside and get this over with,” with a reluctant shake of his head, Bobby Dean starts walking towards the building, oblivious of the struggling Larry in his wake. He looks toward the cameras and offers one of his megawatt smiles. “Oh, hi there! Allow me to introduce myself. My name is “Beautiful” Bobby Dean. I know, I know, so silly of me to introduce myself, considering how I’m stinking famous! My lacke… I mean, my apprentice behind me is known simply as Sacklunch Barry.”
“Lunchbox Larry” The encumbered one mutters under his breath, to which Bobby completely ignores.
“We’re new in town, known simply as Bobby Dean and Some Man, and you’re looking at the next Real World’s Premier American Tag Team Champions! We’re here to be the BEST! Oh wait, shoot, I think the Foreigners already claimed that slot. Hmmm. Nevermind, I’ve been around “the Best” and I’ll say, it’s awfully tiresome! Well, you know the motto. First is worst. Second is best. Third is the one with the hairy chest! So second, here we come!
“Go on kid, tell the nice people at home a little something about Sacklunch.” Bobby offers, finally stopping and allowing Larry to not only catch up to him, but also giving him a moment of spotlight.
“H-” just as Larry is about to speak Bobby cuts him off.
“I know. I’m excited, too! Simply speechless!” Bobby exclaims! “We may not be as disciplined as The Foreign Legion, or as accomplished, what with them being a whopping ONE and OH, and all, but what we lack in drive and determination, we make up for with… Uhm… Barry, what do we have that no else has?”
Surprised at being put on the spot, coupled with his own crippling fear of improvisation, it’s really no surprise when the inexperienced Larry suddenly ends up tripping over himself. The suitcases go airborne as Lunchbox frantically waves his arms in an attempt to regain his balance. One of the flying cases hits the ground with a thud and pops open, scattering a rather large, unassembled stainless steel chocolate fondue set.
“Yeah! Good idea, kid!” Bobby turns back to the camera triumphant. “What we have that no one else has, Fondue! Chocolate Fondue, baby!!!!”
And cameras cut.