Countless millennials and gen-Zers wearing designer street and skate fashion, with their collars turned up against the wind, queue outside a flagship glazed record store plastered in posters advertising an album drop.
I know what you’re thinking: people lining up to buy physical media in 2022!?
A scrawny bespectacled man with neatly-parted hair steps into view holding a microphone sporting the CW logo.
BILLY FIELDS: Hi, Billy Fields here for another report in living colour! I’ve been asked by one of Classic Wrestling’s hot young prospects to meet them here—
He checks his wristwatch.
BILLY FIELDS: But they must be stuck in traffic alongside everyone else wanting to purchase the new record by—
Billy ducks for cover as he’s eclipsed by the wingspan of a large orange bird!
BILLY FIELDS: What the—!?
Wait – that’s no ordinary bird, it’s…
BILLY FIELDS: DESERT EAGLE!?
Standing before the mild-mannered journalist is an aging masked wrestler with hotdog skin oiled to a mirror shine, and a physique that’s vacationing down south.
A gold eagle frames the cutouts of his blue and white starred mask, with red and white stripes decorating his desert-camo singlet.
Billy fangirls over what must be his childhood hero.
BILLY FIELDS: Desert Eagle, you’re the hungry new talent!?
Desert Eagle rubs his knotted hands together and nods eagerly.
DESERT EAGLE: LEMME TELL YA SOMETHIN, SILLY BILLY—
A starstruck Billy mouths his new nickname.
DESERT EAGLE: THERE’S A LOTTA FOLK OUT THERE WHO THINK THAT THIS EAGLE ALREADY LANDED. BUT I’M STILL FLYIN HIGH, JACK, AND I CAN’T REST THESE WINGS—
Eagle flexes his bingo-wings.
DESERT EAGLE: WHILE THIS GREAT NATION OF OURS IS DIVIDED, DUDE!
BILLY FIELDS: That’s admirable, sir, but tell me: why did you wish to meet with me here? How will this work towards unifying these un-United States!?
Slap! Eagle smacks his forehead in exasperation. His mask turns darker as blood trickles down into his eyes.
DESERT EAGLE: LOOK BEHIND YOU, BROTHER! YA SEE THAT FACE ON THE POSTERS!? HE’S WHY WE’RE HERE; HE’S THE ONE KILLING THIS COUNTRY!
He pulls Billy towards the front doors of the record store.
A patron waiting in line pipes up.
RANDOMER: Hey, those guys are cuttin’ in!
Eagle pulls a marker out of his weight belt.
DESERT EAGLE: IT’S OK, LITTLE EAGLETS, AMERICA IS IN SAFE HANDS!
He autographs the stunned man’s white t-shirt, then marches into the store.
End-caps and rows of shelves like dominoes promote the new album drop, and the line of customers snakes throughout the building.
DESERT EAGLE: IT’S WORSE THAN I’D FEARED, SILLY BILLY – LOOK AT HOW HE’S BRAINWASHED ALL OF THEM!
BILLY FIELDS: I don’t understand, sir!
Eagle drags Billy to a listening station and claps a pair of headphones on him.
DESERT EAGLE: LISTEN TO THIS GARBAGE! IT’S ALL ABOUT DRIVE-BYS, DRUGS, AND SOMETHING THEY CALL DRIP!
Surprise rap-aficionado Billy shakes his head. He lifts an earcup and holds the jewel case up.
BILLY FIELDS: No, no, no – look at the lyrics in the liner notes. He’s noted for rapping about hard work, respecting women, and values!
Eagle snatches it, snaps it in half, then tosses the pieces over his shoulder.
DESERT EAGLE: OH, HE’S CUNNING ALRIGHT! HOW DO YOU PLAY THIS THING BACKWARDS!?
He shakes the headphones, leading to an employee coming over.
EMPLOYEE: Excuse me, sir, may I help?
DESERT EAGLE: YEAH, YOU CAN HELP BY TAKING THIS TRASH OFF YOUR SHELVES! IT’S USING SUBMARINE MESSAGES TO ERODE OUR MORALS!
Eagle jostles the 12-feet promo wall, to which several other customers are tethered by their headphones.
A heavyset tattooed man in a black polo and slacks waddles towards Eagle, who grabs Billy.
DESERT EAGLE: HENCHMEN!? WE NEED TO RELOAD, SILLY BILLY!
The bloody patriot flees from the store on creaky knees with his newfound sidekick.
Hiding behind a dumpster round the back, Eagle paces agitatedly.
DESERT EAGLE: I DIDN’T DIE IN DUBYA-DUBYA-2 JUST SO THAT 80 YEARS LATER SOME GUTTERMOUTH LIKE JAKE EVANS COULD CORRUPT THE YOUTH OF AMERICA!
BILLY FIELDS: It’s Jay Evans.
DESERT EAGLE: LISTEN UP JAMES EVANS – THIS IS A DISS TRACK! YOU CAN SPIT FIRE BUT I’M FLAME-RETARDED! MY RHYMES ARE SO ILL THEY NEED A DOCTOR! 2PAC? I GOT AN 8-PACK, JACK! 50 CENT!? THAT’S TWICE WHAT YOUR RECORD IS WORTH! I’LL DROP YOU – NOT THE MIC!
BILLY FIELDS: Jay Evans!
Blinking through blood, Eagle flaps his arms.
DESERT EAGLE: WHATCHA GONNA DO, CHASE EVANS, WHEN DESERT EAGLE FLIES WILD ON YOU!?