In a hotel room in downtown Cleveland, Scott Hunter is seated on a couch, his feet up on the ottoman in front of him. His arms are crossed, and he seems to be upset.
Craig Massey walks in and seems concerned.
Massey: You look upset. What’s wrong?
Hunter: I just learned that something we were really stoked about’s a total sham. There is no Kokomo.
Massey: What?
Hunter: My retirement plan. I just made some preliminary calls to the airlines to price up tickets. Turns out the Beach Boys made it up.
Massey: I don’t really remember anything about a retirement plan, to be honest.
Hunter: Now I have this match at Slam-A-Thon to prepare for and my mental focus is shot. I need to re-center. I noticed one of my opponents is someone named Mitsubishi Guadalajara. He sounds really exotic.
Massey: I’m almost positive that isn’t his name.
Hunter: But some other guy talks for him. I think his name is Al Dente. I assume he’s an Italian guy who likes firm noodles.
Massey: Okay that guy’s name is definitely Eddie Dante. I met him in a supermarket once.
Hunter: Probably buying firm noodles. I listened to the thing they did where he talked some. I think the theme of the promo was “women don’t have sex with me”. Also, he was talking for the other guy in their team, too, who of course, was a big part of Bruce Springsteen & the E Street band.
Massey: I think that was Steven Van Zandt. This is Leon.
Hunter: He was also really good as Silvio Dante in the Sopranos. HEY! Is that why their manager is named Al Dente?
Massey: It truly amazes me how wrong you always are. It’s Leon. Leon Van Zandt. And it’s Eddie Dante.
Hunter: Leon sounds like a podiatrist’s name.
Massey: Okay.
Hunter: Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Fortunately I am super talented, so I will prepare and be ready in plenty of time.
Massey: And your partner… have you spoken to him?
Hunter: No, but I already know we’re gonna bond over our shared love of the band Winger. I’m pretty sure he’s gonna be super-stoked when I suggest naming our big tag team move “Headed for a Heartbreak”.
Massey: And what is this move, actually?
Hunter: He tags me in, then I punch both of our opponents in the face a lot, then I put a figure four leglock on both of them at the same time, then they quit. No one ever kicks out of it, also.
Massey: Why would anyone be trying to kick out of…
Hunter: Trust me, that’s exactly how it happened in the dream I had about it. And Jennifer Grey dirty dances in the corner like she did in Ferris Beuller’s Day off.
Massey: Wrong movie. And, there’s no place for dirty dancing in the wrestling ring. Unacceptable.
Hunter: You’re so uptight. When will you just cut loose, footloose, lick off your sundae spoons?
Massey: I keep telling you, the song is not about ice cream.
Hunter: You don’t know! No one does.
Massey: You better come up with a different plan, or at least do better research on your partner.
Hunter: Never fear, Mass-man. I have no doubt we will come together as one unit, like when Chris Columbo married Pocahontas and they feasted on corn. Or maize, named after its amazing taste after you add butter. Then, it’s simply a matter of wrestling rings around Mushy Grasshopper and Steven Van Vandt for no more than 8-10 minutes, followed by my first ever supercard win on worldwide regional television.
Massey: You and Rikki Roxx.
Hunter looks confused.
Massey: Your partner.
Hunter: Oh right. Yes, I’ll tell him to be happy, too.
Massey sighs, giving up.
Massey: Alright well…. (throwing his hands up) …do you want to, I don’t know, go take a shower before we go out and start your prep work?
Hunter: What?? Who showers every day?! What am I, the governor?
Massey: (exasperated and walking away) Okay, well, I saw some eye candy downstairs in the bar. I think I’m gonna go chat some of them up.
Hunter: Need some advice?
Massey: You know nothing about girls.
Hunter: I know a ton. I’ve got a super hot girlfriend.
Massey: Yeah, from Canada that no one’s ever seen.
Hunter: ‘Cause I met her at camp, ya sausage gobbler!
Massey sighs deeply, turns and walks out. Hunter chuckles mockingly.
Hunter: Pfft. Not about ice cream. Whatta rube.
FADE.