The sound of coughing permeates throughout the room. It’s persistent. Every time it stops and you start to hear yourself think clearly once more it begins again. It’s annoying. You feel bad listening to it because you know the man coughing is miserable. But at the same time, it annoys the ever living crap out of you, because you can’t help but wonder, just what is in this man’s chest that he can’t seem to cough up.
Larry finds himself standing by the bedroom door of his mentor, Bobby Dean. He’s afraid to actually walk into the room, and let’s be honest, it probably has nothing to do with the fact that the bedridden Bobby Dean looks like death. An obese death, but death nonetheless.
“Bobby?” Larry asks, unnecessarily. “What happened?”
“One too many of that Mexican piss, Barry, one too many Coronas…” Bobby mutters before a bout of coughing seizes him once more.
Larry’s mind begins to work. It’s quite magical to witness when the unimaginable happens. Almost as eerie as watching Bobby Dean pick up a woman at a bar, or to watch the big man win a match. You just can’t fathom these things happening, but yet there Larry stands, the gears turning, sparks flying as his mind is worked beyond it’s capabilities.
“Wait,” Larry prompts rhetorically. Because trust me, Bobby wasn’t going anywhere, anytime soon. “Is this just another one of your ploys?”
The look of shock fills the once cherubic face of the chubby challenger. He’s about to ask what Larry is referring to but is suddenly bent over in another coughing fit. But Larry has spent enough time around his mentor to know what Bobby was about to say, so he continues on.
“This is another bit of yours, isn’t it?” Larry asks. “Every time you’re given a chance of a lifetime you find some way to finagle your way out of it. With this shot at King Kong Frank you’ve now secured a title shot for every single title in CLASSIC, and you’re here throwing it all away, AGAIN!”
Larry is ecstatic. He’s finally figured something out. He’s currently thinking of changing his moniker from Lunchbox to Sherlock Larry Holmes, thinking of calling Bobby Watson. His imagination is going crazy, as he begins to think of some wild mysteries he and Bobby can solve.
The Case of the Missing Tag Team Titles.
The Case of the Missing Twinkie.
The Case of the Empty Lunchbox.
Spoiler alert Bobby stole them all!
“I nailed it!” Larry claps happily for himself, as Bobby groans in absolute misery. “Come on Bobbo, you can stop pretending now. It’s okay, I totally understand. I mean, it took me a while to really grasp your intention but it’s kind of ingenious really. You set up every match as if you losing is the obvious path to play out. So that when you do lose, your opponent never actually wins. They’re just doing what everyone expected them to do.”
Larry stops, giving Bobby a chance to appreciate his sleuthing skills, but all it does is give Bobby a chance to cough once again. Larry waits until he stops before continuing, “And if you’re able to do the unthinkable and pull off the victory it’s even more impressive because you were never actually supposed to do it! Genius, Bobby, pure genius!”
Bobby looks infuriated, his face flushed, his brow covered in sweat, his eyes narrowed as he stares into Larry’s soul. He’s moments from speaking before he suddenly begins hacking once more, but this time his coughing is so intense that a bit of blood spews from his mouth.
Suddenly Larry’s triumphant look fades, quickly replaced by concern. “Bobbo…” Larry asks as he rushes forward, suddenly realizing that this was not a bit after all.
Sorry Frank, that Mexican piss known as Corona has kicked my ass before you had the chance to. Now when you beat me, I can suck all the fun out of it, because you needed all the help you could get. I sure hope you win, can you imagine losing to a sick Bobby Dean? How about you cook me some gumbo as my consolation prize?