We open on the security feed of a truck stop parking lot just as a mulleted masked man in an open robe bursts through the double doors in full sprint and cuts a hard left turn and heads for the side of the building with what appears to be a hubcap chained to a key under his arm. Just as he clears the doorway, a loud boom emits from behind him, followed by the shattering of the double doors. The feed picks up a barely audible “OH HAVE MERCY!” as the lightning fast Lover bounds around the corner, nearly bowling over a conspicuous Classic Wrestling cameraman in the process. The Lover jukes, trying to find a path around the stutter-stepping cameraman before grabbing the camera, shoving it’s operator aside, and hoofing it to the bathroom just as the truck stop owner steps out onto the curb with shotgun in hand. The feed cuts to Lover’s purloined camera perspective as he fumbles with the key, struggling to get it in the hole, before pulling a hail mary and palming it into the knob just as the truck stop owner turns the corner. Lover dives into the dark safety of the restroom, dropping the camera in the process. He then turns back to close the door, pressing his body against it as a loud pounding comes from the other side.
UL: Occupied-o.
TSO: Git out here and pay for that gal darned magazine!
UL: I don’t know what you’re blabbering about, old man! I didn’t grab any reading material for the can.
TSO: I seen’t ya behind the counter when I went tuh re-stock the pickled eggs! Now there ain’t no use lyin’ boy. Yuh can tell a tall tale to me, but yuh can’t lie to Ol’ Bess.
UL: I don’t know why you’re always trying to start some kind of mess. By the way, who the heck is Ol’ Bess?
As if to answer Lover’s question, the truck stop owner pops a warning shot just above Lover’s head, illuminating the bathroom with a pepper of sunlight. Lover ducks down, yanking a blurred out magazine from his robe to use as a makeshift roof over his head.
UL: Alright! the Lover might’ve swiped a thing or two, but what’s a down on his luck Lothario to do? Lover tried finessing the ladies but free lovin’ never pays. Meanwhile, the Lover’s day job hasn’t booked him for days.
TSO: Don’t give me no sad sap story boy. I seen’t that yuh got a big ol’ pay day comin’ up with a shot at the Pre-mier ‘murican Championship on the line.
UL: Oh yeah? Well Lover says you’re a liar!
TSO: It’s true boy. Hold on n’ let me go get the flyer!
A Classic Wrestling poster slips under the door a minute later. Lover eyes it suspiciously before shooting a hand out to greedily nab it.
UL: Classicmania, huh? Sounds like a hot gig. A PAC title shot if I can beat a kid and a pig? Now Lover’s beaten Larry before just to spite Bobby Dean. I suppose I could do it again. Psh…could probably even do it clean.
TSO: Now don’t be insensitive.
UL: Hey I’m accepting of Larry’s murse. But Lover needs the win, not to mention that winner’s purse.
TSO: Are yuh rhymin’ again ya consarnin’ pre-vert?
UL: I’ll explain myself, even though I didn’t want to be so overt. I’m cutting an advert for this event so I can pay you, you skinflint
TSO: Oh. Well, carry on.
UL: As I was saying, this Classicmania show sounds big. Plop down cash for pay-per-view if the Lover’s who ya dig.
TSO: Hey, aren’tcha gonna talk about havin’ tuh ‘rassle that pig?
UL:Quit cutting in on my promo before Lover decides to renege. Sgt. Safety…or Justice…card says one, roster says the other. Whatever you’re called man, Lover ain’t callin’ you brother. I’m not big on flat foots, gumshoes, or any form of Johnny Law. So alert dispatch in advance with your 10-53 call.
TSO: That means person down.
UL: Lover knows what it means, you clown. It’s subtext, you see? Lover’s subtly sayin’ Sarge’s goin’ down for a count of three. Now wont you clear out so Lover can go make some green?
TSO: So long as yuh come back n’ pay for that magazine.
Lover reluctantly pushes the door open and clasps the outstretched truck stop owner’s hand and shakes it in agreement as the camera fades to black.