We open to the sight of a distraught Lunchbox Larry in what appears to be a hospital room. Adorned in an all black jumpsuit, with the orange _||_ on his back, the young man paces back and forth beside his bedridden partner and mentor. That’s right. Beautiful Bobby Dean’s been hospitalized. The bigger half of Classic’s Tag Team Champions looks sickly pale in a patient gown large enough for both members of The Foreign Legion to share as a blanket.
LL: Please forget I even asked, Mr. Dean. I can help move all Maw’s stuff myself this Saturday.
Bob turns his head toward his mentee with a faint smile crossing his face.
BBD: I wouldn’t want you to use up all your energy the day before your big match, Sherry. What if you lose to Leon Van Can’t? Everyone would know I’m the real reason we won that match against those Foreigners. We become Classic’s FIRST and ONLY Tag Team Champions. Honestly we should probably just go ahead and retire. No way we can top what I’ve already accomplished.
Larry nods his head, following every word like an obedient dog. He starts to bite his lower lip; it helps him think. After a few seconds, he shoots his right hand into the air, index finger pointing up. You can almost see the proverbial lightbulb brighten!
LL: I got it! I’ll pay some movers. You said you had a bunch of cash on hand to celebrate our win, right? Well, we can’t celebrate at the buffet with your injury, Mr. Dean. But I promise I’ll pay ya back in full… plus interest! I pinky promise!
Bobby grimaces and for a split second, you see Dean’s eyes turn green as he imagines the money he could make off that “interest.” But he quickly shakes the thought out of his mind, and focuses on the more important matter.
BBD: What kind of mentor would I be if I let my mentee pay money to NOT help his own mother? You’re better than that.
Like a chastised little boy, Larry’s head drops down as his hands find their way quickly into his pockets.
LL: You’re right, Mr. Dean. I can’t believe I even thought about it just now. If it’s alright with you, I’d like to go see my Maw and apologize, maybe then get a head start on ALL those boxes. I know I can take care of Mr. Van Zandt in the end, either way. I bea-
Bobby shoots Larry a menacing glare, making the mentee stop mid-sentence and clear his throat.
LL: I mean, I helped you beat him and that Mushi guy once already. And you know what? He doesn’t deserve the Mister. After that cowardly attack on us on SLAM-A-THON, hurting my teacher and best friend…
Bobby’s brows furrow.
LL: Well, I just hope Leon’s hungry, Mr. Dean.
Larry clenches his raised right hand into a fist, bringing it up beside his face.
LL: ‘Cause I got a Knuckle Sandwich… WITH HIS NAME ON IT!
As concern wipes away Dean’s smile, Larry turns to exit the room just as a tall man in a white coat opens the door and walks through. The doctor passes Lunchbox, looking at the wrestler quizzically, as he approaches Bob’s bed. Just before Larry steps through the door to leave, he turns around.
LL: Doc, shoot me straight… is he gonna make it?
Dr.: He’s got a broken fingernail.
Larry’s eyes nearly pop out of his head.
LL: Which one?
The doctor shakes his head, clearly caught off guard by Larry’s reaction.
Dr.: Left hand, pinky.
Larry’s face turns lobster red. His nostrils flare.
LL: That’s his favorite fondue finger!
The young Tag Champ rushes out of the scene, leaving echoes of his stomping feet as he runs down the hall. Back in the room, the doctor rolls his eyes so hard they almost fall out as he turns to face the patient. He casually reaches in and produces a bland, brown band aid, size small. Holding it out to Bobby who reaches out gingerly with his injured hand.
Dr.: That’s five hundred big ones, pal. You’re lucky I’m not charging extra for whoever, or whatever that was…
With the pinky covered, Bobby sits up straight, looking as good as new, with a smile as wide as ever.
BBD: You just saved my life! Here…
The crafty vet counts out six crisp one hundred dollar bills into the palm of the skeptical doctor.