The camera opens on a white pair of boots strutting across linoleum. Panning up we find a fresh off the shelf Undercover Lover decked out in his satin robe strolling through the cubicles of RBTV studio. He stops after passing one of the office spaces, spins around on his healed heel, and catches gaze with a flustered Angela from Standards and Practices packing up her belongings in a cardboard box.
UL: Angie what’s with the rush? Finally giving up the suit life to pursue your Undercover crush?
Angela: I don’t have time for this. I’m tendering my resignation.
Angela shoves past the Lover with her belongings under one arm and starts sprinting toward the exit. Lover looks on perplexed, but snaps out of his empathy flare up quickly and follows close behind.
UL: Why the sudden hunt for a new job in the interim? Is it because the Lover’s back on his feet and you developed Florence Nightingale syndrome?
Angela stops in her tracks and swings around to face the Lover as her growing frustration fills her frightened pallor with color once more.
Angela: Did’ja see who they booked you against?
UL: No, who? some local hick?
Angela: Bobby Dean.
UL: Hey is that the I Dream of Genie chick?
Angela: Do you know how much h-e-double-hockey sticks this is going to put Standards and Practices through?
UL: I’m surprised you guys didn’t get fired after her PPV exhibition. That lady went topless and showed zero inhibition. I know you’ve made cleaning up the Lover your ambition, but a match like this’s going to put my reprogramming in remission.
Angela: He’s a guy.
UL: Huh, that explains why he’s allowed to go half nude in all of his splendor. I didn’t think CW did matches intergender.
Angela: You seem nonplus by this news.
UL: Oh have mercy! the Lover is a respecter of all forms of beauty. Just look at that man’s mammaries, his curves, and his booty!
Angela: This is exactly the kind of thing I feared one or both of you would say in the build. I mean never mind what you’ll actually do in the ring. I have a stress headache thinking about it. Please. Let me leave this train wreck before it happens. I’ve already gotten almost seventy calls from concerned parents and heads of churches over this match just based on the flier.
UL: Almost seventy?
Angela gives Lover a stern and foreboding glare.
UL: So what? like…seventy-eight or…you know…higher?
Angela: I don’t need this crap, or your crap for that matter. This conversation is over forever.
Angela tosses the box at Lover who reflexively catches it. Before it even lands in his hands, she’s already made it halfway across the room and pushed open the emergency exit.
Angela: Have fun cutting just the most deplorable promos. You’re not my problem anymore.
The door closes behind her the camera cuts to black, only to fade back in mere seconds later on Lover in the promo box.
UL: I’ve heard your name before Bobby Dean. Not because you’re a champion, but because on four continents it’s the name for all that is obscene. It takes different forms in many a different place. To some cultures it’s just a man stuffing his face. In others it’s a term used to describe a fat old timer piggybacking a young ward. Yet again in others it’s just another name for lard. Now I could sit here and insult you for being out of shape, old, and lazy, but I feel like throwing such barbs just sounds crazy. I respect your game, your body of work, and your business savvy even if your body’s a perfect oval and your milk duds are saggy.
Lover glances off camera, as if expecting Angela to materialize. When she doesn’t, a sadness flashes in his smiling eyes momentarily, but quickly morphing into a mischievous twinkle.
UL: I know it’s cliche and a bit on the nose, but you and I are the same despite me being able to see my toes. Our views on intimacy are vulgarly abhorred, yet to fans I’m a pariah and you’re loved all the more for it. For me this breeds a level of contempt. Just because I dig you in Barbara Eden’s getup doesn’t mean from judgment you should be exempt. Come the 10th I’ll expose the true Bobby for all to see, as an onlooking Larry loses his lunch watching you losing in three.
Oh. Have. Mercy!