Light wind sweeps small particles of sand along the well kept shoreline. It’s quiet, but extremely bright, the sun burning down with a fiery passion. The sea tide overpowering and smothering the beach, beating it down to a stiff toughened darkness. It washes over the feat of a war torn veteran.
The sea has no regard for the wants of the beach.
High Flyer, grizzled, five o’clock shadow, stares over the roaring waves. He lifts up a phone, one of those really old flip phones, grey and ancient, like him. His nostrils flare.
“Is it done?”
Without another word, a sly smile creeps across High Flyer’s face. He flips the clamshell phone closed, and tosses it into the ocean.
“Alright party people,” This, is Jack Harmen. No nonsense, focused, training the next generation of talent among the sweaty grunts of teenage angst and hormones. This week at his former trainer’s school, The Odessa Dungeon, Harmen runs seventeen year old kids through the ringer. A boot camp, filled with children of celebrities alongside the sandy shores of Santa Monica. None of these kids are Luke Perry’s kid, yet.
Harmen claps his hands and shouts at them as they continue their drills. From a distance, we get a two shot of Harmen’s prized protege, Mary-Lynn Mayweather, alongside one of his first students, DEFIANCE Wrestling’s Klein. MLM is dressed in her traditional skirt suit and emerald framed ruby spectacles. Klein wears the smile of a gentle uncle, with the vice like grip and sheer strength of a grizzly bear. More likely to crush you to death in a bear hug than rip a head from it’s shoulder. The two watch on as Harmen instructs the various “talent.”
MLM: Hey, you’ve known Jack longer than I have.
Klein doesn’t turn his head, but smiles.
Klein: Are you calling me old Miss Mayweather?
MLM: You’ll know when I’m calling you old, geezer. What are you, forty?
Klein: Older. May I ask, what are you gettin’ at May?
MLM bites her lower lip and turns back to the ring. She studies him, her big brain at work. IE: Do not head butt her while she’s thinking. It’s like headbutting a Samoan.
MLM: I mean, Jack’s been acting distant since he joined HOW.
Klein: He wanted you there with him.
Klein shrugs. MLM adjusts in her seat awkwardly.
Klein: Just a guess.
MLM: Yeah, but it’s more than that.
Klein: Do tell, young genius.
MLM: You remember how you never talked and wore a box for four years?
MLM: But you were doing that to hide.
MLM: I get it. But, I knew you before you wore the box. When you just carried it.
Klein: Get to the point before I lose interest and just start jostling your hair like you’re my neice.
MLM: Alright. Alright… I. I think Jack’s going through a mid-life crisis.
Klein: That’s normal.
MLM: It is, but Jack’s not.
Klein: Just let him sow his last wild oats. It’s why he joined HOW. To wrestle with the youngsters, impart more wisdom, part more violence. You know how he is.
MLM: Yeah. That’s the problem.
Mary looks on worridly toward the ring as Harmen continues directing the tropes to run laps, trying to wear their cardio out.
MULTIPLE BURST OF STATIC, interlaced with the RED97 HOW logo, before finally resting onto a dutch tilt angle of the Lunatic, staring down at the camera with wild bug eyes. All we can see is his face.
High Flyer: How nice HOW is… to book me in a match with a friend.
Flyer just let’s the camera DROP, shattering on the floor. From the cracked lens, the camera catches Flyer as he continues to pace, ranting in the distance.
High Flyer: You give me the prospet of violence, but place across the way the daughter of a man who would no doubt KILL me were I to get out of line. But the problem is, that’s what I do. I get out of line. I cause chaos, mischief, I revel in the fear and shock of those around me. I can’t. Not to her. It’d be like taking out Mary-Lynn, or wrestling my own son. It’d be like sucker punching Cally. It’s just… wrong.
Harmen stops pacing, and sways his head to the side and continues pacing in the opposite direction.
High Flyer: But, she wouldn’t want it that way. She’d want to earn her title. She wouldn’t want me to just lie down. And I can’t say no to all that carnage. The weapons, the empty prison yard… it will be the first time I enter a prison willingly, I’ll say that… but I have no true intention of leaving.
Flyer laughs. He steps a few paces closer to the camera and leans down so most of his face can be seen in a medium angle.
High Flyer: That’s it. Why didn’t I think of this sooner? Why… if I may say, dear, HERALD of HAROLD’s… if you won’t willingly become my best friend… I can just destroy your current one. It’s all so simple. Place Max Kael on top of fourteen kitchen trays Max himself sets up to throw me through, and then dive off a guard tower through him. Take him out of the equation. ENSURE, that the winner of the LSD title match is between War and MJ, which is how it shoulda been all along.
Flyer shrugs, and then FLOPS, taking a seat indian style in front of the broken camera.
High Flyer: Cause you see, I respect the LSD title. I know, weird, saying I respect a title named after a drug, but here we are. My pupils called themselves PCP. Hell, I’m part of Team VIAGRA for God’s sake. I am not one to talk. But the thing is, I didn’t come to HOW to be the LSD champ. It wouldn’t be fair to the championship. I came to HOW for ONE THING…
Flyer picks up the camera, and lets it sway as he does from side to side. In a creepy, sing songy tone, Harmen just smiles, eyes wide as he stares into the camera.
High Flyer: Ii-eeee-iiii…. Came for HAROLD.
Flyer instantly drops the camera to the floor, breaking it further. He lets out a large cackle, long and echoing throughout the empty sound stage. He tosses his head back as the laugh gets even stronger, as someone looks to be pulling the broken camera away on a string. As the camera is pulled away, Flyer’s laughter gets softer and softer, before-
– EXTREME CLOSE UP. Flyer continues the sing songy voice.
High Flyer: Won’t, you be, my neighbor?
CUT TO MULTIPLE BURSTS OF STATIC.