There comes a time in a man’s life when he has to re-evaluate himself. To really, truly, deeply and almost intrusively look into the soul, the fire inside the heart of a man.
Today is not one of those times.
Jack Harmen sits at an ordinary wooden kitchen table. Circular. Rustic, definitely something found in a yard sale. The single man nature of his apartment shines through as the only “table cloth” Jack has is a bunch of discarded socks, and the only centerpiece are numerous rings soiled into the wood, where drinks were left uncoastered. He sits there, bouncing a quarter off the desk into a shot glass, his other hand propping up his lackadaisical head.
Suddenly, there’s a loud bang as the front door opens. Standing there, hands on his hips is Jack’s tag team partner and brother-in-law, the only man to make a 90s rap album worse than Bryan Austin Green… Two-Tone Tony Davis. He adjusts his Rick Steiner-esq wrestling ear cap and stands wide eyed.
Tony Davis: DUDE!
Tony quickly slams the door behind him and almost skates on the hard wood floor to his brother. He plops down a newspaper.
High Flyer: Ah! What the heck. Tony. Jeez. You’re all fired up. This is like that time you saw that “Dude, You’re gettin’ a Dell!” commercial on your facebook feed.
Tony Davis: I know. I was so disappointed that Adele didn’t become my slave. Look at this.
High Flyer squints. He reaches over and grabs a thick horned rimmed pair of glasses. He then pokes himself in his eyes as he pushes them up the bridge of his nose. He squints, reading.
High Flyer: Elderly woman indicted for raising kittens to be sold to Chinese food restaurant? Why is this news?
Tony Davis: Oh.
High Flyer: Why are you buying newspapers? Did you steal a cat?
Tony reaches down and flips the newspaper over, before pointing. He stands triumphantly.
High Flyer: Sweaty Singles Searching for Soulmates?
High Flyer looks up at Tony confused.
Tony Davis: Under that.
High Flyer looks down and squints, reading.
High Flyer: Seeking man who sells snow. Need the illiest connection. I have to cover a town. May also require time travel. Safety not guaranteed.
High Flyer stands up, slamming his hand on the table. It breaks, shattering into a few pre-cut staged pieces.
High Flyer: This guy just stole my gimmick!
Tony Davis rubs the back of his head.
High Flyer: What. I know that look. What?
Tony Davis: Well, it’s not like you were even using it.
High Flyer: Oh shut it — TO THE FLYER-MOBILE!
High Flyer stands, pointing triumphantly. Tony clears his throat.
Tony Davis: Ya… Ya mean the Lebaron?
GFX: Spinning picture of High Flyer and Tony Davis wearing crime fighting outfits.
High Flyer trying to start an old beat up Chrysler Lebaron. The engine revs and floods.
High Flyer: TO THE BUS!
GFX: Spinning picture of Max Kael’s Ruby Red97 blinking Eye.
High Flyer and Tony Davis sitting on a bus. An elderly woman hugs her purse close as she looks at the long colored haired High Flyer. He just waves politely.
GFX: Spinning picture of High Flyer’s face surrounded by a Looney Tunes like circular pattern.
High Flyer and Tony Davis stand on the outside of a very dilapidated looking apartment complex. Tony raises the newspaper triumphantly.
Tony Davis: This is the address!
High Flyer: Let’s get ‘im!
Suddenly, Flyer’s phone rings. He pauses, answering.
High Flyer: Ahoy ‘hoy
Over the speaker, shouting loudly, is Mary-Lynn Mayweather, High Flyer’s protege, lawyer, and most important, voice of conscious.
Mary-Lynn Mayweather: Fly, where the hell are you? You’ve got Scottywood this week and I show up at your apartment for your training session and you’re nowhere to be seen! And the tables broke. There’s less holes in the wall but that’s only because the smaller holes have merged to create one giant hole. And I almost drank expired milk. Seriously Jack. Get your shit together.
High Flyer: And a warm welcome to you. Sorry, can’t talk.
Mary-Lynn Mayweather: Damnit Jack. Are you stalking someone again?
High Flyer: I’ve moved on to assault. Talk to you later!
Flyer looks at his phone for a second.
High Flyer: Aaaaaand – Off!
He places it back in his pocket, and looks to Tony.
High Flyer: You ready?
Tony stands there, holding what looks to be a flare and piece of dynamite.
Tony Davis: Almost. Which one is the flare again?
High Flyer: Neither. Let’s go.
The two step up toward the apartment complexes front door. High Flyer raises a finger to silence Tony, and then starts making those hand signals that SWAT teams would use. Tony nods, and then turns around and walks away, before Flyer reaches out, grabs his collar, and spins him back around. The two enter the building, quickly and swiftly. Flyer does his best SWAT team impersonation, as Tony just stumbles around, waving and smiling to the various other people in the apartment complex. The two climb the stairs, reaching room 202.
Flyer tells Davis to go to one side of the door as he goes to the other. He knocks, cop knock style.
High Flyer: HOW!
There’s no response. Flyer cop knocks again.
High Flyer: HOW WRESTLING! YOU’VE STOLEN TWENTY YEAR OLD INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY!
Voice from behind the door: What?
High Flyer: HOW WRESTLING WANTS YOUR FIRST BORN.
High Flyer kicks the door in. It slams into the innocent bystander’s face, sending him down to the ground. High Flyer mounts him, like his springboard lou thesz, and raises a fist. Tony Davis points the unlit dynamite at the man.
High Flyer: Yeah, you recognize me. You stole my gimmick!
Man: What? Who are you? Why do you have dynamite.
Flyer slaps him once across the face.
High Flyer: I’ll be asking the questions here! Nobody advertises their desire for Cocaine, and then make a time travel reference. Who the hell are you!?
Tony Davis: I bet he’s Benton Cross.
High Flyer: ARE YOU BENTON CROSS?!
The man covers his face, trying to defend himself.
Man: What?! This is my house. You can take whatever, just please don’t hurt me.
High Flyer: Oh, I can take whatever. After you tried to take my IDENTITY!
Man: I just wanted cocaine dude! My dealer’s out of town and I got the sniffles!
High Flyer: Then why the time travel line?
Man: In case someone wants to go to the future with me along the white lines.
High Flyer pauses, biting his lower lip. He lowers his raised fist.
High Flyer: Oh.
He lowers his fist further.
High Flyer: So, this is a mis-understanding. I’m so sorry. I’m so impulsive.
High Flyer gets off the man, and helps him to his feet. The man dusts himself off and looks shocked, horrified. High Flyer shrugs, walks over to the man’s fridge, and pulls out a large sandwich. He takes a big bite, as the man just looks at him incredulously.
High Flyer: What? You said I could have it.
High Flyer gently and politely slaps the man’s cheek and walks off. Tony Davis bows, and shoves something into his chest.
High Flyer: C’mon Tony! Let’s go home. There’s nothing else for us here.
The last image we have is of the man, shocked, holding a lit stick of dynamite. As the door closes, he breathes a sigh of relief, before hearing the sizzle of the wick.
We assume he cut the wick and is fine. But we don’t really care.
“I know what it’s like to lose a girl Scotty.”
Fade in to High Flyer, standing in front of a 97 red brick wall with a t-shirt currently available for sale that says “Better Than Best.”
High Flyer: I’ve personified titles. One of them was even my makeshift kid when my wife got pregnant. Hell, I’ve spent most of my life losing women. I’ve lost my wife, I’ve lost every good thing I’ve ever had. Can’t get attached. Not in this business. Cause all those belts, all of ‘em I had? I’ve loved them more than my wife, more than my son, more than my daughter. I mean, if I put up one of them in a title match, I ain’t gonna lose like Stoovins lost a child… but I made a conscious decision to toss away my wife, to say to the mother of my children, this sport is more important than you. It is. 100%. And I don’t care if that bothered her. I throw away my life and my body for this sport, because professional wrestling is my one true love.
You my good sir? I’m not entirely sure what you love the most. Is it truly the shiny golden girl you can no longer have, Miss LSD herself? Is it really pro wrestling, I mean, seriously? Or… is it the booze? I mean, you can’t even go a week without bringing it up. Hell, even owning a portion of a show that generates easy money without having to worry, which, by the way, SIGN me up, but even with all that, you still gotta wonder if you’re not as sharp without the whiskey-a-go-go. Not as ready to roll without a bit of ME and coke?
See what I did there?
Listen, get your life in order, I get it. It’s hard. It’s easier to just indulge and wallow in your insanity. Believe you me. I do it myself. All the time. As a co-owner, it’s amazing that you don’t live and breathe it, inhaling red97 spray paint and exhaling DRINK like you’re doing a Benny impression. And at the end of the day, I ain’t your peer here. I’m not one of the BESTS, you don’t gotta explain yourself to me. No judging. I spent four years as a GM of a place and I booked by throwing darts at a dart board. I don’t care what you do. We all have methods to our madness.
Just… fucking bring it. Because I want to have a bit of fun.
And after we beat the tar outta each other, make each other bleed the crimsonest HOW 97red there is… I’ll buy the first round.
High Flyer walks off frame, as the camera fades to black.