Back to the Future
Nick Stuart: Well, it’s the first backstage report after the first match, and you know what that means.
Richard Parker: Melvin Beauregard finally does the right thing and puts a pneumatic hammer between my eyes, releasing me from this circus to join Hoyt in his heavenly manor above?
Nick Stuart: That was… dark. But no, it means The Anglo Luchador is doing things, and I hear he is back there with Ria Nightshade.
Richard Parker: Well, maybe she’ll do us all a favor and stab him.
Nick Stuart: Oh stop that. Let’s throw back to the hallways backstage!
The camera cuts to a hallway where The Anglo Luchador, dressed in a pinstripe suit wearing a “TAL for Intense” button, holding flyers. He’s turned towards Ria Nightshade, who is CLEARLY disinterested in what he has to say.
TAL: Okay, so the key to any winning campaign is a good ground game. We have to connect with potential voters face to face so we can humanize the campaign. Television ads and lawn signs have such little effect on voters comparatively speaking.
Ria: That’s not how this works nowadays, old man! Social media. THAT is how you get the word out. That is, unless you’d like all the geezers in the old folks home to vote for us. Is that what you want? They might be dead before they get to vote!
TAL: And do you know who votes the most? Geezers in the old folks home. They do nothing but eat pudding, piss themselves, and vote. How do you think this country got the way it did?
Ria: 18-49 demo. That’s what we want! You just gotta hook ’em.
TAL: That’s what the advertisers… you know what, forget it. I think people will still want to talk to people, and you’re an ideal role model for Gen Z anyway. You’ve got angst towards life, a healthy distrust of the establishment, if all else fails, you’re intimidating.
Ria: Did you just boil me down to a fucking blog entry? You know what? I’m taking a walk. If I don’t, I’m not gonna end up waiting for a vote and I’m gonna beat your ass right here, right now!
Ria storms off to the right.
TAL: Kids. Okay, now, let’s get crackin’ here. Okay, I got flyers and I need voters. Who am I…
Just then, the old luchador’s eyes fixate on two elderly gentlemen, right in the wheelhouse of his preferred voting demographic. They are both wearing silver jumpsuits and futuristic goggle-type eyewear. Both men have hair that looks to be untamed. What first started as voter outreach has turned into something uncannier.
TAL: You two look… awfully familiar.
The duo stop dead in their tracks, feigning a “who, us?” motion with their hands.
TAL: It’s the hair. Can you do me a favor? Take off those goggles, please?
The two men look at each other, shrug, and take off their eyewear, revealing that they’re…just regular old men. The Anglo Luchador looks confused.
TAL: You know what? I was mistaken. Carry on, and
He shoves some papers in the old men’s hands
TAL: Vote for The Anglo Luchador and Ria Nightshade for the Intense Championship!
As he watches the two old men shuffle away, he turns on a dime in response to a tap on his shoulder from…two other old men. They’re in the same outfits and have the same kind of wild hair (though one of them doesn’t have much of it).
OLD MAN #1: Excuse me, sir. Can you tell me how to get to the 28th floor?
The Anglo Luchador rubs his eyes as the two men are striking in their resemblance to… two other guys he knows.
TAL: You two look familiar. And the 28th floor? That floor is blocked off for… no way. Are you by any chance Garbage Bag Johnny and Nova? Only after having visited the beach from that movie, uh, you know with the beach that makes you old… uh… oh yeah, Surf Ninjas?
Future Nova looks at Future GBJ and shrugs.
FUTURE GBJ: I think he’s talking about one of those old timey simulations that you can only see and hear.
Future Nova pinches his nose like he smelled a fart.
FUTURE NOVA: We’re not interested in any of that stuff. We’re just trying to find ourselves…from the past.
FUTURE GBJ: We figure the 28th floor has got to be somewhere above us, but we can’t seem to find your pneumatic tube system.
TAL: By the plumes of Quetzalcoatl, time travel is POSSIBLE? Okay then, okay then, wow, I have so many questions about the future. Can you even answer them without violating the spacetime continuum? Am I still alive when your present is? Did they ever reboot Flash Forward?
The future selves of Johnny and Nova look at each other and then back at the old luchador.
TAL: Okay, okay, I’ll start simple then. Who is the President from your future?
FUTURE NOVA: President? We haven’t had one of those in decades.
FUTURE GBJ: Yep. You must be talking about Emperor Barron. And if you want to be alive in the future, ixnay on the esidentPray.
TAL: That’s… dark.
The old luchador scrambles to find another topic, less weighty.
TAL: Oh, okay, uh, do I ever win the PRIME Universal Championship?
Future Nova looks at Future GBJ and winces. Future GBJ shrugs and gestures back to the Anglo Luchador, who’s grinning broadly with anticipation.
FUTURE GBJ: Man asked you a question.
FUTURE NOVA: I can say I don’t recall you ever having lost it.
TAL: That’s unhelpful, but I’ll take it. Maybe you just need a question less loaded than something involving my own personal gain. Okay, umm… oh, I got it. Will Bobby Dean ever nut up and slug Cancer Jiles across his smug face?
FUTURE GBJ: Listen, you whippersnapper. It’s been fifty years, so we barely remember who any of these people are. But we need to find our younger selves while we still remember who we are.
FUTURE NOVA: Isn’t Bobby Dean one of the guys we had to beat to win these tag titles?
Future Nova points to his waist, but there is no title there. Both him and Future GBJ look at their own beltless waists, jaws agape. Without the belts, their space pants immediately fall around their ankles.
TAL: I swear to God, if you two start singing “Old Gray Mare,” I’m going to snap.
The haggard future wrestlers have a look of concern on their faces towards the old luchador.
TAL: Sorry, it’s been a hell of a few weeks so far. I haven’t slept well, there’s a weird stone from a Zelda game in the lobby, I flew to Japan fruitlessly, one of Mega Job’s asses became sentient and toxified the Taco Bell VIP Lounge we like to hang out at, I’m wrestling the number one contender to the Universal Championship tonight, and on top of all that, I don’t know how my campaign to be in the Intense Championship match at Great American Nightmare is going to fare against the feelgood story of Great Scott kicking Next Level Crack Cocaine and overcoming the mafia killing his family. Just, stress upon stress, like do you guys ever feel that?
FUTURE GBJ: I can barely feel when I need to use the toilet anymore.
FUTURE NOVA: Yeah, no, we’re living high on the hog over here, just compounding the abject humiliation of shitting ourselves before a nurse trundles over to respond to the “signal flare” button, with the gut-liquefying effects of time travel, all to seek out less depressing versions of ourselves…and probably be super fucking disappointed in them. Speaking of all that, hike ‘em up, buddy.
He nudges Future GBJ, and they hike up their space pants, only for a familiar frown to spread over Future GBJ’s face.
FUTURE GBJ: I pooped a little just now, and it feels like I peed my pants.
FUTURE NOVA: We gotta bounce before we make a bad situation worse.
The pair take off for the elevator nearby, Future GBJ bow-legged as he holds a hand over the back of his space pants.
TAL: (yelling for them as they walk away) Remember to vote for TAL and Nightshade at Great American Nightmare? Normal voice Ah nuts. Speaking of Ria…
The old luchador gaits down the hall no more than 100 feet before encountering Ria, who has one of the Enemigos backed up against the wall, holding her switchblade in front of his face close enough to be threatening but far enough away not to incur a fine. This Enemigo has an air cast on his left forearm, most likely from a failed attack on the Gossip Stone in the lobby of the MGM Grand.
TAL: WHOA WHOA what’s going on here?
Ria: I’m just trying to get this… embargo? Enemy-o? Spaghetti-O?… This guy to vote for us.
TAL: I didn’t mean… you know what, good for you, you’re at least trying. Please don’t use your switchblade though, because lord knows we don’t need you getting fined.
Ria: Fiiiiiiine, gramps.
She pulls the switchblade away as both future combatants walk away in search of more prospective voters. Camera goes to the commentary table.
Richard Parker: I swear to God, every time I see that horrible man backstage, I want to take a bath with my kitchen appliances.
Nick Stuart: (ignoring Parker’s cry for help) Alright, and now, it’s time to check in with GREAT SCOTT!