Camembert Chips

Nick Stuart: Before we press onto our next tournament match, we have a video message here from…Strasbourg, France? Do you know anything about this?

Richard Parker: Ho HO! If this is from who I think it is, I can’t WAIT to watch this!

We cut from the commentary desk to the inside of a gym with a basic wrestling ring set up in the middle. A middle aged Carl Winslow-looking man in a navy tracksuit stands in one corner of the ring and shouts instructions in French to a handful of young recruits surrounding the apron before beckoning two to enter. They lock up, and one gently hip-tosses the other awkwardly on his butt, leading the coach to shake his head and pantomime the PROPER technique for this throw. He motions for another greenhorn to come in as the rotation for today’s drill is now clear.

A low French-speaking voice pierces through the scene as subtitles appear on the screen to help the primarily American audience.

V/O: PRIME nous a montré un manque de respect extrême.
(PRIME has shown us extreme disrespect.)

The camera continues in a long shot, very slowly zooming in on the action in the ring. More rookies attempt this very basic wrestling throw, some with moderate success, others clearly frustrating this coach.

V/O: Un tournoi de 32 personnes est annoncé, et ils choisissent de faire de mon fils le 33e membre de la liste.
(A 32-person tournament is announced, and they choose to make my son the 33rd member of the roster.)

As we get closer, there is a figure sitting apart from the increasingly nervous and sweaty batch of young wrestlers, watching the action with an expression halfway between nonchalance and contempt. He wears a navy zip-up hoodie that has The Messiest Hair Poof Ever poking out. He’s eating something from a bag, but we’re too far away to tell what it is.

V/O: C’est peut-être la peur. Sa mère? Un escrimeur olympique français. Moi, son père ? J’ai fait partie de l’équipe nationale de football. Et nous avons poussé notre fils toute sa vie.
(Perhaps it is fear. His mother? A French Olympic fencer. Me, his father? I made the national soccer team. And we pushed our son all his life.)

The camera lingers on the young fresh-faced man, menacingly eating a bag of chips. Camembert chips, Brets brand. He just stares into the ring, slowly crunching away.

V/O: Peut-être que si nous étions Lindsay Troy, nous pourrions utiliser le népotisme pour faire venir notre jeune talent familial. Peut-être si nous étions aussi défoncés sur notre érection égoïste qu’Impulse, ou peut-être si mon fils était un adorable perdant comme Bobby Dean. Mais peu importe… pour l’instant.
(Maybe if we were Lindsay Troy, we could use nepotism to bring on our young family talent. Maybe if we were as high on our egotistical boner-horse as Impulse, or maybe if my son was a loveable loser piece of trash like Bobby Dean. But no matter…for now.)

The young man pulls out another chip and examines it with some curiosity as another greenhorn messes up a hip toss to an outburst of rage from his coach. The chip meets the same fate as countless others before it. 

V/O: Quand le moment sera venu…
(When the time is right…)

Mid-crunch, the young man catches the cameraman out of the corner of his eye. He turns ever so slightly towards the camera and gives a little air-pucker-smooch.

V/O: …nous enverrons FLAMBERGE.
(…we will send FLAMBERGE.)

We cut to black and return to the commentary desk.