Dazed and Confused
The feed transitions to Teddy Palmer walking down the backstage corridor that leads towards the staging area. He is dressed in his ring gear, sporting his “Face To Fuckin’ Canvas” shirt. In his right hand, his phone is held up a couple feet from his face, the screen illuminated with a video call.
Teddy Palmer: So you’re telling me you had nothing to do with it whatsoever?
Alexander Redding: Not in the slightest. Hell, I’d just trust you could handle yourself for a couple weeks.
Teddy Palmer: See, now I know you’re lying you son of a bitch. Just admit it, this babysitter schtick is the kinda shit you’d find funny.
Alexander Redding: I didn’t say it wasn’t hilarious. If this were my idea though, I’d at least have the decency to check if Mrs. Perras wanted an all expenses paid trip to fabulous Las Vegas. She’s gotta be retired by now, no?
Teddy Palmer: Our third grade teacher? Actually, that wouldn’t be so…
Before Ted can finish his thought, he’s sent flying into the concrete wall. His phone spirals to the ground, it’s screen shattering upon impact. Walking into the picture slowly is Cyrus O’Haire. Teddy, who is a bit dazed from hitting the wall so hard, looks up at Cyrus from the ground.
Teddy Palmer: Oh…hey there big guy.
Cyrus reaches down and grabs Teddy by the side of the head, bringing him up to his feet. Teddy swings at Cyrus, but Cyrus easily blocks the dazed man’s punch, and sends Teddy flying back to the wall a second time. As Teddy stumbles backwards, Cyrus grabs him by the shoulder and waist and tosses him face first into a couple stacked crates, busting his lip wide open. Cyrus looks down at Teddy, who is thoroughly dazed and confused.
Cyrus O’Haire: Who’s laughing now?
Teddy opens and shuts his eyes a few times, trying to clear the cobwebs. By the time he can focus, Cyrus is already walking toward the ring for their upcoming match. Crawling on all fours, he locates and grabs his phone.
Alexander Redding: That sounded like it hurt.
Teddy uses the wall for support, shifting his back against its surface and plopping his ass onto the concrete. With the back of his free hand, he wipes the blood from the corner of his mouth.
Teddy Palmer: Ya don’t say…
Alexander Redding: I’ve known you to have a few odd prematch rituals, but…
Teddy Palmer: I hope you choke on a cheese curd, prick…
Ted taps on the cracked screen repeatedly until it finally disconnects the call, tossing it aside. Inhaling with a painful wince, he looks off in the near distance.
Teddy Palmer: For future reference, if a freight train comes barreling one’s way, it’s just common courtesy to give a heads up.
The frame zooms out to show Joe Burro standing a few feet back. The frumpy 60 something older man is wearing gray sweatpants and a black hoodie pulled tight to his face where his googly eyes google through his gaze. He is holding a sandwich slice, unphased by the happenings.
Joe Burro: Who am I, the city? I’m a simple tailor. They need those crossing gates with the lights and beep beeps and what not. I don’t have a giant reflective arm to help the situation but perhaps if you wore an old lucha mask blessed by the God of the underworld you’d be more perceptive?
The weird man takes a bite of his white bread liverwurst sandwich while his eyebrow raises ponderously. Teddy mirrors the creep, raising a curious brow of his own.
Teddy Palmer: …I want whatever you’re on…
Cut to ringside.