It Feels Like We Only Go Backwards
The door opens to a suite on the 28th floor of the MGM Grand and Garbage Bag Johnny flips the light on. He and Nova step inside, laughing and pushing past each other.
Garbage Bag Johnny: No, bro. I’m fine. Someone just paid me on Fiverr to act really sad.
Nova: I don’t think that’s a thing.
Garbage Bag Johnny: I’ve got a picture of Honest Abe that says otherwise. Anyway, you sure you’re not gonna get in trouble for any of this?
Nova: I’m telling you, bro, it’s like they aren’t supervising me at all any more. It’s “MESSIAH” this and “MESSIAH” that and there are no UAs, my fucking GPS is dead…
Nova gestures to his ankle bracelet. The light has gone out.
Nova: That treatment program is all my P.O. talks about! Anyway, no, I’m not getting in any trouble, let’s just pour up a couple for the team no one thought would be a thing, then get down there and back up our boy.
Garbage Bag Johnny: We may not have a catchy name…or even a name at all…but count me in! Nothing like a palate cleanser after a delightful meal.
GBJ grabs the bottle of gin on the kitchen island and arranges a couple of shots. Before Nova can take a full step towards thema figure emerges from the shadows and face-palms him into the wall.
Garbage Bag Johnny: Easy bud, we still have…
A separate person springs from behind the kitchen island, gripping GBJ by his thick locks and slamming his face down onto the shot glasses he was prepping. GBJ springs up, glass stuck in his face, rivulets of blood and stinging gin running down his face.
Garbage Bag Johnny: Aaaaaahhhhhhh!!!!
GBJ waves his arms forward and grips the person in front of him, slamming both of their heads down onto the island, gin-soaked blood spatter flinging across every corner of the kitchenette before the other figure grabs hold of a handful of his hair, snapping his head back.
Future Nova whispers in his ear.
Future Nova: What happened to our fucking belts?
Future Nova looks to his right as Nova stands, drywall flecked across his blinded eyes, and lunges. Nova grabs at Future Nova’s space collar and lands a few quick jabs before Future Nova sticks out a leg and flips Nova through part of an end-table, sending him crashing to the floor, his legs knocking down a standing lamp.
GBJ sweeps the liquor-soaked glass across the island into Future Nova’s eyes, then takes a few quick breaths before turning as Future GBJ connects the wide side of a knife storage block against his head. Most of the knives fly out of the block and a few stick into the surrounding drywall. Future GBJ grabs one and presses GBJ against the kitchen island, plunging down…
…but GBJ catches it at the base, bloody teeth gritted, arms shaking, as the knife quivers above his chest.
GBJ only has time to see the fist coming his way before his head rocks to the side and hangs loosely off the side of the island. Future GBJ drops the knife in his hand. It clatters across the tiled kitchen floor. Future Nova steps around the island with a wad of paper towels, wetting them under the sink before applying them to Future GBJ’s face, cleaning away the spots of blood and glass.
Future Nova: Really none the worse for wear, to be honest.
Future GBJ: We made a huge mistake with all this, Nov. Now there’s no proof we were champs for 50 years at all.
Future Nova grabs him by the shoulders, his space suit crinkling dramatically as he leans in.
Future Nova: Hey! Hey, don’t think that way! We EARNED this! And KEPT this! We just needed to confirm these losers were gonna ensure our legacy even happened in the first place!
Nova crawls out of the broken wood chunks of the end-table, attempting to stand before Future GBJ roundhouse-kicks him in the grill. He collapses amidst the rubble.
Future Nova: And they’re FREAKING NOT! These jackwagons don’t have a name. They’ve never even wrestled a match together.
Future Nova paces back and forth, surveying the wreckage in the room.
Future Nova: No. The only way these turds win the belts is if we win the belts and give it to them.
Future GBJ: I have to believe something was said about this earlier, but that masked gringo asked us so many goddamn questions, I didn’t catch whether or not these suckers made it to the next round.
Future Nova: Doesn’t matter. If they’re still in, we pick up where they left off and win the belts. If not, we beat the stuffing out of whoever does win this Survivor thing.
Future GBJ: Right on, brother.
The elder duo exchange a wrinkly high five, but as their flabby, bloodstained hands clasp together, (barely) present GBJ starts coughing and wheezing and looks up.
GBJ: Who…the helll…are you guys?
Future GBJ and Future Nova exchange a glance and then crouch down in front of GBJ.
Future Nova: Us? We’re The Future of Wrestling.
With that, both Future GBJ and Future Nova send simultaneous fists into each side of GBJ’s skull, knocking him clean out.
The Future of Wrestling look at each other. Future Nova looks around, Nova collapsed in a pile of particle board, and GBJ face-first on bloodied carpet.
Future Nova: Soooooo…somebody (gesturing towards the fallen) promised to back up their friend, right?
Future GBJ: Right.
Future GBJ: Fuck.
Future Nova: Suit up. We got to teach some more punks to respect their elders.