NO LASERS, NO PASSWORDS

We see a guy. Not just any guy, a pretty specific one. A specifically pretty one, at that. Handsome in a very not-even-a-little rugged way. Sort of a Ken doll handsomeness, nice to look at if you like being slowly hypnotized by facial symmetry. You know the one.

WHOOOOOOOOOO!

Yeah, him. 

Chandler Tsonda struts with purpose, an athleisurely power-walk. The camera follows over his shoulder, and then pans up as he slows in front of not just a door, but THE door in PRIME.

LINDSAY TROY

The large steel door, replaced for the umpteenth time after April’s Bear attack embodies the gravitas of the office’s primary resident. Tsonda measures his steps, and approaches. He stops about a foot shy of the threshold.

Chandler Tsonda: (at a whisper) Yo. Dude. You in there?

The steel door does not respond. The Model Citizen raises his voice slightly.

Chandler Tsonda: (whisper-yelling) Elliott. Can you come out or you guys practicing kinky standing headscissors in there? Grunt twice if you’re in poundtown.

Maybe that damn door could tell stories if it could talk. But it can’t. So: silence. Giving up the bit, Tsonda resorts to what he does best: loudly hear his own voice.

Chandler Tsonda: (puts a hand over his mouth to do a fake PA announcement voice) Wade Elliott, paging Wade Sarsaparilla Elliott to the front of the store. We have a “compadre in need of some low country justice” situation. Wade to the front of the store.

A few thuds sound behind the door, just before it opens. Tsonda, quite proud of himself, takes one step back as the Bad Dog’s big frame emerges.

Wade Elliott: Damnit, Chandler! Everyone knows I don’t drink sarsaparilla! Ain’t nobody drinks sarsaparilla! Th’hell do you want?

Chandler Tsonda: Bad Dog! Mister Fucking Fortress of Solitude Security! Ok, so what say you do a favor for your ol’ pal Chan and let’s head over to the main panopticon or whatever so we can watch on closed circuit TV when that doppling fuck gets here and maybe —spitballing here, my G—we send a dozen Enemigos to beat him just shy of death? 

Wade Elliott: (rubbing his eyes between thumb and forefinger, clearly annoyed) Chandler, I ain’t security no more. An’ I’ve got a match later that’s all’ve’a’sudden the Main god-damn Event. Go ask Dam t’take care’ve this guy. ‘Sides, didn’t you hire ‘im in the first place?

Chandler Tsonda: (staring into the distance, reminiscing) Sure did. Best job interview I’ve ever seen in my life. His beautiful Taj Mahal of a mind. (snapping back to Wade) Don’t you watch the show, dude? Dam had his hands full with those bayou bitches. And thus came Chan to your doorstep. What if you, like, maybe kept the secret passwords for the system so we can sneak in there and clickity clack arm some lasers that will fry Doppelfuck if he steps on the premises?

Wade Elliott: I gotta be honest with ya, I have no god-damn clue what th’hell you just said. ‘Xcept fer the lasers, an’ I’m pretty sure Lindsay ain’t willin’ t’go that far.

Chandler Tsonda: So….not even, like, one or two lasers?

Wade Elliott: I AIN’T GOT NO PASSWORDS, CHANDLER! FER HOYT’S SAKE!

A deep sigh emanates all the way from within Tsonda’s chest. He is defeated in this harebrained scheme.

Chandler Tsonda: Fine, fine. But if you see Nguyen backstage, you gotta hit me on the bat phone.

Wade Elliott: (confused, and reaching into his back pocket and mumbling to himself) Th’hell’s a bat phone? All I got is this thing…

Chandler Tsonda: And you know what? You’re right. Tonight’s really about you. Main eventer! King pimp of big dick mountain! Sage Pontiff? More like…uhhh…Cage Pontiff, because you’re gonna lock his ass up. Any of this working for you?

Wade Elliott: Not ‘xactly, but I ‘ppreciate it. Sort’ve.

Chandler Tsonda: Well, I know you got a big one tonight. I’ll have to be at DefCon 1 battle stations to be on alert for that bastard bitch twin of mine. 

As Tsonda is speaking, Doppeltsonda can be seen behind Tsonda’s back, walking in the hall leading away from Troy’s office towards the general locker room area. Wade’s eyes grow a touch, spotting the imposter. He keeps his eyes trained while trying to get the Model Citizen’s attention.

Wade Elliott: Chandler.

Chandler Tsonda: No, I know. I love that you can still strap ‘em on and main event ReV, and I’m honored you’d ask me to be at ringside. But it’s my duty, Elliott. I gotta be on guard at all times.

Doppeltsonda, aware that he’s caught in the camera frame, and also that Tsonda hasn’t seen him yet, pleads silently with Wade by putting a finger in front of his mouth and then doing prayer hands as if to say “Please, please don’t tell him.”

Wade Elliott: (voice raising) CHANDLER.

Chandler Tsonda: No, you’re right. You’re so right. We gotta spend time together while we’re both still here, and can walk around on our own two feet. Let me see if I can get a half-dozen Tsuperstar Enterprise interns to take security detail for a bit while I watch your match. You want anything if I can get ‘em here? Sweetgreen? Whole Foods hot bar?

Wade Elliott: God-damnit! Turn ‘round! He’s right fuckin’ there!

Chandler Tsonda: (spins around) What? No he’s n—

The Model Citizen now sees Doppeltsonda, or the dust trail following in his wake, as the former Tsonda body double takes off running.

Chandler Tsonda: (yelling after him) OH YOU BETTER RUN FOR THE HILLS, NGUYEN. (turns back to Wade, still yelling) GOOD LUCK TONIGHT DUDE I’M SO PROUD OF YOU. (clears his throat, back to normal volume) Gotta go fuckboy hunting. Deuces.

And just as fast as Doppeltsonda took off down the hall, so goes Chandler Tsonda. The real chasing after the Fake. And tonight’s main eventer left back where he started. He looks around, no one in sight. And so, he opens the door to the Queen’s office.

Wade Elliott: Lindsay! We gotta talk ‘bout keepin’ yer name offa the god-damn door!

He closes the door behind, and we travel elsewhere backstage.