PISSING
After the in-ring events that transpired, we now switch to the backstage area.
Actually, we’re in the men’s room.
The men’s room?!
Sure. Why not?
There’s an array of urinals all lined up, stretching as far as the eye can see in this particular lavatory area of the Rocket Mortgage Field House. There’s a large 24” x 12” picture frame of Clevel Cavaliers Hall of Famer Walt Frazier encased in glass, and smaller picture frames of other athletes from other teams that compete in this same arena. All the way down at the third to last urinal, is Arthur Pleasant. Sighing, getting into the “zone”, if you will, the Worst Nightmare of Wrestling stands with his back to the camera
(HEY! WHY ARE THERE CAMERAS IN THE MEN’S BATHROOM?!)
The back of his t-shirt says “I DON’T BITE” and his jet black hair is hanging loose to the right of his undercut scalp.
Suddenly, we hear the men’s room door open with footsteps proceeding it. This could be bad. Or weirdly exciting.
The footsteps grow louder and louder as the man who just entered the facility gets closer and closer to where Arthur stands.
This man chooses the urinal right next to where Pleasant stands, impeding Pleasant’s pissing process.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Pleasant thinks to himself. “All these empty urinal spaces and stalls and this fuckhead has to choose the one right next to me?!”
Man: Gotta drain the lizard, know what I mean? Make some lemonade? Drozzle the nozzle?
The man who speaks in a familiar New York/Long Island accent is dressed in a gray suit and sporting a white, black, and gray half-mask, revealing a disconnected moustache and goatee. The masked man lets out a loud moan of relief as a steady stream hits porcelain.
Man: Ah fuck yeah! Too much jasmine tea. But fuck! Shit’s got all them anti-toxidents in it, so it’s, whaddyacallit, healthy.
Pleasant, clearly annoyed that he hasn’t started pissing yet and this weird, mysterious man sounds like a race horse, shouts back.
Arthur Pleasant: DUDE. Shut. The. Fuck. UP! I’m trying to take a piss here. Jesus Christ.
Pleasant sighs and tries to concentrate, but the man’s steady stream blasting into the porcelain just further serves to piss him off.
Arthur Pleasant: What are you, a fucking camel or s-
Pleasant stops. Suddenly, it dawns on him that the man’s strange appearance is somewhat familiar.
“Don’t ask him.”
“Don’t ask him.”
“Don’t ask him.”
“Don’t ask him.”
“Don’t ask him.”
“Don’t ask him.”
And so he asks.
Arthur Pleasant: FUCK. UGH. Do I know you or something?
Man: You comin’ on to me?
The masked man turns his slightly towards Arthur and lets out a chuckle.
Man: Just fuckin’ with ya. Can’t say you and me ever conversated before.
Arthur Pleasant: Cut the shit! Who are you? You’re wearing a stupid fucking mask and saying words wrong and–
Suddenly, Pleasant realizes it.
Arthur Pleasant: Mortimer. Of course.
Pleasant looks down, still unable to piss.
Arthur Pleasant: So, Mort… this is your plan? Corner me in the bathroom and try to drown me in your own piss or something? Sorry, I’m not into golden showers, unlike the rest of the GASholes you run around with.
Man: Mort? I’m a Mort? Fuck you. I’m Mister P-P-V. Poe Princent Valsenaam.
Pleasant finally begins to trinkle out some pee.
Arthur Pleasant: Ahhh. There we go. Listen, I don’t care if you call yourself Mr. PPV, Mr. PLE, Monsieur Mania, or whatever the hell else you drum up inside that empty head of yours. To me? You are Mortimer Kjedelig. And, while we may be having a “civil” conversation right now? You owe me your fucking blood for what you did to Arliss’ little intern.
Mister PPV: If I was this Mortimer Kuh-juh-keurig, wouldn’t I be arrested for breakin’ some kind restrainin’ order? No offense, queef-for-brains, but this Mort guy owes you shit. You stuck them fangs of yours in Tony G’s business and then pull a chicken-shit move with a restrainin’ order and then think for one fuckin’ second that a firestorm ain’t gonna go down on you, you got another thing comin’ my friend.
Pleasant starts whistling. His demeanor changes almost instantaneously as his piss power grows.
Arthur Pleasant: Sorry, I didn’t get all of that. My mind was wandering. It went back to when you viciously beat me because of some girl you nutted over while watching her wrestle because she reminded you of all those hentai pornos you subscribe to. Listen, you can pretend this didn’t start at Tropical Turmoil, by you, all you want. All you need to know, Mister P?
Pleasant shakes (not more than once) and wipes his hand all over the silver flushing mechanism before pulling down on it. With “Mr. PPV” still standing there, facing the wall, Pleasant wipes his piss-ridden hand across the back of his neck. Slowly, making a pee-sodden tracing circle.
Mister PPV: Back the FUCK up or they’re gonna start callin’ you Gummy Jim!
Pleasant smirks as he backs away.
Arthur Pleasant: All you need to know is that I’m going to FINISH. THIS. The next time we meet each other? Whether it’s in the ring, the bathroom, the parking lot, or a fucking Benny Hanna’s? I will do precisely that.
Pleasant goes back to whistling as he makes his way to the sink, washing the remaining filth off of his hands that didn’t transfer to the back of Mor- Mr. PPV’s neck.
Arthur Pleasant: I’ll see you soon, fuck wagon.
Pleasant walks out of the Men’s Room, leaving Mr. PPV and his urine slimed neck behind. Mister PPV finishes his business, flushes, sopas up, and as he scrubs his hands under the water he looks at himself in the mirror, a disgusted sneer across his face as the scene ends and we cut to ringside.