The Past is Just a Conspiracy Made Up by The Future
Catering. A professional wrestling limbo, to many. A gratuitous surrender of perishable commodities for a select few others. For Bobby Dean, it’s your home away from home.
REZIN is here, taking full advantage of the MGM Grand’s generous and seemingly endless hospitality by voraciously snatching up croissant rolls by the handful and tossing them into a large laundry bag. His paranoid, sleep-deprived scowl darts between the exits for any figures of authority who might take issue in his foray for essentials.
Was there any rule that said he couldn’t take as much as he could carry? Like, was it in writing anywhere?
Not that he can immediately recall. Maybe somebody said something about “being considerate” the other day,
…or was it the other week?
Whatever, it wasn’t important. He didn’t live to be contained by any “rules.” And if there was a rule, he would surely take delight in breaking it for no reason other than to defy authority. Seriously, FUCK authority!
He moves on down the line, carelessly burying his black-stained fingers into a foil tray and slinging hot, sloppy wads of mashed potatoes into the bag after the rolls. He pulls up the gravy ladle to “sample” the goods, leaving trails of steaming meat sauce running down the fringes of his beard. He dumps another ladleful into the sack before moving down to the rib racks. No messing around here; he dumps the entire tray of ribs into the sack.
Rezin: HELLOOO-OOO!! SO MUCH protein! These stupid PARASITES literally have no idea what they’re giving away!
He’s at the fruit display, and hungrily scoops up a cornucopia of apples, oranges, bananas, and melons. He still hasn’t noticed the junior reporter behind him, patiently waiting for a chance to get his attention. His patience has worn out.
Simon Tillier: …Rezin?
Rezin: D’AH!!
Spasming in neurotic surprise, Rezin’s bouquet of assorted fruit flies into the air, and subsequently comes raining down on his head. He spins around to face Simon, his face full of a mixture of rage and bewilderment.
Rezin: GODDAMBIT, RALPHIE!! That’s a surefire way to get your EYE SHOT OUT!!
Simon Tillier: It’s, uhh, Simon. And I apologize if I startled you.
Rezin: “Startled?!” ME!? NEVER!! By YOU?! HA! IMPOSSIBLE!! I was SNEEZING just now! OBVIOUSLY!! I happen to have a very serious allergy to NORMIES… and the NORMIE flows off you, buddy, like the smell of Ovaltine and your step-dad’s cheap cologne! Are you supposed to be security, or something?!
Simon Tillier: …no, I’m a reporter.
Rezin: GOOD! Cause I need you to report straight to me if anybody comes sniffin’ around! If you see anyone from Caesars Palace, you never heard of me, and I don’t have their money! Money doesn’t even EXIST, man! It’s the ORIGINAL Non Fungible Token!
Simon Tillier: …what? Caesars–
Rezin: And if you see any of those greedy fucks from ANTIFA, tell them the check for my membership fees is in the mail! Along with multiple pipe bombs! Those weak-ass POSERS don’t even know the first thing about setting a building on fire!
Simon Tillier: ANTIFA doesn’t have membership–
Rezin: AND IF ANY OF THOSE SCUMBAGS from Kat Dennings’ legal team show up, that was NOT me on her property the other night! I don’t care what the videotape shows! I was DOPE-FAKED!!
Simon Tillier: Do you mean “deep-faked?”
Rezin: I mean DOPE-FAKED!
Simon begins rubbing his temples as he processes all of this. He was just wanting a simple interview, and had lost control of things before it even began. The Escape Artist moves along the row of catered foodstuffs, finding the trays of finger sandwiches. He goes to town on them.
Simon Tillier: There is… so much to unpack here. However, I think it’s in our mutual interest to push on through here and discuss the topic I originally came here to ask about: what are you doing to prepare yourself for the subsequent round of the ongoing Almasy Invitational Tournament?
Amid scooping up a handful of triangle-cut turkey and ham clubs, Rezin suddenly freezes up like a tweaker caught outside of someone’s garage with a handful of lawnmower parts.
Rezin: …oh… RIGHT! The TOURNAMENT!
The beleaguered junior reporter sighs.
Simon Tillier: …did you seriously forget you were in the Almasy Invitational?
Rezin’s face squishes inward in a way that not only suggests his guilt but also indicates that he’s damn annoyed to be called out on it.
Rezin: Hey man, cut me some slack here! In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been a bit preoccupied lately with more pertinent things! PUNK ROCK things! Things a NORMIE like you couldn’t begin to understand!
Simon Tillier: …have you just been getting high non-stop?
Rezin nearly drops his sack and THROTTLES the junior reporter on the spot, but stops himself at the last second and instead turns his rage back to the catering table, angrily scooping up more finger sandwiches into his doggie-bag. The sack is expectedly growing wet and soggy near the bottom.
Rezin: PFFWHLH-GODDAMNBIT, SIMON!! Like I said, I’ve been BUSY!! I’m on a MISSION to bring about the collapse of your authoritarian Capitalist society! I gotta keep my MIND limber! Not to mention, I gotta keep the TANK full!
He stuffs a pair of whole sandwiches into his maw and noisily chews through them before forcing them down his gullet.
Simon Tillier: I see… so I take it that you haven’t done any research on your opponent? Are you even aware of who it is?
Again, the Goat Bastard’s simpering face would indicate that this is probably true.
Rezin: …I mean, like, is that a BAD thing!? I don’t even know what YEAR it is half the time!
Annoyed by these needling questions, Rezin snatches Tillier by the tie and yanks him in close to look him dead in the eye.
Rezin: Maybe I LIKE walking into matches with zero expectations! Maybe I do my BEST WORK when facing the sheer unknown! Maybe whenever I come face to face with the bottomless black VOID of existence, I can’t help but LAUGH and throw myself head-first into the winds of oblivion! It keeps me on my toes, Simon! SHARP! FROSTY! Ready and willing for ANYTHING and EVERYTHING!
Rezin releases the reporter’s tie and goes back to raiding the smorgasbord of food laid out in front of him. He moves on from the sandwiches, leaving a paltry few left in his wake, and arrives at the chili crockpot. As he dumps several spoonfuls into the open sack, Simon readjusts his tie and presses on.
Simon Tillier: So it doesn’t matter to you that you’re walking into this match completely blind? Against an accomplished opponent, with whom who may have some shared history? By all accounts, you were in Empire Pro Wrestling around the same time he held their World Championship.
Rezin rolls his eyes at the mention of the late wrestling promotion he once worked for before dumping the wicker bowl of complimentary Saltine cracker packets in after the chili and moving on to the foil tray of mac and cheese.
Rezin: Ugh… Simon, I have this stock response whenever I come into new turf and people come asking about where I’ve been and what I’ve done: you don’t CARE, and I don’t REMEMBER! You wanna talk about Empire Pro? Go beg Cecilia for her dear daddy’s phone number and ask the big man himself! For the time being, I’m focused on the HERE and NOW… which happens to be PRIME Wrestling!
With two scoops of elbow pasta already tossed into his grab-bag, he waves the mac-and-cheese spoon across the tables before him, sending cheesy globs of pasta dripping everywhere.
Rezin: And RIGHT NOW, you’re interrupting my weekly dinner! So if you ain’t got anything interesting to talk about, make yourself useful and keep a lookout for the Enemigos! They might get pissed when they see me in here without a shirt on…
He shoves the entire spoon of mac-and-cheese into his mouth, and swallows. Wet, yellow heaps of cheese-glazed elbow macaroni still drip from his beard by the time he reaches the dessert table. Rezin’s eyes glaze over as he beholds an ornate pyramid of pastries, standing like a modern marvel of architecture just waiting to be defiled and destroyed.
Rezin: Fuckin’ cinnamon rolls, man! They make me so DIZZY!
He digs in, not even gathering at this point; just stuffing his face with both hands. Simon Tillier is a picture of disgust and revulsion, and looks ready to wrap things up.
Simon Tillier: Well, Rezin, I still find it difficult to understand your point of view, but you seem to accept the situation as it is. Besides wishing you luck, I sincerely hope you at least remember your upcoming match at ReVival Three against Impulse.
SMASH ZOOM on Rezin’s fur-lined face, mouth stuffed with freshly baked cinnamon rolls, as a million volts of electricity overtake his brain and a deluge of memories pours forth. His eyes reach Nic Cage levels of bulging intensity.
Rezin: HHRRM-PLLSHE?!?
He spews a mouthful of cinnamon pastry bits into Simon’s face before grabbing him by the lapels and shaking him with insane fervor.
Rezin: DID YOU JUST SAY “IMPULSE?!”
The junior reporter’s eyes are full of terror. As though a switch flipped in his mind, Rezin has suddenly changed from a slovenly, filth-encrusted idiot into a ghastly, bloodthirsty maniac. Simon’s response barely comes out at a whimper.
Simon Tillier: …y-y-yes?
Rezin: GODDAMBIT, SIMON!! WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY SO?!
Overwhelmed with NUCLEAR RAGE, the Escape Artist turns his attention to the dessert table and unloads his fury by flipping it over! Cupcakes, donuts, and muffins spill out everywhere across the floor!
Rezin: FUCKING IMPULSE!! GODDAMBIT, OF ALL PEOPLE!! THIS FUDGES EVERYTHING UP, SIMON!! EVERYTHING!!
Rezin lights up a spliff and begins compulsively smoking, eyes twitching and paranoia teeming over as he computes the myriad of unfortunate possibilities that await him.
Rezin: This is TERRIBLE, Simon! There’s still so much more CHAOS and ANARCHY to spread around! I can’t get kicked out of this tournament NOW! Not by HIM!
Simon Tillier: What?! You didn’t even remember you were in the tournament until I reminded you a few minutes ago!
Rezin: You don’t get it, dude… this is IMPULSE we’re talking about! Literally NOBODY in this tournament is safe! I gotta DO SOMETHING! I gotta STOP HIM! I mean, WHAT IF HE–hang on… do you think he’s gonna be HERE tonight?!
Simon Tillier: Well, I haven’t checked yet, but…
Rezin snags him again by the lapels.
Rezin: Maybe I could take care of this NOW, quick and easy! Now listen, Simon… wait here, and I’m gonna go get my “special vest” for you to wear! It’s kinda bulky, and it might be constantly ticking, and it might be leaking nitroglycerine, but it’ll fit JUST FINE under that jacket!
He throws an arm around the junior reporter’s shoulders and pulls him in even tighter. Simon’s face contorts in absolute repugnance.
Rezin: So if you see Impulse later, you get in NICE and TIGHT–like THIS!! Start asking some of your stupid questions, and then when that bastard least expects it, YOU–
From off camera, a whistle is heard, followed by footsteps. The camera whips right as a cavalcade of ENEMIGOS pour into the catering area and point down the Goat Bastard. Enemigo III gestures wildly to Rezin, then to his shirt, while the rest of the Security horde fold their arms menacingly.
Simon Tillier: Uhh…Rezin…I think you were right about the shir–
The camera whips back left where Simon now finds himself alone beside the trashed dessert table, a dissipating cloud of smoke in the place where the Escape Artist once stood.
Rezin: HA-HA!! YOU’LL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE, OPPRESSORS!!
The camera whips further left to the far exit, as Rezin triumphantly salutes with a creme-filled donut in his hand while slinging his sack of hoarded food over his shoulder. He kicks open the door and takes flight…
Only doesn’t count on the flight of stairs leading down immediately on the other side.
Rezin: BLEGHK!!
Croaking in pain and surprise, he tumbles down the stairs and out of view as the Enemigos run after him. The camera returns to Simon, who can only sigh and shake his head.