THE POWDER KEG

We cut backstage to a PRIME-branded backdrop, mixed with a few Smoothie King logos for the brand synergy. Before long, we see the brooding young FLAMBERGE step into frame and fans in the arena boo in response. He’s in his ring gear, teal and bronze shorts and boots emblazoned with fiery swords and white tape around his wrists. He gives his neck a quick twist-and-crack before staring down the barrel of the camera lens.

FLAMBERGE: OK listen up, vous connards, I intend to make this the quick. I have a match coming up next and I can already see the antsy man with the clipboard and the walkie talkie all bunchy-panty about what I might say or do here. Easy, homeboy, stop pointing at your wristwatch. You already had the commercial break.

FLAMBO dismissively waves away the unseen assistant.

FLAMBERGE: But I understand the anxieties…the powers that be see me as the powder keg they are so very ready to set off with the spark, but they do not want the repercussions of the bomb they set off. They tease me and they puppeteer me to have the match against le monsieur Hall, only to give the daddy of all bitch Anglue Gluechador the spot RIGHT AFTER ME, non? And in another joke for themselves, his match is against his own personal Love Convoyeur? Typical treatment that PRIME gives FLAMBERGE…lest we forget of the time when I won the 5 Star, and they decided the first defense must be against les trois autres connards and not the one-on-one.

FLAMBERGE closes his eyes and runs a hand up his wild vertical flamelike hair while inhaling slowly through his nose. Is that a slight shake in his hand? 

FLAMBERGE: Fine. You know what? Fine. I can think of the worse ways to spend the evening than battering doux petit Jonathan-Christopher Hall into the pulp while the Gluechador watches helplessly. Helplessly, like he always is, hiding behind his social media and his mask and his ingrate fans, holding me down, judging me, JEALOUS of me, and his…

We hear a shout from far down the hall.

TAL: HEY YOU! You know you really should make sure I’m not in earshot if you’re gonna talk caca, you French dipshit!

FLAMBERGE’s attention is jolted by the shout, and he quickly turns to the direction of the offscreen production assistant he poo-pooed earlier…

FLAMBERGE: Oui? They need me now? Bon. Time to go.

…and he briskly leaves. After a beat or two, we see TAL step into frame, clearly having run down the hall in hopes of catching the Frenchman. It’s no use though.

TAL: This shit has gotta end soon.

Camera cuts to another part of the arena.