Time Out
“Just hang on, he’ll be here inna minute.”
As the scene opens, we’re greeted with a big pair of arms crossed over the broad chest of PRIME Co-Head of Security, Dametreyus, holding a small, calm smile behind his gray stubble. Across from him sit two members of the PRIME roster: “Riot” Sid Phillips, clutching his abdomen and looking extremely uncomfortable, and “The Goat Bastard,” Rezin, looking extremely pissed off. It probably has something to do with the fact that from head to toe he’s completely drenched.
Sid Phillips: Oooogh… shouldn’t have eaten… anything. Ever.
Rezin: (noticing how dry Sid appears) …WHAT THE HELL, dude?! Was I the ONLY guy that got sprayed down with a fire hose before I was let into the building!?
The former linebacker snorts at the Goat Bastard’s outburst, but the door creaking behind him grabs his attention. Dam shifts to the side, allowing entry to his partner in all things security related, “The Bad Dog” Wade Elliott. The ‘Bama Bruiser steps inside, eyebrows furled with frustration as he stares down into a cell phone, muttering with his gravely voice.
Wade Elliott: God damnit, Dam, d’you know how t’use these things? Lindsay’s tryin’ t’get me on some shit called…Hinge? Said somethin’ about lookin’ out fer catfish…
Dametreyus: (interrupting) I’ll ‘xplain later, boss. Brought these two in like we talked about.
The Southern Sparkplug looks up at glowering Rezin, then over to the hunched over Phillips.
Wade Elliott: ‘S’matter with him?
Dam shrugs, and Wade digs into his back pocket, retrieving and opening a silver flask, extending it toward the big man known as “Riot.”
Wade Elliott: Need a swig?
Sid pulls a fist to his mouth, holding back the impending volcano in his guts as the waft of bourbon hits his nose.
Wade Elliott: Huh. Well, suit yerself.
Rezin reaches out for the flask, only for Wade to take his own swig before putting it away.
Rezin: …damb tyrant.
The Bad Dog pinches the bridge of his nose, centering his redneck chi.
Wade Elliott: Alright, let’s git into then. Time we had a chat, boys.
Wade pulls up a chair of his own, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Dam’s big 6’6” frame stands behind, leaning against the door.
Wade Elliott: The HELL’s’a’matter with you two? In what world do the two’ve ya think it’s a good idea t’go after OUR security team?
Wade throws a thumb back at his giant co-head of security.
Wade Elliott: Y’all seen the size’ve that man? He punched me square in the god-damn nose once, I still cain’t smell paprika!
Dametreyus: (fighting back a chuckle) Sorry ‘bout that, boss.
The ‘Bama Bruiser ignores his large counterpart, turning instead to the still-struggling Sid Phillips.
Wade Elliott: You. What’s yer issue with Enemigo 5? What possesses a man to powerbomb another man into a boulder in order t’make it roll faster? The physics don’t make any god-damn sense!
Sid Phillips: (choking back the vomit) I thought…maybe…ooooogh. Thought it was Blueberry…
Wade Elliott: (turning to Rezin) An’ you! Fer a fella that smells like you an’ has that many holes in his britches, you sure like runnin’ up the tab on breakin’ expensive shit.
Rezin: Pfft… capital is an imaginary construct anyway, ya normie! And I’ll have you know it’s my VOID-GIVEN RIGHT to break WHATEVER the hell I please, WHENEVER I want!
Wade Elliott: (snorting) That so? You come an’ tell me that after Balaam breaks whatever the hell HE pleases.
The Goat Bastard turns green in the gills as soon as he’s reminded of his appointment with the Mask of Malice later in the evening. Elliott stands, adjusting his belt and exhaling.
Wade Elliott: Listen, boys. The Enemigos do a good enough’ve a job keepin’ things from goin’ completely off the damn rails without some big sonnuva bitch tryin’ to powerbomb em’ every week, or some homeless guy throwin’ a shit-fit and takin’ it out on them. Our hair’s gettin’ too gray to wanna have to give you boys an ass-whippin’ ourselves, so let’s keep it simple…
He hunches over, first turning to Sid.
Wade Elliott: Leave Enemigo 5 the hell alone…
Wade pivots over to The Escape Artist.
Wade Elliott: An’ stop breakin’ all our shit!
Rezin begrudgingly rolls his eyes. Sid might have, too, but doesn’t out of fear that it might make him hurl right then and there.
Rezin: Ya know, Wade… I’m a natural born saboteur. And if there’s one thing that straight up harshes my vibe, it’s boot-lickin’ oppressors like YOU trynna tell ME what I can or can’t do! Under normal circumstances, I’d just turn around and break even MORE shit!
Rezin holds up his hand to indicate he isn’t finished before Wade can put his head through the wall.
Rezin: BUT(T)… while I would more than love to do this back and forth with you until there’s nothin’ left around us but a smoldering ruin, I currently got a few other irons in the fire that require my attention. PUNK ROCK shit, know’m’sayin’?
A smirk forms on the Goat Bastard’s face. Still dripping, he leans in closer to the co-head of PRIME security.
Rezin: So you can rest easy knowin’ I won’t… break any more of your precious equipment. But NOT because you told me to. I just don’t want any more of my time wasted!
The Bad Dog chuckles, shooting a knowing glance back at Dam.
Wade Elliott: Well son, we sure wouldn’t wanna waste your time, and I cain’t say I know much about “punk rock shit.” But when it comes to “boot-lickin…’”
Wade lifts up and stomps a size 14 steel-toe work boot onto Rezin’s seat, precariously between The Goat Bastard’s legs.
Wade Elliott: …I’m the sonnuva bitch who wears em’.
The Escape Artist looks down to Wade’s boot, then turns his glance upward with a scowl.
Rezin: We done here? Cause I’d really like to dry myself off…
Wade removes his foot with a growl, allowing Rezin to stand and dust himself off. Before he turns to leave, he not-so-subtly drops a joint into Sid’s hand.
Rezin: Here, dude… two tokes off that, and you’ll feel better in no time!
The joint, which came from his pant pocket, is also drenched.
Rezin: …might wanna let that air out for a few.
Sid Phillips: Ugh… it reminds me of the oysters, somehow. Thanks, anyway. I guess.
Rezin turns and takes two steps… before inexplicably slipping in the puddle of water that has been forming around his feet, stumbling several paces, and nearly taking out a tall rack of more expensive production equipment!
Rezin: OH-SHIT-NOT-AGAIN!!
Frantically, he grabs the precariously leaning rack by the metal frame and saves it from completely crashing to the floor. He’s frozen in place for a beat before his wide, fearful eyes find Elliot and Dametreyus glaring back at him.
With the flip of a switch, the tough guy demeanor returns, along with the shit-eating grin on his face, and he slowly begins backing away from the scene as if nothing had happened..
Rezin: Heh heh… and let THAT be a lesson to ya!
He suddenly slips again, this time falling straight onto the concrete floor.
Rezin: OW!!
Everyone watches as Rezin hits the floor, and there is a long pause.
Dametreyus: Damn, I don’t think that felt too good.
And then Sid can’t control the floodgates any more, and frantically leaves his chair to throw up whatever horrible dreck he’d eaten during Survivor into the nearest waste bin.
Wade Elliott: (putting a hand to his head) Oh fer fuck’s sake…
Elliott looks back and forth between the fallen Rezin and the hurling Phillips. He sighs, then finds a bucket and mop in the corner, rolling it next to Sid and giving him a couple pats on the back.
Wade Elliott: Go ahead an’ clean up Rezin after you clean up yer dinner.
Dam opens the door, the co-heads of security leaving the two roster members behind and exiting down the hall side by side.
Wade Elliott: Kids these days, pukin’ durin’ shows…
Dametreyus: Didn’t you spew durin’ a match against Joshua Kosidlo, boss?
Wade Elliott: That’s besides th’point, Dam.
Elsewhere…