WHEN WILL THEY EVER LEARN?

With the crowd still buzzing from Kohime Mori’s return match against The Moscowverse’s Kenny Freeman, we switch to the backstage area where Arthur Pleasant sits in catering. Despite it being pretty early on in the night, multiple aluminum tubs of food have been emptied: a telltale sign that ‘Bobby Dean wuz here’. Pleasant, meanwhile, is not eating anything. Instead, he’s sitting in what looks to be an esoteric state of contemplation.

Before long, none other than Arliss Peters, ESQ., Pleasant’s personal attorney, all but materializes out of thin air. A surprising appearance, given Arliss’ distant nature from the nexus of Pleasant’s pro-wrestling ‘horse-trades’.

Arthur Pleasant: I’d say go get yourself some food but I think that fat fucking dreck of something barely qualifies as a human being Bobby Dean ate everything that was any good. Went for the broccoli cheddar casserole and found that someone chewed up and spit out broccoli back into the tin. Sans cheddar. What kind of a fuck wagon does that type of shit? Nevertheless, there’s still some kale in one of the tins if you’re so inclined to eat garnish like the rest of the goddamn rubes out there in DC.

Arliss gags.

Arliss Peters: I’m good, thanks. 

Peters pauses after he picked a peck of pickled peppers.

Arliss Peters: Listen, I’ve looked into what you asked and… well, I think we have a case. 

Arthur Pleasant: Do we, now?

Arliss Peters: Yes. I really think we do.

Arthur Pleasant: Interesting.

Arliss Peters: I’d say so. I can try and get a cease and desist for every username on Jabber but-

Arthur Pleasant: -forget it. Not worth the time and money.

Looking taken aback by Pleasant’s sudden non-interest, Arliss sits next to Arthur.

Arliss Peters: It’s entirely up to you. You’re the one paying me for my services. But if I could give you a tiny piece of legal advice? I think we should move forward with it. This could set a big precedent in the world of social media. Elon Musk will be serving you lunch on a ten-thousand-dollar Bloomingdale’s hand-carved diamond platter once all is said and done. Guaranteed.  

Pleasant waves off Arliss with his hand.

Arthur Pleasant: To be honest with you, I could give fuck all about Jabber and all that bullshit. No matter what we do, outspoken white knighters like TAL, snarky ass wet blanket troll motherfuckers like Eddie Cross, and the existential void troll Miss Daniels and her army of eye-rolling “HEY I CAN BE MEAN AND TOUGH LISTEN TO MEEEEE” cucks will always pollute it. It’s a futile fight and I’m not about to waste any further energy on it. Not when there’s a real fight to be had.

Arliss nods and throws his hands up.

Arliss Peters: Welp, I get it. I do. Something like going after Jabber would certainly require a lot of energy out into the suit, and with your goings on as an athlete contracted to PRIME, I can see why it wouldn’t exactly be in your best interest to proceed. That said, what would you like to do?

All of a sudden, without hesitation, Pleasant blurts it out.

Arthur Pleasant: (laughing)I might just go to fucking prison.

Arliss Peters: Excuse me?!

Arthur Pleasant: You heard me.

Arliss Peters: Why?!

Pleasant feigns a laugh.

Arthur Pleasant: You know, for what I’m gonna do to this fucking Mortimer dickhead or whatever hilarious fucking nickname he’s calling himself for the summer. For that matter, what I do to his little GAS group as a whole. They’re all complicit and responsible for the actions of one of their feebleminded own. I mean, they’ve basically said as much from what I’ve watched it all back. Fucking glorified Trekkies.

Arliss Peters: Would that make Tony Gamble Captain Kirk? Or are we talking about Next Generation? Or even Deep Space Nine?

Pleasant stares a hole into Arliss and mouths, “What the fuck?”.

Arliss Peters: I may or may not have seen every episode of Star Trek. But don’t worry: I don’t attend the conventions! 

Pleasant shakes his head and raps his fingers on the white plastic folding table that’s been set up.

Arthur Pleasant: Then when I’m done with them? Perhaps I march straight over to his girlfriend and kick the smile off her stupid fucking face again just for inconveniencing me and forcing my hand in dealing with her stalker boyfriend.

Arliss says nothing. He knows better than to interrupt The Provocateur when his mind is set on something and his lips are moving about.

Arthur Pleasant: Yeaaaah. So it’s like I said, I’m probably going to prison. I imagine the Toosie Roll Tootsie Pop Owl won’t take kindly to me shelving half of her roster because of one person. Might wanna get the bail money ready, Ar. That is if I’m not remanded, of course.

Pleasant’s hand quivers with immeasurable rage. The rest of his body keeps it in check, but his hand betrays him. As it often does when he’s trying to keep his emotions in check.

Arthur Pleasant: These fucking people. When will they ever learn?

Pleasant stands up from the steel chair he had been sitting in and places his hand on Arliss’ shoulder.

Arthur Pleasant: Get out of here, friend. Make whatever arrangements you need to in preparation for what happens next.

Arliss Peters: Arthur. I don’t like-

Arthur Pleasant: Just… get out of here. Go on. For both our sakes.

Patting his lawyer friend on the shoulder, Pleasant begins to make his way out of catering.

That’s when, out of nowhere, Yuri stops him.

Yuri: I have it.

The seven-foot Siberian Silencer hands Pleasant what looks like a cattle prod.

Pleasant’s mouth stretches out as far as the corners of it will allow. 

Arthur Pleasant: I knew you’d come through.

Whirling the cattle prod in one hand like a twirling baton, Pleasant disappears into the rest of the backstage area while Arliss’ eyes follow him. Shaking his head, he looks at the gargantuan Yuri and throws his arms up in exasperation.

Arliss Peters: FUCK!

Yuri: Da.

We then cut to elsewhere backstage.