YOUR HOUSE?

Outside in the parking lot, the sun paints a beautiful picture of pinks and gold in this late evening. Panning over the parking lot reveals very few empty spaces. Eventually we land on a white Audi. 

Somewhat strangely, we find Hayes Hanlon on the hood.

Gold-lensed sunglasses cover a relaxed face. One leg outstretched, the other bent in, arm on the knee and holding the remains of an iced coffee. Torso propped up on the other elbow. He brings the straw to his mouth for a sip before breathing in through his nose, taking in the Nevada air.

Hayes Hanlon: Welp. I’d be a liar if I said the last couple weeks didn’t kinda suck. 

Another sip, keeping his eyes on the skyline.

Hayes Hanlon: Losing the strap at Great American Nightmare was…not ideal. But hey, credit where it’s due and all that. Congrats to you, Rezin. Turns out you were the guy after all. Now you get to be The Five Star Stud. Or maybe “Five Star and Smokin’ Bud.” I dunno. You’ll think of something. 

A very slight, disappointed shake of the head.

Hayes Hanlon: Just don’t get comfortable. I’m not done with The Goat Bastard just yet. But that’s gonna have to be a story for another time.

He sits upright, both forearms propped on his knees. Another sip.

Hayes Hanlon: Because wouldn’t ya know, your boy is back in the main event. My turn for a swing at the COOL.

A snort through the nose, and another shake of the head.

Hayes Hanlon: What a cartoon character. 

A beat.

Hayes Hanlon: It’s a jump, for sure. Haven’t squared up with many dudes like Jiles. Definitely not looking forward to getting any egg spit in my face. Fuckin’ weirdo. 

Another sip, shaking the ice around inside the plastic cup.

Hayes Hanlon: But you can’t ignore what’s at stake for the guy, because man, to take a whippin’ from the rookie right after locking in a third chance at the Universal Title? Not a good look. Meanwhile, if he does manage to squirrel his way to a victory, I’ll be just fine. I’m not going anywhere. 

Hayes slides off the hood to his feet, bringing the straw to his lips to finish the beverage until nothing but air pulls through.

Hayes Hanlon: Your turf? Your bright lights? Your house?

The Event Horizon plucks the shades from his face, and turns his eyes to the camera.

Hayes Hanlon: Go ahead and set up the spare room in your tower, buddy, ‘cause I’m cashing my rent check.

He throws his sunglasses back over his face and pivots, heading back toward the MGM.

Hayes Hanlon: You can still make breakfast, though.