The ding of the elevator arriving at the lobby floor opens the scene, a low camera angle, inside of the elevator, is framed evenly on the doors as they slide open. The One Man Revolution, hours after being forced to call Cut-Throat Captain, acknowledging his role as a pirate, shuffles in wearing a blue Asics tracksuit, his duffel bag slung hastily over his shoulder. His left eye is filled with blood, a subconjunctival hemorrhage, or, a burst blood vessel in the eye, the only real indicator of the ending sequence of the match earlier in the night at Wrestlelution 9.
He sighs, leaning into the corner of the elevator, his eyes slipping shut. He’s exhausted, physically and mentally, and on some level, relieved that his saga with Cut-Throat has come to an end, even if that end was a bitter failure. The doors are beginning to close, when a meaty hand squeezes between them, alerting the sensors to open the doors back up for another passenger.
As the new passenger moves into the elevator car, Minio’s eyes slowly open. The worst possible scenario appears before him. A chubby, sweating man in his mid twenties, wearing an OMG/TWACK t-shirt. In his hand, a bag full of Wrestlelution swag and merch. To make the situation even more dire, the man’s shirt is covered in signatures. “An autograph hunter”, Minio surmises internally, attempting to look as invisible as possible. Unfortunately, Minio is not wearing ‘gaudy hotel decor’ camouflage.
Fan: Holy… yes! Bobby Minio! THIS, is why I always book the same hotel as the wrestlers!
Bobby Minio: Yeah… hi.
Fan: Helluva match tonight, Minio! I cannot believe you called that guy Captain!
Bobby Minio: Well, can’t win them all.
His interest clearly directed elsewhere, Minio is purposefully attempting to respond as cold as possible to discourage the fan. Wrestling fans however, are used to this behavior, and have long abandoned the social graces of respecting the privacy of a pro wrestler.
Fan: Well, would help if you could win some, amirite!?!
The fan laughs obnoxiously, his meaty, clamly hand slapping the side of the elevator as Minio’s eyes rolled hard enough to reverse the earth’s poles on their axis.
Fan: I loooooove Cut-Throat! My whole section were singing his song! Well… okay I don’t think many of us knew the words but we were all singing along enough to sound like we did!
Bobby Minio: Yeah. That’s uh. That’s great.
Fan: Think I can get a photo?
The fan’s brazen request catches Minio off guard, surely the man has to know Minio is not feeling very photogenic at the moment, not to mention, this is the same wrestler who has made a routine out of victimizing EMTs, he’s known as an uncompromising, mouthy dickhead, and that is putting it politely. Still, Minio’s inner nature has cooled this evening, he no longer has the energy to be that unflinching prick the OCW galaxy has learned to hate so well.
Bobby Minio: I… yeah no. My eye is all fucked up, I’m tired. Some other time.
Fan: Some. Other. Time. pssh.
With absolutely no grace, the fan makes little effort to hide his disappointment. In fact, he now seems more annoyed than Minio himself. His body language shows great irritation. He repeats the ‘pssh’ noise again. As the fans floor nears, he gathers his swag bag close to his muffin topped belly, shooting daggers sideways toward a Minio who is doing everything possible to not throttle the plump man’s head into the elevator doors.
As the doors slide open, the man shoots one more irritated sneer at Minio, before walking out into the hall. Just as the doors begin to close, the fan now out of view, he shouts back toward the elevator.
Fan: Fuck you, you C4 piece of shit! OMG 4 LYFEEEE!!!
For a split second, Minio considers smashing his fist into the door open button, before chasing the rotund man down the hall, so that he can smash his fist into the fans face, over, and over again. He considers taking the man’s swag bag from him, ripping his shirt, a signature laden sausage casing on the man, right from his body, taking all of it to his room so that he can burn them in the small aluminum trash can on his small but functional hotel room balcony.
He considers all of these things, but his body, and now his resolve, tell him it’s all not worth it. It’s not worth the energy, it’s not worth the clean up, the disciplinary calls from the OCW front office, it’s not worth the public apology forced by Internet Knights of Social Justice, it’s not worth the slandering upon his person and his industry by the sensation obsessed outrage industry that controls the major media. It’s not worth any of it.
His body remains static in the corner of the elevator, the familiar ding taking him to his floor. Upon arrival, he walks, almost as if sleepwalking, toward his hotel room, he produces the plastic card key to gain entry to the room, and as he walks in, the frustration, the anger, the in-ring impotence, it all crashes onto his shoulders like a monkey the size of Patolomai. In a split second fit of rage, his shoulder rolls down, his arm snapping into action as he flings his ring gear filled duffel bag across the hotel room, where it smashes into the window blinds with a brief crash.
Bobby Minio: ASSHOLE!
While it seemed as if Minio had been addressing the fan form the elevator, he moves into the bathroom, violently smashing the light switch on, before stareing his reflection deep into the eyes, his face inching closer and closer to the bathroom mirror.
Bobby Minio: You… are an ASSHOLE!
His face moves from disgust to disappointment. This return, this renaissance of his illustrious wrestling career, has mostly resulted in shortcomings and embarrassment. He was hand picked by Paul Pugh to be the newest member of a C4 group that for all intents and purposes feels more splintered than ever, and because of that, Minio feels more alone than ever. His best friend, Luke Fuentes, driven to work with a man Minio holds little regard for, and the fans, hell the fans are further than they have ever been. In fact, he probably had a better relationship with the fans when he was off of the radar, sitting in darkness at home for years nursing himself through the hell that is post concussion syndrome.
His introspection, his internal come to Jesus meeting battles on inside of his conscious as he goes through the motions of preparing a shower. He sets the water to scalding hot, and the industrial performance hotel water heaters immediately begin producing enough steam to begin fogging the mirror. Minio turns back to the bathroom counter, grabbing a tablet which had been leaning on a towel. He launches his spotify app, shuffling to a random song so that he can begin to unwind. Real Estate’s ‘Beach Comber’ begins to play.
Just as Minio’s shoulders drop forward, his body beginning to relax, a buzzing from his pocket interrupts his winding down. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone, which has one unread text from “PUGH”.
PUGH: C4 MEETINGS TOMORROW MORNING IN LOBBY. 6AM, BE THERE. DO NOT BE LATE.
His eyes stare at the message for what feels like an hour, but in reality, it’s little more than five seconds. His shoulders edge up again, his body tensing up as if he had just been accosted in the elevator by some ‘STILL REAL TO ME DAMNIT!’ wrestling fan.
Bobby Minio: Enough. I’m done taking orders from you.
He speaks only to his cellphone, but the message is directed at C4’s front man, Pugh. In a moment, Minio’s makes a decision which will undoubtedly earn him an hour in a Verizon store, as he turns, lifting the toilet seat before spiking the cellphone into the bowl as if it were a football. He slams the lid closed, and begins flushing the toilet rapidly. The extent of his rage would be worse than manic flushing, but his fiercely gritted teeth hold back the rest.
The camera faces the mirror again as it fogs over matte completely. The music plays over the blurred image on the screen.
“Until you find your rolex in the sand, you won’t be stopping. Until that solid gold is in your hand… you won’t be happy.”
Abruptly, an image on the blurred fog becomes clear, as Minio’s palm wipes away a streaked, but clear swath of the mirror. His eyes, one crimson and the other it’s usual state of bloodshot, staring viciously into themselves. His voice growls over the static of the shower and the plucking guitars of the music.
Bobby Minio: YOU ARE AN ASSHOLE.
There is a pause, filled with tense electricity.
Bobby Minio: STOP BEING THAT.
He turns back toward the shower, the fog once again overtaking the only visible patch on the mirror. Through the blurry reflection, the silhouette of Minio painfully removing his shirt and stepping close to the shower is the final image as we fade to black.
