((FADEIN: A hospital bed where a man with a bandaged face shrieks in pain as a doctor shots him up with a needle. Blood vomits out of his mouth down onto his grab. The doctor grabs a curtain and shuts it on MICHAEL MANSON, sitting in his own bed, a collar screwed into his collar bone and around his neck, a bowl of grapes in hand. He shakes his head.))
MANSON: Damn. There goes my Saturday night.
((Grabs his mail off a nearby table.))
MANSON: Tax evasion....tax evasion....Paris and Nicole are fighting, well, I saw that coming. What's this? I'm booked for a match? I'm booked for a match in a backyard?
Didn't these people get the memo? I had neck surgery. Jonathan Marx has been waiting for months to kill me, and now he might actually have a chance. The most I can mange out of this is a tag team match, and I should know these things. I used to wrestle while I had to roll around in a wheelchair.
There's only one man who can be my tag partner in this...and thankfully..I know the man who can help me find that man.
((Manson buzzes his nurse.))
Get me a screwdriver and my clothes.
((CUTTO: B/W footage of a car racing down a Sin City street. INSIDE, MARV drives as MANSON rides shotgun.))
MANSON: Thanks for driving me, Marv.
MARV: Anything for you, Mikey. I remember when you blackmailed all them priests and got me into that baptism. Man, that holy water tasted great with vodka.
MANSON: No, really, I appreciate it. Especially with you being dead and all.
MARV: Hey, this is your imagination. Anything can happen.
((Manson's eyebrows arch.))
MANSON: Wait, if I'm imagining you, who's driving the car?
((Manson and Marv look at each.))
((CUTTO: The car running off the docks into the water.))
((CUTTO: MANSON wanders into a seedy strip club, his clothes damp.))
MANSON(shaking leg): Damn imagination, shows you why so many kids are bastards. Speaking of which...
((He gazes over the club, at Nancy Callahan doing her cowgirl routine up onstage, and past her, to THAT YELLOW BASTARD sitting in the corner. MANSON saddles up to him, and sits next to him in his booth.))
YB: I know you?
YB: Keep down then.
MANSON: Yeah, I've seen this movie. You're following Hartigan and he's led you to Nancy. Now you're waiting for them to leave.
MANSON: No, seriously, I need your help. I need a tag team partner.
YB: The hell are you talking about?
MANSON: Come on, the act's over.
YB(sneers): What are you doing here?
((Manson slaps him really hard and some of the yellow face paint comes off.))
MANSON: It's done with, Alex.
YB: No! No! I'm here to kill Hartigan! He did this to me!
MANSON: No, he didn't. We got drunk last year and I dared to go and do this. You just took it a little far.
MANSON: It's time to come home, Alex.
YB(tears welling up): What?
MANSON: You are not That Yellow Bastard. You have your member intact, though I won't even try to prove that since I'd have to touch it or something.
((The tears roll down and mix with the makeup, eroding it more and more until the face reveals....ALEX WYLDE.))
WYLDE(staring down at his hands): What the hell have I been doing?
MANSON: Scoring with a lot of prostitutes and living off a senator's power.
WYLDE: Oh. That.
MANSON: Yeah, come on. I need a tag match. My neck's not up to wrestling Jonathan Marx.
WYLDE(shakes his head): No, I'm done with the ring. Done.
MANSON: Then why are you wearing this!
((Manson rips open Wylde's shirt to reveal his wrestling outfit underneath.))
WYLDE: No, no, I just like how it feels on a breezy day!
((A giant hand slams down on the tabletop.))
MARV: Let's go.
((Marv picks Wylde up and drags him off, kicking and screaming.))
WYLDE: No! But you're imaginary!
MARV: Quit it or I'll make ya a real yeller bastard!
((Marv carries Wylde off as Manson follows, throwing Nancy a silver dollar as he passes.))