The Last Kid Chosen at Kickball
(CUT TO: A shot of a nice office, cluttered but classical in the way that stacks of academic papers lean dangerously over the edges of bookshelves that surround the desk). The office belongs to a Dr. Phil Bangman, pH D, according to the name-plate that rests on the desktop next to an outdated computer monitor. For his part, Bangman sits in a comfortable leather armchair next to a couch, his dark brown eyes staring through thick glasses lenses at the door, expectantly.
The knock comes.
DR. BANGMAN: Come in.
The door opens, and what the hell would ya know about it, but Nova walks through and stands awkwardly on the welcome mat, his eyes focused downward on the pack of cigarettes waiting comfortingly in the breast-pocket of his shirt.
DR. BANGMAN: Please, Mr. Vega. Take a seat on the couch. Lay back and get comfortable.
NOVA: You can call me Chris.
DR. BANGMAN: Fair enough.
Nova takes a seat on the couch, and leans back against the pillow. He gives his beard a healthy scratch.
DR. BANGMAN: So Chris, what brings you here to me today? Why do you need the help of a psychiatrist?
The Rising Star takes a deep breath, and pulls out a cigarette.
NOVA: Mind if I…?
DR. BANGMAN: Actually I don’t really…
Nova nods and sparks it, taking a deep drag and exhaling a plume of smoke.
NOVA: Miles didn’t put me on the NFW team for the Dupree Cup.
DR. BANGMAN: I’m sorry?
NOVA: Craig Miles, owner of New Frontier Wrestling’s Western Conference. There’s an event, a memorial tournament for feds across the world in honor of Chad Dupree, and NFW participated, and Miles didn’t put me on the ****ing team!
DR. BANGMAN: I don’t really, um…
Nova unleashes a wail and kicks the heels of his shoes against the leather couch cushions, all the while still smoking.
NOVA: Was I not good enough?! Did I not prove myself in the West?! You tell me, Banger, you’re the doctor here! You’re the one with the piece of paper hanging on the wall-hall-hall!!!
Nova trails off into sobs (evidenced by the overdramatic “hall-hall” at the end there). Dr. Bangman looks around, obviously uncomfortable. Unfortunately the Uncomfortability Level in this room is about to leap off the charts.
NOVA: (Removing a joint from his cigarette pack and wiping a tear from his eye) I needs to get high, man. What a ****ing bummer.
Gotta love him.
DR. BANGMAN: Sir! This is my place of...
NOVA: *sniff* I knew you’d understand, Bangman.
Nova roasts the end of the joint, and blows a huge stream of smoke into the good doctor’s face, coughing immediately afterward. If the Rising Star’s hacking were written out like a videogame code, it would look like it:
Cough + Cough + Gasp for Air + Mini-Gasp + Cough + Pause + Cough = St0n3d.
NOVA: Whew…this is some o’ dat dro-dro. My man was not kidding. Anyways, I mean, it’s just like…man! What the ****, you know? Maybe I just should go back to PRIME, where I can get some kind of love!
Nova grabs a mug full of pens and pencils off the end-table next to the couch, dumps out the utensils, and puts his cigarette out in it after a last drag. He ashes the joint, and runs a hand through his blonde mane.
NOVA: ‘Cuz I’m sure as hell not getting any around here! “Hey, Nova, great job busting your ass recently, you know, releasing those promo videos for the match against Melton and all…oh, what’s that? Huh? You wanted to be on the NFW Team for the Dupree Cup? Oh, man, uh, jeez, sorry! Didn’t know that, ya know, since you’re not really part of the family or anything! Hey, you can cheer us on from the sidelines, though! Maybe wear an NFW t-shirt? Maybe hold up a clever sign or something? I mean, you’re a clever guy, I bet you’d think of the best sign ever! Doesn’t that sound great? Doesn’t that sound like fun? Make a cool sign? Doesn’t…”
Nova stops when he realizes that Dr. Bangman’s chair is empty. He looks around, but the psychiatrist is nowhere to be seen. He rips the joint again and sits up, putting it out in the cup.
NOVA: Well, I feel better. I guess this session’s on the house.
He gets up and walks out of the office. He turns right, and heads down the hallway past a group of phone booths, but stops as one of the phones rings loudly. He cocks an eyebrow curiously and looks around. No one is close-by. Pausing another moment just because things like this only happen in the movies, Nova stares at the phone before walking over and answering it.
NOVA: Hello?
VOICE: Hello, Nova.
NOVA: Who is this?
VOICE: I can’t tell you. To know the identity of this voice would shatter the very foundations that your world is built upon. To know…would be to unmake reality.
Nova’s eyebrows raise, and he slowly nods his head, pondering this most weighty of statements.
NOVA: That’s cool.
VOICE: Huh? You’re not even a little curious after the whole “unmake reality” spiel?
NOVA: No, not really.
Nova’s eyes follow a bug that buzzes past his head.
VOICE: Umm…okay. Well, you’re on the NFW team for the Dupree Cup. You’re taking Hiroshi’s spot for the second round and thereafter.
NOVA: ARE YOU SERIOUS?!
VOICE: All too serious. Good luck.
NOVA: DUDE! Who against?!
VOICE: Paddy O’Shea of AWC.
NOVA: SAY WHAT?! I get to be in the Dupree Cup and whomp some AWC ass? That rules!
He lets the phone drop as he shadow-boxes around in a circle for a moment. A few fist pumps later, he remembers that he was talking to someone and grabs up the phone…but it’s dead. Shrugging, Nova hangs it back on its receiver and turns to continue on his way down the hall towards the exit. Once he reaches it, he’s going to head uptown to a pub he knows, and he’s going to prepare for the crazy Irishman by getting as belligerently drunk as possible (in the business, they call this “research”) and trying to put himself inside O’Shea’s frame of mind.
(FTB)
