We cut to an indeterminate room, somewhere backstage.
Cort: Hey! Turmoil. Cort Marshall here. I just wanted to say, I’m sorry. I haven’t been paying enough attention to my opponent at Consequence, Tre Golden. All this Future Investment stuff, dealing with Harvey Ocean and his bipolar disorder, B17, Doc Green and the rest of those fine fellows… hard to focus on one thing at a time. But don’t think that means that my match with Tre is any less important. No, in fact, it’s just as integral to my mission as that world title.
Cort: See, winning that title would prove to the world that this version of Cort Marshall is the one who deserves to carry the torch of this company... but beating Tre Golden accomplishes something more: proving that I’m right. That I’m right!
Cort laughs.
Cort: And god damn do I love being right. So let’s not further disrespect this man--in fact let’s watch one of his matches right now. You know, “study the tapes,” that thing all the old vets tell every new kid to do. Let’s STUDY THE TAPE--from Riot!
We get a fade to later one, when Cort is done watching the match. He now has a clipboard in hand.
Cort: Well that was quite the contest. Lots of impressive power moves from both men--really showing that they got here by brawn instead of brains. That’s fine! To each their own. Though I must say, I went in looking for notes on how to beat Tre Golden… and all I came away with was this!
Cort shows the clipboard to the camera. Only one sentence is scribbled down: BACK AWAY and let him make a fool of himself!
Cort flips the clipboard back and shrugs.
Cort: I know, I was shocked! To think that such a decorated competitor is so untrained in the art of strategy. That’s another thing that me winning will prove--it’s not about what you bring to the ring in terms of how many weights you can lift, how many laps you can run--it’s about running laps ‘round everybody with THIS!
Cort points to his big bald head.
Cort: So Tre, you better do your after-school reading… at Consequence, not only will I PROVE the Randian truth that great men must stand alone, or be held down by others… but I’ll also be giving you a crash course in classic wrestling.
The scene fades out on Cort’s shit-eating grin.
Delivery boy: I have a delivery for a, um... Mr. 17?
B17: Is it from my Community?
Delivery Boy: Umm, look I don't know about anything like that, but I need you to sign for it.
B17: Give that here!
B17 shoves the clipboard back to the portly delivery boy.
Delivery Boy: Oh here's the note that goes with it.
17 roses to represent you.
5 red in search of your heart.
3 pink for your lack of grace.
4 yellow for no joy.
2 lavender for the hate.
2 white in place of innocence.
1 gold for your precious.
What does the number mean, Bingo?
B17 throws the vase across the room where it shatters against the far wall.
B17: The number means me!
The delivery boy starts to back up slowly.
Delivery Boy: Woah now. I just deliver the messages…
B17 grabs him by his hipster beard: You tell em, you tell em all that the number means nothing!
