TRUTH, JUSTICE, WHATEVER, JUST GET MY FLASK

Miami, Florida 4:00 AM

“Mr. Edwards, I hope you enjoyed your stay. Feel free to enjoy your continental breakfast on your way out and take care. Stop by again when you’re in town.”

The hostess of the InterContinental slides The D’s card and receipt back over to him as he missed the first time, but manages to snag it on the second. His eyes are slits, as his eyelids hang down from his skull with triple the force of Earth’s gravity as he stumbles his way through reality after a night on the town. Squinting across the lobby, he finally locates Klein helping himself to a couple of fresh oranges as Elise accidentally puts corn flakes into her yogurt thinking it’s granola. Turning around she stumbles but Klein puts a big hand on her shoulder, leveling her out before she makes a fool of herself almost as if keeping Elise upright has become muscle memory.

“Is there anything good?” The D says as he passes Elise, who is rolling her suitcase behind her in one hand and a corn flake piled yogurt up in the other with a backpack on her back.

“I don’t know D. It’s food. My head hurts. I put it in my face hole to make the ow go away.”

Elise continues past and The D rubs his eyes, hoping to get a better read on the breakfast bar as Klein pauses in front of him.

“Whatever you grab, make it fast. We have a plane to catch.”

“I’ll take my sweet ass time.” The D checks his watch. “Oh shit we’re late, why didn’t you tell me!” The D grabs what he believes at the time are 3-4 citrus fruits, places them into his backpack and shoos Klein out the door.

By the time he arrives at the rental car the truck is still popped but Elise has already established herself in the shotgun position with her backpack resting on her knees and her head tilted back for maximum napping. As one should be doing when there is no sun. Tossing his suitcase into the trunk, The D slams it shut, opens the backseat door and hugs his backpack against him as he falls into place and closes the door behind him.

“Buckle up.” Klein advises. The D doesn’t. The ride begins. In silence they travel through the early morning darkness towards Miami International. A small snore is heard from the passenger seat just seconds before a pothole jolts the wary travelers back into reality.

“Son of a bitch, who’s idea was this?!” Elise complains, “You’re going to pull me out of bed in the middle of the night to make me leave Miami to go to Detroit?!”

“Well if you’re talking about the audition tape… that was D’s. If you’re talking about the drinking all night… that was yours.” Klein answers, “I got to bed early. I feel fine.” “Goooooooooooooood for you.” Elise sarcastically exclaims, “I know who’s fault this is.”

“Who?” The D questions from the backseat.

“Lindsay Troy. That bitch.” Elise grumbles, “We just won the PRIME Tag Team Championships and we don’t even have time to enjoy them before she makes us fly back to flyover country and tries to make us lose them right away to the last team that beat us. Foot Fungus… or whatever.”

“Soldiers.” Klein corrects.

“Whatever.” The D chirps in, “She’s right though. I don’t see Ivan Stanislav defending his championship every other show. I bet if I were big and Russian… I’d be in bed right now.”

“Instead we have to go fight l i t e r a l Satan.” Elise quips, “Who names their kid Satan? I don’t know… he’s kinda cute though. Disgusting… but cute. Reminds me of that DEC4L idiot with abs.”

As the rental car comes to a stop, The D tries desperately to remember what the other Foot Soldier’s name is. He looks around at the signs and lights around him through squinted vision, hoping the universe will provide him with the answer he desires when a large black SUV pulls up next to them taking away all of his assistance.

“And ummm… alien something, right?” The D questions, “Let know if I’m on the right tra-”

“Roswell.” Klein answers, “Kris Ros-”

“Is that the DC asshole?” The D interrupts and kicks the seat in front of him, trying to get Elise’s attention. She turns to look at The D and bitch him out when her eyes catch the driver. Late 50s. Executive parted hair and greying goatee. She first realizes this could be 25% of Miami’s population but her last brain cell ignites.

“I…” Elise hesitates, “I think that is. What are you gonna do?”

Translated to English because y'all aren’t worldly.

BANG!

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHH Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck.” Elise Ares laid on her side on a dirty canvas as the echo of her impact still resonated through the vastness of an abandoned warehouse. She seethed through her teeth, holding back the tears while she rolled over onto her back and kicked her legs. Wearing a sports bra and a pair of short umbro shorts, Ares couldn’t be more than fifteen years old as she fought the tears.

“Useless!” A masked man threw his arms up in frustration, “I don’t care who’s daughter she is, all the talent obviously went straight to her tits. There isn’t an athletic bone in this girl’s body!”

“She’s just a kid, she’s going to need time, Carlos.” A woman in a mask walked past Elise, now rolled over onto her hands and knees. “She’s going to make mistakes.”

“This whole thing was a mistake!” Carlos waved off her argument, “Wrap it up. We’re done. It’s no wonder Azure wants nothing to do with her. There’s no saving this.”

The masked woman doesn’t even get the opportunity to argue her case before famous lucha libre trainer Carlos “El Jefe Negro” Ortega stormed off and out of the room. Inside the ring, Elise Ares held her knee and favored her hip, biting her lip in pain.

“Ivelise, I think it’s best you go home.”

“I’m not going to be perfect, this is ridiculous!” Elise grunted out as she pulled herself up to her feet by the ropes, “These ropes are wrapped in electrical tape and covered in sweat, they’re going to be slippery! I just don’t know what that asshole expects from me.”

“More than you can give.”

“Why?! The fuck did I ever do to him?”

“You’re a woman.” The masked woman shot it straight, “To most men, your place is in the home. Making food. Making babies. I’ve heard it all.”

“Well tell them to fuck off, that isn’t fair!”

“Life isn’t fair, Ivelise.” She cut her off, “I had to wear a push-up bra just to get into the door and then once I did, I had to work twice… no, three times as hard as a man just to get time in the ring. Then when I do, I get booked as an attraction. A piece of meat to be drooled upon by desperate men.”

“Then why go through all this? That sounds awful.”

“Because it’s my dream.” The masked woman nodded, “There’s nothing else I’d ever wanted to be.”

Ares wrapped her arm around the rope to brace herself as she flexed free her leg and knee.

“And it’s yours too.” The masked woman said as she put her hand on Elise’s shoulder, “Or else you would’ve stopped weeks ago.”

A brunette receptionist with her hair pulled back in a bun taps her pen against the glass desk as she looks out across the ocean from the windowed wall of her beachfront office building. Wearing a headset, she eagerly awaits a response from her boss as a group of… unusual characters have infiltrated the lobby for a rented Warner Brothers office.

“You know… before I let you guys, I used to live in an apartment about 20 minutes down the coast here. That was the first time I was in PRIME, when I was a teenager.” Elise Ares points through the window northwestward. She wears a pair of large Prada sunglasses and a little yellow dress. Very Miami. Very “look at me.”

“Was it nice?” Klein answers as The D paces the lobby wearing his business suit. This is a big deal. Maybe the biggest deal of his directorial career.

“Nah, it was a shit hole.” Elise answers matter-of-factly, “That’s why I left.”

By the way she said it, you’d think she says “Thank you, Jesus.” but in reality, the receptionist announces “Arthur Silverman will see you now.”

“This is it. You can do this.” The D mutters under his breath as he steps in front of Klein and Elise to lead them back “Trust it. Believe it. Be it. Trust it. Believe it. Be it.”

The D repeats the phrase as they enter into a gorgeous, large office space with three chairs and a large executive desk. On top of the desk, besides a laptop and the normal assortment of trinkets is a large glass “DC Universe” logo and various action figures and comic references. A name plate is on the desk reading “ARTHUR SILVERMAN” as they approach and make no attempt to read it.

“You must be Derek.” A man says as he stands up from behind the desk, extending his hand for a handshake, “That would make you Elise and Klein, correct?”

“I prefer The D.” The D says, causing an audible snicker from a lawyer type sitting on Arthur’s side of the desk. “But yes, that is correct.”

“I’m your next Supergirl.” Elise says with a smile.

“Ah… uhh, right. This is Jonathan, my lawyer.” Arthur motions for the trio to take a seat, “I’ve taken this meeting because a mutual friend of Jonathan’s speaks highly of you and says you may have a solution to an issue we’re having.”

“Yes, the movie Supergirl was recently released to… highly unsatisfactory results.” The D pulls out an iPad from his suit jacket, “What I have here is the opportunity of a lifetime. The opportunity to cast PRIME’s Leading Lady Elise Ares as Supergirl and right your wrongs. If you want to hit the play button here, you’ll see an audition reel from Cuba and Miami’s own Elise Ares and why she deserves to be your next Supergirl.”

On the iPad is a picture of Elise Ares, wearing not “the” Supergirl costume… but rather “a” Supergirl costume with a snarl on her face as if she's preparing for battle. Arthur sighs and goes to press it but stops.

“It’s easy…” The D tries to help him, seeing as he’s a boomer, “You just tap the screen.”

“We currently do not have any plans to replace Supergirl even with the internet outrage currently besetting our rotten-critic reviews.” Arthur states, “Even though eighteen percent of people polled believe Milly Alcock looks like a horse, and fifteen percent of people polled are ‘open to the idea of’ bestiality…” He coughs and clears his throat. “But even if we did, Elise Ares is Cuban. You can’t have a Cuban be Supergirl. That’s just…” He tries to phrase it the best he can, “Un-American.”

“Hold up, I thought horseface was British?” Elise chimes in, both confused and offended.

“Australian.” Arthur corrects.

“These days with Trump as president, Cuba is basically going to be a state like Canada and Puerto Rico.” The D retaliates, “And can’t you just put on a blonde wig and some contacts and bob’s your uncle? You’re not really seeing the massive potential here. This is like the opposite of live-action Ariel or Tom Cruise Samurai or Jake Gyllenhaal isn’t Persian. This is ELISE ARES!”

A pregnant pause feels like an hour in awkward silence as Arthur rubs his temples in frustration.

“I don’t need to see anything else. Thank you for your time.”

In the background, Klein stands, places his hands in front of his chest and bows to the executive. The executive nods back, reaching out and shaking his hand. “I think it’s time for you and your friends to go.”

The D points high to the ceiling. “This is an injustice the likes of which we’ve -”

The scene cuts to the front door of the beachfront office building. The door swings open, and The D comes FLYING out landing with a thud and a small roll. Both Elise and Klein walk out normally behind him, making sure the door latches on the way out. The D stands and dusts off his pants.

“- And that’s why you can enjoy choking on Paramount’s DICK!” The D keeps cleaning his suit. “Fucking pricks.”

“Why did you jump out of the door like that?” Elise questions.

“Lawsuits don’t just happen, Elise. They take a lot of time, effort, and showmanship.”

“Is that true, Klein?” Elise looks back at her lawyer.

“Shhhh, we’re in public. We have no expectation of privacy here. Let’s get back to the hotel.”

All his life, the D’s been told one thing.

“You’re too short to be a star.”

Too short to be a wrestler, too short to be an actor, just, a man with an average build and size, in a world full of giants.

Ever since his love of pro wrestling was inspired by Klein and old VHS tapes, the D proclaimed to anyone he could about his future in the squared circle. Typically, those moments would be met with stunned disbelief, a valley girl dismissal, or a wedgie and a shove in high school. As he ignored college applications, school guidance counselors would reprimand and suggest higher education. The D knew what art he wanted to study, and no college in the nation taught that skill.

There was one place nearby, a satellite office of a well known wrestling school that was originally based in Odessa, Texas. The Odessa Wrestling Academy.

The year is 199X. The D will never admit to the exact year, and Klein has long since forgot. Klein and the D had been subscribing to wrestling newsletters and magazines for years, and discovered the Odessa Wrestling Academy location in Philadelphia. At 17 years old, the D and Klein skipped last period, jumped on a city bus, then a subway, and landed themselves at the foot of concrete stairs to an old red brick building.

“This doesn’t really look like a school.” The D said, before shrugging and knocking anyway.

After a few moments, the D heard a shout from inside. “Hold up! I’ll be right - OW! DAMNIT! Son of a, TONY! Stop leaving your shit in the hallway. TRIPPING HAZARD!” The shouting got louder before the door swings open, revealing a very young Jack Harmen from the late 90s. He rubbed his ankles and looked up. “What?!”

“Uh… I’m Derek, and this here’s Josh. We uh.” The D stammered a bit, nervous. “We want to be trained to be pro wrestlers.”

Harmen sneered. “You? I mean, I can work magic with your boy Klein here, if he talks…” Harmen waited, but Klein just smiled and waved. “He can talk, right?” The D held up a horizontal hand and shook it slightly to say “kinda.”

Harmen turned and looked the D up and down. “But you?” He did it again. “You’re 180 soaking wet. You’re way too small to be a pro wrestler. Small build, small height…”

“Not everything is small.” The D’s nostrils flared, as he balled his fist. Harmen smiled, laughing.

“So, you’re gonna have to be really really fucking good at this sport…” Harmen reached out and placed his hand on D’s shoulders, pulling him in for a hug and ushering him inside. “And really stubborn.”

“That guy was a PRICK.” The D furiously unzips his bag and goes looking for something. The light turns green, the PRIME Tag Team Championship in the backpack blocks his way. “Don’t let him get away, Klein… I have something for him!”

Klein accelerates, keeping pace with the Black SUV as The D finally grasps and pulls out what aren’t oranges but… eggs?

“Who puts raw eggs on a continental breakfast?” The D proclaims confused as he pulls them out of his bag.

“Rocky?” Klein retorts.

“Gaston?” Elise also chimes in.

The D shrugs but reaches his hand forward with two eggs between the seat and the window to Elise. The half-alive Leading Lady grabs them from his hand and the windows slowly begin to lower. The light turns red. Klein begins to slow down, concentrating on the road and not on his tag team partners.

“FIRE!” The D points and commands as Elise tosses both eggs out of the window at once. Just as Arthur Silverman turns around to see what the screaming next to him was about, yolk fills his driver’s side window. “HAHA! Take that you PRICK!”

“What are you guys doi-”

“Punch it, Klein!” Elise hurriedly directs at Klein. He does exactly what she asks and slams on the gas pedal directly through the red light. Arthur Silverman looks confused as The D sticks half of his upper body out of the backseat of the rental car and fires the last two eggs directly into the windshield of his DC antagonist.

“And Superman SUCKED ASS!” The D flips off Silverman as he disappears into the Miami morning. Klein anxiously white-knuckles the steering wheel as Elise and The D share a zombified laugh, the adrenaline of the moment waking them up temporarily as Klein’s heart continues to try and beat through his chest.

“Guys, you can’t do that anymore!” The fun policy lectures from behind the wheel, “You’re the PRIME Tag Team Champions. You’re representing a company that at least pretends to give a damn about you. If this gets on the news or if we get arrested, it’s all over!”

Elise Ares sighs and powers her window back up.

“I guess I do need something to fall back on. I was waaaaay too Cuban to be Supergirl. Too brown to wrestle without a mask. My eyes are too Asian to be one of the hispanics. I was too much of a girl to be taken seriously as a wrestler but…” Ares pulls the PRIME Tag Team Championship out of her backpack, “Look at me now, bitches!”

“Look none of us are what anyone ever wanted, Klein.” The D adds in, “You remember that… but we’re the ones they got. I’m not going to apologize for not being Jakked McJackerson or 8-Pack Satan and his alien sidekick, because they’re not the champions. We are.”

“We’re the best in the goddamn world, BBY!” Elise looks back at her tag team partner in the backseat, “And the rest of PRIME needs to fucking deal with it.”

Losers.