Post by mrhacksaw on Feb 4, 2022 1:54:42 GMT
The shoddy back-entrance of Wingmen’s. A brisk Nevada night.
An ambulance, its emergency lights turned off, nonchalantly backs up towards the backdoor. The hulking, always smooth Cezar Bononi guides it in.
It stops.
JD Drake coolly emerges from the driver seat, sporting a tucked-in black t-shirt and tight black suspenders, with designer black shades to complete the absurd look. He removes his shades melodramatically, as though a film camera were watching.
Drake trudges to the rear of the ambulance, Bononi following. The cerebral southerner tugs open the door, ominously revealing someone inside: a muscular young blonde woman on a stretcher, every side of her head thoroughly bandaged. Tiffany Stratton.
Bononi grins ear to ear. Drake’s stoic.
BONONI: She is beautiful. Very beautiful girl.
The Brazilian assesses her more closely.
BONONI: She will do well! Very strong. Very built. …Do you think she knows dentistry?
JD no-sells his compadre’s remark before the generally dry Ryan Nemeth emerges from the bar’s backdoor. Generally. Now, he’s overjoyed. Immeasurably content. …Which equates to extremely slight satisfaction for most people.
NEMETH: I can’t believe this, guys! We finally did it!
BONONI: We did. We are genius!
NEMETH: I’m just glad JD has that second job as an ambulance driver. It made it a lot easier.
JD DRAKE: Fifth job! Gotta pay the damn bills somehow.
NEMETH: …So you think she still needs to go to the hospital though?
BONONI: She will be fine. She rests. She gets better.
NEMETH: No. Like, could we get in trouble if something happened to her? If she needed to go, but we didn’t take her?
BONONI: You worry a lot. She already got attention. See? She is bandaged. And, she is safe at Wingmen’s. We do everything here.
NEMETH: We do. We’re like, Amazon…
Bright sunlight.
An obscure Nevada prison across a large swath of empty desert.
A gangly, jovial man prepares to enter. A visitor. A clear kip to his step. In his overly tight yellow buttondown and comparably as tight tan dress slacks, the pony-tailed visitor with the oversized 80s-style shades swings open the doors, approaching the first point of contact.
AVALON: Hello.
He barely contains his contentment. He doesn’t contain it, obvious glee in his tone.
AVALON: I’m here to see Jessica McKay!
COP: Jessica…McKay.
AVALON: That’s right!
The cop behind the counter lifts a brow before scanning through files beside his desk. He takes out a folder.
COP: You family? You a significant other?
AVALON: Significant…other?
Pretty Pete’s incredulous.
AVALON: I’m no significant other, sir! Unless you mean a significant adversary! Significant nemesis!
COP: …I see. Well, hasn’t had many visitors. Just another girl that talks like her.
AVALON: Oh really?
COP: She was asking about bail. But McKay isn’t up for bail. What she did is very serious.
AVALON: Indeed it is.
COP: She’s a threat against our great country. A threat against our national security.
AVALON: I don’t have a single doubt!
COP: …So you wanna visit her or not?
Avalon stares with devilish eyes.
AVALON: I sure do.
Wingmen’s. Early nighttime. Business is booming. One drunk homeless guy who hasn’t paid for anything bowls in the corner with two hands. One clueless, definitely underage boy, probably in high school, also probably homeless, slugs down Bud Light at the bar.
But while business booms, business looms.
Nemeth, Bononi and Drake conspire in their ‘office’, which is just a desktop computer from the 90s along with endless buckets of KFC Chicken in order to prepare for one of their most prolific customers later in the night.
NEMETH: Guys. It’s time to get serious.
JD DRAKE: Real serious!
NEMETH: I know we’re focused on this bar. This bowling alley. This matchmaking service. This arcade. This soon to be strip club again!...but we have something else to focus on soon.
JD DRAKE: Damn right!
NEMETH: I mean, this is about championships. About gold. We’ve seen how hungry some of these guys are for gold. They’ll do anything for gold. They’ll kill people for gold. They’ll sell their limbs. They’ll dig up graves of their family members and sell those limbs, too. Guys like Eddie Kingston, they’ll do it all.
BONONI: I hear he drink Starbucks these days. Is it true?
NEMETH: …They got knives in their boots. They got guns in their hats. Violence is their first choice and diplomacy is their last. But fellas, I have a good feeling about this. About us. About Wingmen’s. About The Wingmen. I know we can do this. It’s what we were destined for.
BONONI: I thought your brother signed us up to the company as a joke. To annoy you?
NEMETH: Well.
JD DRAKE: Yeah. Ain’t gonna stand here and say we had this shit on our minds the whole time. Because we didn’t, Ry. But we’re here now. And we’re gonna conquer this shit. We’re gonna rule this empire!
BONONI: Eddie Kingston talks about growing up on the mean streets. But I grew up on the mean streets. I grow up in Sao Paulo. I make a few dollars a week. I sell drugs as a child in the alley, and I fight my way from those same allies if I have to. …Eddie Kingston knows nothing about my life. My dark life. He has never lived it. He could never live it. Not growing up in America.
JD DRAKE: Damn right, Cezar.
NEMETH: Woah. Now that’s serious.
BONONI: It is.
NEMETH: I guess we are serious guys, after all.
JD DRAKE: I know I am. And so is Cezar.
NEMETH: I am too, right? I’m a serious guy.
JD DRAKE: Well.
Drake surveys Ryan. Ryan surveys himself. Every single thing he’s wearing is tye-dye. His shirt. His hoodie. His sweatpants. His shoes. Even his watch.
JD DRAKE: You’re giving it your all, Ry.
NEMETH: No. No I’m not, JD. I have something to prove. I’ve been too fixated on this place. The Hollywood Hunk hasn’t given WLCW enough of his hunky gaze. But that’s changing now.
“EVERYBODY GET ON THE GROUND NOW!”
Peter Avalon sits across his finest adversary, prisoner Jessica McKay, the classic huge unbreakable glass in between them. Jessie’s hair is frazzled. Her entire look’s disheveled. The cliche orange prison-outfit. Whole shebang. Her eyes couldn’t be more incensed. Avalon gleefully picks up the phone on his end.
AVALON: While it’s absolutely rotten to see you generally, Jessica, it’s absolutely glorious to see you today.
Her stare of death doesn’t waver.
AVALON: You know, you deserve this for what you did. They are right about you. You’re overwhelmingly a threat to my security. And that might as well constitute a matter of national security!
Beat.
AVALON: It’s just too bad that you won’t be able to see us soar, Jessica. You won’t be able to see us SOAR to new heights. We will LITERALLY SOAR upon a ladder and bring down championships. But I suppose they have no television in prison.
Pompous laugh.
AVALON: Do you know why we are called ‘The Wingmen’, after all? My creation. My invention. My BRAINCHILD. …Because we are men. Strong, imposing, but confident enough in their masculinity to enjoy Total Divas men. This is a trivial fact. The more compelling part…is that we have wings, Jessica. We are men. Men with wings. We are not simple mortals. We are MEN…WITH WINGS. WE ARE ANGELS IN THE DARK. WE ARE DOVES AMONGST THE BRIMSTONE. WE WILL GUIDE THE WLCW TO THE LIGHT. WE ARE SAVIORS IN THE LAND OF SIN THAT IS SIN CITY!...
Deep, dramatic, exhale.
AVALON: But even the fabled men with wings could not save you, Jessica. Even we…couldn’t save you.
He begins to stand.
AVALON: This will be the last time you see me, Ms. McKay. I bid you farewell. I wish you luck. Actually, I wish you severe misfortune. I wish you get every disease known to humanity. I wish you generate a new variant of the coronavirus within you, and that in turn generates a new variant, and that in turn generates a FURTHER VARIANT…and I hope this process continues until you are nothing but a walking variant yourself. A massive blob of a zoomed-in scientific screenshot. Because then everybody would see what I see. A virus. A walking, petulant virus. So thank god. No…thank the men with wings. Thank The Wingmen. Because now they will see.
He puts down his phone.
AVALON: Goodbye, Jessica.
He goes to turn, but.
JESSICA MCKAY: Petah.
He’s borderline enraged, but he listens anyway.
JESSICA MCKAY: Yah time is ahp, Petah. They knoaw whut yew deed.
He picks the phone back up, angered.
AVALON: What are you talking about?!
JESSICA MCKAY: They knoaw what yew awl deed. Aye knoaw what yew deed, Petah.
A hand taps on his shoulder.
“Peter Hernandez, you’re under arrest for kidnapping in the first degree. For…”....
The Wingmen gather in their shared prison cell, dejected, still in their street clothes. At least aside from Bononi. He already wears an orange prison suit. Avalon is sullen in the corner, staring down solemnly at the cement floor.
NEMETH: Well, crap.
JD DRAKE: Yeah, this ain’t good.
BONONI: What do we do? We have a ladder to climb!
NEMETH: Maybe we shouldn’t have kidnapped that girl.
JD DRAKE: Hm…
NEMETH: Maybe I shouldn’t have openly tweeted and basically suggested that we did.
JD DRAKE: Probably not, Ry. You live and learn.
NEMETH: Are we going to live though? We’re in prison.
JD DRAKE: We could always get the death penalty.
NEMETH: Do they do that here?
JD DRAKE: I guess we’ll find out.
NEMETH: No! We won’t find out. We can’t find out. We need to escape.
JD DRAKE: Escape? Do you think that’s the right mindset to have, Ry? We’ll be right back in here!
NEMETH: Hey…it’s possible it wasn’t the tweet. They could’ve seen you on camera, JD. Driving the ambulance away. You could’ve had a better disguise.
JD DRAKE: But that wasn’t a disguise…
NEMETH: There you go!
BONONI: Wait. Listen. I have escaped many prisons before. And I am tallest. I should lead the way!
NEMETH: You know, on that same logic, shouldn’t you also be in the match?
JD DRAKE: Oh yeah. Since we gotta climb somethin’.
NEMETH: As for who the other guy is, we’ll decide that later. First, we need to get out of this dump. Cezar, what are your ideas?...
Some time later. Back in the cell. The boys are beaten. A little bloodied. Cezar got the worst of it. Considering he was the head honcho of the effort, that’s no surprise. Avalon, of course, wasn’t even involved in the coup. He’s too sad.
NEMETH: So that didn’t work.
BONONI: No. American prisons…are harder to escape from.
NEMETH: What even is a Brazilian prison? Isn’t that whole place a prison? I saw it in The Rundown once.
BONONI: EH.
NEMETH: …Right. Well, what do we do now? Does anyone know any expensive lawyers? You know how they do it in the mafia movies. Some greasy guy shows up with a briefcase and it’s all over? Everyone’s out? And free?
JD DRAKE: I don’t know a dang one.
BONONI: Me neither.
NEMETH: Cool.
Beat.
NEMETH: So uh.
Ryan glances around. Hopeless. Defeated.
NEMETH: …You know what really bums me out? It’s not being in a cell that smells like poop and pee. It’s not being liable to spend at least 50 years here or whatever our max sentence can be. It’s that I can’t be at Wingmen’s.
Some contemplation. JD nods. Then Bononi.
NEMETH: We’ve worked so hard to build that bar. To get our name out there. To make our name mean something. And even if I wasn’t trying so hard to get into WLCW, I’ve always wanted to wrestle. I ran into bad luck when I tried the first few times. The timing wasn’t great. Or I wasn’t working with the right people. Then I thought I could make a difference in other ways. I did a famous Venmo commercial once. It was all over the World Series banners one year. I thought I was saving commerce and the free markets. Then I wrote and produced a movie about the rampant sexual abuse in the wrestling industry, called Heel. I’ve always tried to be a good guy. Even if it’s impossible to step out of my brother’s sleazy shadow. I’ve always tried. And now this feels like the culmination of my bad luck. Or something. Like I can’t ever catch a break. Just when we were about to. Just when we were about to be on top of the world. On top of a ladder. Hoisting championships in the air. Because that’s what we are, boys. We’re champions. I guess. …I guess. I guess all we’ll ever be now…is champions in our hearts.
Profound words.
Drake crosses his heart with his arms, as does Bononi. Even Avalon, too. He may have been mentally destroyed. But not enough not to show his love for his brothers.
NEMETH: It’s just, you know. It’s possible we shouldn’t have kidnapped that girl. We got a little desperate. A little sloppy. But it was all for a good cause. It was all to get something out of this complex thing called life. We’re all just trying to get by, every day. We’re tired. We’re exhausted. We’re worn out by existentialist dread and a lack of true purpose. Could you really blame us? Could you?
A heavy silence.
Ryan nods. He now knows what he has to do.
NEMETH: Boys, if we can’t be at Wingmen’s, then it’s time to bring Wingmen’s here.
The boys went to work. It was like that scene in Goodfellas where the prisoners make an exquisite dinner. Except these boys were re-creating their exquisite establishment. Who knew where they were getting their supplies. They were connected guys.
NEMETH (narration): What were we supposed to do? Give up? We’re guys with a certain standard. We can’t live like dogs. We need our lifestyle. Our culture.
Cezar rebuilds the uninspiring bar counter.
NEMETH (narration): If we’re stuck in here, we’re going to do things our way. On our time. We may never see the outside again. But the outside will see us.
JD re-constructs the matchmaking service desk.
NEMETH (narration): But if we do get out in time? Well, that’s what these guys, these jabronis, these nincompoops, will never understand about The Wingmen. You could be Steve Borden and forget that you’re Sting, thinking strapping your name to a couple stale, bland machine guns out of bullets is the fresh start you needed.
Ryan helps reassemble the dusty arcade, consisting of paper and pencil tic-tac-toe games.
NEMETH (narration): You could be Corbin and Moss, just happy to be here. Coasting through life because you won big just one time.
JD remakes the majestically generic sign.
NEMETH (narration): You could be Kingston and Hook, two men who don’t even know each other’s names, seeing this opportunity as nothing more than a mere business proposition.
Out of narration, The Wingmen collectively stand before their revamped establishment, the other prisoners entirely indifferent at best, furious at worst, wanting to kick every single Wingman’s ass.
NEMETH: Or you could be like us. And you’d know that this isn’t just business. This isn’t just about money, or the prize. This is about something bigger. This is about unity. This is about community. This is about friendship. This is about heart.
Nemeth bows out his chest, triumphant, believing every last word with relentless fervor.
NEMETH: This is about dreaming! About stopping at nothing, until you fill your strip club with a god damn stripper!
Beat.
NEMETH: Because I live for this bar, ladies and gentlemen. I live it and I breathe it. And if that doesn’t make a champion, then what does? If that doesn’t make a success, then what does? We are the American Dream personified. We are more Cody’s dad than Cody could ever wish to be. More importantly–
AVALON: We are MEN. WITH WINGS.
Avalon bows out his own chest, immensely proud.
NEMETH: …Men. With wings.
JD DRAKE: MEN WITH WINGS GOD DAMN IT!
BONONI: WITH WINGS!
The four men stand triumphant. Hoisting their arms straight in the air collectively, in unison, as if they’re Nation of Domination.
Dead silence.
Commotion hits the prison. They’ve had enough. The revolt was on.
The Wingmen were outnumbered.
The Wingmen were overwhelmed. The Wingmen were annihilated.
But never defeated.
The Wingmen lay back in their group cell, broken and battered. Either asleep or unconscious.
A knock on the cell. An officer stands before them.
Drake comes to. Then Bononi. Then Nemeth. Then Avalon.
“You’re free to go.”
A bald middle-aged man of average stature holds a briefcase, casually strolling out with the four battered Wingmen.
BONONI: How…are we free? Who let us out?
The bald man, presumably some hotshot attorney, gestures in front of him. There resides…not a beautiful stretch limo, but a gigantic furry van assembled like a dog, like the one from Dumb and Dumber. The horn honks.
JESSICA MCKAY: GET DAH HELL EHN HEH!
Jessica McKay hops out of the driver’s seat, dressed to the zeros in a wrinkled Wingmen t-shirt and cruddy sweatpants.
She grins proudly. The men are confused.
JESSICA MCKAY: Whut’s dah mattah? Thawt aye’d howld ah grunge or whutevah?
She scoffs.
JESSICA MCKAY: Yah moy boys. And weh gawt teetles tah ween!
BONONI: “Teetles”?...
Beat.
Avalon can’t believe it.
He’s moved to the slightest inkling of a tear.
JESSICA MCKAY: See, aye actualleh ended up yewsin’ yah funny business as moy bargainin’ cheep. Dah rest ehs historeh!
AVALON: I don’t…understand…
JESSICA MCKAY: Aye wurk ehn mysterious ways, Petah.
Jessie pets him on the head. Like the dog he is. Before leaping back into the truck, as the Wingmen follow suit, crawling inside.
NEMETH: LET’S FUCKIN’ GO!
Beep beep.
Fade.
