Post by Travis Tusk on Jan 7, 2016 21:16:57 GMT -5
Four months ago
WCF Headquarters
The scene opens on a man in a suit and tie, sitting in an office. It is apparently not his own office; the door is behind him, indicating he is on the wrong side of the desk. The chair is also clearly not executive-quality, and his suit seems a size or two too big.
?? (off-screen): Just to repeat for the camera, you're OK with being recorded?
Man in chair: Yes.
??: Alright. This is Stan McCluster from HR, recording for future reference...and legal reasons, but the less said about “the incident,” the better. Here we have one...Travis Tosk. Am I pronouncing that right?
Travis: It's Tusk.
Stan: Oh, sorry. I see now. Looked like an 'o' there. So, tell me a little about your current situation, Travis.
Travis: Well, I make deliveries, as you know. That's how we met, um, how I met you, when I was delivering office supplies. And, um, you know, it's fine, but I'm just trying to find a more regular source of income. Regular as in, you know, on a regular basis, not...you know, I'll take whatever job you have.
Stan: What, my job?
Travis: No, I meant, whatever job you have available for me.
Stan: Well, I have your résumé here, and I have to tell you, I'm not seeing much of a job history. You're how old?
Travis: Twenty-seven.
Stan: Hmm, not even old enough to remember the '80s. Lucky.
Travis: Uh...ha ha. Yeah.
Travis nervously scratches the back of his head.
Stan: I would expect to see more on here at your age.
Travis: Well, like I said, I'll take whatever job you have available. Entry level, doing whatever.
Stan: That brings me to another part of this résumé that looks like it's missing. Nothing on here about what kind of skills you have.
Silence.
Stan: What are you good at, Travis? Why should we hire you?
Travis: Well, um, I'm a hard worker. Like many of my generation, I was raised in an environment that prioritized self-esteem over competence, but I've overcome that. I know I'm not entitled to anything, and I don't expect any special attention...and as for skills, I think I'm at least decent at a wide variety of things. A jack of all trades, as they say. You know, average strength, for lifting things. Average intelligence. Average, um, carpentry skills...
The door behind Travis bursts open suddenly. Startled, Travis falls out of his chair. The position of the camcorder on the desk allows us to only see a lower torso, hands and pair of legs walk through the door. Brown jacket over a button-up shirt, messily spilling out over pants and an unbuckled belt. The legs sway, and the voice that comes from above them sounds drunk.
: You're gonna pay for what you did to me.
Stan: Uh...who are you?
: I'm the reason you have this fanshy offish! Without me, this place is going to grind to a screechin' halt. And what thanksh do I get? A pink shlip!
Stan: Look, I think you have the wrong guy. I'm not the only one who works in here. It's a shared office. We alternate: I have it for two weeks and then--
: Shut up!
One of the hands reaches behind his waist and pulls out a revolver.
Stan: Oh, God. Just, just, wait, think about what you're doing here.
: Yeah, well maybe YOU should've thought about what YOU'RE doing here.
The sound of the gun cocking. From the unseen floor, Travis dives forward, slamming the disgruntled former employee into the wall. The gun thuds onto the carpet. Both men fall to the floor. Stan's fear is replaced with curiosity, and he picks up the camcorder, turning it down to face them. Travis has the drunk pinned face-down, with his arm in a hammerlock and a knee in his back. The stranger is still struggling, and so Travis rains fists into the side of his head until he stops fighting. Stan snaps out of his shock and picks up the phone from his desk.
Stan: Get security in here, now.
Travis and the man on the floor are both breathing heavily, neither one moving otherwise. After about thirty seconds, two men in gray uniforms enter. The gunman is handcuffed and taken just out of the room to wait for the police.
Stan: That was impressive.
Travis: Uh, me? I didn't have time to think about it. I did some wrestling in high school, and I guess it just kind of kicked in.
Stan: That's the sort of thing your résumé could have used.
Travis: Oh. Yeah, that would have been good.
Stan: I think I might have a job for you.
Travis: Oh, wow, great! Thank you!
Stan: Travis, how would you like to be a professional wrestler?
Stunned silence.
Travis: You're messing with me.
Stan: I told you, I'm impressed by what you did here.
Travis: But...but...I don't know anything about that. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm a fan. That's why I wanted to work here. But that's a long way from actually fighting for real.
Stan: That's why you're going to go to our training facility.
Travis: Oh, no, I can't afford th--
Stan: For free.
Travis: --at. I'm sorry, did you say free?
Stan: It's the least I can do. You might have just saved my life. But, um, maybe you didn't. You know, we have no way of knowing for sure. Legally, or, um, reported...ly. But still, least I could do.
Travis: Uh, wow. I'm shocked. And I'd love to, but, what if I go through all that training, and then, I'm not any good?
Stan: You came here for a job, right? You get paid even if you lose.
Travis: Well then...just call me T and T.
Stan: What?
Travis: Oh, um, when I wrestled in high school they called me T and T.
Stan: T.N.T., eh?
Travis: No, T AND....no wait, what you said is better. Let's go with that.
Stan: So...that's a yes then?
Travis: Absotively posilutely.
Stan: What?
Travis: ...it's a yes.
WCF Headquarters
The scene opens on a man in a suit and tie, sitting in an office. It is apparently not his own office; the door is behind him, indicating he is on the wrong side of the desk. The chair is also clearly not executive-quality, and his suit seems a size or two too big.
?? (off-screen): Just to repeat for the camera, you're OK with being recorded?
Man in chair: Yes.
??: Alright. This is Stan McCluster from HR, recording for future reference...and legal reasons, but the less said about “the incident,” the better. Here we have one...Travis Tosk. Am I pronouncing that right?
Travis: It's Tusk.
Stan: Oh, sorry. I see now. Looked like an 'o' there. So, tell me a little about your current situation, Travis.
Travis: Well, I make deliveries, as you know. That's how we met, um, how I met you, when I was delivering office supplies. And, um, you know, it's fine, but I'm just trying to find a more regular source of income. Regular as in, you know, on a regular basis, not...you know, I'll take whatever job you have.
Stan: What, my job?
Travis: No, I meant, whatever job you have available for me.
Stan: Well, I have your résumé here, and I have to tell you, I'm not seeing much of a job history. You're how old?
Travis: Twenty-seven.
Stan: Hmm, not even old enough to remember the '80s. Lucky.
Travis: Uh...ha ha. Yeah.
Travis nervously scratches the back of his head.
Stan: I would expect to see more on here at your age.
Travis: Well, like I said, I'll take whatever job you have available. Entry level, doing whatever.
Stan: That brings me to another part of this résumé that looks like it's missing. Nothing on here about what kind of skills you have.
Silence.
Stan: What are you good at, Travis? Why should we hire you?
Travis: Well, um, I'm a hard worker. Like many of my generation, I was raised in an environment that prioritized self-esteem over competence, but I've overcome that. I know I'm not entitled to anything, and I don't expect any special attention...and as for skills, I think I'm at least decent at a wide variety of things. A jack of all trades, as they say. You know, average strength, for lifting things. Average intelligence. Average, um, carpentry skills...
The door behind Travis bursts open suddenly. Startled, Travis falls out of his chair. The position of the camcorder on the desk allows us to only see a lower torso, hands and pair of legs walk through the door. Brown jacket over a button-up shirt, messily spilling out over pants and an unbuckled belt. The legs sway, and the voice that comes from above them sounds drunk.
: You're gonna pay for what you did to me.Stan: Uh...who are you?
: I'm the reason you have this fanshy offish! Without me, this place is going to grind to a screechin' halt. And what thanksh do I get? A pink shlip!Stan: Look, I think you have the wrong guy. I'm not the only one who works in here. It's a shared office. We alternate: I have it for two weeks and then--
: Shut up!One of the hands reaches behind his waist and pulls out a revolver.
Stan: Oh, God. Just, just, wait, think about what you're doing here.
: Yeah, well maybe YOU should've thought about what YOU'RE doing here.The sound of the gun cocking. From the unseen floor, Travis dives forward, slamming the disgruntled former employee into the wall. The gun thuds onto the carpet. Both men fall to the floor. Stan's fear is replaced with curiosity, and he picks up the camcorder, turning it down to face them. Travis has the drunk pinned face-down, with his arm in a hammerlock and a knee in his back. The stranger is still struggling, and so Travis rains fists into the side of his head until he stops fighting. Stan snaps out of his shock and picks up the phone from his desk.
Stan: Get security in here, now.
Travis and the man on the floor are both breathing heavily, neither one moving otherwise. After about thirty seconds, two men in gray uniforms enter. The gunman is handcuffed and taken just out of the room to wait for the police.
Stan: That was impressive.
Travis: Uh, me? I didn't have time to think about it. I did some wrestling in high school, and I guess it just kind of kicked in.
Stan: That's the sort of thing your résumé could have used.
Travis: Oh. Yeah, that would have been good.
Stan: I think I might have a job for you.
Travis: Oh, wow, great! Thank you!
Stan: Travis, how would you like to be a professional wrestler?
Stunned silence.
Travis: You're messing with me.
Stan: I told you, I'm impressed by what you did here.
Travis: But...but...I don't know anything about that. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm a fan. That's why I wanted to work here. But that's a long way from actually fighting for real.
Stan: That's why you're going to go to our training facility.
Travis: Oh, no, I can't afford th--
Stan: For free.
Travis: --at. I'm sorry, did you say free?
Stan: It's the least I can do. You might have just saved my life. But, um, maybe you didn't. You know, we have no way of knowing for sure. Legally, or, um, reported...ly. But still, least I could do.
Travis: Uh, wow. I'm shocked. And I'd love to, but, what if I go through all that training, and then, I'm not any good?
Stan: You came here for a job, right? You get paid even if you lose.
Travis: Well then...just call me T and T.
Stan: What?
Travis: Oh, um, when I wrestled in high school they called me T and T.
Stan: T.N.T., eh?
Travis: No, T AND....no wait, what you said is better. Let's go with that.
Stan: So...that's a yes then?
Travis: Absotively posilutely.
Stan: What?
Travis: ...it's a yes.
