OOC: If we offend you, we do not apologize. Trigger warning for toilet humor.
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Flush.

The satisfying sound of a job well done. A stall door squeaked open and out came Enzo Amore, with a newspaper in one hand. He headed over to the nearest sink as he shoved the paper in a back pocket, and pressed a handful of foamy soap into his hands. The entrance to the bathroom flew open dramatically, only to close again. Enzo started to whistle a tune as he washed his hands. A hum to “Happy birthday” echoed surprisingly well in the restroom.

Enzo Amore: DAMN these are good acoustics.

Again, the door opened, this time normally, as a struggle was heard. After pushing the button on a hand dryer that revved up like a faulty lawnmower, Enzo was scared shitless (no pun intended) by a large figure hovering over the top of his head. It was Scott Hall. Enzo screamed and jumped up, bumping his spiky hair into Scott Hall’s face. From behind the large figure, Trent’s head popped out.

Trent: Brother! Chill out Brother! It’s a cardboard cutout.

Trent gave the lifesize Scott Hall cardboard cutout a knock.

Trent: See?

Enzo Amore: What?

The hand dryer was still going, and Trent’s words were barely audible.

Trent: Don’t you “what?” me… You’re not stone Cold!

Finally, the dryer stopped, but of course it didn’t completely dry Enzo’s hands. They never do. So he wiped the remaining moisture on his pants.

Enzo Amore: ...That’s not Stone Cold. That’s Scott Hall, bro. Why you gotta do this to me, during my private time, huh?

Trent: Look, I know you’re facing Finn Balor at the grandaddy of them all! You gotta win! So I thought we could practice with this Scott Hall Cutout… They don’t sell Finn Balor cutouts, I am not allowed to bring a Hogan cutout because he’s racist… I had bought a Kevin Nash cutout but he tore his quads during shipping.

Trent shrugs. A flush was heard in the distance.

Enzo Amore: Oh I get it. So we let one rip, no pun intended, on Finn Balor and the gun club he’s in, but through this Scott Hall cutout.

Trent: Apple-so-lutelly! Because everyone knows the Bullet Club are not only CHAOS’s bitches, they’re also nWo ripoffs… I’ll tell you what CHAOS is some other day.

Enzo Amore: Man oh man, Finn’s gotta get a gun on discount because he’s aboutta shoot himself in the foot. We got an unlucky rabbit over here, fellas.

“What?”

Someone in a stall called out to the two. They were still in a public restroom of course.

Trent: Should we lower our voice? Say Enzo, how many times have you beaten EBWF’s resident Elmer Fudd, Finn Balor?

Enzo brought his voice up a couple of octaves, mimicking a famous cartoon character.

Enzo Amore: I believe I believe I believe one time, folks.

Trent: That’s a whole one more time than he has beaten you Enzo. He’s in your yard… And he plans to what… Point his finger at you?

Enzo Amore: Sounds like the plan of a doo doo head, if you ask me, son.

Enzo’s voice returned to its normal pitch.

Enzo Amore: The second he takes a step on my lawn, I’ll blow him up. Because there are landmines, get it? So there will be massive explosions. Like that time you ate that gyro and had really bad stomach issues. Man, that was-

Trent: Crap, yes… I had one too. Watch where that finger points Finn Finnigan Finnigard Fingerbang Balor!

Enzo Amore: I don’t think the NRA would appreciate fingerbangs. What a bunch of republican pussies.

Trent: I did not know Eazy-E, Ice Cube and their boys were republicans. I don’t even think Finn Balor is a republican.

Enzo Amore: It does sound like he has two names… BUT THAT IS NOT THAT POINT. The point is, I plan to kick that shitbucket of a head he has on his shoulders so hard it reduces backflow and clogs up his large intestine. Then I will have to kick his ass so he can have a proper bowel movement to shit himself after being humiliated in the ring by me, just so he can cope with his loss.

Trent: Crap, Shit… We said we weren’t doing Scathology this time around. Yes! Prepare to be stepped on, and then scraped with a stick, Finn.

Trent shrugs.

Enzo Amore: DOGGY STYLE.

“WHAT?”

The person in the stall said this again. He had been in there the entire time this conversation was happening. It was an awful long time to be in a stall in a public restroom. Trent and Enzo looked towards the stall, then to each other.

Enzo Amore: What’s that saying… We’re in a “stinky” situation?

Trent: Not as Stinky as being Fingerbang Balor.

Enzo visibly shuddered, and proceeded to plug his nose as he pointed to the door, unconsciously making the shape of a gun with his hand.

Enzo Amore: I gotta get outta here.

Trent: Don’t point Enzo! It looks like fingerbanging. Do you think that’s what Steveweisers do to your bowels?

“WHAT?!?!”

Trent: Let’s get outta here.

With Scott Hall cutout in tow, both Trent and Enzo exited the restroom.

***

After returning from a momentary (potty) break, Enzo could be seen looking up to the cardboard cutout of Scott Hall. He started to stroke his goatee. The camera panned out to show Trent on the other side of Scott Hall, but rubbing both sides of his face where his sideburns were. They were just outside the bathroom, so the break was not necessary. Just for effect.

Trent: Now let me tell you something… Brother. There can only be one and just one game changing, game breaking faction in the world of wrestling. And it was the nWo. So quit playing Finn… Your hand gestures aren’t fooling anyone. Hell, not even Cactus Jack could make us give a damn with his Bang Bang hand signs, so why would you?

Enzo Amore: Just because you point your finger and have an accent don’t make you a big deal. I didn’t become a Certified G by telling the letter H to go to Hell. I hung around some of the baddest Jersey has to offer. I didn’t become a Certified Sissy Smacker by being a big brother, and I ain’t called the Realest Guy In the Room because I’m a faker. I live up to my names, bro. What do you live up to? I hope it ain’t a pinky in the stinky…

Enzo had a look of disgust on his face, and shook it violently to try and get any images out of his head.

Enzo Amore: Let me tell you something too, bro. This ain’t the time for games. This is prep for a battle. Gladiator style, but Olivia Pope ain’t gonna be here to save your ass. When I say watch your head, you better come to the ring in a damn helmet because I will slap you so hard that even Pepperidge Farm won’t remember what happened to you. And after I murk you on the biggest, baddest, grandest stage of them all, you won’t even remember. But your fans will. They’ll remember the one time Enzo Amore Bada-Boomed you, floored you, and sent your teeth to the roof. Your new nickname is gonna be Road Blaster, because your face will look like it got run over by a thousand motorcycles, when really it was just me running a mile over your mug with my Jordans. F.B. will no longer stand for Finn Balor. It will stand for Fuck Boy, because I will prove to you who is the bigger man here. I will prove to you and everyone else here why I deserve to be a champion. You also look like you wear boat shoes and short that are uncomfortably short, and polo baseball caps, which is very fruity and makes you a sissy. It’s a shame you wouldn’t be able to wear those things anymore, considering I plan to knock your head off your shoulders, break both your legs off at the sockets, and bash in your torso. At least you could still wear that mask to cover what’s left of your face, which I will choose to punch every chance I get.

Trent looked visibly alarmed at the violent talk of his newly found friend. His words did not reflect this, though.

Trent: Sounds good to me, brother.

Once again, he shrugged and promptly picked up the cardboard cutout of Scott Hall.

Enzo Amore: Where’d you order that? I wanna get a cutout of Rocky Balboa…

As both studs made their way down the hall, the camera remained in place and watched them walk off into the sunset, discussing their idols and if they could get them in a cardboard cutout.