Better Than Mustard on a Corndog

[Mox]

[Fade in. The scene opens outside of the Sprint arena just outside the venue as the fans, satisfied with sufficient EBWF programming, exit the venue and make their ways to their cars. Images of single dads with their sons on their shoulders mixes with unbroken families doing their best to calm their overly excited children. There’s an almost certain group of smarks dressed in their vintage wrestling tees, growing their ironic beards, sporting thick, black framed glasses, and discussing the issues with the booking choices inaudibly. Even still, there’s a group of women decked out in John Cena merchandise while trying to recover from the thought of their favorite superstar being in their hometown. While the shot has been focused and panning out slowly, The Doors’ 1967 hit “The End” has slowly been building its way to the first line. Just as Morrison begins the words, “This is the end...” the scene fades.]

[Fade in. The shot reopens about 5-10 miles down the road, where on the side of the road stands a silhouette of a man walking in the breakdown lane with nothing more than a backpack on. Of course, that’s sans the figure’s attire which consists of faded blue jeans, slightly torn and tattered. On his upper torso he’s wearing a black t-shirt with a skull printed on it and the words “Moxley 6:32” on the forehead of the skull. Over the shirt he sports an authentic leather jacket, very basic in style. It appears to have survived a decade since its purchase, maybe longer. The silhouette of who we now know to be Jon Moxley continues on his path, walking into the sunset, away from the camera. Fade out & transition.]

[A new POV is the basis of the next shot, the camera right next to one of the newest EBWF signings, just hours after his match completed. He appears focused and slightly annoyed, which could very well just be his natural, resting facial appearance. Moxley has a look of disgust and appears to be mumbling to himself as he ventures down the highway. The sound of a car approaches as he takes a look behind him and his eyes give away the approaching vehicle, if the sound of the engine wasn’t enough. Moxley sticks his arm out to his side and extends his thumb into the air. The once speeding car seems to slow down and cautiously passes Moxley. Just as it makes its way around him, it pulls over to the side of the road, now in his path, with break lights beaming. The driver throws the car into park as Moxley approaches the passenger’s side window. As only Moxley is mic’d up, the audio of the driver cannot be heard.]

Jon Moxley ”Yeah, not too far. Uh-huh. Yeah, Minneapolis. No, not Indianapolis. Minneapolis... The Vikings. The Twins. Timberwolves. Mall of America... Minnesota. Right, right, right... If you don’t mind, that would be dope...

Thanks.”

[Moxley unload the backpack from his shoulders and tosses it into the bed of the old pickup truck. The truck is a faded red color with the word “CHEVROLET” written on the tailgate. There’s noticeable spots of primer poking through various sports on the body of the truck. Moxley walks a few steps back to the passenger door and attempts to open it. His attempts are thwarted as he leans forward and tilts his head in seeming confusion.]

Jon Moxley ”Wiggle the handle?”

[Moxley attempts it once more, failing in his try.]

Jon Moxley ”Oh, from the inside?”

[Moxley reaches his hand into the passenger side’s window’s opening and pulls the handle from the inside. The door opens effortlessly. Moxley climbs into the cab, and the driver takes the car out of park and begins driving forward, heading to the destination, which now seems to be Minneapolis, Minnesota. The truck takes off as the headlights shine some clarity on what lies ahead down the road. The trucks drives out of view as the cameras cut to the interior of the old truck. Moxley cracks open a 16oz Red Bull as the driver, a middle-aged white haired man, drives in silence in the seat next to him.]

Driver ”Not too many folks walkin’ these roads nowadays. I used to run this stretch to get Mama groceries back when I was your age.”

Jon Moxley ”When you were 30? I find that highly unlikely.”

Driver ”30?! Well I reckon you’re right. I had you pegged for about 19 or so. Good genes ya got...”

Jon Moxley ”Oh yeah? Thanks. I think they’re just Wrangler...”

[Moxley makes a lazy attempt to look for the brand of the pants he’s currently wearing. The man glances at him and gives away his surprised confusion with the look on his face.]

Driver ”No, son, GENES. Genes. Not your jeans...”

Jon Moxley ”Oh.. yeah, yeah.”

[Moxley shrugs off the search for the brand, still not quite certain what the guy was referencing.]

Driver ”So where are you from, Son?”

Jon Moxley ”All over, really.”

Driver ”What about your birthplace? Where were you born?”

Jon Moxley ”I don’t know why you’re trying to bring my mom into this, but I don’t like it.”

Driver ”City and state, Son. What hospital?!”

Jon Moxley ”I don’t recall the hospital. Whatever the main on in Cincinnati is called I guess.”

Driver ”Ohio. Beautiful state. I’ve got some family there. Is that where yours lives still?”

Jon Moxley ”The one’s that aren’t dead..? Probably.”

[The driver’s face goes from curious to concerned after Mickey’s last sentence. He almost seems to hesitate in driving forward. Against his better judgement, the man just accelerates the car a little faster and continues onward.]

Jon Moxley ”What’s your name anyway?”

Driver ”Paul, Sir.”

Jon Moxley ”Sir? Paul, huh? Paul and Jon. Riding the open roads. Livin’ the dream. That’s us, right, Guy?”

Driver ”Beg your pardon?”

Jon Moxley ”Jon and Paul. That’s us. I’m Jon Moxley, and your name is Paul.”

Driver (Paul) ”Oh, like the Beatles?”

Jon Moxley ”I hate the f[bleep]in’ Beatles.”

Driver (Paul) ”Nobody hates the Beatles.”

Jon Moxley ”I do.”

Driver (Paul) ”Come on, young man. Nobody hates the Be—“

Jon Moxley ”I. DO.”

Driver (Paul) ”So you’re more of a Stones guy.”

Jon Moxley ”I’m more of a fan of anything produced in America. We’ve been trying to break away from those turds since the revolution, but they won’t have it. They’ve been waiting for America to fail ever since we smartened up and broke away. But it’s their failure. They failed at keeping us contained. They failed at shutting us up. They’ve failed at almost every corner because we do life better here. The American Dream is called the American Dream for a reason. It’s not the European Dream. It’s not the British Dream. It’s the American Dream, baby. Do you even know anything about hard times?!”

[The man again looks confused in the direction of where Moxley sits. Moxley starts spewing the untouchable words of Dusty Rhodes as if he was cutting the original “Hard Times” promo. But it’s plagiarism at its finest. And in a complimentary way, not to mention. The man grows nervous and readjusts his grip on the steering wheel while driving.]

Jon Moxley ”That’s hard times, Baby!”

Driver (Paul) ”You are extremely passionate about this whole Americana thing, aren’t you?”

Jon Moxley ”I just don’t like when someone makes an impression that we’re not already living in the greatest country on this planet. A country that stands for pride, liberty, and freedom. The country that dreams are built on! The views and beliefs fought for by our ancestors for us to reap the rewards of...”

Driver (Paul) ”I was just making a joke about how our names went along with the Beatles...“

Jon Moxley ”And that’s where the comparison ends. I’m not going to leave you for some batty, crazy Asian home wrecking bitch when things get weird between us. You’re not going to slap the bass well into your 80’s, looking like my grandma on a stage in front of thousands of people. We’re not going to sit here and collaborate while influenced on whatever drugs we can get our hands on. We’re not going to endorse the craptastic skills and abilities of up and comers to have our promotional speech blow up in our faces. We’re not going to do it, Paul.”

Driver (Paul) ”I didn’t say we were, Mr. Moxley.”

Jon Moxley ”Shut up and drive, Paul.”

[Paul seems taken aback by the response from his newfound passenger and stammers, looking for the right words to say.][/i]

Jon Moxley ”What you’re going to do is sit there and drive while I do all the talking now. Don’t misconstrue what I’m saying to you. I appreciate the lift, really, I do. But you don’t know half of anything we’ve discussed so far, so I don’t expect you to be able to pick up what else I’m about to lay down.”

“The EBWF has never seen anything quite like me, Paul. They’ve never known a man so cunning and critical at every turn. They’ve never seen the way a championship lights up my face. They’ve never seen the heinous acts I’m willing to go through in order to reach the pentacle of this company. They’ve never heard of who I am or what I’m about. And even so... I’m about to rewrite all of nonetheless. I’ve met barbed wire. I know the sound of lightbulbs as they crack over the side of my head and ear. I’m willing to part ways with unnecessary teeth I’m holding in my mouth. Broken bones and shattered dreams are my speciality.

Perhaps I’m not the guy. Maybe I’m not some beast incarnate. The lunatic fringe doesn’t really hold any mass appeal to me. I’m the guy who is going to keep making waves and continue working his way to the top of the industry. And what better place to prove it than this week against Marty Scrull, the warrior king? Scrull the warrior king will have no idea what hit him. Meanwhile I’ll know it was my boot. And that it was his face. I’m better than a lot of superstars who can’t even hold my jock. I’m better than the days of yore starring Ric Flair and Harley Race. I’m better than any showstopper, icon, or main event who’s been placed on a card anywhere before. Paul... I’m better than mustard on a corn dog. And you and I both know that ain’t nothin’ better than mustard on a corn dog. Isn’t that right, Paul?”

Driver (Paul ”That’s... that’s right, Mr. Moxley.”

Jon Moxley [scratching his beard] ”That’s right. Right.....

Except me. In that ring. Every. Single. Time.”

[The camera pans out to the back of the truck driving down the long stretch of road as the scene and music fades out.]