Fear Kevin T. Pyromaniac
[Trey Vincent's black Jeep Grand Cherokee™ braked to a stop outside of a large garage at the Pubic Storage center. Now, that wasn't a typo, sadly, that's what the large sign says. From the passenger side, out stepped Misty Waters, who put on some sunglasses to deal with the blinding mostly cloudy day. From the driver's seat stepped Trey Vincent, fumbling with some keys.]
TV: Thanks for coming with me, Misty.
MW: No problem, Trey. Though that is a convenient thing to say, just as we step outside.
TV: Well, I was busy enjoying my DevilDriver comp I downloaded.
MW: What?
TV: Very funny. It wasn’t that loud. So, this should be it. Garage number 66.
MW: That’s another odd coincidence, isn’t it?
TV: Why?
MW: Just seems like there’s a whole bunch of 66’s and 666’s going on around BOB right now.
TV: Please. If you knew who edited the shit out of the Bible, you wouldn’t even think twice about such stupid numbers.
MW: Zuh?
TV: Another conversation, another time.
[Trey approaches the garage door and unlocks a padlock. He pulls up the door to reveal tons and tons of boxes, and some covered furniture.]
MW: Well…at least she didn’t sell it, right? And by she, I of course mean Michelle, your ex-wife.
TV: What’s with the weird narration? As if I don’t know you were referring to my ex-wife Michelle when you said she. Who else would have put all of my old belongings into storage in such a cheap-ass storage facility in Minnesota? So what did you do in the rental car? You too lazy to cut a promo? And did douja taste like a Tootsie Roll™?
MW: Wow, look at that. A box!
TV: I’d like to see your box.
MW: I’m sure you would.
TV: I bet it’s not nearly as dusty as these. Note to self: possible gimmick…Dusty Box. The son of a mover, if ya wheeeeel.
MW: Please. It’s not like you’re ever going to get your old job back anyway.
TV: Oh really? It just so happens that I’m working on that right now. I’m in super-secret negotiations….wow…look at this. It’s all my old BOB VCR tapes.
MW: *Sigh* You gonna get all sad about Sarah “The Jobber Slayer” again? Because, honestly, I don’t want to hear you weeping the entire drive back to Sin City. You’ve got a match to worry about, and I’ve got some stuff to do as well.
TV: Ah, right. You’re special referee in a certain match, aren’t you? A certain title match?
MW: Uh-huh…
TV: Make sure Michelle doesn’t get off easy.
MW: Will do, bud.
TV: Thanks. I’ve got to deal with Dr. Thrilla in a Rock, Paper, Scissors match. And that’s why we’re here.
[Misty looks down at what Trey is doing.]
MW: Most pointless trip ever. You couldn’t go to a local store, or anywhere outside, and pick this shit up?
TV: Hell no. These are special. Plus, I needed my video tapes. And I can’t pick those up at a store. Bitch.
MW: Fucker. How did you afford all the gas for this trip?
TV: Credit cards, Misty. Credit cards.
MW: How can you get credit cards?
TV: Me? I can’t. But…(he opens up his wallet)…Kevin T. Pyromaniac sure can.
MW: Oh no! You didn’t!
TV: What? You thought me having an office job wouldn’t result in identity theft? Please.
MW: Trey!
TV: Misty!
MW: You can’t steal people’s identities!
TV: You’re no fun. Now let’s get back to Sin City. We’ve got a long drive. *Sniff* And I miss Sarah!
MW: Awwww…you want a sympathy BJ?
TV: Yeah?
MW: Too bad. Drive.
TV: D’oh! Some day I’ll break you down.
[Misty laughs, as Trey pulls down the garage door and locks it.]
TV: Next month, I’m gonna have to rent a truck and get the rest of this stuff to Sin City. I’m thinking of getting a place there. You know…I could use a roommate…
MW: Seriously?
TV: And a showermate.
MW: (Smiling) Get in the car. We’ll talk…
TV: I can teach you how some bra taking tricks…