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Cort at Home Part 2: Old Jets


Cort Marshall

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Location: Luke Air Force Base. We’re in a hangar, with Cort walking towards an old F-16, being worked on at the moment. A man in his mid fourties is examining the jets, marking down on his clipboard as he does. Cort smiles, raises a hand.

 

Cort: Heya chief!

 

The man doesn’t look up, continuing to scribble.

 

Chief: That’s SIR if you have any self-preservation instin--hey, wait a minute.

 

He puts the pen down and turns, scowl turning into a grin as he sees Cort.

 

Chief: Cort Marshall! As I live and breathe!

 

Cort: Ah, that’s no way to greet an old friend!

 

Chief: You’re right… soldier, your uniform is ALL out of order! Drop and give me twenty!

 

Cort: Well I could. But I wouldn’t want to make you look bad!

 

They laugh and hug. A MANLY hug. Like two trucks.

 

Chief: I thought you were making it big in the big apple! What brought you back here?

 

Cort: You ain’t been watchin’ the shows, then!

 

He laughs, a bit sadly. The mechanic scratches his thinning, frizzy hair sheepishly.

 

Chief: Well, you know…

 

Cort puts both hands in front.

 

Cort: I know, I know. Boxing, your first love and only date. If they’re not wearing gloves and bouncing on their feet you don’t wanna see it.

 

Chief: I’m a man of tradition!

 

Cort waves at the old jet.

 

Cort: So I see. Got tired of being out there in the sh*t, eh? Keeping the dinosaur fleet in good shape?

 

Chief: The best! And you know--when whatever fancy new flavor of the week they spend 80 billion on starts screwin’ the pooch--right back here is where they’re gonna come.

 

He pats the jet on the tail.

 

Chief: Back to the tried-and-true. No society ever moved past chicken sandwiches.

 

Cort shakes his head.

 

Cort: Wishful thinkin’, don’t you figure? Everything gets outmoded eventually. Some things age like disco, some like rock ‘n’ roll, but everything goes outta style.

 

Chief: Heh, you talkin’ about us or the planes!

 

Cort shrugs.

 

Cort: Wrestling doesn’t really have a retirement plan…

 

The chief winces.

 

Chief: Me, I got a nice pension coming… but what are you talking about, you’re in damn good shape for…

 

He rolls his hand around, trying to think.

Cort: Thirty-eight.

 

Chief: Yeah! You don’t look a day over 36 and a half!

 

Seeing Cort not crack a smile in response, he tries a different tack.

 

Chief: Look, I ain’t jokin’. Some guys around here would probably do worse in PT than you and they’re 20-something.

 

Cort smirks.

 

Cort: Like Myron back then?

 

Chief: EXACTLY. Like. Myron. You oughtta see it, man--there’s thirty, fourty Myrons around here. ‘Course they ain’t named Myron anymore. They got names like Eden and Doink and Beheverlay… millennials. Tell you what! Lose the cameras and we go out drinking tonight.

 

Cort: Your old lady’s fine with that? What about your blood sugar?

 

 

Chief: Special occasion. Trust me, you are gonna love the stories…

 

Cort: And you aren’t gonna believe HALF of mine.

 

Chief: Don’t be so sure!

 

He claps Cort on the back and we fade out, with Cort still talking.

 

Cort: No, no, a guy lived in a box for literal weeks. WEEKS! Then he became a top champion…

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