Production Meeting

The camera opens to two men in black button-downs with OCW patches sitting at a conference table, facing the door. They chat with each other for a moment before a knock is heard. The two men stare at one another wide-eyed with excited smiles before turning towards the door.

Production Assistant 1: Come in!

The door opens and Harris Turner walks in dressed in a suit and tie.

Production Assistant 2: Have a seat, Harris. Do you want some water?

Harris Turner: I'm good, thank you.

Harris pulls out a chair at the opposite end of the table and takes a seat, self-consciously adjusting his tie. The first production assistant fishes around under the table and pulls out a three-inch binder, placing it on the table.

Production Assistant 1: Harris... how do I put this? You have, just like...

Production Assistant 2: An unbe-fucking-lievable opportunity.

Production Assistant 1: Yes. An unbelieveable opportunity. You're a former pro football player, you swept your S-Cup block defeating a world champ and former championship contenders...

Production Assistant 2: And you're a rookie! You just got here! People are interested in you, they want to see you. Hear from you. And this binder...

He places his pointer on top of the three-inch binder.

Production Assistant 2: We've got plans, merch, attires, a whole goddamn smorgasbord that will make you a superstar beyond your wildest dreams.

The man slides the binder down the table, which lands near Harris.

Production Assistant 1: Your mind will be blown. Just take a look, cover-to-cover, and you'll see what you can truly accomplish here in the infinite years you have left. Paul Pugh? Nate Ortiz? Blown out. You'll be bigger than they ever were.

Harris looks down at the binder, flipping through the pages cautiously.

Production Assistant 2: So, what do you say? Let us take the reigns for you, you won't have to do a thing but sit back and do what you do.

The production assistants look at Harris with devious smiles as Harris slowly closes the binder and looks back at them. He takes a deep breath through his nose and out through his mouth.

Harris Turner: You know, I don't belong here.

The air settles in the room as the devious look on the assistants' faces slowly turns to confusion.

Production Assistant 2: What was that?

Harris Turner: I said I don't belong here. I'm a rookie, you said it. I wanted to come here and learn, have great matches. That's my MO. But everything just came at me, I'm not better than Quartz or Parca. It's just one big streak of luck.

Production Assistant 1: What? No. No, no, no, you're talented!

Harris Turner: Am I, buddy?

Harris lightly slides the binder back towards the assistants.

Harris Turner: I'm not gonna do this, not right now. I want to prove myself, and a couple fluke wins isn't the way to build whatever it is y'all want.

Harris stands up from his seat.

Production Assistant 2: So just like that? We're offering you an opportunity of a lifetime and you're just gonna walk out? We built you an insane entrance for the finals, damn you!

Harris Turner: I don't want an insane entrance or a gazillion dollars. What happens if I lose the finals, huh? And the next match, and the next match. All up in smoke, and none of it happens. Not to mention, an insane entrance? No, I'll give you an insane entrance. Something that matters.

Harris heads towards the door and arrives before PA1 stands up from his seat.

Production Assistant 1: Fuck you!

Harris turns back around to see PA2 begging PA1 to back off, but PA1 stands his ground.

Harris Turner: God bless you.

Harris turns the other cheek and leaves the room, as PA1 bangs on the table and yells obscenities. The camera fades to black.