(As the camera fades in, we open up inside a small, dark and dingy apartment. The place is a mess. Dirty clothes and empty beer cans litter the floor. Pizza boxes lay open on the coffee table. Our main man, Mr. Mystery, sporting a short beard now, lays sprawled out on the couch. Sauce is splattered on  his bare belly. He reaches down sleepily to scratch his nuts through his three day old whitey tighteys that aren't so white anymore.)

(A knock at his door disturbs him from sleep, but he just rolls onto his side, giving us a clear view of the crack of his ass and a skid mark visible through the cotton. There is rapping again, this time more or less pounding. Exasperated, Mr. Mystery gets to his feet. He trudges across the room, kicking aside any trash in his way. When he opens the door, Mr. Mystery's old buddy, Cal, is standing there. You know, the guy from Mr. Mystery's tryout promo? Ah yes, of course you don't remember him. Geeky guy in glasses? Not so memorable.)

Cal: Hey Mystery, what's-

(Before he finishes his sentence, Mr. Mystery slams the door in his bespectacled face. He turns on his heel to head back to the couch, but because he forgot to lock the door, Cal walks inside.)

Mr. Mystery: Go away Cal, I don't feel like hanging out.

Cal: Holy moly! This place is a mess! When was the last time you cleaned?

Mr. Mystery: Listen here you four eyed fruit topping, I lost my job. I am in no mood.

(When Mr. Mystery reaches the couch, he plops down with a puff of dust whooshing into the air. Cal navigates through the mess to take a seat on a broken wooden chair. Compared to Mr. Mystery, Cal, with his "got ram?" T-shirt and khaki shorts that barely make it to his mid thigh and shin high tube socks, looks put together.)

Cal: You lost your job?

Mr. Mystery: (sigh) Yeah. Apparently, though I don't know how this is possible, I didn't impress with my tryout match. They said I looked like a chicken with its head cut off and that I clearly lied about ever having ever actually wrestled a match. Which would be correct on both accounts. But "chicken with its head cut off" is my style! I perfected it myself, did you know that?

Cal: No. But I heard Denrol saying something on the phone that a dead fish can take a flop better then you.

(Mr. Mystery looks even more distraught.)

Mr. Mystery: I put one hundred percent effort into that match. I took a chair shot for no reason from that Mongolian jackass.

Cal: He is Japanese.

Mr. Mystery: Same thing, they all look alike. Anyway, I even won the damn match! Hey, a win is a win, right Cal?

Cal: Right!

Mr. Mystery: So tell me, where do those butt boogers get off firing me before I was even hired?

(Cal shrugs as Mr. Mystery stands up. He walks over to Cal and stands in front of him. His weiner is dangling against his underwear, pushing through a bit, right in Cal's face. Cal doesn't know how to react.)

Mr. Mystery: They didn't even think about the fact I left my other job for this gig. There is good money in being people's bitch. Now? I'll never be able to afford to live in this dump. I wasn't able to have a hot shower in months because I couldn't afford electricity. With no job, I am darn well F'ed in the A.

(All the while Mr. Mystery is talking and gesturing, his weiner wags up and down against his underwear in front of Cal's eyes. He wants to look away but he can't. It is quite mesmerizing.)

Mr. Mystery: Although, I have to admit Denrol is a good man. There is a soft spot in that soul of his, I'm sure of it. If he says that I can't wrestle out of a pair of pants, then there is no hope for me.

(Dejectedly Mr. Mystery moves back to the couch and sits down. Cal is now out of his trance and able to rejoin the convo.)

Cal: Maybe there is a chance that you can convcince them to let you wrestle one more time. If not as another tryout, then at least for a little bit of cash.

Mr. Mystery: Hmmm...that might work. But what reasons are there for them to do that?

(They both sit for a good while, brainstorming. Every once in awhile one of them will put a finger in the air in a "ah-ha!" way, but they would quickly shake their head, ultimately deciding that there is no good reason, not one.)

(Except...)

Mr. Mystery: I got it! I could threaten to sue them for pain and suffering that was caused after taking that chair shot!

Cal: Didn't you sign a waiver?

(There goes that idea.)

Mr. Mystery: I have to do something. I can't just stand around in my underwear, fiddling with my ass and sniffing my finger all day. I am going to march down there, and demand they give me another match!

Cal: Go Mystery, go!

Mr. Mystery: Whether they make me wrestle the WWA champion himself, or even that guy they just signed...what was his name?

Cal: I have no idea who you're talking about.

(Mr. Mystery scratches his head in thought.)

Mr. Mystery: Starts with an A right? Allen? Alex? Damn, I forget his last name too. Dribble? Ah, it doesn't matter. The point is, I may not be the most skilled, but NOBODY...does the chicken with it's head cut off better than me. That is no mystery.

(Cal looks at Mr. Mystery skeptically.)

Cal: Was that your catchphrase?

Mr. Mystery:(smiling) Yeah, do you like it?

Cal: Yeah! Did you come up with it yourself?

Mr. Mystery: Yeah! Think I should keep using it?

Cal: Yeah!

(Mr. Mystery gives Cal a hard high five. After it, Cal shakes out his stinging hand, mouthing the word "ow." Mr. Mystery doesn't even notice. He is so jacked up, he sprints towards his room, tripping over some of the trash. He pops back to his feet, brushing off debris. After he shuts the door behind him, he emerges ten minutes later wearing an ill-fitting, one size too small suit. It looks quite ridiculous with him also wearing his question mark mask.)

Cal: Whoa, awesome suit. Where did you get it?

Mr. Mystery: Boscov's for fifty bucks. Gotta look snazzy while I am fighting for my job.

Cal: Can I come with you?

(For a couple of seconds Mr. Mystery thinks about that.)

Mr. Mystery: Yes, but you have to wear a suit too.

Cal: Ok.

(Mr. Mystery's leads Cal into his room. Inside we hear them giggling. When they come back out, Cal is wearing a suit that fits him surprisngly well. He is also donning a pair of slick shades. I'll be damned if Cal doesn't actually look kissable on the mouth with no tongue.)

Cal: I can't see without my glasses, Mystery!

Mr. Mystery: Don't sweat it, homie. You look stylin' bro.

Cal: But I can't see.

Mr. Mystery: Sorry to tell you, but if you want to roll with me, you gotta look the part. Sooner or later we'll have to get you a mask, too. Maybe a Chewbacca or Yoda mask.

Cal: That would be sick.

Mr. Mystery: I know.

(Mr. Mystery heads on over to his bathroom mirror, where he checks himself out. He turns his head, looking at himself at different angles. He smiles toothily, making sure there is no gunk in his teeth. After everything checks out good, he faces Cal.)

Mr. Mystery: Ok, this is the plan. We are going to Beckett's office, we're going to kick down her damn door if we have to, go right up to her, look her in the eye and demand another tryout match...OR ELSE...

Cal: Or else what?

Mr. Mystery: Hrmm. Good question. We'll figure it out along the way. C'mon. You got your bus pass?

Cal: Yep.

Mr. Mystery: Ok, let's do this shit!

(In a macho fashion, both men give each other a nice chest bump, Cal almost falling backwards on his ass. He catches himself at the last moment. Mr. Mystery just shakes his head. Together, the men head off onto their quest to keep Mr. Mystery out of the bread line. The scene fades to black.)