Post by A.C. Smith on Jan 9, 2013 17:36:54 GMT -4
Our scene opens today not in an England hotel room, but in the New York City penthouse of A.C. Smith. It's a little shocking, to be sure, but even more shocking is what we're seeing the APW Xtreme Champion doing as we fade up from black.
Smith isn't working out, nor is he kibbutzing with his friends Bobby the Bavarian Man-Bitch and Stevie the Slovakian Slobberknocker. Instead, he's doing dishes in an apron while Bobby and Stevie sit at a small white table and gobble down cereal from ceramic bowls by the spoonful, only occasionally stopping to wipe the white mil that drips off their chins down to the floor.
Bobby: (between bites) “So you're here for some charity thing. I get that. But what's with the housewife act?”
Stevie: “Yeah, really.”
A.C.: “Two reasons, boys. One, I've always cooked something up for the NYPD's annual Police Benevolent Association dinner, and I'm not going to let the England tour get in the way of something I'll do every year until I die.
Two...well, I kinda find this therapeutic.”
Bobby and Stevie laugh, but Smith isn't amused.
A.C.: “Seriously, though. I've tried being angry. That didn't work last week against Mark Mania, and all I've got to show for my efforts are bruises that are just NOW starting to heal. This week, to say it gets no easier is a gross understatement.”
Silence takes over the room for a minute.
A.C.: “What, cat got your tongues?”
Bobby: “No, just surprised.”
A.C.: “How so?”
Stevie: “Well, this is sort of unlike you...”
Smith turns off the water. Suddenly, all of his attention goes to Bobby and Stevie, but while there's a noticeable uptick in his voice's intensity when he opens his mouth to speak, he's very much in control of himself and his delivery.
A.C.: “You know what's unlike me? Losing, and losing matches I should be winning. Mark Mania's the Overdrive Champion, sure, but I beat him last year in the lead-up to Test for the Best, and with it being a hardcore match, this was supposed to be my way to establish myself as an Xtreme Champion who doesn't have designs on losing the title anytime soon.
Well, me getting angry, me beating the crap out of some punching bag, and me going into, 'Hulk angry, Hulk smash,' mode didn't exactly work for me. This week, I get a guy who's a surefire APW Hall of Famer, one of the guys who I specifically came to APW for the chance of having a match with. And if my actions backfired against Mark Mania, they've got NO chance of working against Level-One.”
Bobby: “But Level-One's a jackass.”
Stevie: “Yeah, dude. You oughta be frothing at the mouth for a piece of him.”
Smith shrugs.
A.C.: “I am. Like I've been saying, the reason I came back to the ring was for dream matches that I've never had before. This is one of them, and in it, I get a chance to do something not a lot of people have been able to do: For a few minutes, at least, shut Level-One up.
But anyone that's been successful in doing that has been grounded. They haven't allowed themselves to get carried away with how much of a shithead he might be, and they haven't blinded themselves by thinking his bark is more dangerous than his bite. Personality aside, Level-One's done as much in the ring as anyone I've ever faced or will face going forward, and I'd be kidding myself if I believed otherwise.
I'm not going to allow myself to be intimidated by Level-One. 75% of his wins, I'd venture, have come before the match even starts. He psychs his opponents out by verbally twisting the knife or intimidating them with visions of what he's done in the past. I'm not going to let him do that, and if he tries, he's barking up the wrong tree.”
Smith turns his attention to the dishes in a drainer near the sink, and begins putting them away in wood cabinets above the kitchen counter.
A.C.: “Just because I took two days out of my schedule to fly back to New York and do something for New York's finest doesn't mean I haven't been training. In that gym, I'm the same Big Apple Asskicker that's been in prime physical shape for over 10 years. But I won't allow myself to be intimidated by Level-One by giving off the impression that all I am is a gym rat and all I do is immerse myself into my matches and my workouts.
I'm the rarity in wrestling, a complete man who has everything he could ever ask for. Level-One's got a lot, but if he thinks he's better than me because he's carrying some briefcase around, he's in for a REALLY rude awakening.
My point is this: I know what I'm getting myself into. I know what I'm doing leading up to it. Between now and when that bell rings Thursday night in jolly old England, unlike a lot of people he's faced and beaten, Level-One can't get in my head. And in me approaching this match the way that I am, I've already lasted longer with him than some of APW's best have.”
Smith finishes putting the clean dishes and glasses away, and the oven to his left beeps several times. He puts a glove on his right hand, opens the door to the inside of the oven, and pulls out a perfectly-seasoned turkey with all the trimmings. He smiles as he puts it on the counter, and even Bobby and Stevie are somewhat impressed by their friend's culinary contribution.
A.C.: “Let me go get changed and then we can head on over.”
Smith takes two steps away from the counter, but sees Bobby and Stevie going to take a much closer look at the bird out of the corner of his eye. Without turning around, he stops and issues a stern warning.
A.C.: “Either of you morons so much as TOUCH that turkey, and I'll roast YOU.”
Knowing they've been caught, Bobby and Stevie roll their eyes, sitting back down as Smith leaves the kitchen. They each begin reading newspapers that are on the table as our scene fades to black.
---
We come back about half an hour later, and Smith's red Lamborghini Diablo pulls up outside a banquet hall in what looks to be a sleepy suburb of New York City. Bobby and Stevie are already outside the building, and Smith parks the car and exits it, roasted turkey in hand.
The trio walks into the building, and are immediately greeted with cheers from the dozens of current and former police officers inside. Some are at a bar that's been set up in front of two LCD television sets showing SportsCenter, while others are at the buffet line, one that gets more robust when Smith places the turkey at one end of it.
Suddenly, something catches Smith's eye.
A.C.: “Boys, go mingle. I'll catch up with you in a bit.”
Bobby: “Something wrong?”
A.C.: “Far from it.”
Smith takes a few steps, and we see that he's eying a woman. She's in her mid-30's, about 5'8” with a slender build, long brown hair, and a black dress accentuating her curves.
A.C.: “Roxy! You made it!”
Woman: “Yeah. They're giving me an award for lasting four years as your partner; you think I'd MISS that?!”
Smith rolls his eyes at the joke, but the two share a friendly hug and they both seem ecstatic to see each other.
A.C.: “Still haven't lost your touch, huh, Roxanne? How's life in Baltimore?”
Roxanne: “The normal. Busy kids, annoying ex-husband, still single, can't go to bars because God forbid any woman over 30 be in shape with a decent rack and resent being called a cougar. Yourself?”
A.C.: “Same. Well, the normal part at least. Came home to come here, going back to England on a red-eye tonight for a show tomorrow. Staying there for a couple of weeks because of the big show at the end of the month.”
Roxanne: “Survive and Conquer, right? You against 99 other guys. Should be a piece of cake.”
Smith manages a slight smile, but shakes his head just a bit.
Roxanne: “Oh come on, it was a joke. Can an old lady buy you a drink?”
A.C.: “I don't accept gifts from old ladies. Now COUGARS...”
Roxanne playfully punches Smith on the arm as they both laugh.
A.C.: “I'll take a Michelob Ultra.”
Roxanne: “Figured as much.”
She pulls a bottle of the beer off of the bar and hands it to her old partner.
Roxanne: “Your reliability is a plus. I always did know what you were thinking.”
A.C.: “Fine. What am I thinking now?”
Roxanne: “That your guard's up. Not like that's anything new. Remember when we were in an unmarked car and you got pulled over for speeding? I still tell the story of you trying to get that poor kid who got us sued for obstruction of justice!”
A.C.: “You tell that story?! GREAT. I guess I oughta start telling people about us sending you into a strip club as a dancer when we needed information on a pimp.”
Roxanne: “Just drink your damn beer and shut up!”
Smith smiles, but takes a big glug and puts the bottle down on a coaster at the bar.
A.C.: “Ah, we had some good times, didn’t we?”
Roxanne: “Good times. That’s an interesting way to put it. 18-hour shifts, having to deal with the scum of the earth, putting up with lawyers who don’t know when to shut up? I’ll take my life working at a bank in Baltimore, thanks.
I mean, you left under bad circumstances, but in hindsight, you’re doing something every teenage kid would love to do, and you’ve done it for 10 years. You’ve got the big thing coming up at the end of the month, and you’ve got a big match this week you’re flying halfway across the world for. You’re telling me things didn’t work out for you once you put your papers in?”
Smith pauses.
A.C.: “Never thought of it that way. Guess you’re right.”
Roxanne: “I usually am.”
A.C.: “And you’re modest, too; has anyone ever told you that?”
She smiles.
Roxanne: “So this match this week. Who’s this Level-One guy?”
A.C.: “About the biggest jerk in the business. Unfortunately, a bunch of really good wrestlers have tried to beat him and failed because they didn’t realize he had the goods in the ring to back up what he said. They’ve gone in gung-ho without any strategy, and usually Level-One ends the night louder than he was when Overdrive started.”
Roxanne: “Sounds like you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
A.C.: “Make no mistake, I do. But unlike a lot of people in my line of work, I acknowledge it’s going to be one of the toughest fights of my life. You know as well as anyone else that I don’t lose fights that take place between the ears. My mind’s right for this, Roxy, and anyone who says it’s not needs to have THEIRS examined.”
Smith gulps the rest of his beer and gently puts the glass back down on the coaster. After a slight burp, he continues.
A.C.: “I’m as right as I’ve ever been. I’m not sure how often you check the results or watch the shows, but I actually won a title a few weeks ago. And with Survive and Conquer coming up, I can’t afford to be at anything less than my best for these next couple of weeks. You know as well as anyone that when I set my mind to something…”
Roxanne: “It gets done. You don’t need to convince me of anything.”
Pause.
Roxanne: “I still owe you.”
A.C.: “No, you don’t. You’re getting help, right?”
Roxanne: “Yeah. Have been since it happened.”
A.C.: “I was your partner. Your husband was…”
Roxanne: “An asshole who’s still trying to get money from me.”
A.C.: “Sheesh. Anyway, partner’s code. You’d have done the same for me.”
Roxanne: “I don’t know if I’d have caused her to have her testicles rupture.”
Smith chuckles.
A.C.: “Bastard got what he deserved. How’re the kids?”
Roxanne: “Good. Bobby’s in seventh grade, Stevie’s in fifth.”
The irony isn’t lost on anyone in the room, especially when Bobby and Stevie waddle over to the bar, clearly under some form of liquid encouragement.
Bobby: “ROXY!!!”
Stevie: “What’s cookin’, good-lookin’?”
A.C.: “As you can tell, their pick-up lines are as refined as ever. How did you guys…”
Bobby: “Liquid flasks, baby!”
A.C.: “You realize my Lambo’s only got two seats, right?”
Suddenly, Bobby and Stevie’s faces go white.
Roxanne: “A.C., what do you figure a cab from here to Manhattan costs?”
A.C.: “Geez, at least a hundred bucks. Hope you two brought money!”
Stevie: “Does the bar sell coffee? I’ll take three in the biggest glass you’ve got!”
Roxanne can’t help but smile as two guys she clearly knows well try to get their act together.
A.C.: “Roxy, when do you fly back?”
Roxanne: “Tonight, right after this.”
A.C.: “You need a lift? I’ll drop you off at La Guardia on my way home.”
Roxanne: “Sure it’s not an issue?”
A.C.: “For my old partner? Not at all!”
Roxanne: “Cool. Go get something to eat. I’ll see you later.”
Smith smirks and makes his way to the buffet line as our scene again fades to black.
---
We fade up on Smith behind the wheel of his Lamborghini. Roxanne’s riding shotgun, and the two are laughing.
A.C.: “I’m happy you came up. I still talk to the Captain, you know.”
Roxanne: “He still running his coffee shop on the Upper East Side?”
A.C.: “You know it. Now THERE’S a guy at peace with himself. You’d never know he’s had to kill people. Then again, I don’t think he’s ever in any hurry to disclose that.”
Roxanne shakes her head. A few seconds pass as Smith bears right off of the highway next to a sign that says, “Welcome to La Guardia International Airport.”
The car pulls up to a terminal and comes to a semi-abrupt stop. Smith gets out and goes to the car’s miniscule trunk, which is still big enough to house Roxanne’s small suitcase.
A.C.: “Well, this is your terminal. Thanks for coming.”
Roxanne: “Thanks for the lift.”
In a scene out of every single romantic comedy ever made, neither person moves, despite this being an appropriate time to part company.
Roxanne: “A.C., do you ever think about…”
A.C.: “Never would’ve worked. Whatever we may have had would’ve gotten in the way of the job.”
Roxanne nods, though that visibly wasn’t the answer she wanted.
A.C.: “Besides, you’re the one person I’ve NEVER won an argument with. And sooner or later, I wouldn’t have been able to take it anymore.”
Roxanne manages a meek smile, but looks off into the distance. The two hug, but Roxy steals a peck on the cheek.
Roxanne: “I guess one night was enough. I’ll see you, A.C.”
She slips through the sliding doors and walks away, with Smith semi-befuddled at the situation. Despite any sexual tension the two may have had while working together, he’d been able to shelve those emotions while on the job…for the most part.
After a few seconds, though, Smith snaps out of it, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.
A.C.: “Christ, I miss my gym.”
Smith quickly moves to the driver’s side of the car, turning it on and driving away. He gains speed after a split-second or two, and his car gets smaller and smaller as the scene fades to black.
Smith isn't working out, nor is he kibbutzing with his friends Bobby the Bavarian Man-Bitch and Stevie the Slovakian Slobberknocker. Instead, he's doing dishes in an apron while Bobby and Stevie sit at a small white table and gobble down cereal from ceramic bowls by the spoonful, only occasionally stopping to wipe the white mil that drips off their chins down to the floor.
Bobby: (between bites) “So you're here for some charity thing. I get that. But what's with the housewife act?”
Stevie: “Yeah, really.”
A.C.: “Two reasons, boys. One, I've always cooked something up for the NYPD's annual Police Benevolent Association dinner, and I'm not going to let the England tour get in the way of something I'll do every year until I die.
Two...well, I kinda find this therapeutic.”
Bobby and Stevie laugh, but Smith isn't amused.
A.C.: “Seriously, though. I've tried being angry. That didn't work last week against Mark Mania, and all I've got to show for my efforts are bruises that are just NOW starting to heal. This week, to say it gets no easier is a gross understatement.”
Silence takes over the room for a minute.
A.C.: “What, cat got your tongues?”
Bobby: “No, just surprised.”
A.C.: “How so?”
Stevie: “Well, this is sort of unlike you...”
Smith turns off the water. Suddenly, all of his attention goes to Bobby and Stevie, but while there's a noticeable uptick in his voice's intensity when he opens his mouth to speak, he's very much in control of himself and his delivery.
A.C.: “You know what's unlike me? Losing, and losing matches I should be winning. Mark Mania's the Overdrive Champion, sure, but I beat him last year in the lead-up to Test for the Best, and with it being a hardcore match, this was supposed to be my way to establish myself as an Xtreme Champion who doesn't have designs on losing the title anytime soon.
Well, me getting angry, me beating the crap out of some punching bag, and me going into, 'Hulk angry, Hulk smash,' mode didn't exactly work for me. This week, I get a guy who's a surefire APW Hall of Famer, one of the guys who I specifically came to APW for the chance of having a match with. And if my actions backfired against Mark Mania, they've got NO chance of working against Level-One.”
Bobby: “But Level-One's a jackass.”
Stevie: “Yeah, dude. You oughta be frothing at the mouth for a piece of him.”
Smith shrugs.
A.C.: “I am. Like I've been saying, the reason I came back to the ring was for dream matches that I've never had before. This is one of them, and in it, I get a chance to do something not a lot of people have been able to do: For a few minutes, at least, shut Level-One up.
But anyone that's been successful in doing that has been grounded. They haven't allowed themselves to get carried away with how much of a shithead he might be, and they haven't blinded themselves by thinking his bark is more dangerous than his bite. Personality aside, Level-One's done as much in the ring as anyone I've ever faced or will face going forward, and I'd be kidding myself if I believed otherwise.
I'm not going to allow myself to be intimidated by Level-One. 75% of his wins, I'd venture, have come before the match even starts. He psychs his opponents out by verbally twisting the knife or intimidating them with visions of what he's done in the past. I'm not going to let him do that, and if he tries, he's barking up the wrong tree.”
Smith turns his attention to the dishes in a drainer near the sink, and begins putting them away in wood cabinets above the kitchen counter.
A.C.: “Just because I took two days out of my schedule to fly back to New York and do something for New York's finest doesn't mean I haven't been training. In that gym, I'm the same Big Apple Asskicker that's been in prime physical shape for over 10 years. But I won't allow myself to be intimidated by Level-One by giving off the impression that all I am is a gym rat and all I do is immerse myself into my matches and my workouts.
I'm the rarity in wrestling, a complete man who has everything he could ever ask for. Level-One's got a lot, but if he thinks he's better than me because he's carrying some briefcase around, he's in for a REALLY rude awakening.
My point is this: I know what I'm getting myself into. I know what I'm doing leading up to it. Between now and when that bell rings Thursday night in jolly old England, unlike a lot of people he's faced and beaten, Level-One can't get in my head. And in me approaching this match the way that I am, I've already lasted longer with him than some of APW's best have.”
Smith finishes putting the clean dishes and glasses away, and the oven to his left beeps several times. He puts a glove on his right hand, opens the door to the inside of the oven, and pulls out a perfectly-seasoned turkey with all the trimmings. He smiles as he puts it on the counter, and even Bobby and Stevie are somewhat impressed by their friend's culinary contribution.
A.C.: “Let me go get changed and then we can head on over.”
Smith takes two steps away from the counter, but sees Bobby and Stevie going to take a much closer look at the bird out of the corner of his eye. Without turning around, he stops and issues a stern warning.
A.C.: “Either of you morons so much as TOUCH that turkey, and I'll roast YOU.”
Knowing they've been caught, Bobby and Stevie roll their eyes, sitting back down as Smith leaves the kitchen. They each begin reading newspapers that are on the table as our scene fades to black.
---
We come back about half an hour later, and Smith's red Lamborghini Diablo pulls up outside a banquet hall in what looks to be a sleepy suburb of New York City. Bobby and Stevie are already outside the building, and Smith parks the car and exits it, roasted turkey in hand.
The trio walks into the building, and are immediately greeted with cheers from the dozens of current and former police officers inside. Some are at a bar that's been set up in front of two LCD television sets showing SportsCenter, while others are at the buffet line, one that gets more robust when Smith places the turkey at one end of it.
Suddenly, something catches Smith's eye.
A.C.: “Boys, go mingle. I'll catch up with you in a bit.”
Bobby: “Something wrong?”
A.C.: “Far from it.”
Smith takes a few steps, and we see that he's eying a woman. She's in her mid-30's, about 5'8” with a slender build, long brown hair, and a black dress accentuating her curves.
A.C.: “Roxy! You made it!”
Woman: “Yeah. They're giving me an award for lasting four years as your partner; you think I'd MISS that?!”
Smith rolls his eyes at the joke, but the two share a friendly hug and they both seem ecstatic to see each other.
A.C.: “Still haven't lost your touch, huh, Roxanne? How's life in Baltimore?”
Roxanne: “The normal. Busy kids, annoying ex-husband, still single, can't go to bars because God forbid any woman over 30 be in shape with a decent rack and resent being called a cougar. Yourself?”
A.C.: “Same. Well, the normal part at least. Came home to come here, going back to England on a red-eye tonight for a show tomorrow. Staying there for a couple of weeks because of the big show at the end of the month.”
Roxanne: “Survive and Conquer, right? You against 99 other guys. Should be a piece of cake.”
Smith manages a slight smile, but shakes his head just a bit.
Roxanne: “Oh come on, it was a joke. Can an old lady buy you a drink?”
A.C.: “I don't accept gifts from old ladies. Now COUGARS...”
Roxanne playfully punches Smith on the arm as they both laugh.
A.C.: “I'll take a Michelob Ultra.”
Roxanne: “Figured as much.”
She pulls a bottle of the beer off of the bar and hands it to her old partner.
Roxanne: “Your reliability is a plus. I always did know what you were thinking.”
A.C.: “Fine. What am I thinking now?”
Roxanne: “That your guard's up. Not like that's anything new. Remember when we were in an unmarked car and you got pulled over for speeding? I still tell the story of you trying to get that poor kid who got us sued for obstruction of justice!”
A.C.: “You tell that story?! GREAT. I guess I oughta start telling people about us sending you into a strip club as a dancer when we needed information on a pimp.”
Roxanne: “Just drink your damn beer and shut up!”
Smith smiles, but takes a big glug and puts the bottle down on a coaster at the bar.
A.C.: “Ah, we had some good times, didn’t we?”
Roxanne: “Good times. That’s an interesting way to put it. 18-hour shifts, having to deal with the scum of the earth, putting up with lawyers who don’t know when to shut up? I’ll take my life working at a bank in Baltimore, thanks.
I mean, you left under bad circumstances, but in hindsight, you’re doing something every teenage kid would love to do, and you’ve done it for 10 years. You’ve got the big thing coming up at the end of the month, and you’ve got a big match this week you’re flying halfway across the world for. You’re telling me things didn’t work out for you once you put your papers in?”
Smith pauses.
A.C.: “Never thought of it that way. Guess you’re right.”
Roxanne: “I usually am.”
A.C.: “And you’re modest, too; has anyone ever told you that?”
She smiles.
Roxanne: “So this match this week. Who’s this Level-One guy?”
A.C.: “About the biggest jerk in the business. Unfortunately, a bunch of really good wrestlers have tried to beat him and failed because they didn’t realize he had the goods in the ring to back up what he said. They’ve gone in gung-ho without any strategy, and usually Level-One ends the night louder than he was when Overdrive started.”
Roxanne: “Sounds like you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
A.C.: “Make no mistake, I do. But unlike a lot of people in my line of work, I acknowledge it’s going to be one of the toughest fights of my life. You know as well as anyone else that I don’t lose fights that take place between the ears. My mind’s right for this, Roxy, and anyone who says it’s not needs to have THEIRS examined.”
Smith gulps the rest of his beer and gently puts the glass back down on the coaster. After a slight burp, he continues.
A.C.: “I’m as right as I’ve ever been. I’m not sure how often you check the results or watch the shows, but I actually won a title a few weeks ago. And with Survive and Conquer coming up, I can’t afford to be at anything less than my best for these next couple of weeks. You know as well as anyone that when I set my mind to something…”
Roxanne: “It gets done. You don’t need to convince me of anything.”
Pause.
Roxanne: “I still owe you.”
A.C.: “No, you don’t. You’re getting help, right?”
Roxanne: “Yeah. Have been since it happened.”
A.C.: “I was your partner. Your husband was…”
Roxanne: “An asshole who’s still trying to get money from me.”
A.C.: “Sheesh. Anyway, partner’s code. You’d have done the same for me.”
Roxanne: “I don’t know if I’d have caused her to have her testicles rupture.”
Smith chuckles.
A.C.: “Bastard got what he deserved. How’re the kids?”
Roxanne: “Good. Bobby’s in seventh grade, Stevie’s in fifth.”
The irony isn’t lost on anyone in the room, especially when Bobby and Stevie waddle over to the bar, clearly under some form of liquid encouragement.
Bobby: “ROXY!!!”
Stevie: “What’s cookin’, good-lookin’?”
A.C.: “As you can tell, their pick-up lines are as refined as ever. How did you guys…”
Bobby: “Liquid flasks, baby!”
A.C.: “You realize my Lambo’s only got two seats, right?”
Suddenly, Bobby and Stevie’s faces go white.
Roxanne: “A.C., what do you figure a cab from here to Manhattan costs?”
A.C.: “Geez, at least a hundred bucks. Hope you two brought money!”
Stevie: “Does the bar sell coffee? I’ll take three in the biggest glass you’ve got!”
Roxanne can’t help but smile as two guys she clearly knows well try to get their act together.
A.C.: “Roxy, when do you fly back?”
Roxanne: “Tonight, right after this.”
A.C.: “You need a lift? I’ll drop you off at La Guardia on my way home.”
Roxanne: “Sure it’s not an issue?”
A.C.: “For my old partner? Not at all!”
Roxanne: “Cool. Go get something to eat. I’ll see you later.”
Smith smirks and makes his way to the buffet line as our scene again fades to black.
---
We fade up on Smith behind the wheel of his Lamborghini. Roxanne’s riding shotgun, and the two are laughing.
A.C.: “I’m happy you came up. I still talk to the Captain, you know.”
Roxanne: “He still running his coffee shop on the Upper East Side?”
A.C.: “You know it. Now THERE’S a guy at peace with himself. You’d never know he’s had to kill people. Then again, I don’t think he’s ever in any hurry to disclose that.”
Roxanne shakes her head. A few seconds pass as Smith bears right off of the highway next to a sign that says, “Welcome to La Guardia International Airport.”
The car pulls up to a terminal and comes to a semi-abrupt stop. Smith gets out and goes to the car’s miniscule trunk, which is still big enough to house Roxanne’s small suitcase.
A.C.: “Well, this is your terminal. Thanks for coming.”
Roxanne: “Thanks for the lift.”
In a scene out of every single romantic comedy ever made, neither person moves, despite this being an appropriate time to part company.
Roxanne: “A.C., do you ever think about…”
A.C.: “Never would’ve worked. Whatever we may have had would’ve gotten in the way of the job.”
Roxanne nods, though that visibly wasn’t the answer she wanted.
A.C.: “Besides, you’re the one person I’ve NEVER won an argument with. And sooner or later, I wouldn’t have been able to take it anymore.”
Roxanne manages a meek smile, but looks off into the distance. The two hug, but Roxy steals a peck on the cheek.
Roxanne: “I guess one night was enough. I’ll see you, A.C.”
She slips through the sliding doors and walks away, with Smith semi-befuddled at the situation. Despite any sexual tension the two may have had while working together, he’d been able to shelve those emotions while on the job…for the most part.
After a few seconds, though, Smith snaps out of it, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.
A.C.: “Christ, I miss my gym.”
Smith quickly moves to the driver’s side of the car, turning it on and driving away. He gains speed after a split-second or two, and his car gets smaller and smaller as the scene fades to black.
