TIMESTAMP: 11:27 a.m.

LOCATION: Frank Holiday's Crib, North Hollywood, CA

SITUATION: Chill

"Frank, I'm back!"

The front door swings inward on squeaky hinges and a column of sunlight spills into the shaded entryway, and out of it steps Billy Pepper, toting a stylish brown leather briefcase. "Got all the paperwork right here. Contracts, itinerary, tickets, reservations, everything."

"Sweet," comes the distracted reply.

Billy closes the door behind him and squints into the dim living room. Frank Holiday is slouched way down on the sofa, legs lazily splayed across the coffee table like felled tree branches, watching The Price is Right on the wall-mounted HDTV. A sweaty beer bottle is in one hand, resting on his navel with a little circle of condensation soaking into his shirt. This is the exact same position he was in a half hour ago, when Billy left to drive home and grab his briefcase. The only evidence Frank has moved from this spot at all is a pile of three or four empty bottles on the floor, which could only have made their way from the fridge to the living room via Frank getting off his ass or, possibly, by an alcoholic poltergeist.

Frank's big red luggage, meanwhile, remains zipped open beside the sofa with nothing inside of its gaping maw.

"You didn't pack yet?" Billy shouts. "We're supposed to leave soon!"

"Take a pill, Billy, we got time," Frank says, and takes a swig.

"Actually, we don't 'got time', Frank," Billy retorts. "We're gonna be in Japan for weeks, and we need to make our flight, and you're sitting there like you're hunkered down for a Walking Dead marathon instead of getting your ass ready!"

Frank tips his head back and groans. "Aww, maaan. What do I need to pack? Just give me like a ten minute warning and I'll go grab some stuff out of the hamper."

"Did you at least find your passport? Do you even have a passport?"

"Of course I have one, asshole. It's over there," Frank says, waving his hand vaguely in the direction of the dining room.

Billy walks over to the smoked glass dining table and sets his briefcase down on a chair. The table is half buried under a shallow hill of junk mail, newspapers, credit card notices and other neglected correspondence, with a small grove of empty cans and bottles clustered at one end. Hopelessly, Billy starts to rummage through the paper. "How do you find anything around here is what I'd like to know," he mutters.

"I got a system," Frank says over the sound of the Big Wheel booping away on TV. "Like I said, stop stressing, I got everything under-- hold up."

The triumphant trumpets of Bill Conti's "Gonna Fly Now" blast from Frank's pocket. He plunges his hand in and pulls out his cell phone, thumbs the screen and puts it to his ear. "Yo!"

"You bastard!" screams the earpiece, so loud Billy can hear it clearly from across the room. Frank, who'd taken the sonic assault right in the eardrum, flinches his head away from it with a painful grimace.

Gaping, Billy waves to get Frank's attention and then shrugs as if to say, What the hell? Still smarting, Frank mouths a word: Lexi. Billy groans.

"Don't go anywhere, Frank! I'm coming over!" screeches the phone like some demonically possessed totem, and then coughs digitally as the connection cuts.

Frank hops to his feet and claps his hands together with determination. "Okay Billy, ten minute warning! Let's get this bag packed--"

A sudden machine gun-like barrage sets the front door shuddering in its frame. Billy and Frank freeze, staring at it. The furious knocking ends as abruptly as it began, but before they can take half a breath, the door handle cranks a quarter-circle and frees the door from the bolt. It flies open and blinding L.A. sunlight floods the entranceway, the two men instinctively shielding their eyes with upraised hands. A ghoulish silhouette lurches through that hellacious portal and emits a piercing cry:

"You were gonna go to Japan and not tell me about it?!"

"Hey babe, what's up?" Frank says innocently.

"Don't you 'what's up' me!" she snaps.

Lexi Rubin is the prototypical image of a privileged West Coast beauty: a blonde, five-foot-four waif boosted up to five-eight or so on tall stiletto heels that are more like stilts than shoes, swathed in a tailored designer dress, blinged-out clutch in hand. She flips her hair, purses red lips, clamps a hand on her hip, and points one foot forward in a don't mess with me, bitch pose that would come off comically theatrical except that meeting her angry hazel gaze is like staring down the barrel of a death ray.

"Were you already halfway up the driveway when you called?" Billy says incredulously.

Lexi gives him a zip it sign. "I'm not talking to you. YOU!" Now Frank is in the crosshairs of a pistol-point finger. "You're wrestling in Japan and I had to find out on the Internet?" Lexi throws her clutch hand in the air. "I didn't even know you got another job! What kind of asshole are you?"

"Sorry babe, everything sorta happened in a rush," Frank says. "We've been super busy. You shoulda seen us before you came in. Human tornadoes, us two."

Billy nods eagerly. "Oh yeah, Frank was running around here like the Flash. I couldn't pay him to sit his ass down."

"Not this ass. Anyway, I swear you were next on the list," Frank says sheepishly.

"Are you crossing your fingers behind your back?" Lexi demands.

"Of course not," he says, uncrossing them.

Lexi glares at him through squinted eyelashes. "I see your luggage is out. When are you leaving?"

"Today."

"That's awfully short notice if I was next on the list. So where's my ticket?"

"Um," Frank says.

"See," Billy adds.

"Ohhhh." Lexi's death ray eyes power up again. Her index finger whips through the air like a tiger's tail. "You are not. Going without your girlfriend. Frank."

"It's not his fault," Billy says, jumping -- or rather, gingerly sidling -- to Frank's defense. "DEFIANCE is only footing the bill for performers and managers. They're not making arrangements for, uh, third parties or significant others, such as, uh, yourself," he finishes lamely.

"Yeah, but I totally fought for you, babe," Frank says.

An ominous moment passes as Lexi twitches her pupils from Frank to Billy, to the open luggage on the floor, and back up again. The Finger aims at Frank. "You're scum." Then Billy. "And you're scum. You're both scum. And you're gonna hear from my Daddy about this."

She pops open her clutch, reaches in, and then snaps her hand out, hurling a little white object like a throwing star that careens off of Frank's forehead and tumbles into his hand. Now inert, it's a business card engraved with the name of Wallace "The Wall" Rubin, Attorney at Law in silver print.

"Oh, Jesus," Billy sighs.

"Yeah, praying's a good move, asshole," Lexi says. "Enjoy your fucking trip!"

She does an about-face, blonde hair and delicate fabric whirling around her, and storms out the front door, not bothering to shut it behind her. Billy and Frank stand motionless, listening to the rapid-fire click of heels on concrete receding down the driveway. Billy recovers his power of motion first, and he closes the door and throws the bolt.

"That went well," he snarks.

"Don't worry about that, she threatens to sue me every time she's pissed off," Frank says. He spins the card away toward the dining room. "Got a whole collection of these."

"Yeah, I know that." Billy spreads his arms. "What the hell was that? I thought you broke up with her!"

"That was last time. This time she broke up with me," Frank corrects him.

"Maybe you should've reminded her! 'Cause apparently she forgot."

"Heh." Frank shakes his head. "Tell the truth, I can never really tell when we're on or off."

Billy rolls his eyes. "You and me both, buddy. You need a neon sign or something."

"Whatevs, I think we're broken up again."

"Then can I suggest we pack up and go before she decides to come back with a lawsuit -- or worse, to make up?"

"Great idea, dude!" But Frank's attention has drifted back to the TV, and his ass has begun an approach pattern into an inexorable descent to the sofa. "Right after the Showcase Showdown!"

After an internal count of ten, Billy manages to fight down the urge to kill his friend, and sinks down onto the sofa beside him instead. "Yeah, why the hell not," he says.

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