Outside the WrestlePlex, time unknown, Mark Shields leans against a broken down car, dart barely hanging from his mouth. He’s calmly looking around at the dark night’s sky, the cool breeze blowing across his face. If the wind could mess his tattered hair up anymore, that would sure be something.

Sticking the cigarette completely into his mouth, he takes a lonnnnng drag. Shields lets the nicotine do its thing before exhaling very slowly. This is his utopia. He barely worked a minute and got paid the same amount as the other guys. In fact, he might even make more than Benny Doyle. Mark’s pretty sure he does.

Finishing another long drag, his dart has burnt out. He flicks it onto the floor and without a second thought, reaches into his back pocket for another pack, since he finished off the last one rather quickly. Mark’s eyes shuffle around, as do his hands, trying to find where he placed that second pack.

Over time, however, it’s becoming clear he already finished smoke pack number two. It was a 20-pack, too. Now he’s got nothing left.

“Damn.” Shields mutters as he pulls himself from leaning against the broken down automobile. Placing his hands into his pockets, Mark lowers his head and goes for a peaceful walk, taking him away from the parking lot and to his intended destination. The walk isn’t a long one but it’s still a few blocks away as we cut to his arrival into a dark alley. To Mark, getting here was like muscle memory. It’s as if he’s done this same walk a million times, after every single show.

Meanwhile, ambulance sirens are heard in the background, as is some commotion across the street between what sounds like a drug dealer and one of his buyers. It’s nothing serious, it’s just a minor argument, or at least that’s how Mark hears it. Regardless, the surroundings may make a regular person feel uneasy. Not Mark Shields. He’s right at home.

The referee waits in the dark alley. He’s getting a little restless because he has no smokes to pass the time. Luckily, he doesn’t have to wait long.

A red Honda Fit creeps up from the street, stopping directly in front of the alley. Mark sees it with his peripherals and without picking up his head or taking his hands out of his pockets, he walks towards it.

The driver window rolls down while a BANG BANG is heard in the background. Mark isn’t phased.

“Hi, honey.” The grizzly woman’s deep voice insinuates this conversation has happened many times before. “Great job out there tonight. C’mon in.”

Shields walks over to the passenger door, opens it and slips inside.

The car drives off while police sirens pick up from all angles.

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