The view settles on a fancy calligraphied sign that reads “Fortune” before panning back and revealing that the sign is part of the front facade of a very exclusive-looking restaurant. We then see a taxi pull up to the curb, and none other than Clutch Cassidy gets out, waving her hand in front of her nose to diffuse an offensive smell.

"DAYUM! Smell ya later, guy! Like the ass end of an aardvark in there…. Next time I’ll drive myself."

She turns away from the cab and we can just barely make out the sound of the driver railing against Clutch for not tipping before peeling away. Clutch walks up the entrance of the restaurant and spies a placard on the wall detailing the dress code. She scrunches up her features and looks down at what she’s wearing: jeans with stylish tears in them, a black Nascar tee, and a black leather jacket over top of it. "Who’s got time for a dress code? I’m sure it’ll be fine."

With that, she sashays into the restaurant and is almost immediately greeted with a bizarre sight. Standing behind the maitre d’s podium is a man with a paper bag over his head. There are hastily cut eye and mouth holes in the bag. He’s also wearing a rumpled suit that seems to be a size too small for him. Nonetheless, the strange figure greets Clutch with aplomb.

Mizz Clutch! Welcome! Welcome! Master Sam is waiting for you! Let me take you to him! Can I take your coat?!

"Eh?" Clutch eyes the strange man warily. "Nah, I’ll keep my coat thanks. What’s up with the bag?"

Oh, it’s so my face doesn’t offend the master’s sensibilities of course!

"Right. Of course." Then, muttering to herself. "These fuckin’ one percenters are so weird…."

Nevertheless, she allows herself to be led into the restaurant. But it occurs to her as she goes that the place is oddly quiet and completely devoid of other patrons. Not to mention the fact that every staff person she sees is also shabbily dressed in mock finery and wearing a paper bag on their head. Finally, they reach a booth where Samael Dyson is sitting. For some reason, he is fully decked out in a hazmat suit.

"….the hell are you wearing?!" Clutch exclaims as she slides into the booth.

"Oh! My dear Clutch! Welcome!" Sam cajoles as Clutch settles in.

"Ya didn’t answer my question!"

"Oh this?" Sam points to the suit. Then, leaning in and whispering, "I’ve got your dirty panties in here with me. I’m wearing the suit so that no other scent will defile their magnificent bouquet!"

Clutch recoils, looking disgusted. "Oh, you’re a fuckin’ freak, Sam! Would you get that damn thing off?! And one more thing! I hope you ain’t thinkin’ this is a date! It ain’t a date, sugar!"

"I would never even think of presuming that! But you’re right, let’s keep this strictly professional." Sam reaches around and removes the hood from the hazmat suit. Clutch’s panties fall out of the hood and onto the table, and Sam picks them up quickly and shoves them down the neck hole of the suit. It’s then that he notices that the maitre d never left, and was still standing there looking at Sam expectantly. Sam waves a hand dismissively at him and barks, "Would you get the fuck out of here and get the waiter!"

Oh, yes, master, right away! The maitre d scurries off. Clutch watches him go.

“What’s up with all the guys with paper sacks on their heads?”

“Oh, they’re just my Insignificants. They’re like the Minions from Despicable Me, but far uglier and more disgusting.”

“So, like, your cult members?”

“Oh oooh ooooh ah ah ah! Not a cult! This isn’t some cheap dimestore rinky dink Black Rainbow type operation, Clutch! My organisation spans far and wide, reaching into the highest echelons of power!”

“No shit?! Well, good for you, hun.” She picks up the menu, and her eyes go wide. “What the hell?! There ain’t a single dish on here that’s under a hundred bucks!”

“No worries. Dinner’s on me and this Amex Black card I totally didn’t lift off some stiff that was in here before."

Clutch looks around. “Uh huhhhhh. So where is everybody, anyway?”

“They’re safe. For now.” Sam smiles eerily as he speaks. Clutch blanches a bit and decides not to pursue this particular line of questioning.

“Yeah. Right. So, you can fight, I’m assuming? I really, really want those Anarchy Tag Championships.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t have signed up to be your partner if I couldn’t fight, Clutch.” Sam throws a couple of mock punches. “I’ll have you know I’ve been trained by some of the best in the world!”

At that point, another sack-wearing Insignificant steps up to the table, holding a notepad. He talks in a weird, uneven voice with a slight slur to it. “HeLLO mAStER! AnD MIssUS ClUTCH! wHaT wOuLD YOu LiKE tO oRDER?”

Clutch looks at the menu and scrunches her nose up in consternation. “Aw, hell, I can’t even PRONOUNCE most of this crap! Don’t ya’ll just have a good old-fashioned cHeeSEbuRGeR?”

“oF cOURsE wE DO MiLAdY!” We catch sight of what the Insignificant writes on the notepad, and it looks like “cheez boorgir” in a childlike scrawl. “aND whAt aboUT yOu MaSTER?”

“Steak! RARE!” Sam folds up his menu and slaps it onto his minion’s chest. “Now get the fuck outta here and put our orders in!”

The Insignificant makes himself….itself?.,....scarce and Sam props his elbows up on the table and settles his chin in his hands, gazing at Clutch like a lovesick puppy. Clutch notices and looks uncomfortable.

“Why you starin’ at me like that?!”

“Just admiring!”

“Ugh! Can we just talk business, please? We do have a big match coming up!”

Sam drops his hands down and plasters on a more serious expression. “As you wish! So! What kind of torment are we gonna inflict on these scrubs? I’ve been known to cause bilateral testicular torsions in the blink of an eye! I’m thinking the letters guy is just asking for it!”

Clutch again looks uncomfortable, but for different reasons this time. She sighs, looking a bit emotionally torn. “Look sugar, I know I said I wanna win these titles. But I don’t think we gotta go THAT far. XXXVI ain’t a bad guy. I mean, he took me to Australia, helped me train…”

“Yeah, and look how far that got you. A LOSS!” Sam scoffs.

Clutch’s cheeks deepen a little shade of red. “Okay, so it wasn’t my best outing….”

“Oh I didn’t mean you, Clutchy! After all, XXXVI’s the one that ate the pin!”

“Maybe. But we lost as a team.”

Sam waves his hand dismissively. “Don’t make excuses for the man. He’s a fucking WEAKLING.”

“But he beat Thunder Knuckles. Twice!” Clutch is quick to counter, wagging two fingers proudly.

Sam rolls his eyes. “And I’m so sick and tired of hearing about it! Look Clutchy, lets put some pieces of this puzzle together and see if you still feel so hot and bothered about this masked goon. I mean, who has XXXVI ACTUALLY beaten? I’ll tell ya!

Frances Marigold.
Latoya Hixx.
Thunder Knuckles. *gags* TWICE.
Summer Page.

Every other match he was in, he got his shit pushed in. But let’s look at where he “excelled”. Latoya Hixx? You just know that bitch got velcro shoes. Seriously, she’s so dumb she makes a coma patient look magna CUM laude.

Frances Marigold? Shit! I’m just shocked that guy took a break from injecting heroin directly into his asshole long enough to lose a match!

And Summer Page? A perfectly mediocre cunt that it took THREE TRIES for him to beat!”

Clutch leans in, looking like she’s itching for a fight. Relatively speaking.

“Now hold on a dayum minute, so what about him beating Thunder Knuckles?”

“Heh. That’s the best one of all! Because you know what, that shit should’ve mattered! It should have! But it didn’t. Tell me, Clutch, how many promos did good ol’ TK cut before his matches with XXXVI?”

Clutch shrugs. “None. But what’s that matter?”

“"What’s that matter?" It’s everything! Normally, you can’t get TK to shut the fuck up. That guy’s mouth runs like my asshole after a Taco Hell trip! “

“Ew!”

"Let’s stay focused!” Sam points at Clutch. “So what do you think it means when a guy like TK suddenly stops talking? When a guy whose entire goddamn career is predicated on shit talking the opposition clams up? Answer?”

“It means he doesn’t give a fuck.”

“Just look at the circumstances. Those matches with XXXVI happened right after TK’s consummate bottom boy Bobby Bourbon disappeared up his own pecker hole.”

Clutch runs a hand through her wild blonde hair, stressing the roots a little. She’s a twinge flustered. “Well hell, it ain’t 36’s fault TK decided to be an emotional butt muffin. If anything, maybe 36 exposed TK for always needin’ Bobby B around to have any relevancy.”

The Buxom Blonde suddenly flinches when the bag-headed waiter returns from outta nowhere. “mY SoRRineSS ClUtCh I ForGot To aSk FoR YouR DRInk!”

“It’s all good, hun. Hit yoUr GirL up WiTh one of them CiTRus YuZu sMaSH flavoured White Claws. They’re rare as shit, so this place prolly got them.”

The Insignificant hesitates. “Um MiSS ClutCH we doN’t SeRve WHiTe Claw.”

Clutch’s brows dip with vex and she looks at Sam. “What kinda dump is this place if they don’t serve White Claw?”

Sam dismisses the notion with a wrist flick. “Oh Clutchy, he’s just misinformed.” Sam glares at the Insignificant. “Right? Now go and get Clutch her beverage of choice, or I’ll let Clutch pick which one of your nards I make explode!”

Clutch waves the notion off and tries to soothe the waiter’s trepidation with a subtle wink. As the waiter scurries away abnormally fast, Clutch feels warm, hotter than normal. She has been noticing it here and there since arriving. No wonder they asked for coats at the front. To relieve this, she sheds her black jacket, revealing her form-fitting NASCAR shirt. She realises shedding her jacket may have been a bad idea, given Sam’s fixation on her shirt now.

“Alright, sugar. We’ll agree to disagree about 36, kinda, but what about this Director fella? What’s the play on him? “

Sam’s eyes are indeed focused on Clutch’s chest. “Tit tit tiiiiiiiiits!”

Clutch claps a palm down on the table. “Eyes up here!” She points to her face.

Sam shakes his head. “Whoa, sorry, got distracted by those bodacious breasts!”

“No shit?! Can we stick with the program please? The Director? How we gonna stop him?”

“Ah! Well my dear Clutch, we’re going to stop The Director the same way we stop his equally as generic offspring. Heaps and heaps of ultraviolence! Oh, and to you Mr. Director, please do bring that whip of yours to the ring! You think you’re a sadomasochist?! Oh honey, tan my ass and call me Sally! I’ll pop a boner so huge it’ll threaten to put your eye out!”

Clutch looks repulsed yet again. “I reiterate: EW!”

“Who doesn’t like a good spanking?”

“Okay, maaaaaaaybe you got a point. But I don’t think The Director is gonna be a pushover.”

Sam smirks. “Of course he will. Think about it. Out of all the masked wrestlers he could have picked to be his big scary enforcer, this broke brained idiot chose some waste of space with “he/them” pronouns and the most boring personality this side of my comatose doped up mother!” Then, as an aside, “You hungry? I’m gonna go check on the grub.” Without waiting for a reply, Sam leaves his seat and heads for the back.

Clutch leans back in her seat and sighs exhaustedly. “What the fuck have I done?”