The man makes the suit. It isn't the other way around.

“C’mon extra loop…c’mmmmonnnnn!!!” a voice groans in the dark. It is a quasi manly groan. A voice looking to reclaim the ruggedness it once possessed. What the body in which the voice belongs is doing is, well, anybody’s question. “Ugh…why won’t you reach?! Please reach…please…”

A knock from outside the darkness. The voice is hushed.

“Is everything okay in there, sir?” an individual with professional cadence inquires.

“Uhh,” the unknown voice stammers, “yea, I’m fine…just trying to get this belt to work.”

Illumination. Light has penetrated the darkness! A door opens and in walks a modern tailor, measuring tape draped around his neck. He spots a puce faced, panting Derek Mobley. Mobley is dressed in a custom suit. All that is lacking is a secured belt. The tailor, a true professional, quickly spots the problem and snatches the belt. He looks down, eyeing several scratches around the fourth loop. He looks up at Derek, shakes his head, and easily secures the belt into the second loop. Derek’s shameful head lowers.

“He’s ready,” the tailor announces, exiting.

A tired, weary, and disappointed Mobley steps out, feeling like anything other than a runway model. His audience is comprised of the tailor, Dean, and Eugene. The latter of which stands up, giving a rousing ovation. Dean snares Eugene by the arm, yanking him back into the chair.

“Pathetic,” Dean mutters. “The man makes the suit, Derek. It isn’t the other way around.”

Mobley’s head remains lowered.

“You want to remain champion? You need to carry yourself like one! And what’s this shit about loops? You don’t have any fruit loops in there, do you? Because if you do, sucka, I swear…”

“We would never allow fruit loops in our dressing room, sir,” the tailor informs. Dean nods at the tailor before shooting narrow eyes in Derek’s direction.

Derek, feeling Dean’s glare, gives his opinion, “Do I really need a suit, though? Can’t I just show up and win?”

Dean throws his hands in the air before slapping his palms onto the armrests of his leather chair. He pops to his feet and begins pacing. “Unbelievable! Sure, you don’t need a suit, I guess. You know who else didn’t need a suit? Warrick. A guy who won NOTHING. You know who else doesn’t need a suit? Ed Houston. A man unable to break through pro wrestling’s atmosphere and enter into the limitless realm of space. Those are the people who don’t wear suits, Derek.”

Dean leans against the window of the store, staring out at the commercial properties filling the local landscape. “Tell you what…how about you take that suit off and we’ll go get you something from that female big and tall store across the street.”

The tailor stifles a laugh. Eugene’s eyes fill with empathy. Derek trudges into the dressing room, removing the suit.

More grunting. This time within a dimly lit bathroom. “C’mon…ugh! Fourth notch…let’s go! Connect! PLEASE!” A bathroom stall behind Mobley swings open. A frightened man scurries toward the door, placing some safe distance between himself and the strange, grunting patron. Mobley stares at himself in the mirror. “I really need to vet these places out better.”

His eyes turn toward the GCWA title across his waist…it’s clear based on scratch and stretches marks that he’s been trying to get the belt to reach that fourth notch.

Derek’s been working out. He’s been training. He’s been trying to mold back into championship form…with Dean cracking the invisible whip. Goals are set to improve the odds of success. So, Derek set the goal of reaching the fourth notch on his GCWA Title. After all, that’s the notch that comfortably fit the last time he won the prestigious accoutrement.

It’s his goal. It’s his end game. Right now, he’s at two. Four has never felt so far away.

Mobley returns to a table inside a local eatery. Dean eyes him, suspiciously, “That took longer than it should have, sucka. You didn’t closet eat in the bathroom, did you?”

“No,” Derek’s response is short, like that of an angry child. His starving eyes study the table. “When do we order?”

“Oh, the waitress came by while you were in the bathroom, Derek. We took the liberty in ordering for you!” Eugene, Derek's loyal, diminutive friend informs his hero and best friend.

Derek becomes nervous. A fact Dean quickly notices, “Relax, sucka. I got ya a burger.”

Mobley smiles and licks his lips. He hasn’t had anything resembling fat, grease, or tasty meat in weeks.

“And here we are!” the heavenly voice of an angel fills Derek’s ears with music. It belongs to a medium-sized waitress. Her age sets in the late twenties. On a scale of 1-10 Derek would give her a 6. Warrick would probably label her a 3.

Eugene’s dish is placed in front of him. Derek hopes he is next. Dean’s dish, a giant steak, is placed in front of his eager, utensil filled hands. Mobley’s disappointment is assuaged only by the fact that his plate has to be next. And, it is! A burger is set right in front of him.

It looks strange. It’s unlike any burger Derek’s ordered. A fact that would have given him more pause if his burger experience wasn’t limited to fast food. “I guess this is what they call artisanal,” he says, massaging his cramping fear.

Mobley grabs the burger and takes a huge bite. He chews happily, for a moment. The chewing slows. His eyes look around. They begin to fill with fright, uncertainty. He tries to swallow. It’s not easy. But, the dude is starving so, eventually, the mammoth-sized bite goes down.

“What kind of burger is this?!” Derek’s voice ejects louder than intended. Dean doesn’t look up, he’s busy cutting his steak into several perfect squares.

“A fuckin veggie burger you dumb shit…now stop yelling inside a restaurant, it’s uncouth.”

“But Dean!” Dean looks up, shooting a menacing glance. You never, ever, interrupt Dean-o when he’s about to chow down on a juicy steak. Derek narrows his voice, “But Dean…I hate veggie burgers.”

This grabs Eugene’s attention, “I didn’t know you’d enjoyed a delectable veggie burger, Derek. I’m actually a little offended that you ate one without me.”

“You don’t have to eat a veggie burger to know that you hate a veggie burger, Eugene.”

Eugene is sad.

Derek looks back toward his suppressing mentor, “I would have preferred a salad.”

“A salad!” Dean nearly explodes. “Salads are for pussies!” Eugene looks up from his plate of food, a salad. A drip of ranch slides down his chin. Dean shrugs, “You know what I mean.” Eugene nods and goes back to his leafy meal.

Derek is a bit shocked that Dean is breaking the ‘restaurant yelling rule’…and with such fervor. But, it’s Dean. He gets away with a lot of shit.

Dean’s outburst brings the waitress over. She wears concern all over her 5.5ish face. “Is everything okay?”

Mobley, about to espouse his issue, is cut off by a charming Dean. “Everything sure is, sweetheart. You did an amazing job with these meals, especially the veggie burger.” The waitress smiles. She doesn’t get complimented TOO often. “And might I add that you look absolutely stunning in that apron. Completely stainless. Amazing.” The waitress giggles.

“Well, if there’s anything else I can do for you gentlemen, you just let me know.” There’s a sparkle in her eye while addressing Dean. She turns and walks away. Dean leans back, getting an eye full of her posterior.

“Oh yea,” Dean’s musky voice comments. His attention returns to Derek and the veggie burger, “You eat that fucking veggie burger or you eat nothing. Do you understand?”

A dejected Mobley picks up the veggie burger. Hunger has smothered preference. He takes another, exploratory bite. His facial expression mirrors the first. His panicked hand grabs a glass of water…necessary in washing the food down.

Later that afternoon, in the waning evening, Dean is teaching a workout class in the parking lot of a Target. Mobley, as you could have guessed, is taking part in the class. Everyone is doing burpees. It appears they’ve been doing them for quite some time…people slowly start to disperse, reaching the personal realization that this shit just isn’t worth it. Before long the group dwindles down to Derek and some other guy. The other guy appears to be kicking Derek’s ass.

Dean is not happy, “Pick it up, Derek! This fucking guy over here is killing you!” The other guy is in the zone, doing 1.5 burpees to Derek’s one. “Hey, sucka…what do you do for a living?”

“I’m an attorney.”

“Unbelievable!” Dean kicks loose gravel into Derek’s face, “You hear that, chump? An attorney is whipping your sorry ass. I don’t know how you’re going to defend that belt. The Bifford is big. Ed’s from Houston. And Lurrr has a third R. What do you have? A fucking gut? A dad bod? KICK YOUR SHIT INTO GEAR, SUCKA!” Derek tries picking up the pace. Eugene cheers him on.

Derek moves faster and faster. He appears to be catching up with the in-shape attorney…that is until his body convulses and he spills a half-digested veggie burger all over the pavement.

“OH MY FUCK!” Dean yells, turning around in disgust.

Several moments later, Dean shakes the hand of the attorney…who slips him his business card. “If you ever need my services due to a lawsuit stemming from abuse…or whatever, feel free to call.” Dean is thankful.

Eugene tries to console Derek, “Bifford isn’t really big. He’s more fat. And that third R…it’s superfluous, Derek. We all know that. And, as for Ed…he worked for the biggest scam in America.”

Mobley looks up, curious.

“That whole moon landing. Everyone knows it was faked. Which means Ed is a fake. At least you’re real.”

“Hey!” Dean’s voice booms, nearly destroying all the parking lot lights (not really). “What’s going on over here? Are you trying to spread conspiracy theory propaganda?”

“I’m merely speaking the truth, Dean.”

“I’ll hear none of it!” Dean throws a towel at Derek, who starts to wipe his face with it. “Nope,” Dean stops Mobley. He points at the gravel, “Clean that shit up.”

Later that evening.

Derek sits on a couch in a dark living room. The TV shines brightly. He leans forward with intensity. His eyes are super focused. He stops, rewinds, and restarts footage of the moon landing. “Is that…is that a boom mic in the background? Wow. Maybe Eugene was right…”

A door flies open. “What’s going on in here?!” It’s Dean, wearing a pair of ‘Dean’ boxers. Derek fumbles the remote. He’s unable to change the channel.

Dean leaps over the couch and stares at the TV. “I can’t believe it…”

“What? I’m merely exploring my curiosity…”

“We have premium channels, Derek. It’s past midnight. You know what that means? FREE PORN FOR YOU. Sure, you don’t get full on penetration…but still…” Dean rips the remote away and finds Cinemax. Two women are going at it. “Tits, pussy, tits rubbing against pussies…pussies rubbing against pussies!”

“I can see,” Derek says, rather unimpressed.

“You have this, at your disposal…yet you want to find out if the MOON LANDING was FAKED?” Dean hurls the remote into the wall. “You’re pathetic. You are NO man.”

“I was just curious…that’s all.” Derek’s voice almost quivers. It’s becoming too much for the champ to handle.

Dean leans forward, watching Derek’s lip. “Are you going to cry? Is the porn frightening you? Is all this hard work too much?”

“No…” Derek’s voice sounds less than convinced.

“Give me that!” Dean rips the GCWA Title away. “You don’t deserve this!”

Derek stands up. For the first time, he shows a modicum of fight. He gets in Dean’s face. Dean suppresses a smile. “What ya gonna do about it, sucka?”

Derek fights for the belt. Dean fights back. The two men scuffle around the couch before Dean is able to lift Derek and slam him into the couch. The couch crashes backward, sending Derek tumbling. He rolls around, groaning. Dean throws the GCWA Title at him.

“Fucking pathetic.”

A wounded Mobley reaches for his title and stumbles to his feet. His eyes, an amalgamation of hurt and anger, look Dean’s way. He reaches for the door, opens it, and slams it shut, exiting Dean’s apartment.

The waitress from earlier emerges from Dean’s bedroom. She’s wearing a double XL Dean shirt. “What was all the commotion?”

“Just trying to teach that boy a lesson,” Dean explains, staring at the door.

“Is he going to be okay?” the waitress pretends to care.

“It’s up to him. Time’s running out. The sucka’s gotta man up. Soon.”

Dean looks at the waitress, hops over the couch, gives her an innocuous spear, and carries her back into his bedroom.