(FADEIN: Up in the Presidential Skybox. THOMAS sits at his desk, chin buried into the palms of his hands, a stack of contracts, video tapes and DVD clamshell boxes all over the table. Mickey Benedict is nowhere to be found, at the moment. A tinny buzz chirps from somewhere on the table, and THOMAS, bleary-eyed, starts digging through the debris in front of him, and finds the speakerphone.)
SECRETARY: President Thomas. . . (Muffled noise) Eddie... What? Fine. PRESIDENT Mayfield is here to see you.
THOMAS: Sonofa... (Sighs) what does he want? Doesn’t he know we’re in the middle of an event here?
SECRETARY: Sir, he's not going away... and he's taking all of the good candy out of my dish out here...
THOMAS: I don't want to see his dumb a-
(Suddenly, the door bursts open, and 'Hot Property' EDDIE MAYFIELD kicks the door open, his cheek full of food, and carrying a nice-sized gift with a big bow on it! MAYFIELD is wearing jeans, a Jacksonville Jaguars jersey on with Byron Leftwiches number on it, and a Carolina 'HEELS' baseball cap. He plants his ass in one of THOMAS' luxury guest seats, then props his Reeboks on the desk! THOMAS knocks them off in one swift motion!)
THOMAS: The HELL do you want, Mayfield? Can't you see I'm busy?
MAYFIELD: (Crunching) Damn, you need some new candy out there. Who the hell eats rootbeer barrels? They're nasty as sh[BLEEEP!] Thomas. Jesus! And this is the GOOD stuff? (THOMAS glowers!) Ok, listen man. PRIMETIME 500, I don't know if you were'nt paying attention, but Hot Property is NOWHERE on that card, and YOU know that EYE know, that EYE am the only thing that matters in this pit of a company, that would FEED THEIR A-LIST WORKERS ROOT BEER, F[BLEEEEP]ING, BARRELS. So here’s the deal, Thomas – assuming you scrounge up enough money to another card - you need to do the right thing like Spike Lee, - EYE WANT A TITLE SHOT. I want Southern in the ring… next card… no special refs, no crap… a straight up title shot.
THOMAS: You know what, Mayfield -YOU may think you're the cat’s pajamas, I know that YOU don't make the calls around here - YOURS TRULY does that. I know that you don't have a pot to piss in, and for you to come in here and demand ANYTHING from me, let alone a TITLE SHOT, is laughable. Matterafact, let me take a second to laugh out loud at this.
(Chuckling. MAYFIELD takes his gift and opens it, and throws it on top of his desk! From inside it is an unnatural glow!)
MAYFIELD: How's that for a bargaining chip?
(THOMAS' laughter stops - IMMEDIATELY! He looks down inside the box, his face highlighted by the glow, and his eyes get wide with wonder!)
THOMAS: How... how did you... what...
MAYFIELD: You get me in that CSWA World Championship shot straight-up against Southern, and you can call what’s in that box... heh. (Pulls out a Camel and sparks it, getting out his seat) your very own Christmas Miracle. Make it happen, Thomas.
(MAYFIELD walks out the room. humming 'We are the Champions' as the Secretary walks in, and the camera pans back over to the desk. We see THOMAS hunched over the box and slowly, carefully, removes the contents of that box - The CSWA PRESIDENTIAL CHAMPIONSHIP! THOMAS sputters to himself, and wipes a line of drool from his chin.)
THOMAS: ...My... my precious......