"Damn, you really know what you're doing."
"Of course I do. I was trained as an orthopedic nurse and massage therapist."
"Wait, I thought you were a merchant marine. I mean, a boat captain. I mean... "
He laughs. But he's not interested in explaining.
He flips me again and puts me in some kind of hold. My knees are somewhere near my ears, my spine stretched to its breaking point, my face smushed against the mat. This is checkmate, I know, but I'm too stubborn to ask for mercy. So far, Veith has stayed on the side of gentlemanly, but now the sun is setting, the room is going dark, and insofar as I can feel it, my butt is up in the air. I wonder if his holds are quite so innocent. Not sure quite what to do, I figure I can just hang here for a minute. I squint my eyes but open my mouth for air.
"What are you waiting for, little birdie? Food? No food is coming."
He puts his face in close to mine. I feel his breath on my cheek. The door is locked. I can barely breathe, much less scream. He could do whatever he pleases right now.
He swoops in and — smack-smack-smack! — kisses me, three rapidfire times on the cheek. Then he laughs and lets me go.
For the final match of this ten-hour workday, four women are gathered around a table, getting ready to "battle for the championship belt." Niki's playing the role of Shelli's manager; Coni's managing Vera.
They've scrounged through bins of props to come up with four pair of high heels, plus terry-cloth wristbands for the contenders' wrists and ankles. Only the "managers" start out with clothes on.
Aber is playing the role of announcer. "We have the first title match," he says. "We have two challengers who have requested meeting for this prestigious title." His acting voice is about as convincing as Coni's. Maybe one day, they will battle for an Oscar.
Vera, checking in at five-foot-10 and 126 pounds, steps forward gracefully and says politely what she probably should be growling: "I plan to win and show no mercy. I don't think Shelli is a worthy opponent. I will prove I'm a worthy opponent. I plan to win the title belt."
The managers check the "contract," sign it, and shake hands.
Filming is halted when — what else? — Coni starts laughing. "I don't know what serial killer ordered this up, but we're doing it!"
Aber puts a halt to the jibber-jabber. "This is where we lose a tremendous amount of time. I get feedback that [being believable] makes the video a lot more desirable. I have to please a customer."
"Sorry, Dan."
"Yes, sorry, Dan."
"Instead of saying sorry, stay focused. Crack up now, get it out. But when the camera is rolling, think of not getting paid!"
With that, there is a renewed energy in the room. When he presses record, they actually get sort of into it. The "managers" jump into the fray, and all four start to pull off actual holds: A seated backbreaker! A torpedo hold! A double ankle-lock! A chin-lock!
"I told you, body-slam her!"
"Buck her off of you!"
"Butt-smother her! Do it!"
After a few minutes of grunting and sweating, Niki and Shelli defeat Coni and Vera, leaving their bodies on the mat, unconscious. The winners start walking out of the room. Then they think better of it and bend down to lift Coni's dress over her head. They drag her limp body and lay it across Vera's, leaving the two in a naked, tired heap.
Shelli snaps the championship belt around her waist.
"Victory is yours!" Niki says. They high-five.
"Goodbye, losers!"
"Adios!"
Satisfied at last, Dan does a fade-out.
