The scene opens up to Massachusetts Avenue in Boston, Massachusetts. It's mid day and traffic is busy and the city is bustling with activity. People are walking up and down the street, thinking about the problems in their lives, ranging from one woman worrying about what she's going to wear when her husband's boss visits for dinner tonight, to one man worrying about how he's going to afford his daughter's college tuition, to another man, clad in little more than dirty rags worrying about where he's going to get his next meal.
A cab pulls up to the curb and out steps Phobia, wearing blue jeans and an Invasion t-shirt. He leans into the window of the taxi and pays the cabbie. The taxi drives off and Phobia turns to look at the building in front of him. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the same little white card we've seen him with the past couple of days, giving it a look.
Phobia looks up at the numbers etched into the stone on the side of the building that is directly in front of him and, sure enough, the number reads 4545. Phobia walks up the stoop and pauses at the door. On the door there is a sign for the office of Dr. Charles M. Schwartz. Phobia takes one big, deep breath and pulls the door open before heading inside.
Phobia climbs one set of stairs to the second floor and walks into the office. He strolls to the front desk, manned by a female receptionist, who looks to be about twenty-one years old and very, very beautiful. She looks up at Phobia and smiles, welcoming the change from the usual nut-case that usually walks in there day after day (i.e. Zach Zeller).
Receptionist: "Hello, sir...May I help you?"
Phobia: "Uh...Yeah, I have an appointment for one o'clock."
Receptionist: "You have an appointment here? Are you sure you have the right place?"
Phobia: "Yeah, I'm sure. Look, this is already tough enough. Don't make it any harder than it has to be."
Receptionist: "You're right, I'm sorry. Please have a seat, the doctor should be with you in just a few minutes."
The receptionist eyes Phobia as he walks away from the desk and takes a seat, thinking to herself, 'great, another head case. What a waste.' Phobia searches through the pile of magaizines on the table in front of him and finally decides on an issue of Sports Illustrated from November of 1999. He feigns interest in a six month old article about Kurt Warner and scans the room. His eyes fall upon each and every one of the people sitting in the office, which consists of four people.
One of them appears to be a man waiting, not to visit with the shrink, but for a loved one to come out from their visit...Maybe his wife. He's probably worried that the doctor is making his wife believe that all her problems stem from him and the way he's treating her at home. The way that he's wringing his hands suggest this just may be true.
Another is a woman, in her early thirties, obviously waiting for her session. You know the type, the one that tries to make it look like she has everything together, but is just inches away from breaking down and crying...The only thing keeping her from doing so is the steady diet of valium that the doctor said wouldn't be the best treatment, but wrote out the prescription when she insisted.
There is a man, sitting directly across from Phobia, who is staring right back at him, wary of Phobia's every move. This guy is a total nutball and most likely should be locked up. He's talking to himself, rocking back and forth, his gaze not wavering, transfixed on Phobia's eyes. Phobia, despite his obvious size advantage over this man, feels a little uncomfortable and diverts his own gaze to the final person in the room.
The receptionist. On any other occasion, Phobia would have already gotten her phone number and would be planning a long night of fun, but not today. After taking a look around at the patrons of this establishment, Phobia starts to question whether or not he belongs here. Clearly he's not in the same boat as these other people. There is no significant other at home treating him poorly. He's not a fragile shell of a person ready to crack at any second. And he's not a out and out wacko.
Phobia shakes his head and sits up, ready to stand up out of his chair, when the doubting begins. He thinks about his recent success, or lack thereof, in the bWo and his confidence starts waning. The thoughts of self-doubt and self-deprecation creep into his mind and he slinks back into the chair, realizing he does need help in clearing his mind of all this.
The door behind the receptionist's desk opens up and out steps Dr. Schwartz and a woman in her forties. The man who was wringing his hands stands up to greet her, but she just throws her nose in the air and strides right by him. The man follows her closely, knowing in his mind that, ultimately, he's paying this doctor to convince his wife to leave him.
Dr. Schwartz motions to Phobia to come into the office, and Phobia does. The doctor shuts the door behind them and offers Phobia a seat on a couch.
Dr. Schwartz: "Now tell me why you believe you are here Mr...Mr..."
The doctor fumbles through some pages on a clipboard.
Dr. Schwartz: "...Mr. Phobia? Don't you believe that's a rather odd name?"
Phobia: "It's not my real name, and in my profession, it's not very odd."
Dr. Schwartz: "The decision to give up your original moniker for a new one speaks volumes about a person. It can mean that person wants to be known for their own accomplishments and be their own person, rather than relying on the name their parents gave them or it could mean that the person is trying to escape their past...Now into which of these two categories do you believe you fall?"
Phobia: "Neither."
Dr. Schwartz: "Then what category do you fall into?"
Phobia: "The third category, which is that the person is in a profession where it is very common that they change their name."
Dr. Schwartz: "And what profession might that be, the mob?"
Phobia: "No doctor, I'm a professional wrestler, and I have to admit, I'm feeling a little silly being here."
Dr. Schwartz: "Ah, don't be ridiculous. I get visits from professional sports players all the time. There's the baseball players that are trying to break out of a slump, the NBA players trying to kick their marijuana habit, and of course, the football players who are court-ordered to go under psychiatric evaluation...So I should be able to treat you, unless you're here for all three of those reasons..heheh."
Phobia's expression remains unchanged.
Dr. Schwartz: "You're not here for all three, are you?"
Phobia: "No, I'm not. I'm sorry, doctor. That was very funny, but when you start feeling like a worthless piece of crap, you tend to lose your sense of humor."
Dr. Schwartz: "Yes, I suppose you would. Now tell me, what has brought those feelings on?"
Phobia: "The fact that everyone in the bWo has been treating me that way and I've been performing like crap."
Dr. Schwartz: "This bWo...I'm thinking that this is not a very supportive environment. Have you given any thought to staying away?"
Phobia: "And not get my paycheck? I'm sorry, doctor, but that just is not going to happen."
Dr. Schwartz: "Okay, why don't you tell me exactly what this bWo is."
Phobia: "Brutal Wrestling Organization."
This time, it's the good doctor's turn to remain expressionless.
Phobia: "You don't know the Brutal Wrestling Organization?"
Dr. Schwartz: "I don't watch wrestling."
Phobia: "A lot of people don't, but how could you miss the bWo? It's the most popular federation in a sport that is rapidly becoming America's pastime. I can't imagine having never heard of it."
Dr. Schwartz: "Okay, so the bWo is your workplace and you can not leave it permanently...Is there anyway you can get some time off?"
Phobia: "No chance. I have a match tomorrow against Tombstone. It's going to be a tough one because Tombstone's one of the best in the federation and I can't even beat one of the worst."
Dr. Schwartz: "Where is this match tomorrow?"
Phobia: "It's in Tampa, Florida."
Dr. Schwartz walks over to his desk and presses a button on his intercom.
Dr. Schwartz: "Cindy, cancel all my appointments for tomorrow and book us a flight to Tampa."
Cindy: "Yes sir."
Dr. Schwartz walks back over to Phobia and sits down on the couch next to him.
Dr. Schwartz: "I'm going with you. I've come to the conclusion that what you have is just a lack of self-confidence..."
Phobia: "Yeah, brilliant diagnosis, doc."
Dr. Schwartz: "...And I believe the best medicine is victory. Our session is over for today. We'll meet up tomorrow and I'll accompany you to the arena."
Phobia doubts the doctor really knows what he's doing, but he's willing to try anything, so he does not object. They both stand up and the doctor sees him out of the office. Phobia walks out of the office and heads down the stairway. He pushes open the doors and sees Zach Zeller coming up the stairs on the stoop.
Zeller: "Phobia, what are you doing here?"
Phobia: "I...uh...was looking for you...To do an interview."
Zeller: "Oh great! I'm just here to pay my bill with my psychiatrist. We can conduct the interview right afterwards."
Phobia: "Okay, sure...You go inside and pay your bill and I'll wait for you here."
Zeller nods and heads inside. As soon as he is out of sight, Phobia jogs down the street a little bit and hails a cab.
Fade to black
