The camera opens on a high crane shot inside the skeleton of a darkened TV morning talk show set. The sound of elevator musac fills the air as some unknown Kenny G wannabe pipe flutes the docile tune of "That's Amore." Below, two figures sit shrouded in darkness, facing inward at almost a 90 degree angle of one another.???: How 'bout the title 'International Pizza?'
Voice 2: Well, that doesn't make mush sense since we're on local syndication aaaand also it's the EAW National title, not the INTERnational title.
Voice 1: Yeah yeah, but hear me out; we're in Japan and-
Suddenly the lights come up as the camera swoops down to reveal Tony Rolland, clad in an argyle print mask and maroon sweater vest sitting next to a slouched over Pizza Boy sporting a taupe cardigan and his EAW National Championship. They stop talking immediately and put on a fake TV smiles.Tony Rolland: J-just think about i-
PB: HELLO! It's 8 AM, Eastern-Standard. Welcome to our new show-
TR: INTERNATIONAL PIZZA!
A giant International Pizza logo cues up as the pan flute 'That's Amore' rises in volume, almost phasing out a Pizza Boy's tired sigh and audible face palm.PB: Actually, it's NATIONAL Pizza, and that's just a working title.
Suddenly the Inter part of the graphic's crossed out, and the sub heading of "(Working Title}" is added in small print below it. Tony takes a deep, frustrated sip of coffee out of a mug doilied up in the pattern of his own mask as PB stares downward, or falls asleep, one of the two. Suddenly his eyes pop back open and his fake smile reappears.PB: Today we're going to be talking about the physical state of me, the Pizza Boy And-
TR: AH! uh uh uh uh!
PB: Right...sorry, it's just...it's just Pizza Boy.
TR: *under breath* you're damn right it is. EAW hasn't got destributing licensing to your real name...neither do I for that matter...
PB: Well, after Rising Tide I finally got an MRI
TR: After they pried the National title out of his cold dead hands.
PB: Right...apparently there aren't any metals allowed in MRI's. *mumbling* or the doctor was just trying to steal my gold...
TR: Either way, tests have come back positive for acute brain damage, which after his seizure in that abandoned house...well, noooo body questioned.
PB: I'm going to keep working, though. The doc said I could if I took fewer belt shots to the head.
TR: A promise we can't make.
PB winces and stares down at his lap. Suddenly a smile of pride spreads across his face as he picks the gold up in his hands, inspects it with childlike wonder, before slinging it over his shoulder and patting it's face plate proudly.PB: But until that happens...
TR: If you hold up the belt next to PB's head in the right light, they're twinsies!
PB: UNTIL THAT HAPPENS! I'm going to defend this title of mine until my last dying breath.
Tony rises from his seat and starts loudly clapping. PB's eyes roll, and then narrow on the camera as his title starts to shake on his shoulder, like some sort of foreboding cup of water in an ill conceived dinosaur park. Tony, for once, taking notice of the situation, lets his clapping die down naturally as he slowly lowers back into his seat.PB: Thanks, Tony.
TR: Still got the migraine?
PB: Yeah...
TR: Is it from celebrating your victory last night or the head trauma?
[In unison with cheeky smiles]: It's probably the head trauma.
They both wistfully smile and stare up into the studio lights before quickly wincing in pain and averting their eyes.PB: But anyway, I hope this answers a question for all of you...
TR: Please don't...
PB smirks and cuts his eyes at Tony as he rises out of his seat stiffly and holds his belt aloft as his mentor covers the few inches of his face exposed in embarrassment.PB:...because I want to start a new hashtag.
TR: Stooop....
PB: If anyone asks hashtag where's my pizza? Respond proudly back hashtag
TR: You don't have to say hashtag
PB: HASHTAG THE PIZZA IS HERE!
TR: Good god, sit down.
As PB darts his eyes around, waiting for the approval of the masses to meet his ears in the form of claps and cheers, before suddenly realizing he's in a closed studio. He turns to Tony, whose now buried his head in a decorated throw pillow. PB blushes and slowly starts to sit back down.PB: ahem...this has been...National Pizza. Until next time...
The lights die back down as the musac picks back up and the vandalized logo reappears.TR: [under his breath] I told you not to do that.
PB: [under his breath] What? Like
#PizzaRunsCold was any better?
TR: [hushed scream] Ray Lloyd was a nice man!
PB: Shhh....I think the camera's still running. I'm sure our mics are cut down, so just quietly wave at the camera.
PB's shadow in the darkness politely waves as Tony's hand awkwardly raises in a hook as the camera fades out and tunes out their hushed bickering. 
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