(SCENE START)

ELENA CRUZ (To the camera, with a forced, plastic smile) Okay, we are rolling? Great. So, I’m standing here backstage at the Crimson Club, and honestly, the lighting back here is doing nothing for my complexion. I should be at a gala, but instead, I’m waiting for the loser of the main event.

(She spots Jean-Louis Duval walking into the frame. He looks immaculate despite the loss, though he is angrily trying to light a cigarette with a gold lighter.)

ELENA CRUZ Oh, look! It’s Jean-Louis Duval. Jean-Louis! Bises!

(Elena leans in for a fake air-kiss. Duval accepts it as his due, finally getting his cigarette lit. He takes a long drag and exhales a cloud of smoke directly past the camera lens.)

JEAN-LOUIS DUVAL Incroyable. The smell in this building, Elena… it is the scent of stale beer and failure. Not my failure, of course. The failure of this city to produce anything of culture. 

ELENA CRUZ Tell me about it. I’ve been trying to get a decent signal to upload my story for twenty minutes. It’s like we’re in the Stone Age. But anyway, you just lost to Elijah Drake. That must be… annoying? 

JEAN-LOUIS DUVAL (He scoffs, flicking ash onto the floor) “Lost” is such a pedestrian word. I did not lose. I simply chose to stop participating in a barbaric brawl that had ceased to be art. This Elijah Drake… he fights like a peasant. No finesse. No appreciation for the finer points of the craft. I was casting pearls before swine out there. 

ELENA CRUZ Totally. It looked super sweaty. I don’t know how you do it. I mean, did you hear those people out there? They were actually cheering for him.

JEAN-LOUIS DUVAL (Sneering) Americans. They applaud loud noises and bright lights. They see a “legend” and they clap like seals, desperate for nostalgia because their present lives are so dreadfully empty. They would not know true talent if I slapped them across the face with a bottle of vintage Bordeaux. 

ELENA CRUZ (Laughing) Oh my god, you are so right. I swear, a guy in the front row asked for my autograph earlier, and he had ketchup on his shirt. Ketchup, Jean-Louis. I almost called security. 

JEAN-LOUIS DUVAL Dégoutant. You see? We are the only two people in this entire building with a shred of dignity. I gave them a masterpiece of technical wrestling tonight—a ballet of violence!—and they wanted… what? Punches? Kicks? 

ELENA CRUZ Probably just wanted to see you fall down so they could feel better about their mortgages.

JEAN-LOUIS DUVAL Precisely. I am the “Aristocrat of Agony,” Elena, not a circus performer. Tonight was simply a charity appearance. I allowed Mr. Drake his little moment of glory. It is likely the highlight of his sad, fading existence. Me? I have a reservation at a private lounge that doesn’t let anyone in wearing denim. 

ELENA CRUZ (Eyes lighting up) Wait, really? Do they allow influencers? Because I am done with this place.

JEAN-LOUIS DUVAL (Offering his arm) For you, ma chérie, I am sure we can make an exception. Let us leave this sewer before the stench of the “fans” sticks to my velvet. 

ELENA CRUZ (To the camera, dropping the microphone casually) You heard him. We’re out of here. Don’t forget to like and subscribe. Or don’t. I don’t care.

(Elena hooks her arm through Duval’s. They walk off together, stepping over the microphone cable, as Duval takes another long puff of his cigarette.)

(SCENE END)