Sitting in the dark, lit only by a desk lamp, is none other than Ashley Hunter. The frazzled nerd's eyes are completely bloodshot as he scours an app on his phone, the camera panning around to reveal it to be a tracking app. He looks the screen up and down with a massive sigh as the app again ends with the tracker showing a GPS location in the middle of the ocean. One could even see tears welling up in his eyes as he places the phone down and leans back in his chair, rubbing his temples as he takes another deep breath, trying to figure out what to do next in this situation. He finally takes a shaky breath before rehearsing a few lines out loud.
"Mrs. LaRusso, Mr. LaRusso, I am sorry but I have lost track of your son. Where is he? Possibly in the bottom of the ocean. How did he get there? I don't know! He's been missing for a week but I was instructed to never call the cops because that's bad publicity! I'm sorry that I have no idea where he is and I'm worried sick and he might be dead so my best friend is gone and also I'm so fucking fired and-"
His incoherent rambling is stopped only by the sounds of his phone vibrating. He checks the caller ID, a blocked number, and takes a moment to compose himself before answering, literally doing anything he can to take his mind off of the situation.
"Hello, this is Ashley Hunter of LaRusso's Loose Hoe's and other affiliated-"
"Ash, shut up, it's me."
"Calm down! I wasn't gone that long."
"It's been over a week and your phone's tracker showed you in the middle of the ocean!"
"Oh right, well I tossed my phone because I had to get fully in character if I was gonna go against this Dorian Hawkhurst guy."
"You went off the grid?"
"No no! I just became a deadbeat dad, though I don't think there's, like, a huge difference when you get down to it."
"Fuck, Lance. Well at least you're calling me, what do you need?"
"Oh, I need you to come get me because I literally made every stupid decision I could. I'll text you my address."
Ash doesn't get a chance to reply before Lance abruptly hangs up the phone, the nerd's tears completely dried up, likely out of pure rage but who's to say. He waited silently for the text as the scene cuts to black.
The smell of malt liquor, sex, cheap weed, and ghetto pussy filled the air of what looked to be a section eight housing apartment. Light was just beginning to shine through the windows as a knock is heard at the door. A silhouetted figure moves to answer the door, their frame adorned by baggy jeans, a loose tank top, a du-rag, a bottle of malt liquor in one hand, and a blunt in the other. The figure opens the door to reveal Ashley on the other end, his flabbergasted expression VERY quickly turning to one of pure shock and disgust. He holds a finger up, visibly going through the five stages of grief before uttering a single word.
"What do you-"
"I mean no. As in no, nope, nada, not happening, not dealing with it."
Ash pushes the figure inside, flicking on the lights and vaguely motioning at him, the camera finally spinning around to reveal none other than Lance LaRusso!
... In blackface.
The Pansexual Playboy obviously sees no problem with his appearance, even taking the time to puff his join and finish off his bottle of malt liquor, tossing it aside as he plops down on the nearby couch.
"What's the big deal, man? I told you I was getting in character to try and learn about Dorian so I did! I would say I did pretty well, I mean, it isn't perfect seeing as I don't have an actual kid or anything because, ya know, I wrap it before I tape it or make girls pill it before I spill it."
Lance takes a long pause, Ash sitting down and checking his texts as Lance rolls around his own head and tries to get back on track.
"You good there?"
"Yeah, yeah. Turns out shitty weed mixed with malt liquor will actually fuck you up in high doses. But what I was gonna say was I needed a replacement for a kid, so I just abandoned you for a week, went out, fucked every ghetto chick in a five-mile radius, and maxed out some credit cards on shitty purchases. I have five flatscreen TVs! Can you believe that shit? Surprisingly, I can't say my credit score has dipped anywhere near low enough to be considered street trash seeing as it was already pretty high. I may have to work a bit harder on that if I'm gonna just straight up hit rock bottom."
Ash, who is still on the acceptance stage of grief, finally gets up, heading to the kitchen and filling a glass with water, water that is admittedly browner than he'd like to see, and coming back to toss it on Lance's face! The water washes off some of the makeup, leaving Lance with a half-Donald Trump look. The Playboy sputters a bit, wiping off the rest of the makeup with a look of disdain.
"You know, you could have told me to wash it off."
"I could have. But I can't talk to you while you're walking around here like Al Jolson in The Jazz Singer."
"Isn't that reference a bit dated?"
Lance pulls off the du-rag and tank top, using the latter to dry himself before whipping them off to the corner.
"Well, my point still stands. This is as close to Dorian Hawkhurst as I can feasibly get. I mean, I threw my entire life away in one fell swoop, I decided to abandon those I should hold most dear to me, I became a useless member of society..."
"Okay, but where does the blackface come in?"
"Is Dorian not black?"
"No, Lance. He's not, in any stretch of the word, black."
"... Not even a little?"
"What made you so sure he was black?"
"Uh, hello? Dorian? I mean, throw in all the other shit I just said on top of a name like Dorian and if you weren't black I'd be shocked."
"Well prepared to be shocked, bud, he's not black and you're VERY racist, like, right now you're to racism what Mel Gibson is to anti-semitism."
"... Getting roles in films despite this?"
Ash rolls his eyes, getting up from the couch and walking towards the door, motioning for Lance to follow him.
"Well, first off, yes, but second off we should get going to so we can get you back to the flat, clean you up, and get ready for that shoot we have scheduled for tomorrow. You know, the one we scheduled like three weeks ago before you decided to go missing?"
Lance pulled back on Ash's arm, whipping the nerd onto the couch and pulling out his credit card, giving him a sly look.
"But you haven't heard the best part of my plan, man! I know exactly how to trap a dude like Dorian and get a win over him. You'll have to stay sitting down for this one, alright? But it's truly foolproof and all of my research in this shitty apartment and of the area around me has lead me to this final conclusion. Are you ready?
"Good! Now shut up. What my research has shown me is that firstly, Dorian's pullout game is WEAK. Like, weaker than the communication in my last relationship which lasted like a week and some change. See, if I can pin him, I just need to focus on the pullout. I hold him down for three seconds, add in some pelvic thrusting for good measure, then pull out at the three count to show him how it's done. I get the win and don't have to pay copious amounts of child support after I fuck him. More importantly, I'll fuck him out of a win, and I'll fuck him outta his comfort zone. He won't understand what's happened because he doesn't know how to pull out. He'll lose his god damn mind laying on the mat and expecting to stay there for at LEAST another few seconds because he'll be riding that orgasm like some kinda guy who wants to pay child support."
Ash looks at Lance, blinks slowly, then mockingly claps.
"Bravo, Lance. What was next? You said firstly, what's second?"
"Oh! Second was my back up plan, I was just gonna throw some menthol cigarettes outside of the ring and have some ghetto bitches flirt with him. With any luck he'll lose by count out."
Ash stands up from his chair and grips Lance by the arm, pulling him forcefully outside towards his car.
"We're going, now. Let's pretend this conversation never happened."
Despite Lance's objections the two unlikely friends drove away from the shitty apartment, Lance complaining the whole way home.