In his office, we see fat southerner Dusty Rhodes. The "hit" where the WWF title belts are to be stolen is still in the planning stages, but at the moment, other matters are on the forefront. He is talking to someone on the phone.

Dusty: Hey Sullivan, wheeyll yuh relacsh? Ah've known yuh a long time, ah'm not worried, ah know yuh'll pay me bayuck. Don'f teyll me whut ah already know, don'f embarrass me. So yuh had a few bad months. . . Ya do whut evraboydy elthe do, ah don'f care if id's Vince Russo or Eric Bischoff, ya ride id ouf, sit an' wait on de sidelinesh an' git paid for doin' nuffin' until Busch decides to fire de guy who replacesh yuh, an' yuh'll be bayuck on trayuck, if you wheeyyll.

Paul Heyman, apparently working for Dusty, walks into the doorway of the office.

Heyman: Chris fucking Irvine is outside.

Dusty: (to the guy on the phone:) Hold on. . . (to Heyman:) Who?

Heyman: No, not him. Jericho.

Dusty: Oh. Tell 'im to come in.

Heyman: Fucking come on the fuck in.

Chris Jericho walks in as Dusty wraps up the phone conversation.

Dusty: Ah gut to go, a freyund o' mahne ish oufside. Keep yuh evil goatee up, ah'll be talkin' to yah. Don'f worry.

He hangs up the phone and goes to hug Jericho.

Dusty: Welcome home, Chris! How doeth freedum feeyll, huh?

Jericho: A change. . .

Dusty: Ain'f dat dere de sad troof? Sit down, take yuh trenchcoat off, make yuhself cumftuble. A drink, if you weeeyyll?

Jericho: Yeah.

Dusty: How 'bouf a. . . SUUURRGGEEE!!!!!!

Jericho: Good.

Dusty goes to pour one up.

Dusty: Who'sh yuh handler?

Jericho: Jim Ross.

Dusty: How ish he?

Jericho: He's a fucking jerky. Won't even let me leave the midcard.

Dusty: Yuh know, id never ceashesh to amathe me. A fucking ECW wrathler goesh ouf dere, jumpsh off a balcony fo' 25 centsh, an' he gits Dr. Tom Prichard fo' a handler. Good wrathler like yuh. . . windsh up wiff a ball-buthtin' prick.

Jericho: I want you to know I appreciate all the packages you sent me on the inside.

Dusty: Whut de heyll waff ah supposhed to do, fuhgeth abouf you?

Jericho: I just want you to know that it meant a lot to me.

Dusty: Hey, id waff de leasht ah could do! Wish to heyll ah could've done a loff more. But ah'm fat and a drunk.

Jericho: Thanks a lot, Dust.

Dusty: Chris. . . Preddy boy Canadian blond guy Chris. . . So tell me yuh story, kid. . . whut are yuh planth?

Before he can answer, Nice Guy Dustin enters the room.

Nice Guy Dustin: You son of something other than a seacow! I see you sitting there, but I don't believe it! How you doing, Y2J?

They hug in, slapping each others backs. Dustin gives Jericho a kiss on the cheek.

Jericho: Hey Dustin. None of that Goldust crap, OK?

Nice Guy Dustin: Listen, I'm sorry. Not just because I can't kiss guys anymore and that my career is fucked, but I should've picked you up myself. I was. . . I mean, fuck it, I've been. . . This whole week has been crazy, I've had my head up my ass the whole time with some damn angle I have with Rick Steiner.

Jericho: It’s funny you should say that, because me and your dad were just talking about that. . .

Nice Guy Dustin: That I should have picked you up?

Jericho grins. . .

Jericho: No, that you had your head up your ass. . . I walk in the door, he's like "Chris, Chris, I'm so glad someone's finally here who knows what's going on. . . My son Dustin is a fuckup. He's ruining the bidnish. I mean, I love the guy, but you know, his workrate's down the toilet and he's being jobbed out to everyone."

Dustin knows very well that Jericho is just kidding around, and he’s smiling.

Jericho: I mean, that's what you said, right, Dust? You tell him yourself.

Dusty: Ah hate fo' yuh to hear id like dis, buff, yuh know, Chris comes in here an’ ashksh me how bidnish wath. . . Yuh don'f lie to a guy who done two yeahs in de midcard. . .

Chris Jericho stands up and does a "come on baby" pose.

Nice Guy Dustin: Very true.

He jumps Jericho and they roll around a bit on the floor, wrestling each other.

Dusty: All rightee, enuff o' dis here shit! Break id uf! Come on, dis ain't no playgroun'. Yuh wanna fool aroun' on de flooh, yuh do id in Duthin’sh offish, nut mine.

They stop and stand up.

Nice Guy Dustin: Daddy, did you see that?

Dusty: Whut?

Nice Guy Dustin: When he had me down on the ground he tried to put me in a headscissors!

The two young ‘uns are still playing around verbally. . .

Jericho: You wish, Goldustin.

Nice Guy Dustin: You sick bastard, Chris, you tried to put me in a headscissors in my father's office! Look, Chris, whatever you wanna do in the privacy of your own home, go do it. But don't try to put me in a headscissors. I mean, I don't think of you that way. I like you a lot, buddy, but I don't think of you that way.

Jericho: See, if I was a butt cowboy. . . I wouldn't even throw you to the Mean Street Posse.

Nice Guy Dustin: No you wouldn't, you'd keep me to yourself. You know, two years having your head between ham'n'eggers' legs, you'd appreciate a piece of prime Southern meat when you see it.

Jericho: I might break you in, Nice Guy. . . But I'd make you my dog's filthy, disgusting, dirty, skanky, brutal, bottom-feeding, trashbag bitch!

Nice Guy Dustin: Ain't that a sad sight, daddy? A man walks in the WWF a Canadian, comes out talking like he has a fucking personality! You know what? I think it's all those catchphrases that've been shined up real nice, turned sideways, and shoved up your ass so far, now it's backed up your fucking brain and is coming out your mouth!

Jericho: Dustin. . . You keep talking like the Bisch, I'm gonna slap you like the Bisch.

They are ready to go at it again, but now Dusty is pissed.

Dusty: Alrightee, enuff of dis here shit! Ah'm sick of id! Now, bofe o' yuh, sit duwn!

They do as told.

Dusty: Now, Duthtin. . . When yuh came in heyre, we were tayuhkin' sum serioush bidnish. Chris here'sh gut a handler pruhblem.

Nice Guy Dustin: Who's your handler?

Jericho: Jim Ross.

Nice Guy Dustin: Ross. . . Fuck. I hear he's a motherfucker.

Jericho: No, that's Ed Ferrera, but he's a fucker alright. Won't even let me leave the midcard until I do some shitty jobs.

Nice Guy Dustin: You could come back and work for us, man.

Jericho: Well, I wanna. But first I gotta prove to. . . jerkyhead that I can do some regular, you know, job, job-type jobs before I can move out on my own. I can't come back and work for you guys if I gotta worry about making some silly-ass ten o'clock curfew every fucking night.

Dusty: Alrightee, we could woyurk dis here ouf, cayun't we Duthtin?

Nice Guy Dustin: This ain't all that bad. We can get you a lot of legitimate jobs. I'll get you down to Louisville as a 're-evaluation project'.

Jericho: I don't wanna carry no fucking stiffs, Dustin.

Nice Guy Dustin: Hey. You ain't gonna carry shit. You won't even work there. But as far as the record is concerned you do. I call Cornette, the booker, and tell him he's got a new guy: boom, you're on the rotation. You get a time card, it's clocked in and out for you every day. And at the end of the week, you get a nice paycheck. 'Re-evaluation projects' do very well. So you can move into a halfway decent storyline without the Ross fuck going "Hey, this guy needs to get a bit more experienced before being moved up to a higher level" in the Ross Report. And, if he decides to make a surprise visit. . . that's the day we sent you to Memphis, to work a small-ass indy show. He comes back again, "hey, sorry J.R., you just missed him. We had to send him to some indy show five fucking hours away. We had a card there we had to have a name wrestler on." Look, part of the job, Chris, is going different places, and that's the beauty of it. We've got places all over the place.

Dusty: Hey Chris, did ah teyull yuh nut to worree? Hey, Chris here waff worreed.

Nice Guy Dustin: I'll take you down to Louisville tomorrow, we'll get you fixed up with Cornette, tell him what's what.

Jericho: You know, I appreciate what you guys are doing, but I'd like to know when I can come back. . . you know, do some real work.

Dusty: Weeeyyll, id'sh hard to shay. Fings are a littul. . .

Nice Guy Dustin: They're a little fucked up is what they are. Look, we're just getting ready for a big meeting right now down in Atlanta.

Dusty: Jusht leff Duthtin for now sef yuh up at Louisville, git yuh a job, giyuve sum cash, geff dis here Ross fuck off yuh bayuck. . . den we'yll talk to yuh, alrightee? Huh?

Nice Guy Dustin: Dad, I've got an idea. Just. . . just hear me out. I know you don't like using the boys on these jobs, but Chris here, I mean, he’s only been nothing but good luck for us. . . The guy is a fucking chicken's foot, for crying out loud!

It seems Dustin's having some flashbacks to his 1999 feud with Terry Funk.

Jericho: You mean rabbit's foot. . .

Nice Guy Dustin: Yeah, that's what I said. . . . Anyway, I'd like to have him in. We know he can handle himself, and we damn sure know you can trust him.

Dusty: Hey Chris? How wouyuld yuh feeyul abouf pullin' a joyub wiff abouf fahve other guysh?

Jericho grins. . .

Jericho: I'd feel great about it.