It Takes Two To Tango - but Only One to Bang!

“Wait, what?”

“Okay - so hear me out.” Craig Cogan steps back from the counter - an oversized pistol that would make John Wayne holler, “Hello Pilgrim” held in one hand. He waves it without looking past a heavyset man who steps out of its aim, before walking down the aisle as he talks. “It’s called a deathmatch.”

“People can’t die,” Charli’s voice already sounds exhausted. 

“Are you sure?” He asks, suspiciously. Closing one eye, he squints down the barrel of the revolver. 

“Yeah, Craig - you can’t kill anyone. Especially not with a gun.”

Cogan stops, scratching his head with the tip of the pistol before aiming it once more, this time with intent, towards the clerk.

“I heard it both ways,” he says, pulling the hammer back with his thumb dramatically.

The Peoples Champion pulls the trigger and an audible click resounds throughout the room. The shopkeep dives behind the counter.

“CRAIG - DON’T BUY A GUN!”

“GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY STORE!” The man yells. His head pokes out, followed by his thick finger pointing towards the door 

“I'M ON THE DAMN PHONE!” Craig shouts back towards the shopkeep who has now moved around the counter with a baseball bat firmly gripped in his hands. “Hello? Hel-“

“He hit me with a baseball bat!”

Craig sits on the curb across the street from the pawn shop. The shops keep stands in the doorway, weapon still clenched in his hand.

“You threatened him with a gun.”

“Guns are made to shoot people. How else do you test a gun out?” he asks, rubbing the back of his head where a large welt has already started to swell. 

“That is not what guns are for!” Charli protests.

“I heard it both ways,” he grumbles, pulling his hand away to see it covered in blood. He tosses a middle finger towards the clerk who reaches for the door. Craig jumps to his feet and continues hastily away, looking back occasionally to make sure he isn’t being followed.

“If we don’t bring a gun, how do you expect us to win?” he asks.

“The same way we won before. Skill…” she pauses, “…luck.”

“Wait!” Craig stops, holding a finger up dramatically. “We bring knives!”

“We don’t bring knives!” she shrieks.

“But what if they bring guns?” he says smugly.

There is a long pause before Charl’s shouting causes Craig to pull the phone away. “YOU DON’T BRING A KNIFE TO A GUN FIGHT!”

He stops to consider this for a moment, looking down at the phone before shaking his head.

“I’ve heard it both ways,” he says, only to be met with the distinctive sound of a line being cut. “Hello? Hello?”

Craig pulls the phone away to see the words: Call Ended.

“So, you’re saying it’s more like dancing?”

Craig balances the phone against his shoulder, hopping up and down as he tugs at his shoe.

“I’m afraid of what will happen if I say yes,” she says with a sigh.

Pulling it into place, he stands up and proudly puffs out his chest. 

“You mean what has happened,” he corrects.

Craig Cogan has slipped into a singlet, complete with a matching tutu and dance shoes. He aggressively works on adjusting the spandex away from his crotch when a woman with dark black hair and horn-rimmed glasses cautiously approaches. Clipboard held like a shield between the two, she hesitantly clears her throat.

“Craig…” Crawford begins.

“Sir?” The woman, whose name tag reads ‘Angela: Instructor’, asks. Craig holds a finger up between them, inches from her face causing her to frown. 

“Craig - what have you done?” Charli groans. 

“I gotta go!” He ends the call, going to put the phone into his back pocket, then his side, before finally tossing it towards the wall where some of the others bags have been laid, missing badly. Angela flinches as it ricochets off the wall. “Hi, I’m here to learn ballet.”

“Sir, this is a tango class.”

Craig looks over the tutu and then back to the other participants. Each couple is dressed in loose formal wear, the men in tuxedos and women in high heels and flowing gowns. “And you need a partner.”

“Ah,” the Big, Bad Brony drops his chin into his hand, scratching his bushy beard in thought.

Suddenly, Grandma steps up beside him, wearing a matching singlet and tutu. Instead of dance shoes, she has on a pair of orthopedic Timberlands. “I’m your huckleberry!”

She swats him hard across the rear, causing him to jump. 

“Let’s Boogie!” Grandma hits a pose, possibly disco, leaving Craig to look on with confusion.

“Wait, what?” he groans.

“Tango is…”

The scene opens up. Craig Cogan stands in the middle of the dance room floor - the rest of the class stands just outside the lighting, watching restlessly. He has changed into a tuxedo - one that is certainly not his and several sizes too small. His long hair has been sliced back and glistens as if it has been greased down.

A single spotlight lands directly on him and he motions beside him. On cue, one of the students presses play on the stereo. A slow, steady tempo begins to play. 

“A tradition.” Craig dances along for a moment, his hips doing their best to move along with the rhythm which is surprisingly well for someone who started only seconds ago. Grandma, dressed as Crawford in all the wrong ways, shuffles into the light. “A tale of the embrace.”

He wraps an arm around her and she grabs tightly onto his right butt cheek. “A back…”

Craig starts to step away, but Grandma catches his hand, taking the lead. He looks shocked but falls into line. “And forth.”

Their legs kick in direct unison with one another, Craig ending with his leg pulled up on her hip and her hands once again firmly on his bottom. “The challenge is the pace.”

He realizes what he’s doing and pushes himself back. In hushed tones, he hisses at her: “I’m supposed to take the lead.”

“So lead!” She laughs, smacking him firmly on the bottom.

“Well - stop getting in my way!” The two grapple for a moment for hand position which devolves into them slapping at each other, Grandma quickly getting the upper hand. A pair of students break them up and after a moment of composing himself, Craig turns back towards the frame. He clears his throat and again tries to sing talk along with the tone.

“Tango is…”

He begins to almost tap dance in place, holding the flourish longer than he should. Grandma frowns and crosses her arms.

“A rhythm.” 

Craig raises one eyebrow, a coy smile playing across his lips. He holds his hand out towards her, but she continues to keep her arms crossed.

“It’s the push and pull of life-“ Teeth clenched, he grabs her arm, dragging her towards him. Her arms still crossed, she begrudgingly shuffles along with the rhythm “When a partner is giving...”

Craig picks her up and swings her back and forth. Grandma, in turn, clamps down hard onto his cheek causing him to shriek and let her go. She brushes herself off and wraps him up, taking the lead once more. 

“You would sacrifice your liiiife!”

Grandma swings him out wide where he ends with a kick flourish. Once again realizing he’s not in the lead, he jerks his hand away causing her to loudly raspberry his way. He nods his head for a moment before rushing towards her, the crowd once again intervening to break the two up. A man in his boxers starts a shoving match with Cogan next, his hands grabbing at the suit. The peoples champion gets free, and steps once more into the center of the room and the spotlight that awaits.

After another long refrain, he begins again through clenched teeth, staring at her. “Tango is…”

He gyrates not exclusively at the knees and rib cage, somehow missing every joint that would and should be used.

“Obsession.”

The two circle each other, now in full attack stance. Both go for the lead resulting in a grapple.

“It’s what steers you on your course -“ he turns to the camera. “So let me tell you Johns something.”

He tucks her into a headlock, grinning triumphantly. Craig points towards the frame.

“You will face our fooooorce! Team Buddyback, Team Bu-”

Grandma lifts him up to his surprise, just as he starts to chant, dropping him hard onto the floor. She is quick to her feet, grabbing hold of his head before slinging him into the mirror which shatters on impact.

“Just cut - cut the whole thing!” He yells. Grandma grabs a large shard of glass and starts in his directions. “No, no, the camera! Cut the camera! Put the glass down!”

“I thought we were practicing wrestling?” She says, lifting the pane up and throwing it his way. It shatters on his forearms as he shrieks.

“This isn’t wrestling! Grandma! This isn’t wrestling!!”

“So let me get this straight…” Charli begins.

Craig has returned to the street, still wearing the undersized - and now quite ripped - suit as he stumbles along. He holds a bag of ice against the back of his head.

“You got hit with a baseball bat and then your own grandmother beat you in front of a tango class while you were wearing a tutu?”

“No, you have it all wrong,” he says, “I changed out of the tutu.”

“How did any of this help you prepare?” she asks.

“I learned to fall through glass?” Craig offers.

“That is how we lose!” she shouts. Craig stops moving, looking down at the phone - a look of utter shock on his face.

“Wait, what?” he asks, his face filled with indignation.