ReVival 92
CHICAGO AIRBNB
AN HOUR BEFORE REVIVAL...
Picture it: Wrigleyville. 2026.
A hot summer night in the city.
The kitchen and living room on the first floor of a three-flat, with enough people crammed inside to give a big ol’ middle finger to the AirBnB’s rules against “parties” and “guests not on the reservation are prohibited.”
The TBOX Royal Court is in attendance. Clark the Cub, the North Siders’ mascot, is pumping the crowd up. Johnny Dorn, the self-anointed “Wrigleyville’s Finest” and the host of the crawl (much to the chagrin of every Survivor Participant), is simultaneously chastising his fellow PRIME co-workers while also riling up his fellow degenerates.
They already tried to experience Wrigleyville? THEY DIDN’T EXPERIENCE SHIT WITHOUT HIM.
They think they’re gonna get away with pussing out and drinking water or not drinking at all? THE FUCK THEY ARE.
This gets him a cheer from the Royal Court and eye-rolls from more than a few of the Survivors. To hammer the point home, the Waveland Avenue Warrior lines up large, double-shot glasses on the kitchen island and smirks.
IT’S POWER HOUR TIME
60 shots in 60 minutes. One point for every shot taken. For every shot not taken, points are lost, and they’ll need all the points they can get, because there will be a different challenge at every stop along the way.
Clark the Cub wheels a cooler over to the group and opens the top to reveal bottles of Malört, cans of Old Style, and bottles of O’Douls, because as far as Johnny’s concerned, the teetotalers aren’t gonna get a good non-alcoholic beverage to start this shit off, nosiree.
The Anglo Luchador immediately reaches for the Malört, pours himself a shot, and downs it. Ivan Stanislav snatches the bottle out of his hand and, not to be outdone, takes a shot as well. Next, Henry Keyes grabs the bottle from Ivan with a flip of the bird. He pours himself and Scott Hunter a shot, and the two Vae Victis cohorts cheers and down the drink.
Coltrane Anderson reaches for an Old Style as his beverage of choice, as does Nathan Lake. Rob Williams grabs an O’Douls while telling Johnny to go fuck himself, and Kenny Freeman reluctantly takes a bottle of O’Douls as well after being informed that no, he cannot have a rum and coke, hold the rum.
As the minutes tick away, TAL, Ivan, Henry, and Scott all go shot for shot with Malört and manage to ignore the combined taste of motor oil, antifreeze, the floor of the Aceldama Pit, and sad park bench pizza. Coltrane and Nathan comfortably get through their Old Styles. Kenny somehow gets through his O’Douls, still wishing for that coke-no-rum, while Rob brazenly dares Dorn to “fuckin’ do something” after every shot.
60 minutes.
60 shots.
60 points for everyone.
ROUND BOARD
TAL – 60
IVAN STANISLAV – 60
HENRY KEYES – 60
SCOTT HUNTER – 60
COLTRANE ANDERSON – 60
NATHAN LAKE – 60
ROB WILLIAMS – 60
KENNY FREEMAN – 60
And we’ve only just begun…
It’s ReVival 92. The pyro is going off. Fans are screaming.
And that means only one thing.
SIGNS!
I DIDNT GET A TURKEY LEG FOR MEDIEVAL STUFF AND NOW IM PISSED
GET THE MALÖRT READY
JOHNNY DORN PUB CRAWLED SO THE SURVIVORS COULD PUB RUN
JOHNNY DORN FOR MAYOR
YOU FOOLISH AMERICANS ADOPTED THE ALCOHOL. IVAN STANISLAV WAS BORN IN IT!!
MALÖRT – 1, IVAN STANISLAV – 0
THE LAST TIME THE ANGLO LUCHADOR WAS IN CHICAGO, THEY RAN OUT OF MALÖRT
EMERALDS VS. DIAMONDS
WE FINALLY GOT SPORTS JONATHAN-CHRISTOPHER HALL IS OUR HERO
MALÖRT? MO’ LIKE MALÖN’T.
CAN ANYONE STOP MATH? THE AMERICAN PUBLIC SCHOOL SYSTEM.
“DESIGNATED DRIVER” KENNY FREEMAN
TIME TO BREAK OUT THE SPONSORSHIP MONEY FOR OUR TAG CHAMPS @FOOTFINDER BOOM! TOUGH ACTIN’ TINACTIN
SO THERE I WAS WALKING AROUND DOWNTOWN CHICAGO AND I SAW A CONSTRUCTION CREW WITH A CRANE AND ONE OF THE CONSTRUCTION GUYS LOOKED LIKE BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD BECAUSE IT WAS BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD AND I ASKED HIM, WHADDYA DOIN BRANDON? AND HE SAID “I’M STEALING THE BEAN.” AND I SAID, DON’T THAT MAKE YOU A BANDIT? AND OMG HE STARTED STOMPING HIS FEET AND SAYING “AM NOT AM NOT AM NOT!” UNTIL THE OTHER CONSTRUCTION WORKERS STARTED POINTING AND LAUGHING AT HIM. DON’T STEAL OUR BEAN, BRANDON. WE NEED IT MORE THAN YOU.
THIS GUY HAS BEEN HOLDING UP HIS BIG-ASS SIGN THE WHOLE SHOW AND HONESTLY I’M MORE IMPRESSED THAN ANYTHING
PIT
BOOK TUNNEL KING WENTWORTH YOU FUCKING COWARDS
THE COUER D’ALENE OF SUFFERING IS ACTUALLY COEUR D’ALENE
WHO DOES ALEXEI THINK HE IS, A SENATOR FROM KENTUCKY? #WHERESRUSLAN
I WAS TODAY YEARS OLD WHEN I FOUND OUT THIS CITY NAMED AN EXPRESSWAY AFTER THE EGO BUSTER
Now, after signs, ReVival usually begins with a couple of entrances. Thing is… Well.
SUDDENLY!
The Intruders are already in the ring.
Nobody invited them there. They just showed up and they’re now everyone’s problem. Disturbed is playing for some reason.
Even Vince Howard seems surprised to see them here.
Vince Howard: La-Ladies and gentlemen… the following contest is scheduled for one fall! Already in the ring, as though SUDDENLY! THE INTRUDERSSSSSSSS!!!
Witness two masked men raise their fists into the air triumphantly, as though they aren’t about to face opponents that might just kick their asses.
“I said ‘kiss me, you’re beautiful’
These are truly the last days'”
The weathered voice from the beginning of Godspeed You! Black Emperor’s “Dead Flag Blues” fades into the short acoustic section that begins Coheed & Cambria’s “Welcome Home.” After twelve seconds, the guitars thunder in and start to kick ass.
Typically, this is when gold and green pyro goes off right on time with the riffs.
That, though, is for Chandler Tsonda.
And two is better than one. Different than one.
So now?
Blackout.
WHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Nick Stuart: Listen to that reaction!
Richard Parker: These buffoons don’t even know what they’re cheering for.
Nick Stuart: It’s called unconditional love, Richard.
The blackout gets a pulsing soundtrack, as the pitter-patter synths rise over twenty-five seconds of crescendo, the crowd rising with each passing moment.
And then: BOOM!
Purple and gold pyro every which way explodes and illuminates two symmetrical figures posing on left and right of the entrance way.
Left: vet. Right: rook.
Tsonda and Jasmine both look shot out of a cannon, full of piss and vinegar as the electric sounds of “Melodie” by IDIOITAPE just keep on rising.
Nick Stuart: The long-awaited duo makes their debut here tonight, Richard, and the fine folks of Chicago are NOT just being Midwest polite about it.
Richard Parker: This town knows nothing of pizza, or hot dogs, or Polish sausage. Of course they know nothing of tag team excellence. Pop Culture Phenoms for life!
The Hall of Famer and the youngster who dreams of the same acclaim glide to the ring amidst a sea of high-fives and cheers. The song continues to thump electric spirit, with a boosted bass that the crowd can feel in their teeth.
Vince Howard: And their opponents…weighing in at a combined three-hundred seventeen pounds….
Richard Parker: That’s not a tag team, that’s a single offensive lineman. A slight one, at that.
Vince Howard: CHAAAAAANDLER TSONDA, JASMIIIIIIIINE JEEEEEOOOOOOONG….DENNNNN OF VIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPERS!
Another cheer from the hottest crowd in wrestling, and it takes them all of five seconds to show why.
D-O-V! D-O-V! D-O-V!
Nick Stuart: They’ve got music. They’ve got a name. And now they’ve got a match! It’s going to be interesting to see how these two teams match up. This is the first time we’ve seen Jasmine Jeong in the ring, but we’re all familiar w—
SUDDENLY!
The Intruders attack!
DING DING
It’s maybe the most competent thing they’ve ever done, as they knock Jeong off of the apron and isolate Chandler Tsonda, clobbering him with forearms in the Den of Vipers’ corner.
The interesting thing to note about the Intruders having the advantage is, of course, the fact that the Intruders have no idea what that’s like. They have no goddamn clue. Bereft of clues, one might say. Usually, the Intruders are busy getting their asses kicked.
So the only thing they can think to do with Chandler Tsonda down on one knee and no tag team partner is to start stomping him while he’s down. They do this for a while, and are confused when Jimmy Turnbull starts a five-count to both get them to stop and to get one of the Intruders out of the ring.
Richard Parker: I’d ask how we still have these guys on the roster, but I get the impression that even if the boss woke up tomorrow and decided to fire them, they’d probably show up even more.
Nick Stuart: It’s good to be charitable to the less fortunate, like the Intruders.
Richard Parker: Yeah, if there’s two guys I think of first when I think “unfortunate,” it’s the guys we just call #1 and #2.
The Intruders argue with Jimmy about having to do such things as “tag in and out” and “play by the rules” in only the way they can.
Intruder #1: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
Intruder #2: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
Articulation is the name of the game in PRIME, after all.
Eventually, one of the Intruders does comply and exit the ring. No, we will not tell you if it’s the Piss Intruder or the Poop Intruder, because even we don’t know that. The Intruder left remaining in the ring still has no clue how this whole “advantage” thing works. He kicks Tsonda while he’s down, but he has no answer when Tsonda starts weathering the storm to get back to his feet. He chooses to go with a move he knows will work.
The ‘ol Irish Whip into the corner.
Intruder (let’s just assume this is) #1 gets a head of steam and screams his way towards Tsonda.
Intruder #1: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
He misses. His chest hits the turnbuckle and he slumps there like someone shot and bleeding out. Tsonda stands up, but is bewildered enough that his back is to Intruder #1’s back.
Intruder #2 has had enough. He didn’t have much to begin with, but he’s had enough of whatever it is he’s had enough of. He gets into the ring despite the complaints of referee Turnbull and he charges in on Tsonda. Screaming, of course.
Intruder #2: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
He misses.
He hits Intruder #1 instead.
Intruder #2 almost looks shocked as to what he just did to Intruder #1, his hands up in the air in apology. He turns to see that Tsonda has moved towards another corner, so Intruder #2 holds up his arms in an axehandle style and charges at him.
Intruder #2: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
He misses.
Of course he does.
It’s almost as if Tsonda heard him coming from several business days away. His move is less of a last-minute dodge and more like a casual jaunt away from the corner. He walks to the neutral corner across from where Intruder #1 is just in time for Intruder #1 to recover, turn, and see him. Neither of the Intruders are particularly intelligent, and #1 sees that Tsonda is standing in prime corner avalanchin’ position. So he charges. And, well… when he charges, he does the thing.
You know.
Intruder #1: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
He misses.
Obviously.
Chandler Tsonda doesn’t so much dodge as he does walk away from the corner entirely. He actually goes over to Intruder #2 and taps him on the shoulder. #2 turns around and sees Tsonda repositioning himself so that he stands in front of Intruder #1. Most people would look at that and go “bait used to be believeable!” Most people would have Admiral Akbar hitting them in their DMs shouting “it’s a trap!” Most people are not the Intruders.
Even Jasmine Jeong, who by now has long since returned to her corner and has been waiting for Tsonda to tag her in for some time, is rolling her eyes at what Intruder #2 is about to do.
We’d say “planning to do”, but let’s be obvious, planning requires brain cells that Intruder #2 has long since abandoned for the path of Intruding.
He charges, and… well. We know how the Intruders charge at this point.
Intruder #2: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
I’ll give you three guesses on how this turns out, the first two don’t count, and Intruder #1 might actually be doing a #1 in his wrestling pants right now. We’re not sure.
Nick Stuart: How many times are these guys going to fall for this?
Richard Parker: However many is funniest for the bit.
Intruder #2 is very apologetic towards his brethren in intrusion. Well, as apologetic as an Intruder can be. Chandler Tsonda, by now, is just jogging to the next corner as best as an inexplicably attractive 50-year-old who’s still doing moonsaults can jog. Intruder #2 turns and sees Tsonda in the corner directly behind him, and…
Look, I think we know where this is going, but let’s play it out and see where it goes.
Intruder #2 raises his arms, gets a head of steam, and starts screaming as he charges Tsonda yet again.
Intruder #2: AHHHHHHHHHHHH—
He actually doesn’t make it.
He stops and hunches over, breathing heavily.
Nick Stuart: Oh. I guess he ran out of gas.
Intruder #2 raises one hand and asks for a moment so he can get a breather. Tsonda rests his elbows on the top ropes and allows for it, while Jasmine is standing in her corner incredulous at all of the fucking around Chandler is doing while avoiding every single instance of him potentially finding out.
Once Intruder #2 has his wind back, he charges again.
Intruder #2: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
You know how this goes.
Chandler Tsonda walks away with a casual walk to his corner and tags in Jasmine Jeong. Behind him, Intruder #2 hits the turnbuckles and bounces off, then he flops on the canvas in both pain and incredulity that anyone would actually move out of the way instead of being polite and taking the move.
Intruder #1 has recovered and he goes to meet Jasmine Jeong.
SMACK!
The long legs of the Air Apparent unfurl like the clay pot in Ghost and smash Intruder #1 right in his big dumb masked face.
Nick Stuart: What a roundhouse kick from Jasmine Jeong!
Intruder #2 manages to get up, and he… Well, he hasn’t exactly learned anything because he charges on Jeong with his arms obviously in the air with the world’s most telegraphed double axehandle.
Intruder #2: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
Jeong swiftly darts underneath Intruder #2, who hits the ropes and bounces back. Jeong leaps onto the second ropes, then rebounds back with a hard gamengiri that knocks him off his feet.
Intruder #2 falls right in the center of the ring. Chandler Tsonda hops up onto the top rope as easily as a falcon landing on a perch.
We all know what’s coming.
Nick Stuart: Intruder #2 is in choppy waters! Here comes Tsonda!
As graceful today as it was twenty years ago.
The Model Citizen.
Boom.
Tsonda hits hard on Intruder #2. He does not cover, though, because he isn’t the legal man. Instead, he pulls Intruder #2 closer to the corner before hopping up onto the middle turnbuckle. Intruder #1 finally staggers out of the corner, and stumbles right in front of Tsonda.
Richard Parker: Look out!
Intruder #1, usually known for his keen observation skills, does not in fact notice Chandler Tsonda flying at him until he connects with the Runway Vault. Intruder #1 pops up from the impact of the stunner, almost floating in the air for a moment, before he lands right on top of Intruder #2.
Jasmine Jeong leaps up onto the top rope, back facing both Intruders. As she does, her trainer is hyping up the crowd for what’s coming next.
Jasmine leaps into the air. Full cannonball in the backflip before she spreads her wings into the second rotation of the moonsault.
Richard Parker: Holy shit.
Don’t worry, Rich, the fans agree.
HOLY SHIT!
HOLY SHIT!
HOLY SHIT!
Nick Stuart: DEATH SPIRAL!
She connects on both Intruders with every amount of impact possible. She quickly makes the pin, not caring too much about which Intruder she’s pinning since she’s pinning both.
ONE.
Just for good measure, Tsonda places both hands on Jeong’s back to emphasize the finality of this pin.
TWO.
Intruder #2 tries to yell.
Intruder #2: ahhhhh
THREE.
Doesn’t matter.
DING DING DING
Jasmine Jeong gets off of the Intruders and raises an arm in the air. She’s still somewhat frazzled over executing a literal double moonsault, but the smile on her face says that she’s satisfied with the result.
Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen… the winners of this match! JASMINE JEONG! CHANDLER TSONDA! THE PIT! OF! VIIIIIIIIIPERRRRRRSSSSSS!!!
RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
Chandler Tsonda makes it a point to take Jasmine by the wrist and raise her arm in the air. Referee Jimmy Turnbull does the same with Jasmine’s other wrist.
The Intruders have not moved since the three count and might actually be dead.
Nick Stuart: Quite the debut for Jasmine Jeong and her new team with Chandler Tsonda! A pretty decisive win, one might say.
Richard Parker: Are the Intruders dead? They seem dead.
Nick Stuart: I’m sure they’re fine.
While Tsonda and Jeong celebrate their win and play to the crowd, no one checks in on the Intruders to make sure they’re not actually dead and intruding upon the afterlife right now.
It’s time to move on with ReVival 92.
No predictions were made for this match.
…The Minister…
…presents…
…previously on…
The Minister: Have you thought about my offer?
Max looks up at the maligned reflection with its burning red eyes staring back at him from the mirror.
Max Kael: … yeah I gave it some thought.
The Minister: And?
The Mayor of Arkham shifts uncomfortably, tugging at the collar of his shirt before clearing his throat.
Max Kael: Just so I understand it completely… If I can prove love is real and get Jonathan-Christopher Hall back together with Vickie Hall… you promise you can get me and Cecilworth together?
The foul entity in the mirror nods, a broken, blackened toothed smile cramping its dour face.
The Minister: Just-so. Of course… if we win.
Max Kael: If you win, then we’ll go ahead with your plan for the Miskatonic Dam… who the fuck cares what happens to the world if I can’t be with Cecilworth, am I right?
How can you argue with logic like that?
The Minister: … of course… heh-heh.
Max takes a few moments to think, tapping his chin.
Max Kael: Alright. Deal!
He reaches forward to shake the Minister’s hand only to run his fingers into the glass.
Max Kael: Shit-fuck!
–
…And Now…
…THE NEWS!…
The WON ACTION NEWS STAGE lights up as the various NEWS PIT inters scatter like roaches. Industrial NEWS music plays as we focus in on the HEAD NEWS ANCHOR, the most trusted voice in professional wrestling news, Maximillian Wilhelm Kael!
He’s dressed in his normal three piece suit and sorting an eyepatch covering his red eye, his strange green one glittering in the bright light. He is standing at his NEWS PODIUM wearing a very practiced, far too large smile.
Max Kael: Welcome WORMS of PRIME, to the newest edition of the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM’s THE NEWS! It is I, your lead anchor Maximillian Wilhelm Kael, Mayor of Arkham! And here we find ourselves, already on ReVival 92! We’ve got an exciting set of NEWS for you today…
He clears his throat, straightening his D60000red bowtie.
Max Kael: Tonight I’ve allowed our SPORTS Correspondent, JCH, to join us in the NEW STAGE because, frankly, I think it’ll be good for him.
Max winks, or perhaps just blinks, at the camera before motioning to the far distant corner of the stage where JCH sits on a stool. A SPORTS Stool.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall looks genuinely moved he gets to sit so close to the… action. Anyway, it’s time for sports!
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: In the world of baseball it was Blue Jays 1, Cubs 3, Mets 13, Cleveland 6, Tigers 11, Seattle 0.
Max grins along with the scores as if to showcase a face suggesting this IS good sports behind another face suggesting this is terrible sports reporting.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: In basketball it was LeBron James and Kawhi Leonard making headlines.
Hall shuffles his papers.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: And in FIFA, corruption runs high.
Tell us something we didn’t know, Hall.
JCH shuffles his papers again.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: In wrestling, Max Kael vs. our guest here tonight.
Hall looks stunningly calm for saying the man’s name who took his spouse.
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: And myself vs. Wade Elliott.
Shuffle more papers, look super enthused to tell people things they would’ve already known if they had the internet or a cable package and…
Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Boom goes the dynamite. Thanks, Max.
The LEAD ANCHOR stares at JCH for a minute, trying to figure out if he is actually going to throw dynamite or not. When he realizes it’s just a turn of phrase, he turns back toward the camera.
Max Kael: Moving on, time for tonight’s guest… Long time friend of the show, CANCER JILES!
The lights dim
Well, the one light dims.
JCH is off in the corner looking big and strong– HA, just kidding, he knows who is coming out next, which means he looks like he wished he had a bed sheet to go along with that barstool of his. Alas, he does not, so shivering and actually looking like a crumb will just have to do.
…Except he’s not shivering. Jiles WISHES he was all worked up but Jonathan-Christopher Hall is calm, cool, COLLECTED.
Fuck you, Jiles.
Wanker.
Anyway…
The King of COOL enters the set with both bravado and grace.
Wait, no.
The King of COOL enters the set with neither bravado or grace.
That’s better.
That is to say he’s on his toes. A little apprehensive. Still, Max rises from his chair and greets the Captain of the eGG Bandits with open arms. HOWever, since he is looking for it, Jiles spots the large dagger clearly in Max’s grasp, and points to it, putting a halt to their warm embrace. Max turns his head to find the weapon in his grasp, turns shocked, and acts as if he doesn’t know HOW it got there. Of course, Max is a Bandit, well, one personality of his is, so the whole murderous attempt to stab Jiles in the back is simply laughed off.
Max Kael: Oops!
Jiles does opt for a handshake, which turns into a first pound, which is pretty good all things considering. He then takes his seat, but not before looking under the cushion, and behind the chair.
Off in the corner, JCH is flanked by none other than Big Ian Salt, who is undoubtedly there to keep an eye on things.
…except, again, JCH looks like he’s not going to intervene at all. In fact, he’s more interested in the sports pages he just read off of.
Dammit. He forgot to tell the people how the Boston Red Sox did last night!
Meanwhile, Big Ian Salt starts to wonder why the hell he is standing next to this fruitcake.
And back to the real action.
Cancer Jiles: So, tell me, my oldest friend of mine, what’s on your mind? Are you wondering HOW in the fuck we wound up back here? If that guy in the Rangers jersey was really Scottywood sleeping inside that cardboard box outside the arena? Or, has HOW you’re going to possibly defeat me later on tonight taken up all the wonder instead? Oh, and you can tell JCH that Vickie is still filing her nails so he doesn’t have to suck in his gut and puff out– you know what? I’ll just–
King COOL turns, albeit still on guard, and shouts the same thing he just told Max over to JCH. There is, well, the most awkward of handwaves that ensues afterwards and one is left wondering if JCH will ever truly be able to recover the devastation brought down upon him.
Cancer Jiles: So, yeah, like I was saying, no Vickie, but Big Ian is right over there and he’s just fast as he is big. But enough about that, back to you, Max, what’s on your mind? Are you wondering where Cecilworth is just like I am?
Max Kael: Wait, you are wondering about that, too?
Cancer Jiles: No.
Silence.
Max Kael: … cause I was wondering where Cecilworth is.
More silence.
Max Kael: I said, ‘cause I was wondering where Cecilworth is.
Kael turns his eye toward the camera then back at Jiles, tapping his fingers on the NEWS PODIUM.
Cancer Jiles: Say, what do you think he’s doing? Like, right now. Do you think he’s chasing down people who owe him money? Like, do you know HOW much a PS5 even goes for these days? I sure don’t.
Max shakes his head no, and Cancer continues on.
Cancer Jiles: I’m only asking because between me and you, I heard he went broke, and that Phil is also belly up, too. They made a bad investment or something like that. Bought a bunch of old wrestling academies.
Max Kael: Not sure, I heard he picked up a private jet and an aircraft carrier recently, though. Any thoughts on that?
Cancer Jiles: I’ll tell you this, Max, if that is the case I wish he would have called me first. I, sorry, we, me and Vickie that is, well, truth is we’ve been thinking about downsizing recently.
Max nods his head showing genuine interest.
Or feigning it.
Regardless, both are convincing.
Cancer Jiles: Vickie and I are looking to settle down and start a family.
Off set, a grinding can be heard. It’s JCH. Well, it’s his teeth. But he is grinding at the sports script, he seriously can’t believe he forgot to talk about the Boston Red Sox! How silly of him!
Anyway, Big Ian rests his hands on JCH’s shoulder, to ensure there’s no trouble, perhaps thinking Hall is worked up about Jiles’ ramblings. Or hearing Vickie’s name mentioned.
JCH isn’t worked up about this. He’s moved on? Regardless, Big Ian ain’t taking any chances and yet the hand on the shoulder isn’t bothering Jonathan-Christopher, however. He finds it rather comforting.
Moving on… Max comments on “settling down and starting a family”.
Max Kael: Is that so?
Max casts a green eye towards wherever Vickie is sharpening her nails at. For what it’s worth she’s back in the egg den so at least he is familiar with the general direction.
Cancer Jiles: This is called the NEWS, isn’t it? With HOW lame Survivor has turned out to be I figured the NEWS cycle could use a little something… eggstra. So yes, that is so, and no, before the tabloids and gossip columns run wild with it, she is not eggspecting…
JCH continues to fixate on the script.
Cancer Jiles: ….yet. That could change any day, or night, or afternoon now. Shit, that could change before, after, and should Zeus allow it, maybe even during our match later on tonight. Wait. That last part came out wrong, but you get the point. We are bumping uglies, nonstop.
At least on the outside, Jonathan-Christopher still looks all big and brave and lucky to have Ian as a reason not to advance.
Ha.
Jiles wishes.
Max Kael: I don’t know about you but I’m preparing myself for the Kenny Freeman Colossus Main Event. I taught him his best moves, you know?
Kael nods his head enthusiastically.
Cancer Jiles: Hey, I believe in Ken Freeman.
Max Kael: You should. I taught him everything he knows.
Cancer Jiles: Oh, wait. No. That can’t be the person I was thinking about then. No, I was thinking of someone else. A different Ken Freeman. One who is far better than the one you had a hand in. No, I’m talking about the Kenny Freeman who was trained in Noah Hanson’s Dungeon Wrestling Academy of the Fine Arts and Sciences.
So Trump University.
Ha.
Cancer Jiles: Did you see the EPU now works as parking lot attendants here? Crazy, huh?
Max Kael: Yeah, I saw White Douglas out there earlier!
His eye darts from side to side before leaning toward Jiles.
Max Kael: That dudes into coprophilia. Yeah. Fuckin’ weirdo.
His body snaps back into the upright position as he looks back at the camera.
Max Kael: Well we’ve learned so much from our guest tonight! Do you have anything to say to our guest?
Craning his neck around, Max stares at JCH. He’s about to say something when Max twists his head back toward the camera.
Max Kael: Well, Cancer S. Jiles, it’s been a pleasure as always. I’m looking forward to you capitulating later and letting me win.
Cancer Jiles: Woah-wo-
Max Kael: EMERGENCY COMMERCIAL BREAK!
Pulling a large red button out of his waistcoat, Max slams it down on the NEWS PODIUM before smashing his fist down on it.
COMMERCIAL BREAK
COMMERCIAL BREAK
COMMERCIAL BREAK
The emergency commercial break ends but everyone is still seated, or standing, on the WON ACTION NEWS STAGE. Max’s eyes widen as he realizes nothing’s changed and throws himself into a panicked sign-off.
Max Kael: AND THAT’S THE NEWS!
MURPHY’S BLEACHERS
QUARTERS
Murphy’s Bleachers, and all its prior names, has been the quintessential Wrigleyville watering hole for nearly 100 years, so of course it’s where this shitshow of a Survivor Challenge is gonna stop first.
And after the Power Hour, it’s time to play some good ol’ fashioned drinking games…
A table is reserved for the group once they arrive, and nearly everyone takes a seat. Ivan refuses to sit, demanding an appropriate chair to accommodate his “impressive Russian stature.” Johnny tells Ivan that the only thing impressive about him is his ability to be a baby-backed bitch, and before Ivan can throw him through the front window and back onto Sheffield Avenue, the bar manager wheels out an office chair for the Russian Bear to sit in. A shot glass is placed in the center of the table, and a quarter is procured.
The rules are simple: bounce the quarter once off the table and try to get it inside the glass in the middle. Make the shot and get 10 points, then pick someone to drink and take another turn. Keep going until you miss, then pass the quarter to your left.
Straws are drawn to see who goes first, and Kenny Freeman is the winner. His first shot lands, and he chooses TAL to drink. His second shot lands, and he chooses TAL again. He makes his third shot and fourth shots, chooses TAL, but misses on his fifth attempt. He passes the quarter to Nathan Lake.
Nathan makes his first shot and chooses Rob Williams. Rob takes a swig of his non-alcoholic Paloma. He makes his second shot and chooses Henry Keyes. He makes his third shot and chooses Scott Hunter. His fourth shot misses, and he passes the quarter to Ivan Stanislav.
Ivan is disgusted at having to touch a form of American currency, but nonetheless he bounces the quarter off the table. It sails high into the air, completely misses the glass, and nearly catches Scott Hunter in the eye. Thankfully there are no eyepatches in Scott’s future, but he doesn’t look happy at Ivan’s “miss.”
Another quarter is handed to Rob Williams. The Legend makes his first shot and chooses Johnny Dorn. Johnny reminds this dickhead that he’s not playing the game, but if he was he’d fuck everyone up. Dorn takes a drink anyway because he’s Johnny Fuckin’ Dorn, and the bar goes wild. Rob chooses Kenny Freeman instead, who was nicely given a coke hold the rum, much to Johnny’s annoyance. Rob lands his second shot and chooses TAL. TAL’s been pounding Malört this whole time cuz fuck it, we ball. Rob hits his next four shots before missing on the fifth and picks Nathan, Coltrane, TAL again, and Scott Hunter
Coltrane’s turn is next. He makes his first shot and picks Ivan. Ivan, now drinking straight vodka, pounds his drink down. Coltrane makes his second shot and picks TAL. He makes his third shot and picks Henry Keyes. He makes his fourth and fifth shots, and picks Rob and Kenny
The newest spokesman for Malört is up next, but unfortunately TAL only makes one shot. He chooses Ivan, who sneers at his rival, but still throws back his vodka defiantly.
Henry’s up next, and if there was any doubt why this man has named his finisher the Coin, it’s about to be dispelled. The Kraken lands seven shots in a row before missing the eighth, and after each one he looks Ivan Stanislav straight in the eye and calls his name.
Scott’s last to go. He makes his first shot and chooses Ivan. The Russian Bear does not appreciate this sudden gang-up. He points and snarls at TAL and the two members of Vae Victis. Scott lands his second shot, and chooses Ivan again. Ivan grips his shot glass violently as the vodka makes its way down his throat. Scott misses his third shot as the quarter flies past the glass and hits Ivan in the throat. The Russian Bear roars to his feet, as does everyone else. Security comes to the table to calm everyone down while Johnny looks on, smugly.
ROUND SCORE
HENRY KEYES – 70
ROB WILLIAMS – 60
COLTRANE ANDERSON – 50
KENNY FREEMAN – 40
NATHAN LAKE – 30
SCOTT HUNTER – 20
TAL – 10
IVAN STANISLAV – 0
TOTAL SCORE
HENRY KEYES – 130
ROB WILLIAMS – 120
COLTRANE ANDERSON – 110
KENNY FREEMAN – 100
NATHAN LAKE – 90
SCOTT HUNTER – 80
TAL – 70
IVAN STANISLAV – 60
Backstage.
Chad Freedom is standing at a urinal doing his business when Bobby Neptune enters the washroom, his eyes glued to a small, rhythmically beeping device. He waves the device around the bathroom, checking the waste-paper bin for any sign of his missing visor. Freedom notices from the corner of his eye.
Chad Freedom: Are you looking for something?
Bobby Neptune: Yes. A very important piece of technology.
Chad Freedom: I’ll help you find it!
Freedom shakes, zips, and extends an unwashed hand to Bobby Neptune.
Chad Freedom: Hi, I’m Chad Freedom.
Bobby Neptune: Greetings. I’m –
The restroom door thuds noisily against the brick wall behind it as Manager, Chad Freedom’s handler, bursts urgently into the bathroom.
Manager: Chad, I told you not to wander off!
The Manager stands between his client’s outstretched hand and the space man. Undeterred, Neptune quietly resumes the search for his long-lost item by checking each bathroom stall one by one.
Manager (whispering to Chad): Chad, that’s Bobby Neptune. His file is four inches thick. He’s an… I can’t believe I’m saying this…
Freedom braces for impact.
Manager (whispering): He’s an… extraterrestrial.
The client furrows his brow. Manager is unflinching, as always. This wasn’t a joke.
Bobby Neptune: That’s a common misconception.
Freedom and Manager snap their heads to the direction of Neptune’s voice, which carries from the stall farthest away from them.
Manager (still whispering): His hearing is very good.
The restroom is silent for a moment, except for the sound of Bobby Neptune removing the lid of a toilet tank, sighing in displeasure, and clunkily replacing it.
Bobby Neptune (from the stall): Yes, my hearing is very good. But I’m not an alien; I was abducted from Earth as a child and spent most of my life in space.
Manager’s lips tighten together in a sign of embarrassment as Neptune exits the last stall looking defeated. Freedom eyes the Space Cadet with curiosity.
Chad Freedom: On behalf of the best nation on this planet … welcome back!
Bobby Neptune: Thank you, Chad Freedom. Coming back to Earth has proven… challenging.
Chad Freedom: Earth is definitely challenging.
Bobby Neptune: The people here are very suspicious of me. Many of them think I am either lying or insane. It can be isolating.
Neptune looks at Manager, who is studying the spaceman like he’s some kind of alien. Which is fair.
Chad Freedom: Tell me about it! It’s hard starting over in a new place, with a new life, and a whole new iden –
Freedom stops himself, realizing he may be going a bit too far. Manager clenches his jaw so hard it threatens to break his teeth.
Bobby Neptune: I have found community to be an acceptable antidote to isolation, Mr. Freedom. There is one nearby if you are interested.
Manager wraps his arm around his client’s shoulders. It’s supposed to look playful, but it’s definitely not. The Manager begins unsubtly easing Freedom toward the bathroom door and out of this situation.
Chad Freedom: Can I see your community?
Manager: Chad, that is an unacceptable risk!
Bobby Neptune: Of course. Come with me.
Chad Freedom: Great!
Manager: Chad!
Freedom slips Manager’s grip and follows Neptune out of the restroom. Manager is a half-step behind.
The trio heads deeper into the United Center. After several twists and turns, the group comes to a stop in front of an open doorway. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifts into the hallway. Balloons are taped around the doorframe. There’s a printed sign on the door with the PRIME logo front and center, much like a dozen or more other rooms in the building. Each of those carries a name–sometimes an individual; others one of the many factions that divide up the roster. This one simply reads:
LOCKER ROOM
Wrestlers only
Bobby Neptune gestures toward the open doorway.
Bobby Neptune: Community.
Before Manager can object, Chad Freedom enters the regular locker room that’s trying to be so much more. Along one wall sits a folding card table with a power strip running down the middle, feeding three crockpots and a coffeemaker. Two coolers rest underneath the table, with a supply of cold beverages. There’s also a cheesecake that nobody is going near; the rutabaga continues to be a tough sell. It’s all a little chintzy, but undeniably welcoming.
Some of the more social features are on the other side of the room. Another long table holds a variety of crafting supplies, along with Bobby’s holocube. There are also a few decks of cards, a set of dominoes, and a neatly stacked tower of giant Jenga blocks.
A large television mounted on a mobile stand dominates the center of the floor, currently showing footage from Kerry Kuroyama’s victory at Revival 91. One of the men on screen is also in the room; Nate Colton is watching intently until he notices the newcomers.
Nate Colton: Hey, Bobby! I see you made a friend!
A friend! Chad Freedom can’t wipe the smile off his face.
Bobby Neptune: Yes. This is Mr. Chad Freedom.
Nate Colton: Hi, Chad! Come on in; take a seat! Just doing some tape study.
Colton dubiously looks at Manager, who’s followed his client into the locker room.
Nate Colton: And you are?
Manager: Manager.
Manager doesn’t extend a hand, which is good, because Colton probably wouldn’t have accepted it anyway.
Nate Colton: Uh huh. That a family name, or…?
Manager: No.
Full stop. Colton, for his part, doesn’t seem put out.
Nate Colton: It’s fine. I watch the show; I know who you are. Lemme explain what we’re trying to do here, “Manager.” Most of the time, we’re trying to beat each other’s brains out or looking for any chance to stick a knife in someone’s back. Makes for great television…but it’s exhausting. So we’re setting up this spot where the roster can stop in, hang out, and just…be regular people for a minute.
Manager’s expression softens.
Manager: I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Mr. Colton, and I find it admirable.
The undercover U.S. Marshal meets the PRIME Superstar’s gaze without flinching.
Manager: But I will not abandon my client.
Manager stands firm.
Nate Colton: I get it. Thing is, we gotta be a little bit exclusive or it all falls apart. So it’s wrestlers only. Sometimes staff, if they let us know they’re comin’. But nobody else. No press, no fans, no courtesans…and definitely no managers.
Colton shepherds Manager to the door. Naturally, Manager objects.
Manager: It is my responsibility to ensure that my client –
Nate Colton: Save it, buddy. Last time I took a manager at face value, he nearly caved in my head with an oxygen tank.
There’s a shove that’s responsibly gentle and decidedly firm, and Manager suddenly finds himself back in the hallway. Colton calmly shuts the door.
Manager is fully separated from his client, and that’s an operational failure. He grabs the door handle, ready to raise hell, but stops himself as he remembers Colton’s key words.
Wrestlers Only. Manager sighs and drops his hand from the door. Rules are rules.
Instead, Manager presses his ear against the door.
Nothing.
Voice: HEY! Have you seen a man who people think is an alien but is actually a man raised by aliens? If it helps, he has blue hair to match his blue eyes.
Manager turns to find himself staring at a very concerned Daihm Ferguson. Manager recognizes him instantly because he’s studied the profile of every PRIME wrestler.
Daihm Ferguson: I see the sign on the door says “Wrestlers Only.” You’re not a fan, are you? There’s a website for that sort of thing if you are. But you really shouldn’t be down here.
Manager: No, I am not your fan, Daihm Ferguson. I am Chad Freedom’s manager, and it’s imperative that I get back inside this locker room to be with my client.
Daihm suddenly and surprisingly steps between Manager and the door. As if defending it from a predator.
Daihm Ferguson: Oi! This door has rights and it can be whatever it chooses! Maybe you should focus less on being a MANager and more of a THEYager.
Manager (confused): What?
Too late. Daihm has already let himself inside and closed the door behind him.
Manager needs to know what’s happening to his client in that room. His composure finally cracks, and his voice echoes down the empty hallway.
Manager: Goddammit!
Meanwhile, Chad Freedom starts immersing himself in his newfound community. He grabs a fun-sized Mr. Goodbar from a wicker basket labeled TAKE ONE!
Nate Colton: Yeah, make yourself at home. We’ve got food, drinks, entertainment, whatever you need. I’m just about done with this match; Daihm, you wanna take a look at your fight with JCH after?
Daihm shakes his head and absentmindedly grabs a bag of Doritos and begins scooping in taco meat from a nearby crockpot.
Daihm Ferguson: Bobby! There you are!
Bobby Neptune: Hello Daihm! No luck on the visor, but perhaps you are interested in multicolored friendship plastic?
Neptune settles into folding chairs at a table covered with supplies for making friendship bracelets. Chad and Daihm join them, reaching for three spools of cord. Naturally, Chad picks red, white, and blue while “The Rainbow in the Dark” understandably has decision paralysis.
Neptune commandeers a pair of safety scissors and begins cutting strands for Freedom to specific lengths. Before each cut, he measures the cord with a tape measure, then confirms the length with a ruler.
Chad Freedom: I can’t tell you how glad I am to be here. I’ve had a hard time getting my feet under me. It’s nice to know there are people around here who actually want everybody to belong.
Neptune glances up from his work.
Bobby Neptune: Community has accelerated my adaptation to this earth.
He holds up a small friendship bracelet that has “Bobby + Nate + Daihm + Chad” spelled out in sparkly letters.
Nate smiles.
Nate Colton: That’s what this whole thing is all about.
Satisfied that every strand is identical, Neptune slides the red, white, and blue cord across the table. Freedom begins weaving his friendship bracelet.
Nate Colton: So, Chad…how’s PRIME treating you so far?
Chad Freedom: It’s not been the start I’d hoped for. I had a terrible interview with The Foot Soldiers at Ultra Violence, and I haven’t won a match yet… but I did meet Ivan Stanislav last week!
Daihm Ferguson: The guy who threw Bobby through a windshield, you mean?
Nate Colton: Yeah, don’t even get me started on that guy. So where’d you work before coming here? If you don’t mind my saying, that getup doesn’t exactly scream New York or LA. Down south? Florida, maybe?
Chad Freedom: No, I’m not from Florida. I’m from…
His in-progress friendship bracelet gives him the answer.
Chad Freedom: America.
The New Diamond nods, but doesn’t let it go.
Nate Colton: I get it. Just wondering if we knew some of the same people. You ever work the Midwest before?
Freedom’s breath suddenly catches in his throat and throws him into a brief coughing fit. The New Diamond, oblivious to Chad’s reaction, turns his attention back to the screen and rewinds the video.
Nate Colton: I’ve done a ton of stuff around here. The old man runs a promotion out of Evansville, and we’ve got good relations with the other bookers out here. If you need extra reps while PRIME is in the area, just let me know.
Despite his inner turmoil, Freedom maintains his poise.
Chad Freedom: That’s a generous offer, Nate. But now that I’m in PRIME, I… I just want to focus on being the best I can be at this level. No looking back. Only forward.
The Star-Spangled Superstar stalls, then redirects.
Chad Freedom: Why do you do it?
Nate Colton: The promotions can use my name to sell tickets. Plus they usually put me up against their best guys; sparring sessions are fine, but there’s nothing like facing live ammo, right? So I stay sharp between PRIME bookings, and their guys get the rub for going up against someone famous. So everyone wins…outside of the record books, I guess.
Chad Freedom: A win would be nice. On-the-books or off.
Freedom sighs.
Chad Freedom: I guess I’m still not totally over losing to Math Johnson, that prick. Losing to someone like that just makes it worse.
Nate Colton: Yeah, I thought you had him after that knee strike; that was sick. That lariat, too–the way you sprung off the second rope? Gave you really good impact, and the crowd ate that shit up. It was perfect.
Chad Freedom (grumbling): Not perfect enough.
Nate Colton: The wins will come. The old man told me all the time I was training, “focus on the process, not the product.” That lariat, though…reminds me of a guy I worked a show with once. Must have been…2020, I think? Got booked in Kalamazoo, and there was a guy who busted out a move just like that.
Freedom suddenly loses his ability to move. His craft project slips through his fingers and lands on the tabletop.
Bobby Neptune: Chad Freedom, your breathing has accelerated significantly.
It takes a second for Freedom to remember how to speak.
Chad Freedom: K-Kalamazoo, huh? I think I… um… yeah, I might know a few guys who toured through there. Not closely, of course, but…
Bobby Neptune: Chad Freedom, your hands have begun to tremble.
The PRIME newbie tries picking up his unfinished bracelet off the table, but his jittery fingers can’t cooperate. He gives up and moves his hands underneath the tabletop, curling them into fists.
Chad Freedom: Just curious … do you… remember… anyone’s name from over there?
Nate Colton: Uh…started with a K, maybe…nah, that ain’t right. He wore a mask, I remember that.
Daihm Ferguson: Oh I love this game! Was he bigger than a bread box?
There’s only a beat, but it feels like hours. Freedom says nothing. His hands hover above the unfinished bracelet.
Finally, Colton shakes his head.
Nate Colton: Sorry. It’s right there, but I can’t…shit, that’s gonna bug me all night.
Freedom’s foot bounces nervously beneath the table as he continues to exercise his right to remain silent. The aroma of coffee, the soft bubbling of the crockpots, and the bright balloons around the room all seem to recede. The welcoming space suddenly feels much too small.
Nate presses a button on the remote, freezing the screen in the middle of the Freedom/Johnson fight, seconds before Chad Freedom sprung out of the corner for the Liberty Lariat. Only now does he notice how quiet the room is, and he turns to look at his new friend.
Nate Colton: Chad? You good?
Freedom keeps staring at his bracelet, as though it might reveal a way out.
Nate Colton: I didn’t say something wrong, did I? I’m sorry; I get deep in the weeds with this stuff sometimes…
Bobby and Daihm observe Freedom for another long moment, analyzing the PRIME rookie. Heat blooms across Chad Freedom’s face.
Bobby Neptune: Perspiration has formed across your forehead, Chad Freedom.
Freedom is frozen. He can’t move. He can’t speak. Colton continues studying his face, until…
Nate Colton: Just want to help guys step up their game. Losing sucks, but it’s a great teacher; learning those tough lessons can be the difference between a PRIME legend and that guy from Kalamazoo who had some great moves but never–
CLUNK! CLUNK! SCRAAAAAAPPPPPEEEEE!
Colton is interrupted by the metallic scrape of something being forced through the ventilation grille at the bottom of the locker room door. A cellphone appears between the louvers, its front-facing camera already recording. Freedom snaps back into reality.
Chad Freedom: Manager!
Freedom jumps from his chair so fast it nearly tips over behind him.
Chad Freedom: I’m sorry, I’m, uh … late for something and I … I need to go!
Freedom abandons his unfinished friendship bracelet by sprinting to the door and flinging it open. The cell phone, still wedged into the door’s ventilation grille, dislodges and skitters across the floor. It comes to rest at Bobby Neptune’s feet.
Bobby Neptune: A communication device has entered the room.
Nate Colton bends down and picks up the phone, because he’s a nice guy.
Nate Colton: Hey, Manager! You forgot your –
He’s saying it to no one. Freedom and Manager are already long gone.
Daihm Ferguson: Wow, he must be really late.
Confused, Colton sets Manager’s cellphone on the table. It rests beside the unfinished friendship bracelet that Freedom left behind. Nate looks at the bracelet for a long moment.
Nate Colton: Think he’ll come back?
Bobby Neptune carefully straightens the loose red, white, and blue strands.
Bobby Neptune: We should save his seat.
Fade to black.
From the opening tag team contest, now back to the ring.
And things…
…well…
Things have changed.
Howso you may ask?
How about there are no ring ropes.
Wait, scratch that.
There are…approximations.
Yeah.
That’s what we’ll call them.
As in, three lengths of barbwire in place of where ring ropes would naturally be positioned.
But hey, they aren’t hanging precarious or anything. After all…around the full goddamn length of the body of this…sick notion…is more barbwire woven through in mock spiderwebish patterns. No, this is NOT a Marvel Cinematic Universe advertisement. You aren’t going to find The MUG Rootbeer Dog ready to hang on and take all the spotlight.
No.
Welcome, to the newest stipulation of the Alias Championship.
Welcome to the Widow’s Nest.
Where my heart is, rests my very soul
And the colors bleed from blue to gold
“Born for This” by Divide Music starts to play through the speakers as Tony Gamble and Johnnie Newsman step out from behind the curtain, soaking in the chorus of boos that rain down from the crowd.
When the choice is mine and mine alone
I won’t give in even if you break my bones
Johnnie Newsman: HELLLOOOOOOO EVERYYYYBOOOOODYYYY!!! THEEEEE LAST MAN LAUGHING IN PRIME IS HEEEEEERRRRE!!!!
I won’t give in ’till your sins have been atoned
All I see is the flickering lights below me
Tony stretches his arms out wide, welcoming the crowd’s form of adoration as Johnnie continues to speak and his music plays.
All I need is the power to change what I see
If I can give a little, not a second thought
Johnnie Newsman: Coming to your ring, with weight of one hundred and thee eighty nine pounds of lean, healthy muskulls on a man.
If I’m stuck in the middle, I will take the shot, woah
All I wanna be, yeah
Tony makes his way down the ramp, ignoring the few smarks in the crowd that actually do like him. They reach their arms out, awaiting a slap of acknowledgement that will never come, as Johnnie stays at the top of the ramp.
Yeah, I was born for this
I will keep my secrets high above
Johnnie Newsman: He thee Capotabola!
In the hopes to protect the ones I love
But I wonder where in darkness lies the truth
Johnnie Newsman: Number won in your heart!
Of the one who took their lives, you can’t excuse
I don’t fear you, I won’t let you take my home
Tony nearly climbs the steps, looking out at the fans that have not quieted down at all since he stepped out from behind the curtain. They love to hate him, even more so as he jumps down from them, looking out into the crowd for a moment — and then carefully rolling underneath the bottom ‘rope’ and into the ring.
I will climb through to wherever you may roam
I won’t give in, you can even break my bones
Johnnie Newsman: Only man to half title with his name!
What is within is a strength you’ll never know
Johnnie Newsman: TOOOOOOOOOOOONYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!
All I see is the flickering lights below me
All I need is the power to change what I see
He steps in between the middle and top ropes to get into the ring, making his way to the center.
Johnnie Newsman: THEEEEE GRRRRRRIIIINNNNNNNN!!
If I can give a little, not a second thought
If I’m stuck in the middle, I will take the shot, woah
He drops down to one knee, lowering his head as Johnnie continues.
Johnnie Newsman: GAAAAAAAAMMBLLLLLLEEEEE!!
All I wanna be, yeah
He stretches his arms out once more, then throws back his head to stare up at his hands with one finger on each hand pointed up to the rafters.
Yeah, I was born for this
The beat of “RATATATA” by BABYMETAL and Electric Callboy thumps over the sound system of the arena. Red and black lights pulsate throughout in impressive coordination with the music. The vocals soon kick in.
EVERY NIGHT WHEN THE SKY TURNS RED UP ABOVE
I FEEL THE BEAT IN MY VEINS, AND I’M SEARCHING FOR LOVE
YOU KNOW THAT HIPS DON’T LIE, I LEAVE YOU HYPNOTIZED
JUST GIVE ME ONE MORE TRY TO MAKE YOU FEEL THAT VIBE
WHEN IT GOES
(RA-TA-TA-TA-TA-TA)
MY BODY IS A WEAPON
(RA-TA-TA-TA-TA-TA) WE’RE GONNA HIT THE FLOOR
(RA-TA-TA-TA-TA-TA) WE’RE GONNA MAKE IT HAPPEN
(RA-TA-TA-TA-TA-TA) NOW GIMME SOME MORE
The light rumble that permeated throughout the faithful PRIMEates packed in the United Center burst into outright raucous cheers as RIA Lockhart steps onto the stage. Dressed in more combat oriented gear, black and crimson, the Alias Championship slung over her shoulder RIA soaks in the adoration from the audience but is more focused on power walking to the ring.
The Psychoberry gallops to one side of the stage, pumping the Alias Championship toward them. After a moment, Lockhart takes off to the other side, mimicking her previous action. As the second verse begins, RIA heads down towards the ring. Her game face never leaves. Lockhart puts her game face on as she heads to the ring.
Vince Howard: His opponent…from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, weighing 165 pounds!…Representing THE NEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEW! WOOOOOOOOOORLD! TRAAAAAAAAAAAAASH! SHE IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIS…THE REIGNING…DEFENDING…ALIAS CHAMPION…SHE IS…RIAAAAAAAA! LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOCKHART!
Once ringside, the former Rainbow Riot hands off the Alias Championship to ring attendants, and then looks to get into the ring, only to have Gamble charge toward her, laying boots onto her before she gets in.
DING DING
Not even allowed into the ring fully, but The Grin is feeling himself in this horrific environment. How often does entrance order in a singles match come into true play? Lockhart steadies herself on the outside, looking to swing herself around the mats to the other side of the ring and dart underneath the tangled web of concertina wire. Gamble, however, is right there, to cut her off, making sure to keep himself away from the Widow’s kiss as best as he is able.
But RIA isn’t actually diving underneath the bottom rope.
No…she is reaching underneath the ring…
Richard Parker: Is…is that–
Nick Stuart: –a baseball bat…wrapped in barbwire–
Richard Parker: I thought Ultraviolence season passed!
Nick Stuart: From Philadelphia, on to Chicago, to the United Center, the echoes of our annual violence spectacular…and these fans are positively BAYING for blood–
Richard Parker: –why wouldn’t they? This city feasted on garbage trash death match wrestling with mutants and chuds for over a decade. Now, to get into the Madhouse on Madison, you actually have to have money to be able to get a ticket, and–
Nick Stuart: –LOCKHART IN THE RING AND GAMBLE IS BEGGING OFF–
Richard Parker: –SHE’S GOING TO MAIM HIM–
Nick Stuart: –CHARGE FORWARD AND OOOOOOOOH NO she swung but Gamble just NEARILY avoided eating that shot–
Richard Parker: –and NOW the bat is TANGLED UP IN THAT SPIDERWEB of barbwire–
Nick Stuart: –punch to the kidney! Backrake! OH OH HE’S GOING TO SHOVE HER–
Richard Parker: –AND THAT’S WHAT SHE GETS–
Nick Stuart: –BACK ELBOW and RIA grabbing onto Gamble and looking to force HIM into the wire–
Richard Parker: –DIGS HIS HEELS–
Nick Stuart: –WAIT SMILE FOR–
Richard Parker: –OH–
Nick Stuart: –NO! NO! LOCKHART SNAP DRAGON SUPLEX GAMBLE LANDING ON THE BACK OF HIS HEAD–
Richard Parker: –BUT HE’S UP–
Bad decision.
Nick Stuart: BERRY! BOMBER!
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
Richard Parker: –HE’S…HE’S–
Nick Stuart: –BACK! INTO! THE BARBWIRE!
Richard Parker: LOOK AT THE AGONY ON HIS FACE!
Indeed, The Grin, the PRIME Hall of Famer, the many time Alias Champion himself, is caught the Widow’s bite. His grimace, his arms shooting out, fingers curling, the uncomfortable shift in weight from the support, and Lockhart merely looks forward, grinning sadistically. There is no love lost here. Far from it. These two have butt heads so many times, be it in the ring, or on Jabber, that this is one of the ReVival’s most bitter hatreds.
And Lockhart is going to savor it.
Well, for a little while.
Then, she’s going to lock a front chancery on the caught up Permascar Superstar, ripping him from the barbs, and then snapping him to the canvas with a snap suplex. A lateral float over and a hook of the leg.
ONE
TWO
NO!
Gamble got his shoulder up. Well, more his back. And why wouldn’t he? Puncture wounds tend to affect certain dismal sensations. Lockhart doesn’t care; she merely grinds her forearm into the face of the Bandit, making sure to punctuate her grift with close quarters blows to the bridge of the nose. The Grin tries to cover up, tries rolling out, but Lockhart pounces, locking him in a front facelock, beginning a gator roll that takes them precariously toward the ropes.
She jumps to her feet.
Stomp to the gut.
Pop the head up.
Smash her knee into the side of his head.
Force it into the hellish tangle of barbwire.
The PRIME Hall of Famer is known for his prominent scar. Getting his face throttled into barbwire is grounds to create another. But for his part, he isn’t the only one to enjoy the wonders of the wire; momentum took the Alias Champion into the wire as well, sticking into her own skin. A growl. Gloved hands pushing her out. Gamble’s head is spitting blood. Lacerations are evident on Lockhart as well. She, however, is free. Free of the pain of her own making.
Hands on that greasy scalp of her hated opponent.
Inside.
Cradle.
Usually, this maneuver is all about leveraging and surprise for a pinfall.
Proximity gives it a much more brutal effect.
Her back is sliced and diced, forced with full force and full body weight, to get caught into the web of briared tangles. Her howl is guttural. Gamble doesn’t even attempt to follow through with getting a cover, instead grabbing a free space with a gloved hand, forcing her back and spine into the wire. Boot to the throat. Sinister smile.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Do these fans here in Chicago think this man REMOTELY cares? Booing him only makes him stronger! He is, after all, a scum sucker, a bottom feeder, an avowed piece of shit, and one that would own it all the way and say “And?”. It’s all the more apparent when he drops an elbow onto her and continues trying to force all his strength and weight to push her deeper and deeper into the Widow’s nest.
And he is successful.
So successful.
Until she cracks him across the face so hard with a headbutt that his wounds go from whispered trickles to full on piss. His blood is her warpaint now. And ANOTHER Sage Splitter headbutt forces his hands free, forces him to try and scramble to his feet.
Elbow strike.
Kick buried deep in the gut.
DDT.
Cover.
One.
Two.
Thre–
Nope. Nope. Nope.
Lockhart seethes, smashing him in the face with an elbow strike, then collecting his head in between her knees.
BANG
BANG BANG BANG
BANG BANG
BANG BANG BANG
BANG!
BAAAAAAAAAAANG!
BANGBANGBANGBANG!
Ten Best Seconds of Your Life. Well, not for Tony Gamble. Not with his face print stamped across the canvas. Lockhart goes for a cover.
ONE
TWO
THR–
NO!
But…
It’s not because Gamble got a shoulder up or kicked out.
No…the Alias Champion lifted his head up.
If he was going to go down like that?
Pfft.
After all that sweet shit he likes to talk?
Naaaaaaaaaaaw.
Lockhart drops a knee onto him. Rolls through. Then drops another knee. Rolls through. DROPS ANOTHER KNEE. Brutality. She plants her boot right across his face, and Ashley Barlow goes for the count.
ONE
TWO
Jerk away from the foot.
Lockhart kicks him in the head and puts her heel onto his face again.
ONE
TWO
NO!
Gamble’s hands wrap around her ankle meekly. Lockhart tries to shake him away, in the process, lifting him up slightly. On his knees. He is on his knees.
And then, his head is buried deep into her stomach.
Rake across the back.
His teeth beam through his crimson mask.
Hey, RIA?
How about…
FUCK
YOU
STOP
LAUGHING
AT
ME
INTO
THE
GODDAMN
BARBWIRE
Such a savage move changes the complexion of everything. Lockhart finds herself front first wrapped in full of the Widow’s nest, with the full body weight of Tony Gamble pressing against her. In the spirit of hatred, The Grin pushes through the wire and fishhooks her in the mouth. Eyes bulging out. Viscerally angry.
The PRIME Hall of Famer looks to make the full comeback, punching Lockhart in the back of the head, pulling her free, turning her to face him, and using both his hands to smash right across her chest.
Ha ha ha.
That has to hurt, don’t it, you bitc–
Knee.
To
The
Dick
And
Balls
Oh no. But RIA is the babyface. She has given up her soul to do such a dastardly thing–
Look…how about this? How about she chose this wonderful place of barbwire and violence to defend her title? How about the fact that Tony Gamble is a piece of shit. A chauvinist. An ableist. Parents, don’t let your kids grow up to be Tony Gamble’s. Because they are assholes. Because they have no level they won’t stoop to to get a rise out of someone.
And how many times has he aimed his bile and filth at her?
And she’s going to feel some form of karmic pain in giving back better than he can give?
Yeah?
Get fucked.
Get fucked right into the Berry Bomb that sends Gamble into the barbwire.
Get fucked right into the rushing Berry Bomb that nearly takes the pair of them out of this goddamn ring and onto the floor with all this wonderful pain wire sure to swallow them whole.
Get fucked right as Lockhart peels Gamble’s bloody body from the Widow’s nest by the head. Three quarter facelook.
BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
That would be the Lock Cutter.
That would be RIA hooking the leg.
ONE
TWO
THREE.
DING DING DING!
That would be RIA Lockhart successfully defending her Alias Championship for the first time.
Vince Howard: YOUR WINNER…BY PINFALL…AND STIIIIIIIIIIIIIIILL…ALIAS CHAMPION…RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIA! LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOCKHART!
RIA rises from the canvas and makes sure to spit onto the fallen Gamble, all as Barlow has the Alias Championship handed to her, and then, she hands it to the champion, who gives it a quick rise before wiping some of Gamble’s blood off of…well…pick a spot on him…and wipes it across the face plate.
A kiss to said face plate.
Well, not one currently covered in her opponent’s blood.
RIA Lockhart: Hope you stocked up on bandages, Angel.
ReVival moves on.
No predictions were made for this match.
We’re in Chicago and there’s no wonderful Heinz 57 to be found. They would kill us, stab us with rusty knives, angrily. Very angrily. Mustard reigns supreme in this city, and the dogs show it. The poppy seed buns, the mustard, the sweet pickle relish, chopped onions, tomato slices, and a pickle spear cover each one. Our brave iron stomached competitors are lined up, the mountain of dogs in front of them.
For some it was a chance to soak up some of the booze from earlier, for others it was a chance to eat their daily calorie intake. For others it was a chance to eat as much meat as Kenny Freeman weighs. Ivan begins with a slow methodic pace, each dog causes a squirm but he struggles the food down. The man that served dog food in Survivor was apparently tasting something he felt similarly about. Coltrane protests the amount of condiments on his hot dog and pulls forth the finest glass bottle of Heinz 57. He didn’t think this all the way through and is frantically patting the glass bottle. Immediately the patrons of the establishment begin shouting and Enemigos escort Coltrane out of the bar to save him from the furious Chicago crowd.
Scott Hunter is happily eating away while talking to Keyes. Henry has a good pace going, but is using a fork and knife because he’s fancy and it makes sense. Nathan Lake furiously scarfs down hot dogs, seeing this as a non-drinking opportunity to score big in the competition. Ivan continues the march, dog after dog. Rob Williams is looking at all this salad on his hot dog like it’s an awful lot. Sure he may have an elevated pallet, but that’s a lot of green. TAL and Kenny slow down being the smaller men, while Ivan continues putting the pressure on Rob, Keyes, Hunter and Lake. Nathan keeps his pace, dog after dog.
Where is Nathan Lake putting this food? No one knows, but while not at a Chestnut pace, he’s pulling ahead of Ivan’s grimacing. Scott Hunter and Keyes fade just after Freeman, Williams and TAL.
ROUND SCORE
NATHAN LAKE – 70
IVAN STANISLAV – 60
SCOTT HUNTER – 50
HENRY KEYES – 40
KENNY FREEMAN – 30
ROB WILLIAMS – 20
THE ANGLO LUCHADOR – 10
COLTRANE ANDERSON – 0
TOTAL SCORES
HENRY KEYES – 170
NATE LAKE – 160
ROB WILLIAMS – 140
SCOTT HUNTER – 130
KENNY FREEMAN – 130
IVAN STANISLAV – 120
COLTRANE ANDERSON – 110
THE ANGLO LUCHADOR – 90
And our bursting competitors move on…
“HELLOOOO MY LITTLE DEVILS!”
RRRAAAAAAAHHHHHH!
We cut to Satan Jones’ smiling face – or no, we don’t. Instead, we see a beautiful close-up of one of the PRIME Tag Team Championship belts. After a few moments, the phone shifts so we see Satan as well.
Satan Jones: AND YOU ARE…
LIVE! WITH! SATAN!
Satan’s grin grows as he hears the fans chant along with him.
Satan Jones: Yes, you are! Tonight is a special episode, and I know I say that every time, but this title here proves it’s special, and so does what I’m about to do.
The camera moves as Satan walks towards the wall, then leans the phone against something so the full shot of the room is visible. Kris Roswell stands in the corner, his own Tag Team Championship draped across his shoulder. Quinn Fleetwood stands next to him, wearing a piece of cardboard on his shoulder. The cardboard is fashioned into what appears to be a championship belt of his own, with the word DADDY’S CHAMPION scrawled haphazardly in red crayon.
Satan Jones: That’s right, baby, I’m using both hands tonight!
He uses those hands to gesture to the table behind him.
Satan Jones: Now we’re not like Daytona Diamonds, so this isn’t a pizza and crawfish boil, but we do have a nice spread and some guests attending. Of course our first guest is Quinn Fleetwood.
Quinn Fleetwood: I’m not a guest. I’m an honorary tag team champion and essential member of your team.
To demonstrate, he points to the cardboard title on his shoulder.
Satan Jones: Sure you are, bud. Well, then, our first guest should be arriving soon.
Like magic, a generic looking man enters the room. People who study PRIME shows will recognize this staff member as Doug Tim, PRIME attendant and general gopher backstage. They will not – should not – recognize the man standing next to him.
Doug Tim: Sorry, Satan. He made me take him.
Rick Tim: HELLO DEVIL JOHANSON AND THE KICKING KRIST, MY NAME IS RICK TIM AND YOU WILL BE MY VICTIM.
Satan Jones: Hey, Doug. I’m guessing this is your brother?
Doug Tim: Unfortunately.
Rick Tim: AND I DID NOT MAKE HIM TAKE ME. I JUST TOLD HIM THAT IF HE DID NOT I WOULD TELL MOM THAT HE IS BULLYING ME AGAIN AND MAKE EVERYONE IN MY FAMILY WATCH THE ANTI BULLYING POWERPOINT SLIDE DECK I MADE.
Quinn smiles.
Quinn Fleetwood: I like him!
Kris Roswell: You would.
It seems most people aren’t aware the stream is going, but Satan Jones is a professional influencer. He knows, and so he smiles at the camera.
Satan Jones: Welcome, Tim family, to the tag team celebration for your favorite duo of overlooked, overmatched nitwits! We have fought valiantly to climb to the top of this prestigious tag division, and that deserves some recognition. Plus I’ve just reached over 100k followers on Instagram, so this is like a double party.
Doug digs through his backpack and finds a plaque which he puts on the table. The plaque reads “Double Party” on it. Satan looks at it and claps his hands.
Satan Jones: I knew I could count on you and your backpack Doug. What else is in there?
Rick Tim: THERE IS A TINY HOLE AT THE BOTTOM OF THE BACKPACK THAT CONNECTS IT TO THE DEPARTMENT OF CONVENIENCE SO ANY TIME ANYONE SAYS SOMETHING HE CAN REACH IN AND GRAB IT HEY DOUG I WANT A SLURPEE.
Doug sighs and reaches into his backpack, then pulls out a slurpee. He hands it to Rick, who scoffs (the scoff is also in all caps).
Rick Tim: ORANGE? THAT IS ONLY MY FOURTH FAVORITE FLAVOR. BUT I GUESS THAT IS ON RICK TIM FOR NOT SPECIFYING THE FLAVOR.
He drinks the entire slurpee on one sip. Someone, anyone, please come through that door and save us.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Hello, yes!
Wait.
Someone other than him.
Steve Lemieux: (timidly) Greetings and salutations, friends and fellows.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Not him either.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Oh behalf of Stefon Lummox, we would like to extend our congratulations to Stan Mephisto and Spaceman Kirk. May your internets always be full of likes and subscribes, as the kids say these days.
The kids, it should be noted, do not say this.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Come along now, Stefon. Give the man his special treat. You know, the one that you insisted had to be baked here, in this arena, as opposed to literally anywhere else.
Which honestly makes sense, if you pay any attention at all to the Lemieux-niverse (this is a thing you absolutely should not do), as the last time Steve tried to transport premade food into an arena there was a horrible incident involving some spoiled mayonnaise and diarrhea. One led to the other. Look, we’re all sure you can figure out the order of operations in that particular equation.
Steve removes the lid from the cloche that he’s carrying. Did we mention the cloche? Anyway, he has a cloche, which is now lidless. On the tray is a calzone, baked to a golden brown and wafting thin tendrils of steam into the air.
Honestly, it looks pretty good.
Steve Lemieux: I’m sorry, Mister Satan and Mister Kris, but I’ve been looking for Mister Quinn and didn’t mean to disturb your party. I feel like such a silly dumb-dumb for not making enough for everyone, but I didn’t know that you would all be here.
He also looks like a silly dumb-dumb, but that has nothing at all to do with this party. It’s just his default state of existence.
Steve Lemieux: I thought long and hard about it, and I think that Mister Quinn and I got off on the wrong foot…
Not like that, Satan.
Steve Lemieux: …and I think it’s probably my fault, so I wanted to make something as a peace offering, because I do not want to be in a blood feud. Not now, and not ever.
Steve holds up the tray, but he also makes sure to keep his head tilted back, and turned to the side. He peers out of one half-closed eye, as though he’s expecting that blood feud to escalate right here and now.
Steve Lemieux: I call it the Quinnzone. It’s a calzone, with a homemade fermented dough, roasted tomato sauce, and hand-pulled mozzarella. There are also pieces of free trade chocolate, and some house preserved maraschino cherries.
Quinn Fleetwood is a lot of things. Top of the list: he’s a dumb man. And so he tends to ignore people when they talk because he can’t follow their words. Another thing he is: an aggressive man.
Quinn Fleetwood: What the FUCK are you doing trying to copyright the Quinn Zone? That’s the place I take people in the ring!
Satan Jones: Hey Quinny, I think he’s giving you a peace offering.
Quinn sneers towards the delectable dish, then grabs it and holds it towards his face. Then, as if a dog near a food bowl, he dips his face in and takes huge bites out of the Quinnzone without using his hands. After a few moments all that is left are scraps and crumbs.
He looks up with cherry sauce all over his face and observes the horrified reaction.
Quinn Fleetwood: Just put hand sanitizer on. Didn’t want it to get on the food.
Satan Jones: Makes sense.
Kris stares at his tag partner.
Kris Roswell: …it does?
Steve Lemieux: I… I hope this means that we can call off the blood feud. Horrible things happen every time someone declares a blood feud with me, and I would hate to have more horrible things to deal with.
Rick Hardbody: (under his breath) Horrible things happen every time this guy gets in the ring.
He is elbowed in the ribs by Oliver Cade, apparently the only one to hear him.
One person who definitely doesn’t hear is Steve, because he hasn’t stopped talking despite Rick’s quiet jab.
Steve Lemieux: Everyone always wants to punch me about the head and face, and it really hurts to get hit in the face…
Rick Hardbody: (under his breath, again) And the amount of times he’s been dropped on his head can’t help.
Ollie Cade: (also talking all sneaky-sneaky) Jesus Christ, can you try not being a catty bitch today?
Rick Hardbody: (EVERYBODY IS WHISPERING) I could, but, no.
And yet there goes Steve, still letting every thought fall out of his head. It’s as though he ate the Taco Bell lettuce and it gave him diarrhea of the mouth, which is a pretty disgusting phrase if you actually stop to imagine it. So maybe don’t do that.
Steve Lemieux: …but I understand if you do want to punch me about the head and face and probably also my upper body, because I said something that offended you, and I seem to keep doing that to people even though I don’t want to, but if there’s anything to take away from this it’s that please oh please call off the blood feud and do not punch me in, on, or about the head and face. Please.
Rick Tim: BLOOD FEUD SOUNDS LIKE IF JEAN CLAUDE VAN DAMME HOSTED FAMILY FEUD.
Much like Steve did with Rick Hardbody, everyone ignores Rick Tim. Because, I mean, duh.
Quinn Fleetwood: Well, Steve, my papa didn’t raise a quitter, but I was taught that if you declare a blood feud, you shouldn’t undeclare the blood feud unless your blood feudee makes you a really good apology dish involving cherries.
Quinn burps as if to remark upon the quality of said dish.
Quinn Fleetwood: And that was a damn fine apology dish involving cherries. So for now…FOR NOW…blood feud is undeclared.
Kris Roswell: (deadpan) Oh what a relief.
Quinn Fleetwood: It is a relief, Kris! Because no one has ever seen me in a blood feud. They don’t know what I’m capable of.
Quinn hands the mostly empty cloche back to Steve. And Steve, ever the beacon of masculine energy, sighs all the air from his body and lets his shoulders drop to the point that he resembles an oddly man-shaped pile of laundry. One that was closer than anyone would like to admit to soiling his own pants and crying if the blood feud didn’t end.
Steve Lemieux: Thank you for your kindness and generosity by refraining from punching me about the head and face.
Again with that phrase.
Steve Lemieux: We’ll get going so that we don’t disturb this celebration anymore than we already have. I’m sorry about that. Mister Satan. Mister Kris. Congratulations to you both on a huge success. Many happy returns to you both!
Steve is quick to scurry out of the room. You know who’s not quick? Dr. Zeke D. Badguy. Both because he doesn’t understand social cues and because he has the old man legs.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Yes, yes, thank you, Stefon. Everyone is very proud of you for baking the Pizza of Peace.
Rick Hardbody: (holy shit this muhfucka still whisperin’!) Dude, Peace of Pizza was right there.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: But very well, enjoy your many celebratory debaucheries.
Zeke taps his feet with his cane.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: But don’t try to take these. They are vintage bowling shoes, but you cannot have them, because they are mine.
And with that, he hobbles his ancient ass to the door.
Satan Jones: Dang, I was totally going to swipe those bowling shoes. Oh well. The party rolls on! And congrats on undeclaring the blood feud, dude. That took guts.
Rick Tim: YOU SHOULD HAVE SAID THAT TWO SHOWS AGO WHEN SURVIVOR DID THE AGRO CRAG, NOW THE REFERENCE IS WOEFULLY OUTDATED.
Kris Roswell: So, Doug…why do you speak normally and he speaks…
Doug Tim: Something in utero I think. He came out like this. That’s why I always wear these tiny ear plugs.
Kris Roswell: Do you…
Doug Tim: Say no more.
Doug reaches into his backpack and pulls out a pair of tiny ear plugs.
Kris Roswell: Thanks Doug.
Satan Jones: Well, I guess that’s all we’ve got going on tonight, so we will…
No you won’t, Satan. Because three more guests are about to arrive. Entering the scene are the most recent Tag Team Champions, the ones who lost their titles to the Foot Soldiers, the Pop Culture Phenoms. They don’t look like losers at the moment, dressed to the nines and fired up. The D leads the charge, as Elise and Klein back him up.
The D: Alright, we’ve wasted enough of the home viewers’ time with whatever nonsense this all is, I’m surprised anyone’s even still watching. I bet the streaming numbers just showed everyone fast forwarded whatever this is until the real stars, the TRUE Tag Team Champions arrived. And yes, we’re here, the Pop Culture Phenoms have arrived so you can all rest easy knowing you’ll be saved from mediocrity.
Elise Ares: Yeah bby, first we get pushed into a title match prematurely and then we lose because the official can’t tell that I kicked out?! What sort of amateur hour is this.
The D: The most amateur hour ever. I’ll tell you what, if Klein were the official, he’d have spotted that kick out. No doubt. Don’t speak, I know just what you’re saying. Also, when did PRIME last require its officials to get their eyesight checked? I don’t want any ref’s workin’ with lazer corrective surgery.
Elise Ares: So ya’ll may be the champs, but there’s a huge asterix next to your reign for being probably nepobaby friends of the bitch in charge.
The D: So, we want our champs rematch. Like… within 28 days so it’s fair. And by my count, it’s already been almost 14 days since we unfairly lost those straps. Time’s a tickin’.
The D points to his wrist, where he at most has an invisible watch. Klein in the background waves enthusiastically.
Kris Roswell steps forward, adjusting the title on his shoulder as he does so.
Kris Roswell: I’m not in charge of counting days, but I will say that if you want a third shot at taking a win off us, I say…see you at Ascension.
Satan starts counting on his fingers.
Satan Jones: I think that is…uh…106 more days.
Kris Roswell: That can’t possibly be right.
“It’s not. And they’re not your concern at Ascension.”
WHOOOOOOOOOOOO!
More people in this small, confined space will definitely ease the tension. So let’s add in a couple.
Specifically: Chandler Tsonda and Jasmine Jeong. Matching black track jackets, ring gear still on. The duo have a bit of that post-match glow, wrestling’s version of post-coital radiance. It’s always spiritually correct to imagine the Model Citizen smoking a long Gauloise cigarette, so this all makes sense.
Chandler Tsonda: You four-pack of fuckers are starting to hurt my feelings by not including us in your strut-off. I just knew there was a reason my fomo radar was pinging like crazy.
Satan Jones: Dude, you can’t say that anymore. It’s…(thinking for a moment) LGBTMNOP plus radar.
The Sultan of Style and half of the tag champions exchange a look, but Jasmine isn’t waylaid by the…whatever is going on between the other two.
Jasmine Jeong: Different show, same shit: we don’t care who it is. Or when it is. (points to PCP) You. (points to Foot Soldiers) Or you. Tag belts. Us. Stop ducking the smoke.
Doug Tim: (loudly, because his dumb ass still has ear plugs in) Did you say Doug’ing the—
Jasmine Jeong does a murder with her eyes, and he catches the drift.
Doug Tim: Nevermind.
Chandler Tsonda: Ok, but for serious, make like KC and/or the Sunshine Band when it comes to those tag straps and: give it up.
Elise Ares: Or what?
Jasmine Jeong: I’m thinking like…or else? Does ‘or else’ work for you, sweetie? I love your nails, by the way. You’re, like, a total gasbag and you’re trash and we’re gonna stomp your ass if you stand in our way, but (points to Elise’s nails) ok, diva, I see you.
A well-placed compliment does often placate the former tag and 5-star champion, but right now, she’s ready for a fight and takes a step towards the youngster.
Chandler Tsonda: If you don’t want to be a singles wrestler for the next few months, you might wanna stop your partner. Because lord knows I’m not (pointing to Jasmine) stepping in front of her.
And so now we get that beautiful moment where tempers have flared, are flaring, and there is a general movement of parties towards one another precipitating violence. The D turns to Klein.
The D: Please escalate this violence.
Klein turns his box head from side to side, reaches over and flips a catering table on it’s heels. The D nods and turns back to the group.
The D: And that’s just a small taste of what we’ll do!
Satan Jones: Yeah, see what happens when I don’t my phone in my hand? Freakin’ chaos. But I think if it goes any further my hair horns will get messed up and I don’t have my Only Fans set up yet. So let’s just end the feed and maybe the Enemigos will come in to break things up.
Satan walks towards the phone as Quinn drops his Daddy’s Champion belt and holds his stomach.
Quinn Fleetwood: I don’t feel so good…what was in that Quinnzone…
He burps and luckily Satan ends the feed before we see how sick he actually gets.
Anna Daniels stands in the ring, having just finished her entrance. She eyes Elvis Nixon with suspicion.
Nick Stuart: And ReVival keeps on rolling! Up next, a sure to be electric bout between two of our keenest lightweight competitors.
Richard Parker: You know, I had a bit for this, but I don’t have it anymore.
Nick Stuart: What do you mean?
Richard Parker: I mean like I erased it.
Nick Stuart: Is your brain okay?
Richard Parker: Ionno. Probably. You don’t care.
Nick Stuart: Correct.
A sea of stars dot the big screen. Words fade in:
“Look Up”
The sci-fi synths of “Cosmic Road” hit as blue light engulfs the arena. The screen shows a rapid-fire cut of Bobby Neptune highlights, including his insane corkscrew curbstomp on Ivan Stanislav.
Vince Howard: Introducing from Parts Unknown, weighing in at 206 pounds… BOBBBBYYYYYYY NEPTUUUUUUUUUUUNEEE!!!!
Bobby Neptune strides onstage, his gray eyes take in the crowd with ethereal focus, he is both looking at them and beyond them at once. Then:
BOOM
The screen shows a supernova as pyro shoots off behind Neptune who glides towards the ring with graceful purpose. He enters the ring, climbs the turnbuckle, waits a near-eternity, then raises just one arm. He points to the sky then backflips back into the ring, ending in his corner.
DING! DING!
Normally this match would begin with two offensively minded lightweights charging across the ring at each other. This time, however, things are different.
Anna Daniels slowly extends an outstretched hand.
An offer to partake in a ceremony.
The fabled test of strength.
Bobby is aware that Anna can’t be trusted. And yet he finds his hand slowly reaching out towards hers, fingers cautiously entwining with Anna’s, when—
Anna sends a knee straight to his gut! She can’t believe he fell for it, chuckling a bit before whipping him hard into the ropes! She chases behind him!
Nick Stuart: CLOTHESLINE OVER THE TOP ROPE!!! AND BOBBY NEPTUNE TUMBLES TO THE FLOOR!!!
But if you know anything about Anna Daniels, you know this one simple fact:
No quarter.
She approaches the nearest set of turnbuckles and climbs to the top. She perches like a raven, waiting for the UFO to slowly get that quantum engine revving and back up to his feet.
Once he finally stumbles upwards? She leaps.
And then?
SMACK!!!
Nick Stuart: HOLY MOLY!!! THAT BEAUTIFUL MOONSAULT DROPKICK FROM BOBBY NEPTUNE CATCHES ANNA RIGHT IN THE JAW!!!
Being kicked in the face soaring through the air does strange physics things.
The way Anna lands is awkward, and for a brief moment there may even be a hint of concern that she injured herself. But then she stirs, and the cheers rain down as Bobby Neptune climbs up to his feet. He grabs Anna up and throws her back into the ring under the bottom rope.
Bobby climbs onto the apron. He rubs his palms across the top rope before gripping them, preparing for yet another high flying, high-risk maneuver.
Anna slowly crawls up towards her feet.
Then she reaches her hands and knees and
SPRINGBOARD GUILLOTINE LEGDROP ACROSS THE BACK OF ANNA DANIEL’S NECK!!!
NEPTUNE ROLLS ANNA ONTO HER BACK, AND MAKES THE COVER!!!
ONE!!!
TWO!!!
KICKOUT!!!
Nick Stuart: Bobby Neptune almost took it right there!
Richard Parker: Almost only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and whatever the hell Bobby Neptune thinks he’s doing with his hair.
Nick Stuart: His hair?
Richard Parker: I’m sorry. I panicked. I didn’t have a good way out of that sentence, and I panicked.
Bobby Neptune doesn’t.
The UFO rolls immediately back to his feet, grabbing Anna by the wrist and dragging her along with him. Daniels fires a wild elbow, but Neptune ducks underneath! He twists the arm! Pulls Anna towards him!
SHORT-ARM DROPKICK!!!
Daniels goes tumbling backwards into the corner!
Neptune charges!
ANNA MOVES!!!
Neptune manages to catch himself before crashing chest-first into the turnbuckles, leaping effortlessly onto the second rope instead! He springs backwards!
CROSSBODY—
NO!!!
Anna Daniels catches him in midair!
Richard Parker: Oh, Bobby.
Nick Stuart: An impressive display of strength from our resident Time Lord!
Daniels THROWS Neptune down across her knee with a vicious backbreaker! Bobby’s spine bends around the point of impact and he collapses to the canvas, clutching at his lower back.
Anna sees it.
And now she has a target.
Daniels SNAPS a kick into Neptune’s spine!
Bobby’s entire body straightens!
ANOTHER!
Neptune tries desperately to scramble away, but Anna follows him and catches him across the chest with a brutal soccer kick!
THWACK!
Nick Stuart: Good lord! Anna Daniels just changed the complexion of this match!
Richard Parker: Apparently she remembered she’s allowed to beat the shit out of him.
Neptune rolls onto his knees.
Bad idea.
Anna grabs him around the waist!
DEADLIFT GERMAN SUPLEX!!!
Bobby lands high on his shoulders! Anna maintains the waistlock and rolls through, dragging Neptune back to his feet!
Bobby desperately throws an elbow!
Anna ducks!
Neptune spins around—
CRACK!!!
ROUNDHOUSE KICK TO THE TEMPLE!!!
Bobby Neptune’s eyes go glassy.
Anna Daniels hooks both of his arms!
Nick Stuart: WAIT A SECOND!
She muscles Neptune up—
CRUCIFIX DRIVER!!!
BOBBY NEPTUNE IS SPIKED INTO THE CANVAS!!!
Daniels folds his legs over his chest and Elvis Nixon dives into position!
ONE!!!
TWO!!!
THR—
KICKOUT!!!
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
Nick Stuart: NEPTUNE SURVIVES THE CRUCIFIX DRIVER!
Richard Parker: Barely! I think Bobby’s soul just left his body, filed a change-of-address form, and then reluctantly moved back in!
Anna sits on the canvas staring at Elvis Nixon.
Two?
Nixon emphatically holds up two fingers.
Anna nods.
Fair enough. This time.
She rises.
But Neptune is already moving.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Anna grabs him by the head—
SMACK!!!
NEPTUNE SLAPS HER HAND AWAY!
Anna answers with a forearm!
Bobby answers with one of his own!
ANNA!
BOBBY!
ANNA!
BOBBY!
The two begin trading shots in the center of the ring, each blow landing harder than the last!
Nick Stuart: AND JUST LIKE THAT, WE’RE RIGHT BACK WHERE WE STARTED! NEITHER ONE OF THESE TWO HAS AN INCH TO GIVE!
Anna swings!
Bobby ducks!
PELE KICK!!!
Daniels staggers into the ropes!
Bobby kips up!
Anna rebounds!
AND THEY BOTH ATTEMPT RUNNING DROPKICKS!!!
Both competitors crash to the canvas!
The crowd rises as Anna Daniels and Bobby Neptune lie flat on their backs, staring into the lights.
Richard Parker: Well.
Nick Stuart: What?
Richard Parker: Now we’re even.
BOB-BY NEP-TUNE!!
clap clap clapclapclap
BOB-BY NEP-TUNE!!
clap clap clapclapclap
With the crowd cheering him on, it’s Bobby who begins stirring up to his feet first. But make no mistake, Daniels is right on his heels. Both get to their feet near the same time, but Bobby is able to take off first. He flies towards the ropes, bounces off, returns towards Anna!
POP UP BY ANNA!!!
BOBBY’S HANDS AND FEET IN MOTION UP IN THE AIR!!!
SHE ATTEMPTS AN UPPERCUT!
NO!!! AN AMAZING FALLING ARM DRAG BY NEPTUNE!!! ANNA SKIDS ACROSS THE RING MAT!
Bobby scrambles, leaps to the top turnbuckle nearest Anna Daniels.
She rises to her feet and—
Nick Stuart: RAINBOW DDT!!! RAINBOW DDT BY BOBBY NEPTUNE!!! HE MAKES THE COVER!!! HOOKS THE LEG!!!
ONE!!!
TWO!!!
THREEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!
DING! DING! DING!
Vince Howard: HEEERE IS YOUR WINNER!!! BOBBYYYYYYYYY NEPTUNEEEEEE!!! Bobby gets his arm raised as the victor, and we swiftly cut elsewhere.
No predictions were made for this match.
We jump backstage, within an unoccupied hallway.
Two patrolling Enemigos appear from either end of the corridor and meet up at the halfway point.
Enemigo #1: (points at eyes)
Enemigo #2: (shrugs?)
Enemigo #1: (points at his eyes insistently!)
Enemigo #2: (shrugs??)
Enemigo #1: (balks)
Frustrated by this breakdown in communication, the first lucha security guard reaches into his back pocket and unfolds an 8×10 black and white photo.
He holds it up, revealing the face of “The Escape Artist” Rezin, caught in a moment in time where he was either mid-sneeze or stepping on a Lego. Seeing this, the second Enemigo nods in recognition.
Enemigo #2: (facepalms in shame, then shakes head in denial.)
Enemigo #1: (gives a thumbs up, nods, and makes a circle with his finger)
Enemigo #2: (salutes!)
The first Enemigo packs away the photo of the person they’re searching for, and heads further up the hallway.
The second lingers until his associate has rounded the corner, then tears off his mask and throws off his disguise.
Rezin: Mwahahahaha… SUCKERS! This OL’ DOPESMOKER got one over on ya mute blackshirt brutes YET AGAIN!
Rezin reaches into his pants (not into his pocket–into his actual goddamn pants) and pulls out a crumbled piece of paper, which he promptly unfurls.
Rezin: Arright… let’s check out the ol’ TO-DO list here…
Through the magic of sports entertainment production, we briefly get his POV of the list as he’s marking off his latest completed task.ARRIVE IN CHICAGO
KILL COPS
HIT UP RECKLESS RECORDS
EAT DEEPDISH PIZZA
FIND SHITTER
SHIT
FIND JEREMY ALLEN WHITE AND ASK HIM, LIKE, WHAT’S HIS FUCKIN DEAL?
KIDNAP AND RANSOM JEREMY ALLEN WHITE (OPTIONAL)
UBER TO ARENA
KIDNAP AND RANSON UBER DRIVER (OPTIONAL)
INFILTRATE ARENA ⇐YOU ARE HERE!!
FIND LINDSAY!! GET JOB BACK
HIT UP CATERING, GRAB ERRYTHING I CAN CARRY
KILL MORE COPS
ESCAPE ARENA
BLOW UP FEDERAL RESERVE BUILDING
SEE WHO’S PLAYIN’ AT EMPTY BOTTLE
PROFIT!!Rezin: “Get my JOB BACK?!” Well SHUCKS, I’ve been trynna do that for a HOT MINUTE!
The Goat Bastard stuffs his list back into his pants (gag…) and gets on his merry way.
Rezin: Here I come, LINDSAY! I’m COMIN’ FOR MY JOB, LINDSAY! And TONIGHT, LINDSAY, I AIN’T takin’ NO for an ANSWER! NOTTA CHANCE, LINDSAY! The SECOND I march right on into yer office with all this PUNK ROCK POMPOSITY just fuggin’ rollin’ off me, LINDSAY, yer gonna be like, “SHUCKS, Rez! Ya really are PUNK ROCK as FUCK! HOW izzit I failed to SEE until NAOW!?” And then I’ll be all like, “LINDSAY! This is what I’ve been SAYIN’ since, like, the GET GO! PINK is OUT, and PUNK is IN!” Then yer gonna be like, “Shit, dawg, we NEED more crazy ass muthafuggaz like YOU here in PRIME, Rezin! Ever since your run as Universal Champion ended years ago, this place’s been straight up stankin’ of NORMIES lately!” Then I’m gonna be like, “YES LINDSAY! I’ll GLADLY return to PRIME!” And then yer gonna be like, “SHIT YEAH! ALSO, can ya recommend some good PUNK albums, since my MUSIC TASTE is STRAWBVIOUSLY TRASH!!” And then I’m gonna say to YOU, LINDSAY, “LINDSAY!! First of all, if ya ain’t spinnin’ DISCHARGE, then there’s somethin’ fumnadentally FUGGED UP with ya! But LINDSAY, if ya can stand THE CLASH, then ya can prolly move on to–WELL, HELLOOOO!!
Mid-rant, Rezin stops in his tracks when he notices something on the floor. He bends over at an almost perfect 45 degree acute angle to get a closer look.
Rezin: Uhh-hurrrmmmm…
Some stranger has apparently made use of a roll of duct tape by laying out a very clear arrow pointing down a narrow passageway.
Below that, also written in tape, are two very clear words: “FREE WEED”.
Rezin: “FREED WEE–imeanFREE WEED!?!” PfghWUHLUBfh… do they really think I’m THAT stupid?!
The Escape Artist saunters off the other way…
…only to stop himself when the sludge-worn and misshapen gears in the broken clockwork of his head begin turning.
Rezin: On second thought, I have been wrong before. And like if it’s FREE, I mean, I’m not gonna NOT smoke it!
He walks down the passageway led by the taped arrow on the floor.
Rezin: Fuck it… I’m followin’ this rabbithole…
He comes to a fork, finds another arrow pointing him to the left.
Rezin: Mm-hmm…?
He rounds a corner. Another arrow, pointing to the right.
Rezin: Mm-HM.
A few paces later, he comes upon a nondescript door being pointed out by several taped arrows on the floor and walls.
Rezin: Innerestin’… vury innerestin’…
Taking a second to inspect the door, Rezin puts his hand on the knob.
Rezin: Wait a sec… I feel like somethin’ in me is trynna tell me somethin’. My head…?
Crash zoom into Rezin’s heavily gigged forehead. His brain “speaks” in a subdued zombie groan. We can hear a fly buzzing around somewhere.
Rezin: Nope. My heart, maybe?
Crash zoom into his tattooed chest. Rezin’s heart is a hacking and wheezing mess trying to be heard over a beat that’s as complex as a jazz snare solo.
Rezin: Nah, that ain’t it. How about my gut?
Crash zoom into Rezin’s abdomen, beneath the tattooed “INDIANA” arch. Rezin’s gut is screaming in agony over the sounds of gurgling and fire.
Rezin: Right. Tacos. It’s on the list. Well… if it ain’t head or heart or gut, that can only mean one thing.
Crash zoom on Rezin’s crotch.
Over the sounds of rockets and exploding fireworks, Rezin’s lil’ smoker is belting out the most euphoric “YAHOO!!”.
Rezin: Guess that settles it! My INNER VOICE is NEVER WRONG!
He turns the knob and enters the room.
Two steps in, he freezes in place, and widens his eyes in shock and awe.
Rezin: WWWHHHOOOOOOOAAAAAHHHH…
The view zooms out so that we see what he sees.
Wood panel walls marked with graffiti. Dirty shag carpet with black cigarette burns. An unmade bed without a bedframe. A cracked lava lamp on the hollowed shell of a dresser. Clothes everywhere. Posters of Denise Richards and Shannon Elizabeth on the wall. A dusty mirror covered in stickers of indecipherable band logos. A hatrack holding a solitary red and black horned luchador mask. Stacks of independent wrestling mags, unmarked VHS tapes, bootleg DVDs flanking a small, cracked CRT television.
And bongs. Many, many bongs.
This is, clearly, the sordid bedroom of a teenager with poor hygiene and self-maintenance. Likely from a lower income household.
Rezin: WOWEE!! IT’S MY CHILDHOOD BEDROOM!!
Well, that explains it.
Rezin comes further into the room, his mouth hanging open and his blood shot eyes full of wonder.
Rezin: AH MAN, the NOSTALGIA! I ain’t seen this place look this way since I was just a wee lil’ BILLY BASTARD! They got ERRY DETAIL right!
He flips a switch on the wall, killing the light and powering up a blacklight bolted over his mirror.
Instantly, we can see stains everywhere.
Rezin: AAAHH!!
He instantly flips off the blacklight.
Rezin: TOO MUCH detail!
He scans the room, apparently in no way curious or suspicious as to how a piece of his formative youth has been recreated to a nearly perfect degree.
Rezin: Hmm… well, if this is my ol’ room, then the FREE WEED must be where I used to hide my STASH! Which was…
His head whips to the side with a “swish” sound effect.
Hard pan to the other door in the room.
Rezin: The CLOSET!!
He walks over and opens it.
Rezin: Hmm… when did this wall get here?
The “wall” looks very much like a human chest.
Which is why when he looks up, he sees an angry, moustached face glaring down at him.
Rezin: AAAH!!
Big Ian Salt: YOU’RE UNDER ARREST FOR SMOKIN’ THE DEVILS LETTUCE YOU LITTLE TEENAGED FUCKHEAD!!!
Big Ian Salt, with a toy Sheriff’s badge pinned to the chest of his electric blue tracksuit, lifts a gun and shoots at Rezin at point blank range.
It does not discharge a bullet.
It discharges prongs, which lodge themselves into Rezin’s neck, and send many torturous volts of electricity through his body.
Rezin: BLEH-EH-EH-EH-EH-EH-EHGHK!!!!
Big Ian Salt: YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT WHILE I FUCK ON YOU WITH THIS ELECTRICITY!!!
Big Ian stomps Rezin in the nuts while he tases the shit out of his neck.
Rezin: AAAHH!! NO!! I’M SAVIN’ THOSE FOR KAT DENNINGS!!
Salt sneers as he pulls a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket. He ensnares Rezin’s wrists with it, and handcuffs the former Universal Champion.
Then he continues to tase him.
Mercilessly.
Rezin: BLEH-EH-EH-EH-EH-EH-EHGHK!!!!
Big Ian Salt: You show up in a big wooden bird… and embarrass me WHILE I’M TRYNA PICK UP HOES!?! YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO KEEP HOES WHEN YOU AS TOXIC AS I AM!?!
Nut stomp. Taser.
Big Ian Salt: …HUH!?!?
Nut stomp. Taser. Nut stomp. Nut stomp. Taser. Taser. Taser. Taser. The Goat Bastard flops around on the floor like a fish out of water.
Rezin: AAAHH!! AAAHH!! AAAHH!! AAAHH!!
Big Ian Salt: It’s damn near impossible!!! And it’s very important that I always have hoes so that Cancer knows that I’m actually really cool!!! But I can’t keep ‘em because I’m just SUCH a mothafuckin’ asshooooole~!! A-haaaaa. ANYWAY. So I’m always havin’ to get new hoes and you ruined that for me and then you uppercutted the shit out of me and — what? I’m just not gonna spend two weeks learning everything there is to know about you, reconstruct your childhood bedroom, lure you to said reconstructed childhood bedroom with the promise of drugs, only to reveal that I AM THE GOD DAMN MONSTERINYOURCLOSETYOUSONOFABITCH!?!?!?
By the end of that rant, spit was flying so hard from Ian’s mouth that he had to rush the rest of the words out to keep from drooling on his tracksuit.
Worth iiiit.
Big Ian Salt: Accusing me of being a cop. Uppercuttin’ me. All of that, just to end up here. Getting the electricity tasered right out of your stinky old balls.
Big Ian stomps on Rezin’s chest.
Big Ian Salt: You smell like shit, and fucking… coriander. And INCENSE. AND I DON’T LIKE IT!!!
He stomps on Rezin’s chest again.
Then he drops to a knee and pinches Rezin’s cheeks while he talks to him.
Big Ian Salt: And now you know why one of my nick names is the Big Bad Salty Daddy. Because I’m doing to you what your papa should’ve done. YOU FUCKING HIPPIE!!!
Taser. Nut stomp. Nut stomp. Taser.
Taser.
Taser.
Nut stomp.
Rezin: AAAHH!! AAAHH!! AAAHH!! AAAHH!!
Big Ian Salt drops the taser. He coughs violently for a minute, as though he choked on his own spit. Then he quietly leaves the room.
Rezin is left lying on his back, groaning in pain with limbs curled up like a bug that’s been fried beneath a magnifying glass.
Rezin: (strained) Uuuggghhh… guess… I… can mark… SHIT… off… the list… UGHH…
We’re back with more Survivor. And this time, Nick and Richard join us on commentary.
Naturally, where else would we be but the batting cages? Of course. All of our Survivors, in varying states of okay, are here to bat as many good balls as they can. Of course, they’re going to have to do it while they’re super dizzy, so Johnny Dorn instructs every one of the competitors to place the hilt of the baseball bat (that’s what I’ve decided it’s called dammit) upon their forehead, place the tip of the bat on the ground, and get a-spinnin’.
Nick Stuart: And around and around Kenny Freeman goes…
And he goes a little too hard, stumbles around a lot, and let’s just say for the sake of that hot dog eating contest earlier that rainbows are currently coming out of several of Kenny’s face orifices off to the side. Poor guy. He wasn’t even drinking alcohol.
Coltrane Anderson comes out of the spinning looking like he could suplex a train. He takes up his bat and crushes the first three balls. The next three miss because he was distracted by Kenny’s negative reaction to a bad hot dog he’d eaten. He grits his teeth and slams the next five, and that’s enough for 70 big ones.
Richard Parker: Pretty impressive from the big guy. I don’t think I’d have hit any of those given the inebriation or the dizziness or the fact that I belong in a batter’s box in the same way that Brandon Youngblood belongs in the Bandits.
Next up is Henry Keyes.
Henry’s not exactly doing great in the dizziness department, and he whiffs more than he hits. He looks cool doing it, though. He manages to hit a couple of balls into the dirt, but only three of them are crushed and that gives Henry thirty points.
Nick Stuart: Tough out for Keyes.
Richard Parker: He probably should’ve at least considered taking the eyepatch off.
No.
He will not.
Next is Scott Hunter, who’s been dizzy for so much of his life that this is just another Friday for him. He knocks out the first two hits, but then something happens that makes him lose the next two.
That something?
Ivan Stanislav: DYAA-HAA-HAA!!!
Right in the fuckin’ ear.
Scott glares at Ivan as the next ball flies past him. Scott turns and glares at the batting machine, daring it to fire again. It does, and Scott destroys the next ball. Then the next. Then the next.
He then swings at the next ball while giving Ivan the stink-eye, though this isn’t as impressive since he grounds it. Noticing this, Scott swings one more time and crushes his last one to gain sixty big ones.
Nick Stuart: Scott Hunter with a second-best showing so far.
Richard Parker: I didn’t think that idiot knew what a baseball was, to be honest, so I’m pretty impressed.
Next up is the Anglo Luchador, who would’ve struck out swinging before hitting his first ball. Then he struck out swinging again before hitting his second. TAL narrows his eyes, summons up at least one Aztec deity, and nails the last two.
Nick Stuart: Four balls hit for TAL.
Richard Parker: At least he’s doing better than Kenny.
Kenny Freeman is up next. He’s not looking good, a little green in the gills and a few less rainbows in him. He strikes out looking for the first nine balls as though confused on the number of balls , then he swings wildly on the last one and misses.
Big zero.
Nick Stuart: He tried.
Richard Parker: Okay, that was bad.
Nathan Lake steps up to the plate. He staggers a bit from dizziness, but he manages to compose himself. He hits the first ball into the dirt. The next one, he does the full-on Ken Griffey Jr. swing and smashes it out of the park. The third one, he does the same thing. He’s doing great. Everyone’s having a good time. He’s ready to show everyone his best baseball skills, so he spins around with a great flourish and…
OOF.
Nick Stuart: Nathan Lake just got hit by a pitch!
Richard Parker: He’s charging the mound!
And he’s charging the mound with a baseball bat, by the way.
A few Enemigos come by dressed as Chicago Cubs, and hastily remove Nathan Lake from the scene with all of twenty points scored.
Rob Williams steps up to the mound, cowboy boots in the dirt. He’s very dizzy and very inebriated and he’s ready to go. And despite the fact that he’s seeing two baseballs coming his way every time, he just swings at the left ball every time and somehow comes away with fifty points.
Finally, we have Ivan Stanislav.
The baseball bat is more like a novelty toothpick in his hands. Ivan Stanislav understands baseball in the same way he understands thermonuclear dynamics, which is to say that he pretends to know. Ivan manages to hit the first ball and send it into another dimension, whereupon it will be chanced upon by mutant creatures that live on an alternate Earth and put on display as a strange curiosity.
Scott Hunter chooses this moment to step into Ivan’s line of sight and start being a distraction. He’s very distracting. Look at how distracting he is! He’s got a very unterrible towel and he’s waving it around. Ivan can’t help but get distracted, and he keeps missing the baseballs. By the seventh miss, Ivan is angry enough to snap the baseball over his knee and start coming after Scott, and the Enemigos are back to keep things from going too wrong.
Nick Stuart: It’s good that we had help from the Cubs wing of the Enemigos tonight.
Richard Parker: Why is there a Cubs wing?
Nick Stuart: Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.
With the batting cages settled and Coletrane Anderson winning the round, here are the scores!
ROUND SCORE
COLTRANE ANDERSON – 70
SCOTT HUNTER – 60
ROB WILLIAMS – 50
THE ANGLO LUCHADOR – 40
HENRY KEYES – 30
NATHAN LAKE – 20
IVAN STANISLAV – 10
KENNY FREEMAN – 0
TOTAL SCORE
HENRY KEYES – 200
SCOTT HUNTER – 190
ROB WILLIAMS – 190
COLTRANE ANDERSON – 180
NATHAN LAKE – 160
KENNY FREEMAN – 130
IVAN STANISLAV – 130
THE ANGLO LUCHADOR – 130
And we swing on to the next part…
Fade in
Low, mournful strings drift beneath the distant howl of arctic wind.
An endless tract of fractured sea ice stretches beneath a pale grey sky. Chunks of floating ice drift silently through the frigid waters of the Bering Strait. A lone walrus disappears beneath the surface as snow blows sideways across jagged cliffs.
Daytona Diamonds (Voiceover): Every place’s got its neighbors.
Little Diomede sits alone against the frozen sea.
Across the narrow stretch of water… Big Diomede.
Another island. Another country.
Daytona Diamonds (Voiceover): Most folks think neighbors’re the people livin’ next door.
An abandoned military lookout.
Weather-beaten homes perched against the cliffs.
A lone snowmobile carving tracks through fresh powder.
Daytona Diamonds (Voiceover): Folks borrow sugar. They wave ‘cross the fence. Argue ‘bout whose dog keeps tearin’ up whose flower bed.
A flock of seabirds circles overhead.
The camera rises.
Both islands now share the same frame, separated by barely more than two miles of icy water.
Daytona Diamonds (Voiceover): Out here… your neighbor lives in another country.
The camera lingers.
The wind whistles across the rocks.
Nothing moves except the sea.
Daytona Diamonds (Voiceover): Couple miles. Couple flags. Whole world ‘tween ‘em.
A graphic briefly appears over the water.
← RUSSIA – UNITED STATES →
The music slowly fades beneath the sound of the wind.
The camera cuts to Daytona Diamonds standing on the rocky shoreline of Little Diomede. He’s bundled in a comically oversized fur-lined parka thrown over his usual cowboy attire. Thick gloves. Snow boots. His white cowboy hat somehow remains firmly planted on his head despite the wind. The Universal Championship hangs proudly over one shoulder, little mittens at the ends of either side of the belt strap.
He looks directly into the camera.
His mustache has tiny flecks of frost.
He doesn’t smile.
Daytona Diamonds: …
A gust of wind nearly blows him sideways.
He squints into it.
Daytona Diamonds: Boys, it’s colder’n a witch’s titty.
Silence.
He nods solemnly.
Daytona Diamonds: And that fuckin’ sucks.
Another gust.
Daytona hunches deeper into his coat. Then, as though remembering why he’s here, his entire face lights up. A poor facsimile of a grin curls at his lips. He points dramatically across the icy water toward the barely visible outline of Big Diomede.
Daytona Diamonds: But…
He lowers his arm just enough to address the camera.
Daytona Diamonds: Somewhere over yonder… standin’ on Russian soil… is one of the meanest, toughest, most hard-headed sonsabitches ever to lace up a pair of wrasslin’ boots.
He smiles even wider.
Daytona Diamonds: Ivan Stanislav.
He cups his gloved hands around his mouth. The producer, just off-camera, immediately senses what’s coming.
Producer (Off Camera): Daytona…
Daytona Diamonds: …
Producer (Off Camera): Don’t…
It’s too late. Daytona inhales as deeply as the freezing air will allow.
Daytona Diamonds: IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN!!!
His voice echoes across the frozen water, bouncing off the cliffs before disappearing into the wind.
Producer (Off Camera): Daytona… you know we packed a walkie-talki–
A faint sound drifts across the frozen water, barely audible. A deep voice. Somewhere in the distance, a flock of seabirds take flight.
Ivan Stanislav (Distant): …COOOOOOOOOOOOOWBOOOOOOOOOOOOY!!!
Daytona freezes. His eyes go wide. He slowly turns to the camera with the expression of a man who’s just been completely vindicated. He points across the strait without ever breaking eye contact.
Daytona Diamonds: Heard me.
The producer sighs.
Producer (Off Camera): …yeah. Yeah, I guess he did.
Daytona’s grin spreads ear to ear.
Daytona Diamonds: Damn right he did.
He cups his hands around his mouth again.
Daytona Diamonds: IVAAAAAAAAAAAN!!! HOOOOOW’S THE WEAAAAAATHEEEER OVER THEEEEERE?!
Cut to Big Diomede.
The weather is, unsurprisingly, identical.
Ivan Stanislav stands upon a snow-covered ridge overlooking the Bering Strait. An enormous olive greatcoat envelopes his already mountainous frame, secured around his waist by a thick leather belt. A crimson ushanka rests atop his head, its Soviet insignia gleaming beneath a layer of frost.
His beard has almost completely frozen.
Behind him, a weathered Russian Federation flag snaps violently in the wind. Beside it stands a faded concrete marker bearing a hammer and sickle, stubbornly surviving several decades beyond the government responsible for putting it there.
The Intense Championship rests atop an overturned ammo crate. Someone has wrapped a tiny scarf around its center plate.
Ivan cups his enormous hands around his mouth.
Ivan Stanislav: IT IS SAME GODDAMNED WEATHER, COWBOYYYYYY!!!
The words thunder across the straight. Walkie-talkie’s be damned, indeed. A chunk of snow slides from a nearby rooftop. Ivan turns to the camera, speaking more conversationally.
Ivan Stanislav: What kind of question is this? He is four kilometers away.
The Universal Champion’s voice screams across the wind once more.
Daytona Diamonds (Distant): WHAAAT TIIIME IS IT OVERRRRRR THEREEEEE?!
Ivan’s expression changes. He pulls back the sleeve of his greatcoat and checks his enormous military watch.
Ivan Stanislav: TOMORROW!!!
Indeed, though only a few kilometers are between the two champions, twenty hours currently change between them. Indeed, Ivan Stanislav is correct.
Suck it, capitalists.
The camera cuts back to Little Diomede. Daytona blinks as he glances down at the watch on his own wrist, then back across the water, then back at his watch again.
Daytona Diamonds: Y’all hear that?
The Rhinestone Cowboy points an accusing finger towards Big Diomede.
Daytona Diamonds: This sonuvabitch is livin’ in the future.
Daytona’s eyes bulge in pure, unadulterated awe. He shakes his head, processing the absolute bending of spacetime he’s bearing witness to, before cupping his gloved hands over his mouth one more time.
Daytona Diamonds: HEY! IVAN! CAN I COME OVER THERE?! I WANNA SEE WHAT TOMORROW LOOKS LIKE!
Cut to Ivan Stanislav, the weathered elder statesman of PRIME. A man who knows, better than most anyone, how squandering the present can leave business unfinished in the past.
It’s quite philosophical, really.
He calls back, not just as a question, but as a warning.
Ivan Stanislav: HAVE YOU COMPLETED ALL RESPONSIBILITIES IN TODAY?!
Daytona Diamonds: I RECKON SO!
Ivan Stanislav: YOU “RECKON?”
Daytona Diamonds: PRETTY SURE!
Could this be a trick? Some American attempt to bamboozle Russia and invade her sovereign shores? Matters of national security glance through Ivan’s mind, before he looks back at the ridiculous looking cowboy.
It puts his paranoid mind at ease.
Ivan Stanislav: THEN COME OVER! YOU MAY CROSS INTERNATIONAL WATERS TO MOTHER RUSSIA!!!
Split screen! This is a professional production, baby! Daytona’s face lights up like a pinball machine. He spins around, pointing wildly across the water.
Daytona Diamonds: He said I could come! Y’all heard it! Diplomatic immunity!
Producer (Off Camera): Daytona, wait! There’s an international border! We don’t have clearances, we don’t have visas, and we DEFINITELY don’t hav–
Daytona Diamonds: STAY RIGHT THERE, IVAN! DON’T YOU MOVE A FUCKIN’ INCH!
Producer (Off Camera): We have a helicopter coming in a couple hours! You can’t just–
Daytona ignores him completely, wheeling around to stare wide-eyed into the camera lens. He grabs the lapels of his massive fur coat, leaning in so close his frosty mustache practically fogs up the glass.
Daytona Diamonds: Y’all watchin’ at home? Good. I want y’all to write this down. Today, Daytona Diamonds becomes the first man in professional wrasslin’ history to cross the International Date Line on pure, American grit! Without a passport! I ain’t just crossin’ the border, boys… I’M A GODDANG TIME TRAVELER! TOMORROW IS MINE!
Smash cut! Drone shots! Montage! Fuck yeah!
“Immigrant Song” by Led Zeppelin blasts at maximum volume. A custom, glitter-encrusted jet ski slams into the freezing surf.
The Universal Championship has been buckled securely to the back of the jet ski, outfitted with a tiny, orange life vest. Daytona reaches over and pats the center plate.
Daytona Diamonds: Safety first.
And then he twists that fuckin’ throttle.
The jet ski leaps over a floating ice floe in slow motion. Water sprays everywhere, immediately flash-freezing into crystals (like rhinestones!) in the air.
♫ AH-AH-AHHHHHHHHHHHH, AH! ♫
♫ AH-AH-AHHHHHHHHHHHH, AH! ♫
Daytona shreds across the dark, churning waters of the Bering Strait, his white cowboy hat somehow still clipped securely to his head. He’s flexing double-biceps, steering be damned.
♫ We come from the land of the ice and snow! ♫
♫ From the midnight sun where the hot springs flow! ♫
Cut to a walrus resting on floating ice. Daytona skips the jet ski off a natural ice ramp and right over the walrus. The walrus doesn’t even blink. Daytona gives it a crisp, two-finger salute mid-air.
♫ The hammer of the gods ♫
♫ Will drive our ships to new lands ♫
High angle! Bird’s eye! The jet ski cuts a dramatic white wake through the gray, brutal ocean, shrinking the gap between the United States and Russia one icy wave at a time.
♫ To fight the horde, sing and cry
♫ Valhalla, I am coming ♫
Daytona pulls a pair of heavy-duty, rhinestone-encrusted ski goggles over his eyes, screaming wildly into the arctic wind as a massive ocean swell propels him six feet into the air.
♫ On we sweep with threshing oar! ♫
Our only goal will be the western shore! ♫
The music swells to a chaotic crescendo as the jet ski slams onto the rocky, ice-crusted shore of Big Diomede, spraying slush all over the Russian beachhead. Daytona kills the engine, leaps off the craft, and stumbles up the icy slope, huffing chestfuls of freezing air.
Up ahead, the towering, stoic figure of Ivan Stanislav looms.
Covered in snow and ice, his clothes soaked, Daytona pantomimes checking an imaginary pocket watch, a breathless, maniacal grin spreading across his face.
Daytona Diamonds: I made it… I’m in the future…
He stumbles his way up to Ivan, taking a moment to catch his breath, teeth chattering from the cold.
Daytona Diamonds: Ivan… big guy… I gotta ask… who wins the Super Bowl next year?!
Ivan’s eyes drift downward and settle on the Universal Championship, buckled to the back of the jet ski and protected by its tiny orange life vest.
Daytona is the only American, in all these years, whose been stupid or crazy enough to actually take Ivan’s offer to enter Russia. He doesn’t have a passport, visa, or the faintest understanding of international law.
Ivan could have him arrested. Detained.
A military transport could carry the cowboy to Moscow, where he might disappear inside the Lubyanka. A car battery could be connected to his testicles until he confessed to espionage, capitalist sabotage, and whatever else seemed useful. The Universal Championship could be nationalized as a seized foreign asset and custody given to Ivan Stanislav.
Universal Champion by force of state decree.
The thought had serious merit, and for several seconds, Ivan considers it. His gaze rises to the soaked cowboy standing before him, teeth chattering, but the triumphant grin never leaves his face. The mad bastard crossed the Bering Strait on a glitter-covered jet ski simply because Ivan invited him.
For whatever reason, Ivan decides against the car battery. At least for today.
Ivan considers the Super Bowl question.
Ivan Stanislav: Russia wins.
He looks at the camera and grins while Daytona looks confused.
Daytona Diamonds: Shit, they play football in Russia? Y’all ain’t even got an NFL team!
Ivan slowly turns his head.
Ivan Stanislav: That is what makes victory so historic.
Daytona stares at him.
Ivan Stanislav: In near future, Americans finally recognize absurdity of excluding largest nation on earth from so-called championship. Russia is granted expansion team. We defeat whichever city believes itself important that year.
Daytona Diamonds: Alright. Which city we talkin’ ‘bout here? Green Bay? Fuckin’ Cincinatti?
Ivan answers almost immediately.
Ivan Stanislav: Dallas.
Daytona Diamonds: Dallas, huh? Why’s that?
Ivan grunts.
Ivan Stanislav: Because ushanka is superior to cowboy hat.
Ivan adds.
Ivan Stanislav: It happens after I win Universal Championship for third time.
The air freezes. The silence between them suddenly stretches longer than the two miles of icy ocean Daytona just crossed.
The Rhinestone Cowboy’s grin slowly fades. His eyebrows pull tight. The absurdity of the moment evaporates, replaced by the heavy, suffocating tension of two men who once tore a ring in half trying to destroy each other.
Ivan doesn’t flinch. He stands like a granite monument.
The arctic wind howls.
Daytona steps closer, his boots crunching loudly in the packed snow, squinting up at the Russian giant.
Daytona Diamonds: Third time, huh? Big words for a man who I powerbombed so hard it broke the fuckin’ ring. You ‘member that night, Ivan? ‘Cause my lower back sure as shit does.
Ivan’s jaw tightens. His massive hands slowly close into fists the size of a canned ham.
Ivan Stanislav: I remember ring collapsing as it failed to hold the might of The Russian Bear. I remember ring crew crying. And I remember cowboy needing three medical men to drag his body back to dressing room.
Ivan steps down off the ridge, closing the distance until they are standing nose-to-nose, breathing thick plumes of white steam into each other’s faces. The camera pans tightly on their eyes. It’s an international incident waiting to happen.
Ivan Stanislav: You are far from home, Cowboy. No referee. No American rules. Just snow… and me.
Daytona stares up at him, unblinking, teeth still chattering.
Daytona Diamonds: …
Ivan stares back.
Ivan Stanislav: …
Here we are. The clash of titans. The Coldest War. Daytona’s mustache twitches. The icy silence hangs by a thread as Ivan’s fists remain clenched, ready to shatter a jaw.
Slowly, Daytona raises a single, shivering gloved finger between their faces.
Daytona Diamonds: …Ivan, I’m gonna be honest with you here. My buttcheeks are frozen together like a double-barrel shotgun.
Ivan doesn’t laugh, or flinch, or show any emotion at that moment. He just stares at Daytona and snarls.
Ivan Stanislav: I look at you, Daytona, and state of PRIME and consider many things. A performance enhancement-filled cowboy with that title. Rob Williams, a ne’er do well as Five-Star champion. Tag Champions are two degenerates with foot fetishes, and I, The Russian Bear, greatest and most prolific wrestler in our sport.
He grinds his teeth.
Ivan Stanislav: And then, I think about where we were: Cecilworth Farthington installed by Lindsay Troy. Tag Champions who once were Vae Victis installations. Kerry Kuroyama holding titles as well. All friends, lackeys and flunkies of Lindsay Troy…
Ivan stares off in the distance at the icy waters.
Ivan Stanislav: And I think of your frozen buttocks and where we are right now… and I realize…
Ivan huffs.
Ivan Stanislav: …my buttocks are frozen too. It is Mother Russia, gently caressing our bottoms. Together. And it makes me think…
Ivan reaches into the breast pocket of his greatcoat. Past a large-caliber firearm of some sort, to something colder.
A huge fucking bottle of vodka. He grins.
Ivan Stanislav: I am glad I brought this.
Daytona’s eyes go wide at the sight of the giant bottle.
Daytona Diamonds: Mother Russia’s got a weird way of showin’ affection, Ivan, but I’ll be goddanged if she don’t know how to party! Yeehaw! C’mon, Big Red! Let’s warm our spirits and melt our asses!
SMASH CUT!
A roaring fire crackles in a soot-stained brick fireplace. A warm, orange glow casts itself across a small, sparse room built of thick timber logs. Outside, a blizzard rages against double-paned glass.
Daytona sits sprawled in a creaky wooden rocking chair. Steam rises off his still dripping wet cowboy hat, resting atop a cast-iron stove. The Universal Championship leans against the leg of the chair, its tiny orange life vest draped over the rocker like a wet towel.
Across from him, Ivan sits on a massive, hand-carved bench. His greatcoat is hung on a wall peg beside a faded Soviet propaganda poster.
Between them sits a small wooden table bearing three empty vodka bottles, a half-eaten loaf of dark rye bread, and a jar of pickled herring.
Daytona takes a long swig directly from a fresh fourth bottle, slams it down on the table, and wipes his mouth with the back of his forearm. His face is bright red, his eyes glazed in drunken revelry.
Daytona Diamonds: …I’m just sayin’, Comrade! If ol’ Mother Troy thinks she can run the whole goddang company like her own personal country club, she’s got another thing comin’! Bookin’ me ‘gainst Kuroyama in my very first defense?! Tryna fuck on me?! It ain’t happenin’, Ivan! It ain’t fuckin’ happenin’!
Ivan leans forward and his huge fingers, plucks out a handful of pickled herring, and shoves it into his mouth. He chomps loudly… he might be chewing bones. He doesn’t seem to care as he grabs the bottle and washes it down with vodka, drinking directly from the same bottle as Daytona.
He lets out a belch and wipes his mouth with his huge forearm.
Ivan Stanislav: That bastard Kuroyama loses Survivor in first round and she grants him title shot anyway, to boot. You had better not let it happen, comrade Cowboy! And she books me in drinking match? She truly is stupid. DYAAHAAHAA!!
He grabs the loaf of bread and bites a huge chunk off, chewing. His expression turns thoughtful.
Ivan Stanislav: I bet all those know-it-alls in PRIME thought, if the Cowboy and the Bear got together, it would be some sort of disaster. But this has been… better than expected.
Ivan rubs the back of his neck.
Ivan Stanislav: Though… there is one thing that Ivan has always wanted to ask…
Daytona leans back in the rocking chair, making the wood creak under his weight. He taps his chest with two fingers, letting out a loud, booze-fueled hiccup.
Daytona Diamonds: Well, shitfire! Lay it on me, Big Red! Ain’t no need to bite your tongue ‘round me!
Ivan’s hand freezes halfway to the vodka bottle. For a brief, terrifying second, a shadow of genuine anxiety crosses his massive Soviet features. His eyes dart toward the window, then toward the fire, as if the very air in the room has suddenly turned toxic. He opens his mouth, closes it, swallows hard.
Ivan Stanislav: Cowboy… Can we…Well, Ivan has always wanted to…
SMASH CUT!
“Danger Zone” by Kenny Loggins blasts at ungodly, ear-shattering decibels!
Wide aerial drone shot!
The arctic blizzard has cleared, replaced by the glaring, freezing sun. Splashing through the grey swells of the Bering Strait are not one, but TWO custom jet skis, tearing across the open ocean side-by-side at eighty miles per hour!
On the left: Daytona Diamonds. Rhinestone goggles. Cowboy hat. A half-empty bottle of vodka held overhead, waving in the air! The Universal Championship is still strapped to the back, life vest flapping violently in the wind!
Daytona Diamonds: YEEEEE-HAWWWW! WE’RE RIDIN’ INTO YESTERDAY, BABY!
On the right: Ivan Stanislav, towering on an equally ridiculous, absolutely massive, hammer-and-sickle painted jet ski! His greatcoat flaps behind him like a majestic crimson cape, his ushanka pinned down tight! The Intense Championship is strapped to his chest like tactical body armor!
Ivan Stanislav: I AM SPEED, COWBOY! MOTHER RUSSIA OUTRUNS TIME ITSELF!
The two champions skip off a massive ocean wave together, launching ten feet into the freezing air side-by-side.
FREEZE FRAME!
The music dips into the background, fading beneath the steady, rhythmic hum of the jet ski engines as the freeze frame softens into a warm, golden haze.
Daytona Diamonds (Voiceover): People like to talk ‘bout borders; lines drawn on maps by men in rooms thousands of miles away. They tell you the guy on the other side of that three-mile stretch of frozen water is your enemy. That he thinks different, lives different, hates what you stand for.
The camera slowly pans across the frozen frame, capturing Daytona’s manic, vodka-fueled grin mid-air, right next to Ivan’s terrifyingly joyous snarl.
Daytona Diamonds (Voiceover): But you sit in a room that smells like woodsmoke and old wool. You share a loaf of stale rye, some salty fish, and a bottle of liquor strong ‘nough to strip paint off your innards. You look a man in the eyes and you realize somethin’ real simple…
The freeze frame snaps back to full, glorious slow motion!
Both jet skis slam back down onto the frigid ocean swells, sending a blinding spray of flash-frozen ice crystals into the air like a shower of diamonds!
Daytona Diamonds (Voiceover): We’re all just tryna stay warm.
♫ HIGHWAY TO THE DANGER ZONE! ♫
The camera rises high into the sky, pulling back to reveal the vast, indifferent expanse. Two tiny, absurd specs cut twin white wakes straight across the international date line, racing side-by-side.
Daytona Diamonds (Voiceover): Guess every place’s got its neighbors… long as you’re willin’ to meet ‘em.
A final graphic fades quietly over the dark water.
SHITFIRE & SUPPER
Fade to black.
The PA begins a-ROCKIN’ with the sounds of “Step Up (I’m On It)” by Maylene and the Sons of Disaster. Without delay, the ‘Bama Bruiser WADE ELLIOTT tears through the curtain.
RRRAAAAAAAAAHHH!!
The Faithful greet the ex-enforcer du jour of PRIME with a supportive pop before he begins making his way down the rampway.
Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, hailing from Pine Ridge, Alabama, USA, and weighing in at two-hundred and fifty-four pounds… he is the BAD DOG… WADE ELLIOT!!
Wade slaps hands on his way down the aisle.
Nick Stuart: Coming up next, ladies and gentlemen, we have a one on one contest between two tenured PRIME stars! Making his way to the ring right now is the Hall of Famer Wade Elliott, set to go head to head with the recently returned former Universal Champion, Jonathan-Christopher Hall!
Richard Parker: Haven’t seen much out of ol’ Wade since his last run with the Intense Title ended. I assume it was a long recovery time. Do you think age has finally caught up with him?
Nick Stuart: You want to ask that to his face, Rich?
Richard Parker: ULP!
As Elliott enters the ring, “The Best” by AWOLNATION hits the PA. JONATHAN-CHRISTOPHER HALL steps through the curtain, and Chicago gives the former Universal Champion a hero’s welcome!
RRRAAAAAAAAAHHH!!
Then Max Kael steps out after him, and the fans do a complete one-eighty.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!
Vince Howard: And the opponent, accompanied to the ring by MAX KAEL… he hails from Folsom, Louisiana and weighs in at two-hundred and twenty pounds… the FOREVER MAN… JONATHAN-CHRISTOPHER HALL!!
JCH is rather kipper and in high spirits on his way to the ring, looking more refreshed and self-assured than we’ve ever seen him. Against logic, Kael is matching his energy, acting like he’s just as excited to be there, though not without that dark little glint in the corner of his eye.
Nick Stuart: I… don’t know what to make of this pairing.
Richard Parker: What’s not to like?
Nick Stuart: Jonathan-Christopher Hall finally seems to have found a better place for himself now that he’s finally over Vickie. I don’t know how I feel about someone like the Lord of Kaelsylvania whispering into his ear.
Richard Parker: Hey now, Max is a stand-up guy! And a civil servant! Being friends with him has gotta be a hundred times better than still being with Vickie!
Nick Stuart: That… we can actually agree on.
Hall leaves Kael at ringside as he enters the ring and scales a turnbuckle for the obligatory pose-n-pop. When the music cuts, official Ashley Barlow pats down both competitors, confirms that both competitors are ready, and cues for the bell.
DING DING
Nick Stuart: And there’s the bell to start! Hall and Elliott coming together… JCH looking for the lock-up, but the Bad Dog comes out swinging!
Repeated strikes in the collar-and-elbow quickly put Hall on the backfoot, and Elliott quickly drives him up against the nearest set of turnbuckles. Barlow calls for the break. The Hall of Famer responds by pulling the Forever Man out of the corner and back to the center of the ring.
Nick Stuart: Elliott gets Jonathan-Christopher Hall off the ropes, and proceeds to lay into him with more strikes!
Richard Parker: Can’t teach a Bad Dog new tricks. Wade’s coming out with the tried and true “punch it till it stops moving” strategy.
Nick Stuart: BIG right hand leaves Hall reeling… he bounces off the ropes… SURGE OF ENERGY now as he comes back with a flurry of punches of his own to the face of the ‘Bama Bruiser!
The crowd cheers on Hall as he unloads heavy shots of his own, backing up Elliott until his back hits the ropes. JCH pushes him off to send him into motion, and sends himself the other way for a bounce. When the two meet back at the center of the ring, Hall leaps off the canvas.
Nick Stuart: FLYING FOREARM by the Forever Man! Down goes Wade Elliott!
Richard Parker: Well, now I’m REALLY convinced that age has caught up with him…
Nick Stuart: Don’t count out the Southern Sparkplug so quickly, Rich! JAWBREAKER connects as Hall tries to pull him back up!
Wade suffers a moment to shake out the aftereffects of Hall’s forearm while the Forever Man reels away, clutching his jaw. By the time JCH recovers, Elliott springs off the mat like a starving lion let loose from his cage and nearly turns him inside out with a lariat.
Nick Stuart: BIG EXPLODING LARIAT by the Bad Dog! Still think the age is showing, Rich?
Richard Parker: Um… well… I guess I stand corrected?
Nick Stuart: Wade Elliott goes for the cover!
One!
Two!
And Jonathan-Christopher kicks out!
Wade takes JCH by the head to pull him up and immediately whips him back into a corner, where he proceeds to stomp a mudhole into him until Barlow demands a break. When Elliott finally backs off, a hurt yet undeterred Jonathan-Christopher grabs the top rope and wills himself back to his feet.
Nick Stuart: Elliot with those stomps… but Hall is right back to his feet!
Richard Parker: Even without Vickie, he’s got the passion to keep on fighting!
Nick Stuart: Now here comes wade–BIG BACK ELBOW up against the turnbuckles… keeps hold of Hall’s head, and BRINGS HIM OUT with a BULLDOG! Cover!
One!
Two!
Hall kicks out!
At ringside, Max nods and claps along in support, but otherwise remains as an observer. Elliott gets back to his feet and waits for the dazed JCH to slowly rise up before he throws himself into the ropes.
Nick Stuart: Elliott is keeping up the momentum here… here he is off the ropes with the SOUTHERN HOSPITALI–DYYYUCKED at the last second!!
As soon as he realizes the whiff on the clothesline from hell, Wade puts on the brakes. By the time he turns around, however, the Forever Man has already launched himself off the ropes, and now comes at him with unstoppable momentum.
Nick Stuart: Hall off the ropes… BIG FLYING BACK ELBOW!! Elliott tried to block it, but still got the brunt of the damage!
Richard Parker: Jonathan-Christopher used to call that one “Chasing Vickie.” What does he call it now?
Nick Stuart: I don’t know… chasing his dreams? Chasing his freedom?
Richard Parker: He and Max can probably workshop it.
With Elliott dazed on the mat, Hall throws himself on top and cinches in a front facelock. Wade doesn’t stay down for long, aggressively pushing his way to his feet and bull-rushing JCH into the nearest corner. At the last second, however, Hall’s feet parkour off the turnbuckles.
Nick Stuart: TORNADO DDT by Jonathan-Christopher Hall!
Richard Parker: And the Mayor of Arkham smiles approvingly!
Nick Stuart: Focus on the people IN the match, Rich! Hall hooks the leg after that impactful maneuver!
One!
Two!
Wade kicks out!
Still favoring the jaw where the Hall of Famer’s devastating punches landed, JCH pulls Wade Elliott back off the mat and over his shoulders into the fireman’s carry. Before the Bad Dog can make a move, Hall throws him off and drops him across his knees.
Nick Stuart: FIREMAN’S CARRY GUTBUSTER!!
Richard Parker: OOF!! I see a lot of ads shilling pills for Crohn’s Disease in Wade Elliot’s algorithm after that one!
Nick Stuart: That’s weirdly specific, partner! Hall back up… off the ropes… LEG DROP CONNECTS! Cover made!
One!
TWO!
NO! Wade gets the shoulder up again!
Elliott immediately sits up, sucking wind and trying to will himself back to his feet. Before he can make a move, however, Hall traps him into another standing facelock.
Nick Stuart: Jonathan-Christopher Hall still in control here… Wade tries to break free with some shots to the body, but a KNEE to the ribs quickly cuts him off!
Richard Parker: No dice, gramps!
Nick Stuart: Oh, like you’re on to talk. Hall throws the arm over… SNAP SUPLEX… ROLLS THROUGH to his feet and brings Elliott up again… FALCON ARROW on the Hall of Famer! Cover is made and shoulders are down!
ONE!
TWO!
WADE kicks out!
The Chicago Faithful slowly begin to get behind the Bad Dog, much to the chagrin of Max Kael, who gives Jonathan-Christopher a bit of verbal encouragement to keep up the pressure.
Nick Stuart: Jonathan-Christopher is heading for the corner, and he’s going up!
Richard Parker: Time for the fat lady to sing on this one! He knows ol’ Wade is running on fumes, and now it’s time to snuff him out!
Hall perches himself on the top rope and briefly throws a look over his shoulder to see Wade just getting back to his feet, still shaking out the cobwebs. When the time is right, he launches himself off with a graceful high-angle moonsault.
Nick Stuart: HE’S ALL THAT!!
Elliott plucks Hall right out of the air and spikes him with a tombstone.
WHOOOOAAAAAAAHHHH!!!
Richard Parker: No he ain’t!
Both bodies flop either way. Chicago cheers. Barlow begins a ten count.
Nick Stuart: That was a timely counter for Wade Elliott, flipping the tables on Jonathan-Christopher Hall’s moonsault with that devastating piledriver!
Richard Parker: I guess he’s still got it after all, Nick…
Nick Stuart: Barlow at four now… Elliott is stirring… Hall is reaching to grab onto anything!
JCH gradually gets to the ropes. Before he can get to his feet, however, the Hall of Famer finds his second wind and comes bursting off the mat.
Nick Stuart: The Bad Dog comes SNARLING BACK! BIG KNEE into JCH against the ropes… sends him into motion… HUGE POWERSLAM off the whip!
Richard Parker: One more time?
Nick Stuart: ONE MORE TIME!! Elliott gets Hall up again… SECOND POWERSLAM!! Absolutely wearing a HOLE into that ring! He hooks the leg!
ONE!
TWO!
NO!! JCH pops the shoulder at two-point-nine!
Elliott is breathing heavily, but somehow firing on all pistons and in the zone. He measures up Hall as the Forever Man slowly pushes his way back up, and throws himself off the ropes for an extra spring in his step.
Nick Stuart: Here comes the ‘Bama Bruiser with the SPEAR–NO!! Jonathan-Christoper Hall DODGES at the last second, and Wade goes THROUGH THE ROPES on his own momentum!
Richard Parker: Physically, he can still go, but mentally, it seems, things are getting foggy!
Elliott hits the ringside area precariously close to where Max Kael is standing by, watching the action. The ever suspicious looking Lord of Kaelsylvania looks around dubiously, not looking conspicuous in the slightest.
Nick Stuart: Well THIS can’t be good…
Richard Parker: Settle down, Nick! Mayor Max is a perfect gentleman!
Clutching an arm, Elliott powers himself back to his feet, staunchly glaring at Max and letting him know what a mistake it would be to try anything. Kael smirks, throws up his hands, and backs away. Wade looks back to the ring just as–
Nick Stuart: BASEBALL SLIDE by HALL, into a HEADSCISSOR TAKEDOWN that sends Wade Elliot crashing into the barricade!
Richard Parker: OOH! Looking about as spry as a Kentucky senator out there!
Barlow begins the ten count as Hall quickly gets Wade back up and leads him back to the ring. Yet before he can roll him under the ropes, Elliott snags the apron to stop himself and reverse momentum, yanking Jonathan-Christopher back into a flatliner that falls right against the steel steps.
BLAM!!
Nick Stuart: OH MY!
Richard Parker: I can practically hear Vickie cackling from backstage.
Nick Stuart: Are you suggesting she’s watching right now?
Richard Parker: C’mon, Nick, you know she is…
JCH’s hands immediately cover his orbital socket and loudly yells in pain. Elliott quickly gets him back up and rolls him back into the ring before following him in.
Nick Stuart: Both competitors back in just as Barlow gets to six… I think that flatliner on the steps may have landed a bit close to the eye of Jonathan-Christopher Hall!
Hall shakes his head and blinks a few times, trying to restore his vision. As he does, he feels Elliott’s hands grab hold of his head and shoulders and begin to pull him up. Instinct kicks in.
Nick Stuart: BACK ELBOW by Hall… here comes with a SPINNING HEEL KICK–WADE DUCKS–OH NOOOO!!
AAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!
Nick Stuart: REFEREE ASHLEY BARLOW GOT ALL OF THAT ONE!!
Richard Parker: You hate to see it happen, Nick… even though it happens in like, one out of every three matches. But here, JC was swinging blind, and she just happened to be in the wrong place at the right time.
Elliott, the consummate PRIME guardian, immediately looks concerned for the well being of the official. In doing so, he leaves his back open to Hall.
Nick Stuart: Hall from behind… HOOKS THE ARMS… STAND BY ME–NO!! SHOVED OFF AT THE LAST SECOND!
Hall is shoved with enough force that he takes a hard bump off the near turnbuckles and bounces back. Wade, unfortunately, lowers his head at the last second, and the two butt heads as they collide into each other.
Nick Stuart: GOOD LORD, WHAT A SICKENING HEAD-ON COLLISION!! We could have a DOUBLE KNOCKOUT on our hands here!
Richard Parker: It’s too bad the official is down!
Nick Stuart: Right!
Richard Parker: …
Nick Stuart: …?
Richard Parker: …
Nick Stuart: …NO.
Richard Parker: Yep.
Nick Stuart: NO!
Max Kael slides into the ring.
Nick Stuart: OH, FOR CRYING OUT–
He promptly pulls Wade Elliott’s upper half off the mat, hits the ropes, knocks the rest of his lights out with the Cruelest Stroke, throws JCH on top, and jumps back out to ringside like nothing happened.
Nick Stuart: YOU’VE GOTTA BE KIDDING ME!
Richard Parker: You see, Nick? Friendship with the Mayor of Arkham can go a LONG way!
Nick Stuart: This is HIGHWAY ROBBERY!
Ashley Barlow slowly regains her bearings on the mat. When her vision comes back into focus, she sees the cover being made. Knowing her duty, she uses what strength she has left to crawl over and slap the mat.
Nick Stuart: Barlow WITH THE COUNT…ONE!!TWO!!THREE!!
DING DING DING
Nick Stuart: Unbelievable…
“The Best” by AWOLNATION hits the PA once again. The crowd’s desire to cheer JCH in his moment of victory is immediately dulled by the circumstances.
Nobody celebrates harder that Max.
Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of the match, by pinfall… JONATHAN… CHRISTOPHER… HAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!
Nick Stuart: Jonathan-Christopher Hall’s budding “friendship” with the Lord of Kaelsylvania certainly paid off tonight. Although I wonder what Hall will think when he reviews the tape and sees what really happened!
Richard Parker: He’ll see the Mayor of Arkham HEROICALLY saving the defenseless official from further harm!
Nick Stuart: I have no idea what you’re talking about! Wade Elliott brought the fight, but Max denied him a clean defeat! Especially after the effort he put forth in this match!
Richard Parker: I’ll admit, a time or two, I thought I saw some glimmers of the Bad Dog from the old days there in the ring. Unfortunately, he couldn’t keep up with the younger JCH. It’s as simple as that.
Nick Stuart: You’re delusional! Folks, we need to move on. A hard fought, albeit sorely gained, victory tonight for Jonathan Christopher-Hall, while the two-time former Intense Champion must decide where he goes next from here! More matches to come when we come back!
Max culls Hall from the ring before the Bad Dog can fully regain his senses. The two head up the aisle, celebrating together to a mixed and confused reaction. In the ring, Wade and Ashley help each other out of the ring and call over the med crew.
The scene opens inside of Stretch Bar. The camera pans to where Henry Keyes is currently having an animated debate with one of the patrons of the bar, and it appears to be quite heated. Let’s look a bit closer to see who he’s talking to, and…
Ah, fuck.
It’s this asshole.
Math Johnson: It’s just a blimp. An airship? Do you live in Final Fantasy? Nerd.
Henry Keyes glares at him dangerously. Math Johnson takes a sip of his half-and-half like he’s the king of this bar. This is a conversation that already seems dangerous, at least for the man who thinks drinking a half-and-half in a Chicago bar is a great idea for cool people.
Henry Keyes: Excuse me?
Math Johnson: You heard me. Nerd.
Henry Keyes could almost laugh.
Then he punches this piece of shit right in the face. Two things happen as a result. The first is that Math Johnson drops his half-and-half (oh no, the tragedy) on the ground. The second is that he loses his glasses and staggers back against the bar. Keyes continues to punch him in the face and mouth, and then he lifts him up and drops him face first onto the countertop.
The bartender gives Keyes a look. A wry smile comes over his face, the type that comes from a man who’s always wanted to see what the Kraken has in mind.
Keyes grabbed two handfuls of Math’s jacket, and slides his ass across the countertop like he’s a washcloth. Math is objecting to this in as articulate a fashion as he can.
Math Johnson: ABBALBABLABLABLALBABALLL!!!
Very articulate.
Keyes completes Math’s slide across the countertop by sliding him right off it, causing Math to flip over and land on his back with a hard thud. Math lies there, blinking in sheer shock at what just happened. Keyes, meanwhile, walks off as though he’d just swatted a bug..
GO!
Dorn has the teams lined up at the table besides Henry Keyes. Who is still involved with Math Johnson. The competition begins with Scott Hunter downing his drink and frantically trying to flip the cup. Nathan Lake and Kenny Freeman are working quickly, Kenny takes well to flipping the cup, while Nathan Lake stumbles a bit on the flip and has to try a few times before landing one. Hunter struggles for a moment before sticking one and is still waiting on Keyes. Ivan hammers his drink and tries to flip the cup towards Rob but sends the cup across the room. Williams gives him the ‘woah big fella’ arms and grabs the cup, having Ivan try again.
TAL downs his drink and flips it towards Coltrane, sticking his first flip. TAL celebrates with a few patrons while Coltrane downs his drink and flips one back to TAL. The Luchador is right back to being a deft flipper of the cup in an instant. The Enemigos are standing beside each team keeping score, Keyes finally comes back downs his drink and throws his cup in the air all willy-nilly. It totally doesn’t land. Hunter claps his hands for Keyes and encourages him to try again, Henry gives the cup a flip, and it flips end over end again and again. Hunter keeps up the cheering, but Keyes begins to frustrate.
Ivan finally sticks a flipped cup that doesn’t land halfway to Moscow and Williams downs his drink and sends it back to Ivan after a few tries. Kenny and Nathan are going back and forth pretty well. Kenny’s face grimaces every time he has to down another O’Douls. But it’s what he has to do to get the job done. Meanwhile Ivan is encouraging Kenny to slow down. Henry is still struggling with the cup, he barely hits the table this time. He calls for a flip cup throwing plague doctor, who is promptly shown the exit by an Enemigo.
TAL and Coltrane keep a good pace, the conqueror of some guy who wrestled here once is making friends left and right while Coltrane continues sending the cups back over to TAL after a few tries. Keyes is frustrated and threatens to bring Helen into the bar, while Scott Hunter implores him to take a deep breath and flip the cup back. Finally the whistle is blown and we have our finish.
ROUND SCORE
KENNY FREEMAN – 70
NATHAN LAKE – 60
THE ANGLO LUCHADOR – 50
COLTRANE ANDERSON – 40
ROB WILLIAMS – 30
IVAN STANISLAV – 20
SCOTT HUNTER – 10
HENRY KEYES – 0
TOTAL SCORE
COLTRANE ANDERSON – 220
NATHAN LAKE – 220
ROB WILLIAMS – 220
SCOTT HUNTER – 200
HENRY KEYES – 200
KENNY FREEMAN – 200
THE ANGLO LUCHADOR – 180
IVAN STANISLAV – 150
And our flippy competitors move on…
The screen goes black right after the Survivor Bar Crawl and there is some static going on. After about two second of static, the screen turns back on and all you see if white.
The camera suddenly pans to the left and you can see that you are in a brightly lit room. Almost too bright. This seems to be a prerecorded message from some undisclosed location. A figure is standing with his back to the camera and he seems to be writing something in the wall.
The camera gets closer to the man and you can hear the screeching sound of chalk on a board. The camera stops moving forward when the man turns around. All you can see is a big bushy salt and pepper beard, with definitely more salt than pepper, and a mask.
He fixes his jacket and his professor patches so that they align correctly after writing on the chalkboard.
El Profesor: I have been in the shadows. Watching everything. Learning. (He sighs.) Or at the very least trying to learn something in this place. I haven’t been able to learn much from what I’ve seen. All I’ve been able to see is terrible footwork and sloppy technique not fitting my class.
El Profesor moves closer to the camera.
El Profesor: I’ve never been much for talking, as I’ve always taught my lessons in the ring. This time I’ll make an exception. I’m done hiding in the shadows. How could I, when there is way too much to teach around here.
He points at the chalkboard. The numbers 2 and 0 are written there in sharp white chalk.
El Profesor: Like I said, the lessons have been taught in the ring so far. This is just basic arithmetic. Two wins in two matches. (He extends his arms and laughs) That is just what I do. I’ve been away from the squared circle for a long time, but nobody, and especially nobody in this place, can handle all that I bring.
He turns his back to the camera and grabs some chalk and begins writing again.
El Profesor: This is it though. I’ve kept my head down long enough. I’ve learned all that I needed to learn and have found you all wanting. That is why this introductory class had to happen on this event. (He smirks at the camera) Remember everyone. This lesson has been brought to you by el Profesor de la Lucha Libre.
El Profesor grabs the top of the chalk board which has been screwed in and grunts as he pulls back with all his strength and rips it from the wall. He turns towards the camera once more.
El Profesor: Class dismissed!
The show cuts back down to the ring. There, joining Nick and Dick on commentary is none other than King Crumb himself, Cancer Jiles.
Cancer Jiles: Hello, Nick. Hello, Dick. Did you miss me?
Nick Stuart: Audible groaning.
Richard Parker: Oh, I don’t know, do you think the bar crawl misses you?
The mirror-tinted lenses begin to frost on Jiles’ patented T-shades.
Cancer Jiles: Too soon, Dick, too soon.
Richard Parker: …..still worth it.
Cancer Jiles: What was that?
Richard Parker: I said who do you think is going to win here tonight in the supposed Battle of the Bandits? I mean, is Brandon really even a Bandit? He hasn’t been seen with you since UltraViolence.
Cancer Jiles: Of course my little knight in a shining singlet is.
A bass drum.
A snare.
A jangly guitar.
I see a bad moon arisin’
I see trouble on the way
I see earthquakes and lightnin’
I see bad times today
Big John Pepper steps out from the back as “Bad Moon Rising” by CCR plays across the speakers.
Only, he’s not exactly the man we’ve come to know and love.
Gone is the park ranger outfit, and blonde mustache
Replaced with an electric blue tracksuit, and hair as dark as oil.
Vince Howard: Aaaaand his opponent. Weighing in with more muscle than you could ever dream of. Standing taller than both your father and your dreams. He is… BIG! IAN! SALT!!!
Don’t go around tonight
Well it’s bound to take your life
There’s a bad moon on the rise
After making his way down the ramp, Big Ian Salt walks around to the announce table. He nods at Nick. He shakes hands with Cancer. He makes Richard flinch by pretending like he’s going to punch him.
Cancer leans forward and whispers something in Salt’s ear. Salt looks confused. Cancer mouths “trust me,” with enough mouth shape for the lip-readers at home to translate. Big Ian shakes his head, then shrugs and nods as he walks up the ring steps. He launches one of his legs over the top rope and steps into the ring.
I hear hurricanes a-blowin’
I know the end is comin’ soon
I fear river’s overflowin’
I hear the voice of rage and ruin
Big Ian Salt, Mr. Salt, throws his fist high into the air and roars.
Then he winks at a pretty lady in the front row.
Don’t go around tonight
Well it’s bound to take your life
There’s a bad moon on the rise
Mr. Salt moves to his corner. There’s no need to stretch. Why? Well…
Cancer Jiles: That right there is blue chip. Could be the best Bandit prospect since Sal Manila. Poor guy. He got sick and had to retire at an early age.
Richard Parker: I bet he did.
BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD
SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE
LET THE GALAXY BURN
There is no delay. From the very start of Bloodsport (World Domination) by HEALTH, Brandon Youngblood surges from the curtain and into the well of sound filling the United Center. Through the blinding blue and white strobing light cutting through the darkness, The Diamond powerwalks, his eyes trained forward, an oppressive scowl of intensity a hallmark painting his face.
His shoulders sway with the bravado of his BMF walk, a spotlight lighting his path. The 2022 Wrestler of the Year is quick down the ramp, his gait swinging him around the arena floor, to the ring steps. There is no slowdown as his feet pound the steel, stepping between the ropes and exploding upright. Once inside, he begins pacing around the outside perimeter of the ring, his eyes locking toward the curtain, all as Vince Howard makes his announcement.
Vince Howard: His opponent…hailing from Bandera, Texas by way of Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada… weighing in at 265 pounds… he is…A MEMBER…OF THE eGG BAN–
Youngblood stands right before Howard, quickly ripping the microphone from his grasp and then fastball pitching it to Jiles from his spot on commentary. The lights return, and as they do, the Suplex Daddy is at the end of the ring, violently motioning for the COOLympian to get in the ring and, well, revisit Ultraviolence.
Cancer Jiles: You know who I can’t stand, Nick? Like, really gets on my nerves, and trust me, it’s not going to be who you think it is. I know you’re thinking it is Brandit, but it’s not him. I promise.
Richard Parker: Don’t answer him.
Nixon goes over the rules, and makes certain to tell both competitors that chair shots are certainly not allowed, and are in fact illegal.
DING~!
The bell rings, and the match begins with Brandon and Ian standing in opposite corners of the ring. Jiles can be heard screaming instructions to Ian from his seat at commentary station; instructions like “rip his heart and his eyes out”, and “break him so badly his singlet doesn’t strap anymore”, and “shove his bald head up his ass”, and “put Brandit out of his misery”.
Richard Parker: Looks like it’s going to be the Coral treatment for Brandon.
Nick Stuart: Sure does.
Richard Parker: Can you imagine how dominant the Diamond might wind up being if that egg on his face winds up being Cadbury instead of rotten?
Nick Stuart: Captain Crumblood. Oh god. It even has a nice ring to it.
Hmmmm…..
Youngblood and Ian start to make their way towards the center of the ring, eventually coming within a few feet of each other. Youngblood tries to engage in some trash talk with Ian, however after being called a “mark” again and again, The eGG Diamond realizes that it’s just not to be. So, instead, he simply winds up and rocks Big Ian with a closed right.
Then another.
Then another.
Ian doesn’t try to protect himself, instead he reels towards his corner, then backs into it. Youngblood doesn’t hesitate. He charges in, and drives his shoulder into Ian’s gut. He also repeats this action.
Again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Then, Brandon backpedals out of the corner a few steps before quickly charging back at Ian and connecting with a stiff clothesline.
Nick Stuart: It’s all Brandon so far! He’s taking the fight to Big Ian!
Richard Parker: Say, what are you smiling about, cockroach? Shouldn’t this be concerning to you?
Cancer Jiles: Ha.
Youngblood doesn’t let Big Ian breathe. He grabs him by the wrist, fiercely Irish whips him across the ring, and sends him crashing into the opposing corner.
THUD~!
The impact Big Ian makes with the turnbuckles seems to move the entire ring an inch or two.
Nick Stuart: Did the ring just move?
Cancer Jiles: MY guess would be by about 1-2 inches.
Richard Parker: …mark
A second or two later, or after the astonishment from the crowd has worn off, Big Ian shakes free of the cobwebs and steps out of the corner. Brandon is right there waiting for him, and with the power of the carton behind him, BY scoops up Big Ian and slams him down hard onto the mat.
The crowd swoons from the marvelous maneuver.
BY drops the straps, looking to make quick work of his opponent.
Nick Stuart: It’s not often someone that big gets scooped up like a ragdoll, but–
Cancer Jiles: BUT it just goes to show you that a Bandit is truly capable of doing anything!
Richard Parker: Pretty sure that’s not what Nick was going to say.
Cancer Jiles: Suck it, Dick.
Big Ian Salt, after rolling over onto his belly, begins to hump the canvas. This is not just any ordinary hump either. Sure, it might have started off as normal, jovial, playful, humping, but it evolves, or devolves rather. Before you know it the ring is shaking from the violence of the pelvic thrusts, and Brandon is struggling to maintain his balance.
Nick Stuart: Is this considered offensive, or offense?
In order to put a halt to the ring shaking, the eGG Diamond drops the corner of his elbow into the center of Big Ian’s back. So his spine. While he’s down there, he puts Ian in a side headlock, and wrenches down on his opponent’s cranium with all of his might. However, just when Brandon is about to take total control of the match, Ian shows off just how big and strong he truly is.
Nick Stuart: HOW?
Ha.
Nick’s question is valid. Humans aren’t supposed to be able to do what Big Ian just did, and that is with BY still wrenching down on him like a stuck lugnut, Ian, after one last pelvic pushup, got up to one knee, then another, then stood up — still with BY squeezing on his noggin. Then, the even crazier part, instead of launching BY into orbit and thus ending the match via countout, Big Ian simply placed Brandon down like he were a child.
Nick Stuart: What is this non-sense? What did you whisper to Ian before the match? Why isn’t he fighting back? What have you done?
Cancer Jiles: ….I plead the fifth.
Ha.
Brandon starts to push and prod Big Ian, even going as far as extending his chin and daring The Eggsecutioner to take his best shot. Big Ian simply calls him a “mark” and crosses his arms like he doesn’t have anything better to do with them.
Cancer Jiles: Get your popcorn ready, boys. This one is about to blow.
The former Universal Champion and first ever Almasy winner winds up and lights Big Ian up with an open hand chop that sounds like a car accident. In fact, the hand print on Ian’s chest, well the redness of it anyway, matches the color of Brandon’s face. Meanwhile, Big Ian continues to act like there isn’t a care in the world, let alone a wrestling match taking place.
Nick Stuart: HEY! WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU ARE GOING!?!?
Richard Parker: BRANDON!!!! LOOKOUT!!!!
Jiles leaves the commentary booth and gets up on the apron. Elvis Nixon moves into position to prevent the COOLYMPIAN from entering the ring. For doing such a thing — his job — Elvis gets a nice shove to the face which sends him backwards and onto his butt. It also causes Brandon Youngblood to intervene.
Nick Stuart: Here we go! A tale as old as time part KILL.
Richard Parker: Fingers crossed.
Youngblood and Jiles go face to face, and the only thing separating them is the ring ropes. Like old pals they immediately start jawing back and forth with one another, with Jiles calling Brandon an insubordinate crumb, and Brandon asking Jiles why his shovel ain’t digging. The friendly banter carries on for a way longer than it should, however, with Elvis down on the mat looking for his masculinity, and Big Ian choosing to whistle rather than work — literally — it’s… allowed.
Nick Stuart: Good thing the only child around is Tony Gamble hiding underneath the ring, probably.
Finally, Elvis dusts himself off, finds his feet, and does the unthinkable. He kicks Jiles out of the match. Somehow, Nick and Dick have half full champagne glasses, and you can hear them toast each other as Jiles, who is still up on the apron, disputes the call.
Richard Parker: You’d think a guy like Jiles would know better… you can’t put your hands on the referee.
Nick Stuart: Maybe one of these days he’ll become familiar with the rulebook. Say, do you think that’s what it really is? Do you think he just doesn’t know the rules, and if indeed he did know them, wouldn’t break them? Is that possible?
Silence takes over commentary.
Back inside the ring, Big Ian is still standing there, arms crossed, ready and willing to enter a staring contest. Brandon meanwhile has a nice size smile covering his face, and is waving goodbye to his arch nemesis. He still resides about a foot or so away from Jiles. Elvis, the referee, finds the courage to get between Jiles and Youngblood. King Crumb and Nixon are now nose to nose, and Nixon for what it is worth, refuses to back down.
Then, like the savvy old vet he is, Brandon notices there is an opening. He looks back at Ian who is still ready to do nothing, and quickly runs past him. The eGG Diamond then bounces off the ropes, and while Jiles is still engaged with Nixon, rebounds off the side of the ring that Jiles is up on. The ropes, which Jiles was leaning on so that Elvis could hear his plea better, slingshot King COOL backwards, and he goes crashing down onto the apron.
The Chicago faithful love every second of it.
Jiles rolls around on the apron in pain, his hair, somehow, still immaculate.
Nixon checks the scene, shrugs his shoulders, and then says to Youngblood, and the camera picks it up so who know HOW fucked he’s going to be down the road, but Nixon says to BY, “guess he’s staying then.”
Crumb.
Nixon then leans through the ropes to talk with other ringside personnel.
Still though, Big Ian Salt, the mythbuster, second of his name, refrains from breaking his code of conduct. His face tells a different story, however, his body remains still.
Richard Parker: Even with his crumb of a handler down and out Big Ian is staying true.
Nick Stuart: Crazy to think–
Then, BY figures out a way to get some life out of Ian’s salt shaker. By that I mean while Elvis is distracted, or because Brandon tells him to continue looking the other way, or both, Brandon drops down and low-blows Ian right on the fucking number.
The good old seven-ten split.
Big Ian instantly drops down to the canvas, his life, his will to procreate and continue down a foolish road, seemingly about to come to an end. Youngblood bends down and asks him a question that is about as tasteful as spoiled milk. Jiles is still rolling around on the outside, and Nixon is still monitoring that situation.
Nick Stuart: Tony Gamble time?
Richard Parker: I heard he has to drive Ivan around during the crawl as part of his penance. Apparently he has to use a Rickshaw, so….
With Ian still cracked and vulnerable, and with Nixon very much turning a blind eye, BY begins to go to work. He gouges at Ian’s eyes, rakes at his back, tramples over his achilles tendons, stomps on his finger tips, pulls at his hair like he wants to put it on top of his own head, and for one last final measure, mainly because Big Ian is still Big Ian and he’s starting to pelvic thrust again, one last perfectly placed low-blow, this time with the tip of the boot.
Nick Stuart: We haven’t seen that side of Brandon Youngblood in a while. He just Big Ian Salt apart.
Richard Parker: Big Ian played a stupid game, and now it’s come time for him to win his stupid prize. The poor kid had promise, too. Shame Jiles had to infect him like he does everyone else. Can you really blame Brandon for fighting tooth and nail?
Nick Stuart: Are you kidding me? If I were in his shoes I would have jumped off a bridge that night. That night, Rich. As soon as UV was over, I would have found the nearest bridge and jumped off it.
Richard Parker: And I’d be holding onto your hand the whole way down.
Nick Stuart: Really?
Richard Parker: No.
Silence once again takes over the commentary team.
Back inside the ring, Elvis has returned to his job as head official for tonight’s match. Of course, this comes after BY systematically hitting every weak point on Big Ian’s checklist, and twice going downstairs. Big Ian, for his trouble, at least has Brandon to blame and not the humping for his balls throbbing, so hopefully that continues.
Jiles, who is not in the ring, but resting up against it, is down on a knee, laboring against the side of the apron.
Oh, sorry, I confused laboring for seething. Jiles is so mad he even tells Big Ian he has a green light to fight back now, however, it is too late. The damage has been done, and all that’s left to do now is roll up Ian in such a manner so that BY is able to use the ring ropes and Big Ian’s trousers for leverage with the pin.
It happens right in front of Jiles.
Like, if Jiles wasn’t still catching his breath, he would have been able to knock BY’s feet off the ropes, fairly easily.
However, it’s just not to be.
Nixon slides into position, and by that I mean he actually slides underneath Youngblood’s leveraged legs, it is close but he is safe, and then makes the count.
1.2.3.
Yes, it might be the quickest count in history, however, it still counts.
Jiles slams his hand down on the mat hard, and then dents the side of the ring steps by kicking it with his salt shoe.
Nick Stuart: Well, it might not have been what everyone was expecting but man, it sure delivered. And, we’re no closer to knowing what is actually going on with the eGG Bandits? It doesn’t look good, I’ll tell ya that, Rich.
Richard Parker: Agreed, to think, Jiles still has to survive Max Kael later on tonight. HA. I can’t wait for that one!
Back inside the ring, Elvis Nixon raises BY’s hand high in victory, as both of them look down at Jiles while doing so.
Then, maybe some clarity.
Maybe the rebirth of Brandon the Rotten.
Youngblood swoops in, behind ELVIS NIXON, and absolutely destroys him with a ROTTENPLEX. The place, which was going crazy, goes quiet. Nixon rolls/flops out of the ring and towards presumably the nearest hospital. Big Ian is still clutching at himself, but looks shocked.
Nick Stuart: What the???? Why did he?
Richard Parker: Mother-fucking Captain Crumblood.
Youngblood springs to his feet, looks over at Jiles as if to say, “Happy now?”, and then exits the ring on the opposite side.
The show cuts elsewhere.
Anna Daniels–
(Yes, I know. Boo, hiss, whatever.)
–is painting outside of the Whorehouse. Because she is a heel and a heel’s entire job is to make the management’s job that much more frustrating, the Muse has decided to make this wall right here her canvas. Ya know, a wall she doesn’t have the authority to slap color on. In spite of this, she seems blissfully unaware. In fact, a small meaningful smirk appears on her face.
Voice: Just the Time Lord I’ve been looking for.
Before Anna turns, she already knows who the voice belongs to.
Long black hair.
Sickly olive complexion.
Jagged pink fingernails.
And a power suit to match.
Anna side eyes the intruder.
Anna Daniels: Raiding Elle Woods’ wardrobe doesn’t make you a girl boss, ya know.
Sonja Cuchilla taps a bubble-gum colored talon against her cheek and flashes a dangerous smile.
Sonja Cuchilla: No. But having an entire town in the palm of my hand certainly doesn’t hurt. And now, thanks to you, now I only have one obstacle to deal with instead of two.
Anna Daniels: That so?
The artist remains focused on the work. Yet she shakes her head all the same.
Anna Daniels: Would that issue happen to be how to actually control the Thing below Montevideo? Because it’s only gonna play nice for so long before it fucks you up the ass without lube, metaphorically speaking.
Anna eyes Sonja up and down.
Anna Daniels: Then again, that might be your kink. We ain’t shaming.
She dips the bush into the paint thinner and beats the devil out of it on the corner of a production truck. Some of the splatter goes all over Sonja’s suit.
Montevideo, Minnesota’s Community and Learning Development Coordinator calmly takes out a kerchief from her pocket and dabs at the mess, eyes never leaving Anna.
Sonja Cuchilla: It’s cute that you think this has anything to do with control.
She doesn’t say the word as much as growls it. Her eyes flashing a distinct shade of purple.
Sonja Cuchilla: Control is what weak people use to feel strong. What ɘ̷҉̴ɿ̷҉̸o̷҉̷m̴҉̷γ̸҉̶ɒ̴҉̴l̴҉̸Ɔ tried to use against me. I am not trying to control anyone, Time Lord. I am offering liberation.
The flash of purple was noted in Anna’s mind and filed away for future reference.
Anna Daniels: Liberation from what, exactly? Being small town people living small town lives with dreams most will never catch up to and shames that can never be shared? Because as miserable as that sounds to you and us, that’s paradise compared to what you’ve done to them.
Then she seems to shift slightly as if looking behind whatever glows.
Anna Daniels: Is that the line of bullshit it fed you, Sonja? Or is that what you’re saying to try and convince yourself you’re not every bit of a foggy headed slave as the rest?
Sonja crosses her arms across her chest, leaning back with a smirk.
Sonja Cuchilla: If you want to talk foggy headed, we should be talking about Nathan. Once an abusive drunk always an abusive drunk. You should know considering the company you keep.
Anna turns and glares at Sonja.
Sonja Cuchilla: I’ve spent enough of my life being a supporting player. And now? Thanks to you? B̵͎̝̽l̶̳͝a̸͔̘̍͐z̸̤̗͐͆è̵͍̠ ̸̬͍̆͒ɘ̴̼̑҉̸̲͆̔Ɔ̴̪͠ ̶͖͖̚ɿ̵͎̓҉̶̹͗o̵̗̥̿҉̷̡͂m̵̤̓̏҉̵̢̎̈́γ̵̦̊̊͜҉̸̜͍͊ɒ̵̟̟̓̀҉̷͙͌ĺ̴̗҉̵̻͋ is a faded memory and the last of the Lighthouse keepers is making a damned fool of himself getting wasted on the streets of Chicago.
Sonja points a taloned finger at Anna.
Sonja Cuchilla: He dug his own grave long ago. I’m just here to close the lid.
Sonja slips a cell phone out of a free pocket and holds it up, making sure she has Anna in the shot.
Sonja Cuchilla: You want to do something about it, Time Lord?
*Click*
Sonja lowers the phone and begins tapping away on the screen.
Anna Daniels: Removing ꓭ̸ʅ̷ⱥ̸ƶ̸̸ͩē̸̴̵̸̸̸ͤͫͯͪͣ ̸ꓛ̴̴̶̵̶ͬͮͧͦʅ̴̴̵̸̴̶̷̸̸̵ͮͮͬͤͤͥͧ͢͢ⱥ̴̴̶ͧͨʎ̷̷̵̶ͭͣͭᵯ̸̷̵ͨͪꝋ̷̸̶̷̴̴̶̸̵̴̴̵ͩͦͦͫͤͣͯͬͥͦ͢ɹ̵̷̵̶ͮͦͫē̵̸̵ͪͭ was a reshuffling of the cards. Us slowly scraping away at his bullshit persona forces him to re-evaluate who he actually is. And forced you…
A *DING!* emerges from her coat pocket. The Muse ignores it.
Anna Daniels: …to rewrite.
Another *DING!*. Anna finally whips out the phone and puts on do not disturb.
Anna Daniels: We’re going to take a stab in the dark and say that’s our invitation to see it first hand.
Sonja smirks.
Sonja Cuchilla: In a way.
The pink-clad-provocateaur slides the device back into her pocket before walking toward and then just past Anna Daniels before pausing.
Sonja Cuchilla: And speaking of rewriting… I look forward to your RSVP. I’ll make sure to keep a personalized copy just for you.
Sonja leaves. With a sigh, Anna looks down at her phone and the annoying notification. She clicks on it. The sassy looking Sonja appears, with Anna scowling in the background. The clearly PR text reads
Meet author Sonja Cuchilla on September 19th @ 9:30am at Next Chapter Book Sellers as she dives into a true life story of the risks of love, celebrity, and liberation with “My Turn: Life Without ฿̻̏̍ͩ̓͒͘Ι͓̠ͣ̾͑Ⱡ̵̵̨̛͚̪̲̙͉͎̒ͪ͆̎̑͑̒̈͘͡ —
Anna Daniels: Nice try, bitch.
With that, Anna too walks off. The camera pans out to the unfinished masterpiece.
A television made of static.
We go to the back.
Simon Tillier: What’s up, fellow punks of PRIME? “Rhymin’” Simon Tillier is here on the scene.
Instantly, we’re greeted by the most punk rock backstage interviewer in professional wrestling standing outside the opened doors of the VVIP Room.
Simon Tillier: And, like a dumb dog that keeps chasing the porcupine around no matter how many times he gets stuck by the quills, I am once more about to bravely step through these big iron doors. Into the very place where outspoken and inquisitive punks like myself are not wanted. All to get an inside look at the inner workings of VAE VICTIS…
He walks in while he talks, trepidatiously entering the peristyle private suite while the camera keeps pace.
Simon Tillier: Never a welcome feeling, coming here. And it doesn’t help that I’m usually on this assignment after a long day on my feet, and I really, really could use a chance to sit down. But, with two members competing in the Universal Title Survivor here in a few short minutes, and another in tonight’s main event, this is unquestionably a pivotal evening for these journalist-punching, pancake-eating pro wrestling punishers in pink.
The last comment causes a lightbulb to go off. Simon briefly pulls out his small notebook, jots down a lyric idea for his next project, and stuffs it back into his pocket.
Simon Tillier: Which is why we’re here. To get our finger on the pulse. To catch the vibe. Will it be tense? Will it be upbeat? Will they finally let me sit down here? Let’s find out…
Upon entering and crossing through the pillar-lined antechamber, the junior reporter stumbles upon the sight of several people gathered before a large wallscreen — a Vae Visualizer, if you will.
On the screen, we can see the scene taking place in Wrigleyville, as PRIME’s street team hurriedly make their final touches before the Survivor event begins.
Among the watch party, we can see Ami Troy, the towering Clay Byrd, Helen the tiger, and a litany of Henry Keyes’ indentured plague doctors. With their attention on the screen, none seem to notice the entry of the junior interviewer.
Simon, however, takes note of one seat that stands empty.
Simon Tiller: Hmm…
He looks around, and in the far corner, spies Kerry Kuroyama.
The Emerald Apex is doing his usual aurafarming bullshit where he stands turned away from everyone, showing his tattooed back to the room while he stares off into nothing as if lost in deep thought like some sort of contemplative, esoteric badass or something.
Simon Tillier: Kerry?
Kerry turns around with that vaguely surprised “oh, didn’t notice you standing there” look on his face.
Kerry Kuroyama: Simon.
Simon thumbs over his shoulder, to the watch party.
Simon Tillier: How come you’re not sitting with the rest of Vae Victis, watching your compatriots as they hoof it through the next round of the Survivor?
Kuroyama lets out a labored sigh, like the whole of the world is weighing down on his wide, damnably chiseled deltoids.
Kerry Kuroyama: Honestly, there’s nothing else I’d rather be doing other than cheering on Henry and Scott. But… the weird thing is…
He raps his knuckles against his forehead and makes a face, indicating that things aren’t feeling all that balanced in his headspace.
Kerry Kuroyama: …I can’t sit now. I can’t let myself get comfortable. I need to keep my mind on my own match coming up later.
Simon Tillier: I see. Fairly understable, given what’s at stake. Anyhow, if you’re not using your chair right now, and since my feet are killing me, I was kind of wondering if it’d be cool if I grabbed a–
Kerry Kuroyama: No.
Simon Tillier: (deflated) Ugh… understood. Anyhow, Kerry, let’s talk about your own match. Main event. Big stakes. The Universal Championship. From the very first of our interviews almost three years ago, things have seemingly come full circle. Tell me, Kerry, are you feeling at all–
Kerry Kuroyama: Nervous?
Simon Tillier: Yeah.
Kerry Kuroyama: I can tell. You seem really, really tense right now.
Simon Tillier: …wait, what?
Kerry Kuroyama: I said I can tell that you’re nervous, because you seem really tense.
Simon Tillier: Wait, why would I be feeling nervous!?
Kerry Kuroyama: I don’t know. I asked, and you said yes.
Simon Tillier: No, I was asking if–
Kerry Kuroyama: Should I slap you?
Simon Tillier: WHAT??
Kerry Kuroyama: I mean, I noticed some of the other guys do it before a big match. Or maybe I’m supposed to be the one who gets slapped. I don’t really know how it works, to be honest. Weird tradition, if you ask me.
Simon Tillier: I thought YOU were the one who was supposed to be slapped…?
Kerry Kuroyama: (shaking his head) Only person that slaps me and lives to tell of it is Ami. And only behind closed doors. Anyway, should I slap you, Simon?
Simon Tillier: I’ll pass…
Kerry Kuroyama: You sure? I feel I’d be doing you a real favor. I mean, you’re trying to be punk rock, right?
Simon Tillier: Well… trying to be punk rock isn’t really punk rock, but… sure, sure.
Kerry Kuroyama: Okay then, so what’s more punk rock than getting slapped around?
Simon Tillier: Um… slapping someone who might actually deserve it? Like an oppressor or a bigot or a bully?
Kerry Kuroyama: Settle down, Simon. Geez, why are you so tense?
Simon Tillier: (beyond annoyed) …look, can we just focus on you for the time being?
Kerry Kuroyama: I mean, if you insist.
Simon Tillier: Okay, here’s what’s up, Kerry: You’re set to face off against the current Universal Champion, Daytona Diamonds, in his first defense since ending the monumental reign of Cecilworth Farthington.
Kuroyama slowly nods as he takes in the gravity of his current position.
Simon Tillier: After the first half of the year where you incurred a number of setbacks, you finally find yourself in position to claim the Pinnacle of All Sports. Your ultimate goal since the day you first arrived in PRIME.
Kerry Kuroyama: The ultimate goal of everyone in PRIME, Simon. Whether they care to admit it or not.
Simon Tillier: Right, sure… my point is, this is the very thing you’ve been working toward throughout your entire tenure within this company. That being said, how confident are you feeling right now?
Kerry Kuroyama: …confident?
He thinks it over for a beat, biting his lower lip.
Kerry Kuroyama: I can say this, Simon: I have full confidence that I’ll bring my absolute best tonight. As for my chances of winning? Couldn’t say. It’s hard not to look at Daytona Diamonds and see an athlete who is shining brighter than ever. And, I think that many people forget that below all the rhinestones and cocaine and whiskey and steroids…
He takes a breath.
Kerry Kuroyama: …and jetskis and dingos and lucha twins and devil-dealing and Lynch references and many, many references to flaming excrement, Daytona Diamonds is still one hell of a wrestler. I may have gotten one over on him a couple years back in Tokyo. But tonight, there won’t be any ladders, and it’s more than a pet koala that’s on the line.
He locks eyes with Simon.
Kerry Kuroyama: Where do we stand now? I think that’s the bigger question. You mentioned that first half of the year, and how rough it was for me. And it’s true. I went from a place of absolute confidence, to suddenly wondering if I’d even be worthy of a shot. Then, one day…
He snaps his fingers.
Kerry Kuroyama: Out of the blue, it falls in my lap.
He shrugs.
Kerry Kuroyama: I’m not going to pretend the thought didn’t cross my mind at least once that I don’t really deserve this. But, there’s that saying about the gift horse. I’m not looking into any mouths; they’re kind of disgusting, actually. But like you said, this is the very thing I’ve been working toward. If I succeed tonight, I’ll feel validated for all the years I believed in myself. And if I don’t? I’ll accept it with honor, and leave with the satisfaction of knowing I gave it my absolute all. I am both proud and grateful for this opportunity, and above all else, I only hope that Daytona and I give the fans a main event they’ll remember for years to come.
There’s a buzz off camera from the watch party that gets the attention of both Kerry and Simon. We can distinctly hear Ami Troy calling out for the former. Clearly, things are about to get underway.
Kerry Kuroyama: …you know, Simon, I hate to cut this short, but I think I’m going to watch this challenge and support my friends.
Simon Tillier: Really? I thought you mentioned you were trying to keep your mind focused on your own match?
Kerry Kuroyama shakes his head.
Kerry Kuroyama: My mind is as ready as it’s going to be, Simon. Plus, the Universal Title isn’t just my dream. It’s ours.
Kuroyama leaves Simon behind and joins the watch party.
When he’s there, he opts not to take his seat, instead choosing to remain standing.
The camera returns to Simon, who gives us that “well, that was that, so now what?” look of matteroffactoralism.
Simon Tillier: Well, fans… I think that fulfills my bi-weekly Vae Victis quota. Anyway, we’ve got the third challenge of the Universal Survivor here in just a few moments! And stick around, because at the top of the night, diamonds and emeralds will go head to head in the main event for the Universal Title!
Simon holds the forced smile for a few seconds before abruptly dropping it and wandering away.
Simon Tillier: Man, my feet are killing me…
The night is no longer young.
Many of the Survivor contestants have had their fill.
Some of them have had too many of their fill.
Some of them seem to be a bottomless pit.
HOWever, this is Chicago, and people black out when they are here to make dealing with the likelihood of getting robbed and/or shot an easier pill to swallow. So, in this, the near eleventh hour, with the scores tight and the livers beyond lacerated, it is time to separate the children from adults.
IT IS TIME TO SPEED CHUG!
The rules are simple.
Each remaining competitor, no matter the state that they are in, are given the Shitty Size Mug, full of the Shitty’s Famous Ale, and the first person done is the winner.
Simple.
Easy.
The size of the glass for each of the contestants is a 20 ounce mug.
For most, that seemed appro po.
For another, Ivan Stanislav, well, it just wasn’t good enough.
“Fill mine with Soviet Water, please. To the tippy top. Yes. That is good. No, no need for ice. I like mine warm, like my heart.” — Ivan the Slob, when kindly suggesting his glass be filled with Vodka instead of beer for this leg of the Survivor competition
So there the Elite Eight stand.
Shitty Beer in one hand, hopes and dreams in the other, yet all them ready and willing to get that much needed twenty points.
ANDDDDDDD………….
GO!
The buzzer, some drunk yelling “GO!” sounds, and the competition is underway.
And then, one half second later, it is over.
No, Nathan Lake didn’t finish his imported Pond water first.
No, TAL didn’t finish his Holy water first.
No, Rob Williams didn’t finish his special water first.
No, Kenny Freeman didn’t finish his non-alcoholic beer first.
No, Scott Hunter didn’t finish his Mullet ale first.
No, Henry Keyes didn’t finish his Defiant pilsner after dinner/pre morning cordial first.
No, The Coal Train didn’t finish his MILLER LITE first.
Which, yes I know what it means, which yes, means Ivan, the living embodiment of the Chernobyl diaries, nuked his 20 ounces of vodka faster than anyone else could finish their drink. Which means, Ivan Stanislav, the Russian Water drinker, and also Russian Bear, takes home the seventy points and wins this leg of the Bar Crawl Competition.
Thankfully, no one cheered for him.
ROUND SCORE
IVAN STANISLAV – 70
THE ANGLO LUCHADOR – 60
HENRY KEYES- 50
ROB WILLIAMS – 40
COLTRANE ANDERSON – 30
SCOTT HUNTER – 20
KENNY FREEMAN – 10
NATHAN LAKE – 0
TOTAL SCORE
ROB WILLIAMS – 260
HENRY KEYES – 250
COLTRANE ANDERSON – 250
THE ANGLO LUCHADOR – 240
SCOTT HUNTER – 220
IVAN STANISLAV – 220
NATHAN LAKE – 220
KENNY FREEMAN – 210
And our more intoxicated and grossed out competitors move on…
Commercial time, baby!
Steve Lemieux: Hi, I’m Steve Lemieux…
What? I thought this was going to be a Sketti Bucket thing! I mean, sure, the fact that we faded in on the outside of LeMoo’s Fine Sandwiches should have maybe been a clue, but it’s not outside the realm of Sketti possibility to open on an image of the competitor, especially when they have a history of dunking on the sandwich man.
Okay, yes, everyone does have a history of dunking on Steve, so I see where you’re coming from. The outside shot alone wouldn’t have been conclusive.
Still though, we can dream.
Steve Lemieux: …the owner of LeMoo’s Fine Sandwiches in beautiful Peoria, Illinois.
Gotta hit all the notes, don’t you, Stevie-boy?
Meanwhile, we are now inside LeMoo’s. Steve is walking towards the camera, looking no different from every other time he’s been seen on PRIME television. It’s almost as if the white polo and the khaki pants are a second skin, or maybe his primary skin. Or maybe not, because that would mean he’s been naked the entire time.
Please do not think about Steve naked.
Please do not imagine what horrors lurk beneath those discount Dockers.
Do not think of his dad-bod paunch, glistening in the throes of passionate love-making.
Nope.
Don’t do it.
Did you do it?
YOU FOOL!
I explicitly said to not do that.
Well, enjoy those mental pictures, I guess. If that’s your thing. Or if it’s not your thing. After all, you did this to yourself with your stupid sexualization of this absolute donut of a man.
Anyway, the sexual sandwich panther is walking in between the tables inside the restaurant.
Steve Lemieux: And I’m here to invite you all to the new and improved LeMoo’s. You might have heard we had some trouble here at the restaurant lately…
Yes, and I heard it was the result of Big Ian Salt throwing a man bodily through one of the walls. Plaster dust isn’t normally one of the condiments you get on a roast beef three-way, so it’s a good thing those walls are repaired.
Steve Lemieux: …but we here at LeMoo’s take every setback as an opportunity to grow.
A wonderful mindset. Sadly, not one that seems to extend to “learning how to wrestle professionally.”
Steve Lemieux: And to celebrate the occasion, we’ve added some limited-time items to our menu. Hungry for some old fashioned Americana with some French flair? Then come on down and try the FLAMBURGER, an 8 ounce patty of grass-fed beef with-
Suddenly the feed cuts and we see the zoomed in face of Quinn Fleetwood. How did he do this? Is he using Satan’s phone? Let’s not focus on that right now and instead focus on the words he’s screaming.
Quinn Fleetwood: STOP THIS PHONY’S COMMERCIAL! He pretended to give me a peace offering in the form of a calzone. But he’s a sneaky sneaky sneakman. Do you know what he did?!
The phone zooms out and we see that Quinn is in the bathroom.
Quinn Fleetwood: HE PUT THE DIARRHEA LETTUCE ON IT! NOW I AM TRAPPED IN THIS CHICAGO BATHROOM LIKE I’M FERRIS BUELLER AND THE PRINCIPAL IS AT THE STALL DOOR!
I’m pretty sure that didn’t happen in the movie.
Quinn Fleetwood: Well guess what, STEVE?
He says the name like it’s an insult. And, well, maybe he isn’t wrong.
Quinn Fleetwood: Screw your renovations, and screw you! BLOOD FEUD REDECLARED!
With that, the feed cuts.
The lights in the United Center flash out as the crowd immediately begins to split between booing and cheering.
The PRIMEtron flickers to life with a 97Red crackle of lightning as the crowd’s mixed reaction grows louder as the click of a pen can be heard.
…UNDEEAAAAAAAAAD!!!!
The crowd clamored to their feet, they can’t believe what they’re hearing!
…UNDEEAAAAAAAAAD!!!!
Record scratch.
…Off with your head…
BOOOOO! All good faith is gone from the crowd and Max, for the moment, is greeted as a full on heel.
The name Maximillian Wilhelm Kael flashes on the PRIMEtron as the stage lights up with eerie green light and smoke. The crowd continues their intense booing as the former Favored Son of Chicago slowly lurks out onto the stage while Pep Squad’s cover of “Heads Will Roll” thunders over the sound system.
With his one green eye he peers out over the crowd, a sickly sweet smile stretching across his long face as he stalks back and forth on the stage. He saunters down to the ring flanked by JCH and the Bolognese Bull, the fan reaction sliding into a mixed response. More boos than cheers but there are still some faithful Max fans in the crowd.
Nick Stuart: What a site…
Richard Parker: You’re telling me…
Whatever they do, Max doesn’t seem overly phased by it as he crawls up the ring steps, wiping off his feet on the outer apron before sliding between the top and middle rope.
Vince Howard: … From Arkham, Massachusetts, weighing in at two-hundred-sixty-five pounds… the Mayor of Arkham and BLACK HEART OF PRIME… Maximillian Wilhelm… KAAAAAAAAAAAAAEL!
Raising his hands high into the air the mixed reaction continues to flood out from this hot Chicago crowd. The prodigal son returns, sort of speak. After soaking in the reaction Max slithers back to his corner, preparing for his match. JCH and BB stay in his corner as well as he barks orders at them.
The lights dim.
Then, dark.
Not the wing.
A COOL breeze makes its way throughout the arena; causing all of those who haven’t decided to take a bathroom break to rise.
Nick Stuart: Think he get–
BOOOOOOOO~!
Richard Parker: Heavily.
BOOOOOOOO~!
Nick Stuart: No hero’s welcome for 97th street saint it would seem.
Richard Parker: Not against Max Kael. Not here. Legend has it Max helped build this house we’re sitting in right now.
Nick Stuart: Oh really? And what does the legend say about Jiles?
Richard Parker: He tried burning it down.
The ocean tides.
BOOOOOOOO~!
A seagull squawks.
BOOOOOOOO~!
Then, the death cord on the guitar begins to play.
More like pulsate through space and time.
Soon after, the drum of the wolf begins to totem.
BOOOOOOOO~!
Vince Howard: … From Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, weighing in at two-hundred-eighteen pounds… the Manhunter, the Golden Ticket, the Greek God of COOL… CAAAAAAAANCER JIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIILES!
BOOOOOOOO~!
Then, up on the Crumbotron, a merry montage of super kicks unfolds. The usual cast of characters are in play: Troy, Crumblood, Atken, Bathtoy, Avalon, Avalon, Parker, Avalon, Stanislob, TAL, Farthington, and the list goes on and on, in rapid fire succession.
That’s right.
No, it’s not on a loop.
There are just that many superkicks.
Richard Parker: I hate this montage.
Nick Stuart: Question is Rich, will Jiles be adding to it tonight? Him and Kael were on the same team not too long ago. Plus, there’s his ties to Max Shell, with one of Max’s personalities actually being an eGG Bandit.
Richard Parker: Tonight I want Max to be the personality who kills people for fun. Is that too much to ask?
Nick Stuart: Noted.
Up at the top of the ramp, PRIME’s IT and POWER and FIRST COUPLE emerge. Jiles is in all of his glory, basking in the deafening amount of boos being showered down upon him. His hair is sheer perfection and his T-shades are pure hollywood. Vickie, the same, sub out the T-shades for her dagger nails. After the two admire the sea of crazed crumbs for more than a few seconds, they start to make their way down to the ring.
Along the way, Jiles happens upon an old, local wrestling fan who someHOW could afford the steep price for sitting at ringside. The bozo fan, a Pizmo who looks more like a ghostly drunk who has lived off of GOD knows what – probably Jack Daniels – than a clown, so more clown in nature than appearance you might say, tries to antagonize The King of COOL, but Vickie is having none of it. She slaps the guy’s drink into orbit and then shoves his child, a son, back down into his seat.
Nick Stuart: Odd altercation just then.
Richard Parker: Yeah, I hate Jiles, too………………………………….
PRIME’s IT couple move past the crazed fan and walk on over to commentary to check back in with Rich and Dick. Remember, Jiles was on commentary earlier tonight and was thrown out as a guest commentator. As such, the altercation goes as one would imagine. Nick sighing heavily, Richard getting red faced, Vickie also getting red faced, Jiles threatening an early super kick, and Mother Hen yelling at Jiles to get in the ring through both headsets.
JCH is also down there.
Putting on his happy face.
As Jiles gets his good luck smooch right in front of him.
Like, threesome close.
Tongue.
Okay, maybe more like cucksome close.
Ha.
The last caveat for JCH’s humiliation ritual happens when Jiles removes his T-shades and tosses them at JCH. The sunglasses — obviously a spare — bounce off of JCH like a used condom, or at least that is how he reacted when it happened. After a haughty chuckle King Crumb slides into the ring under the bottom rope, ignores the referee’s presence completely, strums at a fake Yolkulelee, and then calmly awaits the bell.
DING DING
Richard Parker: Maybe Jiles will die.
Nick Stuart: Distinct possibility
The dance begins slowly, very, very, very slowly. Neither man wants to make the first move, knowing that the other has prepared for this and has already figured out a way to maneuver their way into a counter that the other could counter, and it all ends with a big bunch of mist and blood. Barlow gestures to the two men who are clearly out there getting some serious cardio pacing around the ring in circles.
Richard Parker: Okay.
Nick Stuart: You ever watch two guys who are borderline terrified that the other might hit one of them with a sledgehammer if they make the wrong move? I think that’s what we’re witnessing. Actual Nuclear Deterrent strategy at play.
Richard Parker: So you’re telling me we have a cold war and Ivan isn’t involved?
Nick Stuart: Yes.
Barlow has no other choice but to start counting? Yeah, I guess we’re gonna start counting because we don’t have a time limit on this match and that was a serious mistake.
ONE!
TWO!
THREE!
Jiles and Max both begin protesting Barlow’s decision to count. The two men simultaneously arguing in Ashley Barlow’s face instead of wrestling. Somewhere Brandon Youngblood is having a heart palpitation.
Richard Parker: Why is Barlow even counting?
FOUR!
Richard Parker: How high does she count? Is it five? Is it ten? What happens?
Nick Stuart: We need the rulebook and Cecilworth isn’t here. So we’re in trouble.
FIVE!
Nick Stuart: Well we know it’s not five.
SIX!
Max and Jiles are trying to argue their points, but Ashley Barlow gives absolutely zero fucks about their opinion and continues her counting rampage.
SEVEN!
Jiles pushes Max lightly on the shoulder, and turns to Max explaining he was testing a theory. Barlow pauses as the two men have the discussion, she waves her hand at the two to continue, they shout back and forth.
Richard Parker: I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but Jiles was active there. Stop the count.
Nick Stuart: …
EIGHT!
Nick Stuart: Yeah no, Ashley’s over it.
Max strikes out and grabs Jiles in a side headlock. Cancer immediately starts prying at Max’s fingers, but when he breaks Kael’s grip he catches a right hand to the side of the head and yanks himself free out the back door holding the side of his head. He frantically goes to Ashley and is pointing and shouting at Max while grimacing. Barlow walks over to Max and asks him to hold his arms out.
Nick Stuart: Jiles wants Barlow to check Max for weapons. I don’t understand what’s happening.
Richard Parker: Mind games Nick, the highest order of mind games.
Jiles retreats to his corner where Vickie hops up on the apron and begins fanning him and handing him a water bottle. She glares towards JCH, who is focused on Max getting berated. Jiles smirks and plants one on Vickie. Barlow pats Max down, finding two bags of sand, three ballpoint pens, but nothing that could have hurt Jiles with a simple punch. She takes the belongings and stuffs her own pocket before turning away.
Nick Stuart: I guess so.
Right as Barlow steps to the side, Jiles comes in with a big elbow to Max that sends him sprawling into the corner. Max leaps backwards while Cancer throws a right kick that catches The Mayor of Arkham in the ribs. Max grabs his ribs and begins shouting for Barlow to check Cancer’s boots. He’s grimacing and screaming, dropping to his knees in the ring holding his left side.
Richard Parker: Oh… the tables are turned back on Jiles.
Cancer backs away from the confrontation as Barlow checks on Max for a moment before going to Jiles. She shrugs her shoulders as the hardest working man in PRIME stammers and pleads that it’s totally not necessary to search him like she just did Max. Barlow just shakes her head.
Richard Parker: Yeah! Search him too, Ashley!
Cancer finally relents and holds his arms out. Barlow pats him down and finally makes her way down to the salt shoes. She lifts the right foot, to her surprise it’s as expected. She lifts the left foot, and Jiles makes a bit of a face.
Nick Stuart: What did Barlow find…
Richard Parker: I don’t even want to know.
Barlow points to Jiles’ left boot and demands he remove it. Jiles waves her off, and tries to keep his cool before Barlow demands he remove the boot for a second time. Cancer finally obliges, Max is in the corner talking to JCH and laughing as Barlow examines Cancer Jiles’ left boot. She looks inside, turns it upside down and shakes it free. A horseshoe falls out. Cancer shrugs his shoulders, the camera zooms in enough to hear Jiles say “it’s for good luck?”
Richard Parker: He was going to maim Max Kael with that boot.
Barlow turns towards the announcers table but Jiles steps in waving his hands. He points to his right foot, and then his left foot.
Nick Stuat: Cancer is pleading the case that he didn’t use the horseshoe.
He points to Barlow’s pocket and at Max, he turns to Vickie and yells for something. Vickie steps up onto the apron with a freshly prepared left boot and hands it to Ashley Barlow. Barlow looks the boot over and hands it to Jiles. She turns her back to go back towards Max for a second and JCH swoops in, swiping Jiles’ legs out from under him in the corner. Max explodes forward and drives boots frantically into Cancer’s shoulders and head. Jiles rolls his way to a sitting position, he drives a right hand into Max’s ribs that Max mostly ignores and then puts his hands up frantically waving Max off.
Richard Parker: Did Jiles just quit?
Nick Stuart: No Richard, he’s begging Max to stop kicking him.
Max stops and drops to his knees and begins begging Cancer not to beg him to beg, and Cancer begins begging Max not to beg him not to beg him, and Max starts begging him not to beg him to beg him to beg him. There’s a lot of frantic begging and borderline hysterics from both men. Finally they both fall backwards to the mat simultaneously in sheer begging franticness.
Nick Stuart: I have no idea what’s happening.
Richard Parker: I think it’s a submission move.
ONE!
Nick Stuart: Barlow thinks it’s an illegal submission hold.
TWO!
Richard Parker: I don’t blame her.
THREE!
FOUR!
Barlow walks in between both men and gets down close to their faces and shouts the next call.
FIVE!
As she’s about to raise her hands for six, Vickie Hall grabs Max Kael by the legs and yanks him out of her field of view and to the arena floor. Vickie scampers away before Ashley gets turned around, Cancer rolls to the opposite side, boot somehow on and laced mid-tantrum. He rounds the corner, on the inside the Bolognese Bull has started across the ring and Barlow turns to trespass him back to the outside. Behind her back a puff of sand flies from somewhere in Max’s pocket.
Nick Stuart: Hold on, we have that on replay.
On the way to the outside, Max Kael manages to pick Barlow’s pocket.
Richard Parker: I can’t believe what I’m watching. It’s almost beautiful.
Jiles catches a boot to the ribs and Kael drives him to the mat with a snap DDT. Max looks around at all the sand at ringside and throws it into his own face and rolls into the ring. He begins protesting at Barlow’s feet that he’s been blinded by the sand. On the outside Vickie helps Cancer to his feet, the Bolognese Bull is on his way so Jiles dives into the ring at Barlow’s feet, leaving the angry thing on the outside. Jiles begins pointing to Max, who frantically is pointing at her pocket and Cancer. Barlow checks her own pocket and discovers one of the sand bags is missing.
Nick Stuart: I think this is a game of who can tattle better.
Richard Parker: The ungentlemanly games?
Nick Stuart: Possibly.
Barlow looks back at both and just begins counting.
ONE!
Cancer snaps an elbow back into Max’s mouth in the middle of the protests. Max stumbles backwards as Jiles makes his way back to his feet. It’s Cancer’s turn with the cheap shots, and a rain of boots comes flying in that drives Max to the mat. Kael slowly pulls himself up as Barlow steps away, just happy they actually are finally doing things that might end this farce.
Richard Parker: This is an absolute psychological war.
Nick Stuart: On who? Us?
Richard Parker: I might give this five stars if Jiles loses.
Jiles drives a right hand as Max gets to his feet under the peppering assault. Jiles tries for a quick kick to Max’s stomach, but Max catches it and twists Jiles around, he plants Cancer with an atomic drop that sends him bouncing across the ring holding his hole. Max rumbles across the ring after him, Jiles is crawling towards the wrong corner as Max rakes his fingers down Cancer’s back. Large red indents form, Max goes for another rake but Cancer makes it to the corner. Max doesn’t stop, this time he smashes Cancer with a left hand across the mouth and begins choking Jiles using the top rope.
ONE!
Max turns towards Barlow and begins shouting, he furiously begins pointing at JCH then at Jiles with his free hand, JCH and the Bolognese Bull begin choking Jiles out on the bottom rope while Max turns towards Barlow and begins arguing with her about the rules of wrestling.
Nick Stuart: Max is getting pretty animated…
Richard Parker: Wait till Barlow figures out who is choking Jiles.
TW-
Barlow looks down at Jiles and yanks Cancer free of the grip of the two men. JCH holds on an extra second and both man and thing find themselves being ejected.
Nick Stuart: Time to clean house, great job Ashley.
Richard Parker: Oh…
JCH stomps up the ramp while the bull looks confused. Max protests while Cancer writhes in the corner, Max finally turns back while Barlow is halfway out of the ring shouting at the Bull he reaches deep into his ring tape and produces a fourth ballpoint pen.
Nick Stuart: Here goes the neighborhood!
Big Ian Salt makes his way down to ringside in a half still hurt stumble, he smashes his way into the back of the Bolognese Bull.
Richard Parker: I don’t even know what to think. Is he enforcing the rules? What’s happening?
Jiles’ eyebrows raise wide as Max grabs Cancer by the neck and pulls the pen back in the air. Cancer manages to get his hands on Max’s face and jabs his thumb into Max’s eye as hard as he can. Kael stumbles backwards across the ring and into an awaiting Vickie Hall, who had made her way to the apron wielding a hand bag. She blasts Max across the face as hard as she can and drops to the arena floor. Max is rocked and stumbles backwards into a coolympian yjolk. Or whatever one Jiles can manage to get out while clutching his throat.
Nick Stuart: Oh…
Richard Parker: Yeah the house isn’t empty yet.
Vickie drops off the apron smiling ear to ear, she shakes a horseshoe out of her bag and onto the arena floor while giving a smirk to the camera. On the inside Max is blinded and Jiles scoops in with a roll up. Barlow turns around to the madness and drops down and starts to count.
ONE!
Jiles puts his feet on the rope and Vickie jumps onto the ankles giving Cancer more leverage.
TWO!
Cancer grabs the biggest handful of tights you’ve ever seen.
Richard Parker: It’s perfect.
THREE!
Max kicks out just after Barlow’s hand hits the mat and Cancer scrambles his way to the outside as Ashley turns towards the announce table and calls for the bell.
DING DING DING
Vince Howard: Your winner by pinfall… Cancer Jiles!
Nick Stuart: Thank god we have more wrestling.
BOOOOOOOO~!
Jiles turns and gives Vickie a huge hug while Max protests angrily to Barlow. Ashley wants out of there as fast as Jiles. “I Am The Cool” is blaring as Cancer makes his way back up the ramp while the Enemigos and the parking attendants break up the Bull and Big Ian Salt.
TRADER TODD’S
KARAOKE
Even though it’s technically just over the Wrigleyville line in the Lakeview neighborhood, Trader Todd’s is arguably the best karaoke bar in all of Chicago. And how can it not be when “Big” Al Larcher is the one running the show.
The crowd is rowdy and ready for some off-key singing from this group of mostly drunk wrestlers. The louder the cheers from the bar, the more points the Survivors get.
Johnny Dorn’s been given a shotski of Malört, which he, Big Al, and two other TBOX members quickly throw back before the final challenge of this bar crawl gets underway.
COLTRANE ANDERSON
“HOW DEEP IS YOUR LOVE” – DRU HILL
In true Millennial fashion, Coltrane goes with a deep cut from the 90s from the Baltimore-based R&B group Dru Hill. It’s one of those songs you heard all the time back in the day and completely forgot existed. Once the chorus hits, though, it’s like a lightbulb goes off amongst the crowd and people start singing along. Coltrane gets a lot of love after his performance, and Al buys him a shot of Malört.
KENNY FREEMAN
“THE ONE AND ONLY” – CHESNEY HAWKES
The cheesiest performance of the night goes to Kenny Freeman for this even deeper cut from the 90s. Some people vaguely remember the chorus, and even though he’s not in tune whatsoever, Kenny’s earnest and puts his all into it. That earns him a polite round of applause. Al buys him a shot of Malört, which Kenny politely gives to Ivan to take for him (y’know, because our Malört).
ROB WILLIAMS
“MAMBO #5” – LOU BEGA
It’s apparently 90s night at Trader Todds because this is the third song in a row from that decade, and another one-hit wonder at that.
The crowd starts off red-hot for this one, singing along right from the beginning, except they’re the only ones singing. Rob stands there, looking out at the crowd while the music plays through the sound system and the lyrics crawl across the television screen in front of him.
It’s all very awkward.
It’s even more awkward when the only line Rob decides to sing is “the trumpet.”
The crowd isn’t happy and starts booing but Rob doesn’t give a fuck, he’s done with this bullshit.
Al does not buy him a shot of Malört, which is good because the Legend wasn’t gonna drink it anyway.
IVAN STANISLAV
SOVIET UNION NATIONAL ANTHEM
I mean, are you surprised? Because you really shouldn’t be.
After demanding that Larcher scour YouTube for the song, since Al didn’t have it at the ready (because why would he, nobody has this song in their karaoke library, Ivan, you fool!), the Russian Bear begins belting out the lyrics as loudly and proudly as he can…
…to a massive chorus of boos.
In fact, the boos didn’t stop from when Rob Williams was on stage, because as soon as everyone saw Ivan trundle towards the front of the bar, their jeers kept coming.
This doesn’t deter the Russian Bear, who keeps singing anyway. The boos keep getting louder, and then food gets flung in Ivan’s direction. That’s when Larcher cuts the song and tells the Russian Bear that he needs to get the hell out of the bar. Ivan refuses to budge, and gets right up in Larcher’s face, until Johnny Dorn gets brave with the shotski and whacks Ivan across the back of the head with it.
Ivan, unphased and pissed off, slowly turns to face Dorn, who decides that discretion is the better part of valor and tries to make a run for it. Ivan gets his big mitts on him and flings him out into the street. Security, along with Larcher, muscle the massive Russian out the door as well.
SCOTT HUNTER
“TAKE ON ME” – A-HA
We’re going to the 80s now with this timeless tune. Scott starts out strong, but doesn’t get far into the song thanks to Ivan making his way back into the bar to demand Al restart the Soviet National Anthem. Scott’s had about enough of Ivan’s shit, so he drops the mic and helps security evict Ivan for the final time.
Al buys him a shot of Malört once he returns to the bar.
NATHAN LAKE
“GHOSTBUSTERS” – RAY PARKER, JR.
Of course, the movie-obsessed Nathan Lake picks a song from a major motion picture. And because the kids these days are all about HaLLoWeEn iN AuGuSt, the man formerly known as Blaze Claymore gets the biggest ovation of the night thus far.
Al buys him a shot of Malört and Nathan downs it in an instant.
HENRY KEYES
ORIGINAL SEA SHANTY ABOUT VAE VICTIS
The background tune is “Wellerman” by Nathan Evans, and the lyrics are an original tune written by the Kraken himself (with an assist from Lyricist Plague Doctor). Since there’s nothing for the bar to sing along to, they simply listen, enraptured by Keyes’ Zaddyness.
Al buys him a shot of Malört, and Henry buys Al a shot of absinthe.
TAL
“SWEET HOME CHICAGO” – BLUES BROTHERS RENDITION
TAL is the last performer of the night, and if the man didn’t get to pander at least one time on this bar crawl we’d think something was seriously wrong with him.
Emboldened by the equivalent of 10+ bottles of Malört, the Luchador belts this out with precision. People wander in off the street to hear the performance. Babies cry. Women weep. Clark the Cub waves the “W” flag. Everybody sings along. The most Chicago thing to happen earns TAL a standing ovation.
Al buys him a shot of Malört, and TAL throws a few hundos in Al’s tip jar.
ROUND SCORE
TAL – 70
NATHAN LAKE – 60
COLTRANE ANDERSON – 50
HENRY KEYES – 40
KENNY FREEMAN – 30
ROB WILLIAMS – 20
SCOTT HUNTER – 10
IVAN STANISLAV – 0
FINAL SCORE
TAL – 310
COLTRANE ANDERSON – 300
NATHAN LAKE – 300
HENRY KEYES – 290
ROB WILLIAMS – 280
KENNY FREEMAN – 240
SCOTT HUNTER – 230
IVAN STANISLAV – 220
A momentous night. And now, we are here, with one final bout scheduled to take place in this venue. A wide shot filters on through the United Center. The Chicago fans are buzzing in anticipation, knowing what is next. However, before the pomp and pageantry, as the lens scans the crowd, we hear the voices of Nick Stuart and Richard Parker.
Standing in the center of the ring is Vince Howard. Beside him is Elvis Nixon, his arms held behind him, his eyes outward to the crowd.
DING DING DING DING DING DING
Vince Howard: The official for the following contest. Elvis. Nixon.
A reserved clapping from the reserved, respectful crowd. After displaying Nixon, with the chyron underneath, the camera again focuses on Howard.
Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen…the following contest is scheduled for one fall and has NOOOOOOO time limit! It is FOR! THE PRIME! UNIVERSAL! CHAMPIONSHIIIIIIIIIIPPPPP!!!
Suddenly, the United Center’s lights dim, the clapping from the crowd growing. Out of the blackness, the PRIMEview comes alive, the PRIME logo displayed prominently. It fades, the opening tones of “Rivalry” by Colin O’Malley beginning to play. With a lashing strike of blue, words fill the screen.
THE PRIME UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP
THE PINNACLE OF ALL SPORTS
Descending, a lone spotlight shines upon a table of velvet. Stood up for prominence is the PRIME Universal Championship belt, polished and shined. As the music continues, its contours and plates are scanned with care. Every detail is magnificent. The tension of sound rises, and with it, the camera pulls away from the majestic championship. The scene abruptly cuts to black.
And with the rising dramatic percussion, the still shots. Subtle movements slowly focusing upon the figures as they appear for a few moments, their achievement marked in text in convenient spaces.
The inaugural Universal Champion and final Global Champion. The bridge between the eras, cemented at King of Kings 2. He stands an enigma, a seeming average man in build, but what he lacks in impressive physique he makes up for in mystery. One championship belt for each trench coated shoulder. His eyes are focused and evident through the white mask absconding his identity.
1st Champion
BLACK ANGEL
A titan of muscle, massive in stature not just physically, but for his time in the sport. A once hero, now, he is a betrayer, joining the Dark Age. There is no sense of shame with his smirking expression.
2nd Champion
BODA
A whirlwind of color, a form of taut muscle and artistic expression. She stands stoic, the championship belt over her shoulder. Does she care? Only she knows. Her moment has arrived, seemingly unstoppable, one of the greatest beginnings to a PRIME career of anyone. The Vanguard of the Golden Age. A trendsetter.
3rd Champion
KARINA WOLFENDEN
Behind crimson glasses protecting his eyes, a seminal figure. Chiseled from granite, his tattoos prominent, if ever a man stood as The Supreme Machine, it is he. The ender of the K-Wolf’s era before it even started. Later, the hand chosen by Tyler Nelson to put an end to a Universal charade. When one speaks of PRIME, his name is one of the first to come.
4th, 8th Champion
KILLEAN SIRRAJIN
The winds behind him sweep about, blowing his majestic hair with perfect photogenic bravado. The only true Son of God. His appearance has not changed, even today, proving his parentage. The Last Judgment features prominently on his tights. Chicago’s favored son, the roar his mere visage elicits is one of the loudest of the night. Under his hand, you shall be crucified and saved.
5th Champion
HOYT WILLIAMS
Before him were titans in stature, but in their place comes one in sheer brutality. His fists and forearms are taped for battle, his muscle built for performance and savagery. Inhuman. A wrecking ball in human form. From nowhere, he arrives at this pinnacle, only to be knocked from it in the greatest upset in the history of PRIME. He will regain it from one of his greatest rivals, The Supreme Machine on the biggest stage. Years later, he returns from the sidelines, managing to defy expectations to put a temporary halt to The Murder Show. Rushmore features him prominently. He stands as one of the truest of greats.
6th, 9th, 21st Champion
TCHU/MATT WARD
A goofy wire of man. The most unassuming of all. So long of a shot, his chance comes in the middle of Revolution, a clear expectation of how easy he shall be steamrolled. A Christmas Miracle. Perpetually silly, the joke is not only the Inhuman Being, but also, all those who thought so little of him.
7th Champion
CLYDE WALKINS
Born from the stars, beloved by all, charismatic, amongst the most skilled the sport has ever seen. He has returned from injury to claim his rightful place, but failure is all that meets him. In this moment, the drums of war sound, the very foundation of PRIME under threat from Machavallian forces. The star rises and turns his back on the fans and people who believed in him, joining the ranks of the devils who claim him to be their friend. Clean shaven, burned by the light. He fights off a record number of challengers. He is where the balance of PRIME rests.
10th Champion
NOVA
The balance of power shifts. Her face, her essence, are intrinsically linked with PRIME, but in this moment, she is an assumed outsider. This moment changes not only her place in the company, but in her life. Home. The ultimate trendsetter. The Queen of the Ring becomes The Final Boss twice over. Her spot amongst the very greats is without question. In this building, she was the one to close out the prior era. Without her, where we stand today isn’t possible.
11th, 13th Champion
LINDSAY TROY
The rival to the Queen. Scum looks down upon him. A betrayer of friendship, of allegiance, all for self service. So many times, he fell, unable to answer the challenge, and in doing so, all rejoiced. Driven mad, Ahab manages to rise in his final stand, capturing his illustrious white whale.
12th Champion
SONNY SILVER
Mismatched eyes, lacerating fingernails, and diminutive stature. In one night, she nearly conquers the Halo. In her next match, she manages to usurp the Queen. Scary and unknowable, a chameleon who can assume the identity of any she chooses. She lacks her own agency and identity, yet here, for a time, she can claim the Universal Championship as her own.
14th Champion
COZEN
The Man in Black hides his pieces and scars under a dress shirt and slacks. A mess of black hair falls along the sides of his face. Many claim him to be emo, but they will come to know him as the ruiner, death incarnate. His war against PRIME will eventually lead to its closure. Even here, with a painted black middle finger, his detestment of PRIME is evident.
15th Champion
DEVIN SHAKUR
Charisma personified. In truth, his arrival to this pinnacle has been foreseen for ages. His potential is limitless, yet in critical moments, he falters. Until here. Until now. Until he realizes the promise after years of toil made to look like a designer accessory. His presence is legendary. A hero to so many. Brash and arrogant to others. Regardless, he is can’t miss, must see, and unforgettable. His reign, to this point, lasts longer than all others before.
16th Champion
CHANDLER TSONDA
The Unbeatable. The Unconquerable. Awoken from dream, The Original Villain stops fighting with mere bits of his true skill and strength. The path he cuts lasts over a year, and in its wake, promising careers, legendary challenges, and destinies all fall under his heel. Gone, but never forgotten. Though some draw close, he walks away into the annals of history never having lost the most prestigious prize in the sport.
17th Champion
JASON SNOW
From the distance, from the ether, his face painted with black, the oddest of sorts, his skin pale, he returns. The Intense Championship is marked as his in all of lore, but after conquering the Halo, he soon after fulfills an impossible destiny, capping off a Hall of Fame career with the final piece it lacked.
18th Champion
VANGELUS OLSIG
Hollywood beckons. A silver screen savant, he brings with him pomp, circumstance, and a director’s vision. An outsider who rises.
19th Champion
CASTOR V. STRIFE
The monster incarnate. The Murder Show. Burly, powerful, a viking from a long forgotten age who has spent an age in PRIME without realizing the fullness of his potential. It is remembering what it is to be dominant that he ascends to his throne, leaving behind a wake of broken bodies and dreams. For a time, the lineage ends with brutality under his knuckles. The oppressive, uncompromising final champion of the Revolution.
20th, 22nd Champion
HESSIAN
The spear of the ReVival comes from the Revolution. Before this moment, he is considered the greatest to never win ‘the big one’. After over a decade away, the Tower of Babel rises, removing all doubt, finally taking his place amongst the true greats, perhaps marking himself as greater than all. For others in this era, this prize is transient. For him? They are one.
23rd, 29th Champion
BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD
A life’s work. Destroy the past and present and burn it all away so the future can rise. The Humble Proprietor has spent his life as an afterthought, cast aside, treated less than human despite his love of the sport he has dedicated his life to. Their cackles and machinations forge an intensity fitting for a monster. The threat. The killer. Robbed of the result of it all. Even in the distance, his name brings chills to the air.
24th Champion
PHIL ATKEN
Lights, camera, pucker and kiss. The Anti-Christ. Under t-shades and salt shoes, he brings with him an apocalypse in tracksuit and baby blue. Despised and thought little of, the ultimate cockroach doesn’t just survive but thrive. His threats carry weight because he makes good on his promise. Nobody on this list has a hope of ever being this COOL.
25th Champion
CANCER JILES
The Event Horizon, the future, all of the ReVival’s promise and dreams comes in his chiseled form. His reverence to PRIME’s past is known, but he makes his own history, taking the Universal Championship for his own and under the most dire of circumstances. He stumbles, but in Hell, he overcomes not only the yang to his ying, but the oppressive boot of the Soviet state.
26th, 28th Champion
HAYES HANLON
Punk rock in all forms, a fighter through and through. He doesn’t care about the championship, just what it brings to him in the ring. The greater fights. The ability to test his penchant for destruction. He snuffed out the promise of the horizon in his void. A goat kick to the head. A free spirit for rebellion against the norms.
27th Champion
REZIN
Some would call him a relic of a begotten age, a frozen monstrosity thawed and set upon the world to maul and reign under a banner, an ethos that demands both domination and subjugation. An ageless goliath, The Russian Bear returns to the field of professional wrestling battle after over a decade in seclusion. And in his wake? Utter carnage. A warrior from the old age set upon the present and future, not only striding, but surmounting all.
30th Champion
IVAN STANISLAV
Few can claim to be worthy of being phenoms in the new era of PRIME, yet the pillars of such are rarefied. But for the French Super Athlete, The Neck Collector, the Lizard King, he stands not only above, but perhaps beyond all. His arrival to this place is the culmination of an undefeated year. A winning streak unmatched by ALL before him. He is the weapon promised, the embodiment of The Humble Proprietor’s vision. A puzzle perhaps unsolvable.
31st Champion
FLAMBERGE
From oblivion he rises, as if from a waking coma. Drenched with guilt, self made, self perpetuated. Look upon the clown who makes those laugh, yet do not notice his weight, his tears. Ascend from the murk and stand ready, violently so, in the face of so many oppressors. Black Sheep never again.
32nd Champion
JARED SYKES
The ultimate simp. Seemingly helpless. But powered by his love and his dedication to his Amazing Life Partner, he perseveres, and does what most think is nigh impossible for someone of his ability level. He finishes the story, and now, we live in an epilogue dictated from his success.
33rd Champion
JONATHAN-CHRISTOPHER HALL
The Crownless King. A wrestling nomad. Across near every continent, he has fought with his all, governed by an unyielding love of the sport of professional wrestling. His role was ordained to be The Never Was, the fountain of knowledge, the bridge to the future. Not marketable. Taken for granted. Yet bitterness never seeps in, never taints his drive and passion. In this, the final year of his quest, he does what some think he could not do…something many others believed he always had capacity to achieve. The crown achieved. Now, The King of Conquerors.
34th Champion
CORAL AVALON
When the Golden Era choked into embers, as the darkness swallowed the world of professional wrestling in the deepest of pits, it was this man who kept the torch, who set the standard to aspire toward. A Lord by birth who refused his right by choice, so aloof of reality’s rigor. It is the ring where his aptitude is without rival. His hands are vice grips and his understanding of placing pressure on joints, tendons, and bones is supreme.
In the muck, he strode, unbeaten. Unconquered. The Financier of a Revolution in The ReVival. One would think, with a silver spoon, the path would be smooth, but it was anything but. His record is filled with victory over legends; it’s also filled with his stumbles at the gate, all those times the bridesmaid.
Those were the prelude. Now? His place atop the sport is without question. His reign has transcended all others of the ReVival. More defenses and days than anyone else. For a calendar year, it is he who has been the central focus of these pieces. The End of The Line.
This…is his domain.
36th Champion
CECILWORTH FARTHINGTON
On a Rhinestone Pale Horse, he rides. A monstrosity of a man, all muscle, wild, and id. An unyielding charisma. A penchant for self destruction. The supposed ring leader of a gang of scum that knows no bounds, yet still outruns the law at every turn. He is not just The King of The Rodeo, but the force that ended the insurmountable. His arrival at this point is not a surprise, as much as it is a culmination.
37th Champion
DAYTONA DIAMONDS
Not all that glitters is gold.
But what glitters can be revealing.
For these two, this place, this position, this pinnacle of all sports, it seemed so certain. Both ensconced themselves firmly as transcendent champions in their divisions. Both seemed earmarked for elevation once their reigns finally sunset.
But the pinnacle demands more.
The oxygen is thinner.
The peak less certain.
Both of these men are supposed to be here, and yet, their place fighting in this moment feels as precarious as it ever has before. And why? Because success did not fall in line after their long moments. Because obstacles came in waves, impeding their attempted ascent.
These two are supposed to be here…
But which one actually stays here?
Which stone, at the end of this night, will actually be the gold the glitters on through?
Like stormclouds blocking out the sun, the lights dim until the arena is nearly black.
“BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!
“BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!
“BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!
“BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!”
The house shakes to the thumping beat of “Blouses Blue” by Konrad OldMoney & Sleep Steady pouring in through the public address system. Upon the PRIMEview, a montage of head-dropping and face-kicking in-ring action spliced with savage scenes of wind, rain, and lightning plays through a loop.
The camera begins racing up the rampway. As it nears the top, the spotlight hits.
KERRY KUROYAMA stands on the stage, turned away from the camera, with the emerald-shaped “KK” logo on the back of his green and silver robe in clear view.
Two verdant words form across the PRIMEView.
E M E R A L D
A P E X
In a single motion, Kerry dramatically tears off the robe and tosses it aside, revealing the elaborate GREEN DRAGON tattoo decorating his back. He pumps a fist over his head and twirls around as a row of fountain pyros erupt in the background. As the audience reacts, AMI TROY steps in beside him and favors him with an approving wink and nod.
She throws up a towel in a high arc. He opens a palm behind his back to PERFECTLY catch it. At the last second, she draws back a balled up fist as if to hit, causing him to flinch, and resulting in the towel landing on his face.
With a pleased-with-herself smirk, the Merry Mischief Maker heads down the ramp. After a beat, Kerry pulls off the towel and follows.
Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, now coming to the ring, accompanied by “The Merry Mischief Maker” AMI TROY…
Swaggering and slapping hands down the aisle, Ami excitedly pumps her fists at the mention of her name.
Kerry’s gaze is pure intensity. He stares ahead at the ring with purpose and conviction.
Vince Howard: He hails from Seattle, Washington, USA, and weighs in at two-hundred and thirty-two pounds…
Kuroyama climbs to the apron, holds open the ropes for Ami to enter the ring ahead of him, and follows her in. They pick a corner, where the former scales to the second set of ropes and the latter steps up to the first.
Vince Howard: Representing VAE VICTIS…
Kerry raises his fist. Ami crosses her arms and poses alongside her well-tamed beast. Green and silver fireworks explode in the rafters.
Vince Howard: The EMERALD APEX… KEERRRRYYY KUUROOOYAAAAAMMMAAAAAAA!!!
A heavy, electric blues riff cuts through the arena noise as Sturgill Simpson’s “Fastest Horse in Town” explodes over the PA system. The house lights kill instantly, replaced by a dazzling sweep of silver and white laser beams flashing across the crowd.
Stepping through the curtain with all the swagger of a man who owns a pair of custom snakeskin boots, a jet ski with a missing title, and a standing reservation at every high-roller buffet in Nevada, “The Rhinestone Cowboy” himself, Daytona Diamonds. Draped in an ornate, silver-fringed entrance robe that glitters under the spotlights, he unclasps the Universal Championship from his waist and holds it high above his head, letting the gold and rhinestones catch every beam of light.
Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring, weighing in at 290 pounds… he is YOUR PRIME Universal Champion… The Rhinestone Cowboy… DAAAAAYTOOOONNNAAAA DIIIIIAMONDS!
Daytona smiles and gives a thumbs up for the front row even as they boo him, tipping his hat as he makes his way down the ramp. With the belt slung over his shoulder, he makes his way into the ring, pausing in the center to once again lift the belt up high.
He barely even acknowledges Kuroyama as he makes his way to his corner, letting his robe fall to the ground before placing his hat atop the turnbuckle.
DING DING
Nick Stuart: This match is sure to be a gem! Here we g-OH MY!
Kerry started sprinting the moment Elvis Nixon signaled for the bell…and just as Daytona turns to look towards the challenger, he’s met with a boot to the face!
Nick Stuart: YAKUZA KICK! DIAMONDS IS DOWN!
Kuroyama moves as quickly and fluidly as possible, securing the pumphandle grip, lifting, twisting, and absolutely PLANTING Diamonds with an Emerald Flowsion!
Richard Parker: That’s the Kuroyama Driver I! You’re kidding! It’s all over, baby!
The Chicago crowd is on their feet, losing their minds at this one-two combo! Kuroyama dives across the chest of Diamonds and wrenches both legs as far back as he can for the pin!
Nixon with the count!
ONE!
TWO!
…
THREE-NOOOOOOO! Nixon points at the issue – Diamonds’ legs have been pulled so far back in this cover that his feet are tangled between the middle and bottom ropes. Kerry closes his eyes and exhales in disappointment – he knows just how close he was to ending this match before it really started. The United Center PRIMEates rain down boos to the referee and cheers of encouragement to Kuroyama.
At Elvis’s instruction, Kerry gives Daytona some space. The ref checks on Diamonds in the corner for concussion-like symptoms, but the Rhinestone Cowboy just shoo’s him away. Diamonds’ eyes grow wide as he sees that Kuroyama is charging the corner again!
YAKUZA KICK!
…MISSES! Daytona ducks out of the way just in time, leaving Kerry’s leg tangled over the top rope!
Diamonds reaches a meaty paw down and sweeps the plant leg, sending Kuroyama crashing face-first into the mat!
Daytona, never missing the chance to showboat, elicits jeers from the crowd with some well-executed swizzle hips. He reaches down and locks in a single underhook, suplexing the challenger straight into the turnbuckles!
After that violent crash, Diamonds pulls Kuroyama by the foot towards the middle of the ring and goes for the cover!
ONE!
…Kerry immediately shoves Diamonds off! Both men scramble to their feet, circling each other only for a brief moment before charging forward and locking up!
Nick Stuart: Diamonds with the strength advantage, but Kuroyama has the better technique.
Richard Parker: It’s not often we see the Whoresmen go the “technique” route, and for good reason, partner!
Nick Stuart: Indeed, the Anabolic Outlaw is no stranger to stirring a little chaos, and Kuroyama knows that first hand after losing his Five Star title to Rob Williams at the start of the year.
Neither man seems to be able to get the full upper hand in this lockup battle, and eventually Daytona chooses to shove Kerry away with brute force! He throws the knife-edge!
SMACK!
And another two! Kuroyama staggers back!
SMACK! SMACK!
Kerry’s on the back foot – until he plants, spins, and CLOBBERS Daytona with a Squall Line Lariat! Kerry shoots the half!
ONE!
Daytona HEAVES Kerry off of his chest like he’s 100 pounds lighter than he actually is – a feat of strength so impressive, even the referee is a little shook.
Both men rise to their feet and begin circling again.
Nick Stuart: The Emerald Apex may need a new angle of attack here – he caught the champion off guard with some big moves, but I don’t think the striking game will serve him well in the long run against someone with muscles as freakish as our Universal Champion’s.
Richard Parker: He’s like a redneck Terminator out there, no doubt – if only Scott Hunter were here to explain that 80’s reference to his partner, maybe they could come up with the right strategy!
Nick Stuart: …oh yeah?
Richard Parker: Don’t ask me who plays Sarah Connor. That’s Scott Hunter’s territory.
Kerry and Daytona look ready to lock up once again, and both lunge – but this time, Kerry shifts to the side, slips around, and gains a rear waist lock! He lifts, going for a big German suplex!
Daytona fights it off! Reverses! Attempts a big Belly To Belly suplex!
Kerry kicks his legs frantically, but can’t overcome the sheer strength of the champion! Daytona gives one more vicious HEAVE and sends Kerry flying!
…Kerry lands on his feet! He charges – SQUALL LINE LARIAT – no! Daytona ducks! Gut punch to the challenger! Another! Another! He goes for a very dramatic wind-up as Kerry clutches at his abdomen…
…before he explodes! He catches Diamonds as he goes for another gut punch and flings him across the ring, using his own momentum against him with a Japanese arm drag!
Another arm drag! Another! The champion is dazed! Kerry with a kick to the midsection, doubling the champ over! He locks in one underhook, then the second!
Nick Stuart: …Black Tahoma Breaker!! Kuroyama shoots the half, we have a new champion!
ONE!
TWO!
…
…KICKOUT BY DIAMONDS!!
Kerry slaps the mat with a hint of frustration, but only just a hint. Daytona slowly crawls towards the ropes and uses them to gradually get vertical. Meanwhile, Kerry begins planning his next angle of attack.
Richard Parker: Back and forth contest so far, partner, but I gotta say, the challenger’s looking better than expected.
Nick Stuart: I don’t know what you’re talking about – Kerry Kuroyama has been one of PRIME’s brightest stars for years at this point, and if it weren’t for Cecilworth Farthington’s own legendary run with the Universal Title, he surely would have been 2025’s Wrestler of the Year. Not only that, he just beat Nate Colton and Steve Lemieux in a Triple Threat match!
Richard Parker: I don’t know how impressive it is to beat Lemieux, but fair point about Colton…
From the outside, Ami Troy shouts words of encouragement to her beau. They lock eyes for a moment and nod to each other – and with that, Kerry stomps over to the Universal Champion, who is slowly getting to his own feet.
They go nose-to-nose, and it is HEATED! Blistering comments from Diamonds, white hot fire from Kuroyama…slap to the face from the champ! Kerry slaps him back, and Daytona is smarting!
He stumbles back, bounces off the ropes, and sends Kerry absolutely ass-over-teakettle with a Six Shooter rebound lariat!
Diamonds mounts the challenger and begins throwing absolutely devastating rights and lefts down on Kuroyama’s head. The Emerald Apex covers up as best as he can, but he can’t stop every shot from connecting. Ami is irate on the outside, and she says something that catches Daytona’s attention.
He gives Kerry one more stiff right hook for good measure before stomping off towards Ami and blowing her a kiss and crudely gesturing towards his downstairs. Ami is having none of this bullshit and gives the champ the double deuce. Diamonds cackles to himself…and then his eyes go wide!
He falls backwards!
SCHOOLBOY!
ONE!
TWO!
…
THREENOOOOO! Diamonds somehow gets a shoulder up at the last second!
Kerry doesn’t wait, throwing several straight jabs right into the champion’s nose! He flips over Diamonds and locks in a stepover toehold sleeper!
Nick Stuart: CASCADIAN CLUTCH! CASCADIAN CLUTCH! He’s going to make the champ tap out!
We see a trickle of blood coming down Diamonds’ nose, which can’t help his breathing as he tries to fight out of this sleeper submission! He’s literally gagging and desperately reaching for the ropes, but Kerry is hanging on tight!
Richard Parker: Look out!
Nick Stuart: What’s that?
There’s a murmur in the crowd that grows into a rumble and finally roaring shouts!
Nick Stuart: Ah hell, of course it is.
Fred Dick has hopped the guardrail with a steel chair behind the in-ring action. He’s being as sneaky as a man with that hair, those tattoos, and that bright red Michael Jordan jersey can be. Some of the fans seem to actually pop for the Jordan jersey, completely detached from what his presence means for this match.
Nixon checks on Diamonds over and over, and the champion keeps refusing to tap, but between the bleeding nose and the purple complexion on his face, this war of attrition seems to be turning south in a hurry. Kerry absolutely wrenches this hold in with every ounce of strength he can, clearly straining at dealing with the sheer muscle mass of his opponent, but filled with sheer determination.
Ami clocks Fred Dick’s presence and moves to intercept. Fred rolls under the bottom ropes outside the ref’s field of view. Just as Fred looks to have an angle to swing the chair into Kerry’s back, Ami slides in and grabs the chair, holding on for dear life! She can’t pry it away from the Street Cat, but she has initiated a tug of war!
She loses the contest, but by the time Fred is able to wrench the chair away, he’s drawn the attention of Elvis Nixon! He begins yelling at both Fred and Ami to get out of the ring as Fred hilariously tries to hide a whole-ass chair behind him. It actually sort of works due to Fred’s belly structure.
Diamonds, still fighting through this hold, slips his foot back in absolute desperation with a mule kick that happens to connect with Kerry’s crotch – or at least, “intent” could be debatable with that kick.
The second kick’s intentions were clearer, as his heel connects flush with Kerry’s downstairs. It’s enough to release the hold, and Ami is apoplectic!
Nick Stuart: Low blows from the champ, and the hold is released! It should be a DQ!
Richard Parker: The Whoresmen are masters at this crap – hang on!
As Fred and Ami and Elvis all get into a shouting match with each other, and as Kerry and Daytona both lay on the ground recovering from their recent battle wounds, there’s another rumble in the crowd!
A big-ass cowboy with a big-ass hat charges down the ramp!
Nick Stuart: IT’S CLAY BYRD! THE COWBOY COLOSSUS IS HERE TO PUT AN END TO THIS!
Fred and Ami continue screaming at each other, and Fred rears back with the chair – but Clay’s made it to the ring! He punches the chair out of Fred’s hands! It goes tumbling to the outside, and Byrd towers over the Street Cat!
Clay grabs Fred by the back of the head and launches him over the top rope to the floor! He follows in pursuit and hammers in some big clubbing forearms!
Ami tries to check in on Kerry, but Nixon instructs her to leave the ring and return to her corner. She provides several valid observations and objections, particularly about nut shots that the ref didn’t see, but Elvis remains stoic in a sort of, “fine, I want to call this match too, which means you gotta get out of here” way.
She finally relents, stepping to the outside and heading towards Clay to support his efforts.
Daytona wipes his nose and sees the red on the back of his hand, as Kerry struggles to get upright with his plums double-tapped. A darkness washes over the Cowboy as he flexes, almost on instinct, with a snarl across his face. He goozles the challenger, lifts him high in the air, and hits the Chattahoochee Chokeslam! He puts a foot on Kerry’s chest and flexes some more!
ONE!
TWO!
…
THREENOOO! Kerry gets the shoulder up!
Diamonds is annoyed at this and peels Kerry off the mat. He chucks him into the ropes, setting up for the big pop-up powerbomb on the rebound – but Kerry ducks it! He hits the opposite ropes, building up major speed! Daytona goes for the big boot! Kerry ducks it again! He rebounds off the ropes, a blur of black and green! Diamonds is completely off balance!
PROPELLOR EDGE CHOP FROM KERRY!
SMACKKKKKK
We immediately see a red forearm-and-palm-shaped welt form from Daytona’s right clavicle to left nipple, and he keels over like his lungs have collapsed!
On the outside, Clay is fully chasing Fred in a lap around the ring, Fred terrified to come within arm’s reach of Byrd. Each time they pass the steel chair, Fred seems to go for it, only to abort the attempt when he’s punched or kicked or otherwise clobbered by Clay.
Kerry runs to the ropes for momentum again, rebounding, immediately at Sonic speeds – QUEEN’S GAMBIT! The double knees send Daytona crashing to the mat!
Nick Stuart: Tributes to the Co-Consuls of Vae Victis! And he’s not done yet!
Daytona wants to get upright, but he’s on spaghetti legs. We’ve never seen Kerry move this quickly before, absolutely blazing across the ring, springing back and forth like a cruiserweight, before he leaps off his feet and crashes into Diamonds’ ribs and reminds him that he is very much 232 pounds of solid-ass muscle.
Nick Stuart: Kerry hits Clay Byrd’s Spear!
On the outside, Clay has finally caught Fred and begins raining down some HEAVY shots! Ami slams her hands to the mat, electrically charged at how much ass her boys are kicking –
WHAP!
– before she gets clocked in the back by a kendo stick!
Richard Parker: It’s Anna Daniels! She’s going after Ami Troy AGAIN!
Ami clearly smarts for a moment before turning around, rage taking over her face. Anna swings the stick again, catching Ami in the midsection and doubling her over! Daniels begins to press her advantage more and more until a big hand grabs her by the shoulder and holds her back…
It’s Clay Byrd! He’s disengaged from Fred and is now tangled with Anna! She swings the kendo stick at Clay’s head – he catches it! This tug-of-war is short, and soon Clay has wrenched the stick away!
Richard Parker: Never mind that, partner – look what’s happening in the ring!
Kerry is throwing classic 80’s style babyface punches – with perfect Scott Hunter form and style! He follows it up with a loooooooong delayed vertical suplex, before absolutely PLANTING the champion!
BOOM!
Nick Stuart: All of Vae Victis is in the ring with Kerry tonight!
We hear a big OHHHHH from the ringside area – just as Clay and Anna look like they’re about to come to blows, Ami leaps on Anna’s back like a spider monkey and wraps her in a rear naked choke! Anna frantically swings her elbows and goes for any sort of guardrail or corner she can to slam Ami into, and it’s chaotic. Clay moves over to the kendo stick, picks it up, and heaves it like a javelin all the way up the ring ramp – none of this Foreign Object Bullshit for him, thank you.
He seemed to remember that there was another item somewhere – ah yes, the steel chair. Where was that again? Clay begins to search for it, when he’s suddenly uppercutted squarely in the balls from behind by Fred Dick!
Clay goes bug-eyed and crumples to the ground in a heap. Fred looks in the ring and sees that Kerry is pumping up the crowd, and nearly panics!
As Ami and Anna punch and kick and elbow and claw and otherwise try to maim each other as frantically as possible, Fred feels equally frenetic as he darts to where he thinks the chair landed after Clay punched it out of his hands earlier.
In the ring, Diamonds has made it to a corner of the ring after enduring signature moves belonging to Henry Keyes, Lindsay Troy, Clay Byrd, and Scott Hunter in succession. He’s a mess, but he’s a survivor in his own right and looks like he’s trying to somehow, some way, get vertical and pull something out of his ass to turn things around.
Kerry has the crowd fully charged and the United Center is absolutely rocking at the action!
Daytona is finally upright in the corner, and Kerry sets up opposite him – he’s going to crush the crown jewel of the Poor Whoresmen with everything Vae Victis represents, and now it’s time to represent his own damn self.
He wants to land one more damn Yakuza kick – and then, Helen willing, the Kuroyama Driver II. No one kicks out of that.
A fist-dented steel chair slides under the bottom rope and into the ring not too far from Daytona’s feet, surprising Elvis, Kerry, and Daytona in equal measure.
Daytona and Kerry look at the chair and then at each other, like someone dropped a pistol on the ground in the saloon.
They move at the same instant – Kerry charging for the Yakuza kick, Daytona reaching down, two samurai in the tall grass that know this one moment will be the deciding strike…
SMACK!!!
…
…
…
Elvis Nixon is absolutely stunned, and he signals for the bell.
DING DING DING
BOOOO!!!!!!!
Nick Stuart: I AM ABSOLUTELY OUTRAGED! DAYTONA DIAMONDS JUST SMASHED KERRY KUROYAMA WITH THE STEEL CHAIR RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE REFEREE!
Daytona looks furious for a moment, and then a wide smile cracks across his face as he sees his opponent crumpled on the mat. He fully starts to cackle as a trickle of blood begins to run down Kerry’s forehead and onto the canvas.
BOOOOOOOOO!!!!!
Nixon yells at Daytona, who piefaces the referee and tosses the chair aside, stepping out of the ring and stomping over towards the timekeeper’s table.
Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this match, as a result of DISQUALIFICATION…
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Vince Howard: Kerry Kuroyamaaaaaaa!
Diamonds motions at the attendant holding the Universal Championship to get the hell out of the way, and he snatches the belt and slings it over his shoulder.
Ami Troy has disengaged from Anna Daniels and is now in the ring, checking on Kerry. She sees the blood and she sees the three Whoresmen at ringside, celebrating and cheering like Daytona just grabbed the checkered flag at Talladega Motor Speedway. Clay’s in the ring now too, barking at the Whoresmen who respond by mock crying at the VV trio in the ring.
Vince Howard: However, as a result…STILLLLLL your Universal Champioooooon…DAYTONA! DIIIIIIIIIAMOOOOOOOOONDS!
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!
Nick Stuart: I am absolutely sick to my stomach! Kerry deserved this moment, Kerry deserves the Universal Championship, and the Whoresmen have exploited the technicalities of the rulebook to take the coward’s way out!
Richard Parker: Kerry Kuroyama still got the win, partner!
Nick Stuart: The win, sure, but he SHOULD be the Universal Champion! We better not have heard the last of this issue!
Fred Dick has pulled several bottles of the five-dollarest champagne he could find out of his ass and he and Anna give Daytona the full bubbly shower as silver sparks shoot up around the stage. Vae Victis is furious in the ring, and Kerry in particular burns a hole straight into Daytona’s head.
FADE
TO
RHINESTONES
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