Assbrotone

Wanna know a secret?    

I know a lot about glue, bro.     

There’s… weak glues. The shitty ones. The overpriced ones, bro.  

Then there are those fuckin’ brexpeditious ones. The fast-acting bonds. The ones with all those hard-to-name polymers and shit. The one everyone knows about outside the chemical-fluent community though, bro?    

The strongest. The fastest setting. The best.     

The one you don’t test. The nastiest.    

Cecilbroacrylate.    

Mister Superfuckin’glue himself.    

He who keeps company of a similar man, a former champion, who has the world at his fingertips. Accompanied by another man, another crowned prince, who stood atop the glass pyramid. And also, a man who seems to hide himself in a tube.   And a powerbomb king.   

A glass pyramid that, until recently, was sound in structure, broski. Now it’s...  

A pyramid held together by... cecilbroacrylate?  

So now what, bro? The SuperGlooBro pieces it all back together and builds his kingdom on broken glass? Then he falls from grace to land... here.   

Neck deep in Espressotinis and wallowing in misery because shiny things slipped right through your greasy lil’ digits? Super sad because you aren’t the big baller on the front page? Wishin’ you had done things differently, wondering if you can put it all back together again, Humpty Dumpty style?  

Welcome to my world, Lord Brocilworth.  

The middle of the sentence, bro.   

See how fast the mighty fall?

“Tough loss, buddy, you put up a real fight tonight. Nate Colton’s one of the best around. Ya just… came up short.”

Nate Colton’s most recent victim turns to notice an older man in a blue custodial uniform with the name ‘Carl’ on his chest. He lowers his head, fighting off a snarl before curling his mouth into a gracious grin. He reaches out, patting Carl on the shoulder before shaking his hand.

“Thanks, Broda. Not my night.”

He said it. Pulled a real Danny DeVitbro. Again.  So short.     

“Have a good night, old timer.”

Crash releases the handshake, stepping out of the locker room and scanning for the exit. He zips his jacket up before heading off.

“Say, kid…”

He turns back toward Carl with a curious look in his eye. He lifts his chin to signal he’s listening. Carl looks around cautiously, unsure of if this is cool or not, but goes in for it anyway. Crash keeps his eyes up and ears open as well.

I hope this guy doesn’t try to kiss me…       

“I been workin’ these shows for years now. Seen a lot of guys just like you come in and then fall out.”

Yeah, starting to see why…       

“I met a guy a few months back. Called himself a, one’a them Business Managers. Said he was lookin’ for young cats like yourself, told me to send ‘em his way if I ever found myself in the right time or place to do so.”

A business manager, huh? That might be somebody I should talk to.       

“Now, I met a lot of these guys, walkin’ around here in their fancy suits with their expensive cars, lookin’ for their next meal ticket.”

They both exchange a nod of understanding how the game works.

These guys feed on young wrestlers or guys down on their luck to extort their earnings to help supplement their disgusting coke and gambling and Fortnite habits.      

This is when Carl notices the look being sent his way and waves his hand at being involved in any part of that shit.

Oh right. That’s exactly why I don’t need anyone to take the money I don’t have.

“This one was different…”

C’mon, dude. Aren’t they all?       

“This cat was smart.”

That last bit of information is able to stir Crash’s curiosity. He purses his lips a bit, chewing on his cheek with contemplation, before cocking his head quickly.

Fuck it.  

“This smart guy got a name?”

Carl pauses and grins, letting Crash stew in the suspense for a minute, before he rifles into his custodial cart. He pulls out a small little box, pops it open, and reveals a stack of business cards and small Knickknacks from over the years. He shuffles through the cards and pulls out a black card with white lettering on it.

“Keep it, kid.”

Even the feel of the card was enough to intrigue the Northern Light. The embossed lettering felt strong in his fingers. The weight gives him the feeling as if he just uncovered lost treasure. The striking image of a large white spade. He turns it over to find a phone number and seven words on the back.

High Output Talent Development Of Great Success 

Life is shitty sometimes, Lord Brothington.    

Sometimes, it’s fuckin’ brotastic though, bro.    

Yo.   

Like, one day, when you’re out in the… wild. You’re fighting and scrapping and clawing and hoping you get to eat, bro. And breed. You definitely gotta breed, like all the time, bro.    

Then, some nerds use their phones to tell everyone about the super awesome shit you can do and then… you’re in a cage.    

Then…   

One day… you’re one top of the world, bro. You got planes. The fame. That always elusive brostige. And then all that makes you think that you can do clones of people who really shouldn’t be cloned. And PRIME titles hangin’ from your fuckin’ waist, bein’ the ooiest, gooiest bro this side of the philly farm.    

The Top Glob off the Glue Stick.   

Then people got a glimpse of the Gluebro’s humanity. That’s when you lost that big one in the Almasy Finals. The next time, you lose that belt. Now, I’m here, lookin’ at you - the infamous Bronancier - never thinkin’ this is how we’d meet.   

Just two bros.  

With nothin’ to lose. 

The fuckin’ vastness of space captures our audience as PRIME’s Hot Dog Hero flies around on, yep, a mothafuckin’ hot dog! Not one of those stupid ones with lettuce or tomatoes or rude amounts of catsup but a standard one. Maybe an unhealthy amount of raw onions but standard catsups and mustards and a totally-normal fission-electric rocket booster attached to the back.  

“LEEEEEETTTTT’SSSSS GOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Beyond time or reason or whatever the hell is happening it becomes clear that we’re catching up with the Northern Light as he descends down upon one of the many cartoonish planets in this galactic cluster unknown to the common man. No helmet, breathing apparatus, or napkins in sight - the hot dog zooms down through the atmosphere leaving red and yellow vapor trails in it's wake.       

The clouds wisp by the smiling Crash before breaching through to find a utopian planet with millions of flying hot dogs across the sky. On the ground we can see an intricate, beautiful world in which only the coolest people could live on and create. Crash flies super low, over a crisp, cold, and golden body of water. He pulls out a massive beer stein, dunking it to fill, before gobbling it down wildly.

“BEEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRR!”

Just beyond Labatt Blue Lake resides a massive mansion, glistening with all its glory. He brings the hot dog to a slow speed before setting it down similar to how one does a landspeeder. He jumps off, immediately swarmed by paparazzi holding corndog microphones, as to which Crash takes a polite bite out of each, and adoring fans who pass him half-eaten hot dog buns and empty catsup bottles to sign. Crash opens the front door after making it past the crowd before waving goodbye and everyone leaves calmly without fighting and shit. 

“You’re home!”

A slew of good looking and stable redheaded children rush him, swarming him with love and joy, before he takes a second to get a look at all fifteen of his beautiful little bros and brosephines. Then a super smokin’ hot redhead with heaving breasts - quite similar to a certain lady he knows - comes strolling out from the back of the house in slow motion to the chorus of “Alone” by Heart.      

“Buuuuuuhhhrrroooooooooo….”

THUD

His jaw joins the cartoon theme and physically hits the fucking floor as the sea of children part. This smoke show strolls into Crash’s arms in slow motion before he dips her and embraces her for an erotic kiss and he even starts grabbing her buttcheeks. The pitter patter of paws and claws on tile draws everyone’s attention before two larger than normal French bulldogs come running into the room and jump on their dog Dad before slobbering the shit out of him.       

“Porkchop! Applesauce! HELLOOOOOOOO MY BROS!”

They roll around with pure love and laughter filling the house. He finally stands before lifting one of his little girls and raising the PRIME Rookie of the Year trophy. His whole family starts cheering and then all of the house staff comes out, chanting his name.

CRASH!       

CRASH!       

CRASH!

The subway blasts by Crash’s hotel, sitting in the heart of Brooklyn, and stirs him awake. The walls thump nearly a dozen times while he lay there, now awake, and think if following the HOTDOGS card is worth the hassle. With Cecilworth waiting for him in Providence, he might better use his time on finding the absolute best life insurance policy available for a guy who could very well have less than two weeks to live.         Damn, bro. These gummies are nuts…

The Northern Light lets out an audible chuckle, letting his imagination run wild for a split second. He glances at his phone to see the time of 3:22AM. He lets out another deep sigh, knowing he’s gonna need all the rest he can get, especially if tomorrow is as fruitful as it is promising.

Those were some huuuuuuge Frenchies!     

Crash sits inside a quaint office just a few blocks from the site of ReVival 43. Taking a few extra days before heading off to Providence to take on Phil Atken’s brotégé, he sports a red tie, white button down rolled to the elbows, khakis, with obligatory dress shoes. It’s a striking contrast to what the ravenous wrestler usually wears so, naturally, it’s a bit jarring to see.

“Crash. Fucking. Jackson, man. In my office! Welcome, my friend. Welcome!”

On the other side of the desk sits a younger Armenian man wearing a sky blue Adidas tracksuit, gold chains, a big watch, and gradient sunglasses. He leans back with outstretched arms, seemingly doing a big reveal to the big yellow block letters on the wall behind him.

H O T D O G S

Brooooo… HOTD-     

The thud of a pair of the freshest white Adidas sneakers on Earth dropping down on the mahogany desk cuts Crash off midthought. The owner of said feet sits silently, smiling and shaking his head while rubbing his hands together.

Oh no. He’s gonna sex traffic me, bro!

“Welcome to High Outcome Training Development of Great Success, my man. I am Raffi Azarian. It is so very nice to meet you, big bro!”

That fully disarms our naïve hero from becoming a reluctant sex slave before he relaxes back into the leather of his chair. Raffi slaps the desk and kicks back in his chair, high energy and somewhat alarming shit. He claps his hands together before deadpanning, wearing the most businessiest business face ever seen. It pushes Crash even further back in his seat like a Force push.

Oh shit, dude!    

“Let me ask you something, main man…”

Raffi twirls his hands around, squishing his face a bit as he fights to find the words to best convey what he’s thinking. That or he’s playing with some sort of imaginary cat toy, pawing at it wildly. Either way, it takes a few seconds that leave our less-than-successful PRIMEate hanging in suspense.

I think he broken, bro. 

“How bad do you want to be the best in the world?”

Fuck, bro. Got a longer knife? Don’t think it went all the way through my blood pumper.    

“We-”

Crash opens his mouth before seeing Raffi waving his finger, making a sharp ticking sound with his tongue.

“Think about it. Take your time. I would very much like for your answer to… mean it, my man.”

OUCH, BRO!    

The only guy in the room on a losing streak kips forward, clenching his jaw. Ready at the fire with a slew of expressions that would verbally cut up just about anyone, Crash’ brain sends the message to hold up his own index finger, knowing that they all fall under one label.

Those are all bitch ass excuses, bro, and you know it. What did this little fancy business wizard do to get yelled at by a guy who has one win to his name? Ask an honest question on one of the many days before you square off with Cecilbro? That’s not fair, dude.    

Raffi does some scrolling on his phone while New York’s Finest scrolls through his brain, and heart, and fuckin’ soul, bro.

I bet anyone else in this chair says ‘to win,’ or ‘be a, the champion.’ Is this who I wanna be, bro? Am I gonna be just like the other brospects? Why would anyone want this life, just for a chance to hold a title for a few months? Besides the cash. I mean… I bet the cash is friggin’ nice. Why ride the road until you’re old, broken, and tossed aside for next year's younger, stronger, prettier new model?    

Raffi pulls himself in closer to his desk. His fingers begin rapidly firing away at the keyboard. He does that thing where he turns his head but his eyes don’t even come close to making actual eye contact. Crash doesn’t notice as he’s still lost in thought.

I just love wrestling, Mr. Brozarian. The fans, the lights, the fights, the big city nights. The sounds, the towns, the road, the bros, the foes, the highs and even the lowest fuckin’ lows are better than not doing what you love for a living. I don’t really know why but, if there was a reason I’m in love with this… life that doesn’t really love me back is because, bro… if it were easy, anybody could do it. That’s something I’m proud of, at least…    

A sudden uptick in his demeanor sends a flicker through the Northern Light’s eyes  before his head kicks up. The first thing he sees are the big block letters on the back wall. Raffi taps and types away some more before half-glancing again. If he would actually look at him, he would see where the uncertain expression of a man without direction once was; now sits the cold, confident look of a man with a purpose in his mind… and in his heart. His eyes lock directly on to Raffi.    “I want to make them proud.”

Raffi looks up, unsure if he heard him right, before turning his full focus on Crash.

“Make who proud, big bro?”

My Dad. My Mom. Showing them that their little dude grew up to do what he loves for a living. My fans. Putting on the best show, for them, for their love. The asshole who tried to kill me at the carnival. Lindsay Troy. PRIME scouts. Those Japanese dicks who put me through the ringer. Anyone and everyone who ever played a part in getting me to this point in my life. Max. Purps. Everyone who I’ve ever wrestled with or against, I want to make them proud by not giving up, bro. Being a real life Rocky Balbroa.    

Crash’s smile grows exponentially before he nods.

“Everyone, bro.”

Cecilbro Farthington. The Gluminatti All Star. 

The Hot Dog Hero. 

One ring.  

One night. 

Nothing on the line. 

EVERYTHING ON THE LINE 

So I gotta ask... 

Do you wanna dance, Brocilworth? 

Because I love a good tango. 

Ask Fred Bumperlover Dick. 

So now we get to treat the fine brozillas and brozilletes in Providence to one of the most unmeaningful, meaningful matches of all time. A bro who dips his toes in the rivers of gold against a bro who just lives for the show. 

I don’t know if it means that much to you, bropedo. 

This means everything to me. 

“Thank you, Mister Crash man. I know sometimes these things are difficult to think about. Reality of your place in the world can be daunting. We must know the truth in order to erase the lie, yes no? This was a little test of mine. Any asshole with a contract in PRIME can walk through those doors and tell me they want to win, so I needed to hear how important this is to you before we move forward.”

Reality is that I’ve got a lot of climbing to do, bro.    

“You see, my man, what I do is business. When it comes to the line of work you do, success is vital to the success of the business, yes? So in order to be the best, you must beat the best. That’s when you start to see greater and greater returns. Know what I am saying, big bro?”

“So I want to give you the tools to help you become the best. This is largely up to you. I think, with my help and my tools, and if you give your full effort, remember the fundamentals of what got you here, and never quit… you’ll make anyone who hears your name smile.”

God damn, dawg! Gonna make me fall in love with your little sweet-talkin’ ass, bro.

“What are these tools? Like a special phone and shit?”

The business wunderkind nods his head in a non-answer fashion. This leaves Crash with slightly more confusion. He looks off into the metaphorical realm to paint the best picture.

“Sort of? Think of it this way, my man. We can’t afford to wait around for the right time to get you in position to do great things so we will have to do them as we go. The European tour starts in a little over a month so things are going to be moving very fast, okay bro?”

Jesus. War Games is comin’ up quick, bro.     

“So, for now, we’re going to get you ready for the ball, Mister Cinderella man.”

What in the Hell does that mean? 

“The first thing I want do for you is find you some professional training. A wrestling school or coach with some real life exposure to what it looks like at the top, looking down. Because, let’s be honest, main man, you’re still pretty raw, yes no?”

Well… not everyone says that but, yeah… it’s not the first time I’ve heard it. But only like three times, okay?   

“That’ll be what I work on first while you get everyone else on board. There’s not much time before the big time European tour so, the more you can do solo, the faster we can bring the team together before you head overseas.”

Wait, bro… what?      

“Everyone else?”

Raffi pulls his phone up just before it buzzes alive. He looks up with a sly grin at his prospective client/colleague/star. Crash watches as Raffi clicks his phone to life while standing up from behind the desk.

“Erica, will you send in the Frenchies? Thank you.”

BRO. WHAT?! PLURAL, BRO!    

The mere mention of one French bulldog causes the French bulldog lover to fly into mental circles. He turns to the door as Raffi hangs up. He turns to notice a strange excitement about his newfound client. The door opens and two identical six foot, nine inch blonde dudes stroll in.

“Zis is why we never talk to ze fuckin’ girls wiz ze weird little kitties on zeir fucking backpacks. How many times do we do zis?”

Wearing matching white suits, but one with a red tie and the other with a yellow, two giant dudes walk into the room. Raffi takes a few steps forward as both men flank Crash’s newfound guide to greatness. Yellow tie turns toward his more vocal twin.

“Zen next time, you do ze talking, petite chien.”

Raffi holds his hand up to cut off these bickering bitches. He holds out his hand, one to each side, and gestures to the Hot Dog Hero.

“My main man, two of your tools. A man who can drive any car, Jacque Laroque. Give him a road and he will get you where you need to be. His twin brother, Broque Laroque, my head of security. These two will accompany you to Rhode Island for the ReVival Forty Four.”

HOLY SHIT    

Crash thinks back to his involuntarily early rise.

MY DREAM    

His eyes grow wide as does his mouth. He turns to Raffi. He turns to his two new huge, French friends. He tries to speak but really loses track of what he’s supposed to do right now. He embraces Raffi and pats his back, em-fucking-phatically.

TWO HUGE FRENCHIES, BRO 

Cecilbro... I feel the pain, bro. 

I lose. 

A lot. 

So, to see you falling apart when you lose… it’s harsh, bro. 

I’m just not stuck on it.

Superglue don't work on me.