BRO, I PAID FOR THESE TICKETS, IF I WANTED COMMENTARY I'D HAVE WATCHED AT HOME

“feeling high and blessed to have missed the majority of that match” - Grover, PRIME discord contributor, a review of Max Kael? Vs Daytona Diamonds Rev. 40.. Probably.

..A lifetime ago..

..In an afterlife far, far away..

“I require you, you specifically, for this task.”

There is a hollow quality to Lord Farthington’s words, like the ring of church bells on a cold winter morning. It causes Max to grind his teeth, the grating of His’s voice felt in the marrow of Kael’s bones.

“Yeah? Well I kinda died a few..” Max pauses as he realizes he has no idea how long he’s been dead for. “It’s not important. I’m basically retired now, so if-”

He feels fingers moving under his skin, digging into his muscles. It’s an immediate, unpleasant and entirely unexpected attack leaving him unable to even scream. Instead he spasms, still restrained, gasping as he feels he’s being ripped apart. When you’re in this kind of pain, time becomes irrelevant. It could have been a few moments, it might have been minutes. All that mattered was the flood of relief that washes over Max when this ripping sensation abates.

“I.. Require.. You.” 

It wasn’t a request, it was a demand, Max realizes.

“Yeah, of course, no problem.” Kael wheezes through a few desperate gasps. “..why didn’t you just say so from the start?”

“None of us have a complete enough personality to make a functional human being up there.” speaks Max Shell. “So we had to cobble together a kind of baseline personality with what we had. It’s primitive, mostly based on the Child Max since his personality is the closest to base.”

The Child Max stands and waves. He’s gets a polite golf clap while Max stares incredulously at the collective Fragments around him.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“We got a new body, you fucking idiot!” snaps Max Best. “But none of us were qualified to pilot the old meat mech so we had to create a brand new Max. A questionable Max Kael at best.”

“You’re a monster, that was a terrible pun.” Max retorts as he considers what he had just heard. Seems pretty far fetched all things considered. His various personalities cast to the cosmic wind only to be found by Him. And then there was a body that was being piloted by an amalgamation of random personality traits? Still, he supposed he had been through stranger things in his life.

“Enough.”

The finality of the word cuts through the collective of Kael fragments and draws Max’s attention immediately back to the Hunter’s throne. Regardless of the confusion batshit backstory he had just learned, the pain and discomfort created by Lord Farthington was real enough to convince Max.

“You will take over. You will assist in the Great Plan.” He decrees from his Hunter’s throne, each word like a thin razor dragging across his brain. “Then. Maybe. You’ll be free.”

It wasn’t much of a deal but then, Max figured, this wasn’t a negotiable bargain but rather a gallows sentence.

“No rest for the wicked I guess.” he capitulates. “So what do I do?”

Before anyone has a chance to reply there is a terrible, awful shuttering. The black stone throne room shifts violently as the structural integrity of the entire structure threatens to collapse. Panic ripples through the chamber as the various fragments begin to balk and scream in confusion.

Suddenly a body crashes down onto the hard stone floor at Max’s feet. A man in his early twenties with a manic rigor smile stretched across a narrow face that seemed vaguely recognizable. A bullet hole is set between two wide, wild eyes; Presumably the reason the man was dead. Kael continues to stare at the newly arrived corpse, getting the growing feeling like he was looking at the Wish.com version of himself.

“..Question, does this guy look kinda like me?”

-

..Somewhere in Millennium Stadium..

..Shortly before Night One..

“You’ve never heard of Max Kael’s Old West Saloon American Style Gun Show and Taxidermy Spectacular? In Winter’s Port we actually go by the much classier Taxidermy Phantasmagoria in case you’ve been there.”

Max tries his best to offer a young security guard a friendly smile but he puts way too many teeth into it.

“Aled, keep an eye on him, guys got six muskets back here. And what looks to be some kind of.. Custom Nitro Express rifle with a maker's mark from 1897.” An older guard looking over the assortment of antique firearms mutters in mild shock.

“What’s a custom nitro express rifle?” askes the young guard, the aforementioned Aled.

“It’s a feckin’ elephant gun!”

Aled winces at the older man’s frustrated tone. For Max’s part, he’s starting to regret trying to sneak in through the purveyor's entrance to the Millennium Stadium. Seemed security was a little more secure than he was anticipating.

“What are we going to do, oh Wise and Wily Maximil-”

“Yes-yes, we get it, you don’t have to do it every time, the Herald.” Max quickly snaps back at his ever present and surprisingly loyal minion, the Herald. The young man frowns, his shoulders dropping into a low sulk.

“..fine, you c-”

“Maximillian Wilhelm Kael?!”

The INTENSE Champion closes his eyes as a low groan grumbles from his chest. There were days and there were DAYS. As his mind mulls over his options, something buried deep in the back of his mind begins calculating the easiest way to dispatch the two guards. Those kinds of murder thoughts were something he was probably going to address sooner or later.

The radio at the hip of the older guard squawks to life with a mechanical shriek. He turns his eyes away from the guns to answer as the younger guard rubs his hands together nervously. He makes the mistake of making eye contact with the brooding Unquestionable One. Max only needs that initial eye contact to get his metaphorical foot in the door.

“Hi ya, young.. Aled was it?” Max’s eyes widen as he speaks, as though he were trying to hypnotize the guard. His smile stretches wider than he had before, his teeth clenching tightly together. What might have been an attempt at looking friendly looks like borderline constipation as Max tries a little too hard.

The hair along the nape of Aled’s neck stands up as he feels a shiver run down his spine. He stares, doe eyed, at Max as he struggles to find the correct answer to the question he was asked.

“Okay, no need to rush an answer, tiger.” Kael tries to sound as non-threatening as possible while murder swims behind his bloodshot eyes. This is not helped when he winks toward Aled, once again attempting to look friendly while actually appearing quite disquieting. Is he coming on to the young man? Or is he debating if the term “snack sized” applied to Aled when factoring which bits of him were edible?

Aled didn’t know.

Thankfully this awkward exchange is broken up by the return of the older guard who had an unusual familiarity with antique firearms.

“Alright, Mister Kael, you’ve been cleared by upper management. Your boss, Lindsay Troy, asked us to hold onto these..” the older guard begins, motioning toward the guns. “..until you return to the United States. Said they were PRIME property unless you were willing to explain their existence to the National Crime Agency.”

What starts as a look of relief darkens into a full on sulk while Max listens to the conditions of his release. Stupid Lindsay Troy sticking her nose into his business when he had warned her to stay well enough alone. Max’s eyes move from the old guard to Aled and then back again as he takes a moment to consider his options.

“..the show is about to start!” the Herald chimes up, rocking back and forth excitedly in his chair.

“..fine.” grunts the INTENSE Champion.

As he stands to leave he casts one last glance at the weapons he had intended to sneak into Culture Shock. As everyone knows, modern firearms wouldn’t work on a Farthington. Cecilworth had proven that himself when he had his head blown off and survived to win the Five Star Championship several years later.

Only classic weapons, forged at the height of the British Empire, could kill a British aristocrat in a wrestling ring. Or hemophilia but Max was pretty sure Cecilworth avoided that genetic bullet.

He’ll have to find another way.

-

..Somewhere in Millennium Stadium..

..Shortly after Night Two..

“..I..had..him..”

Max stares down at his hands stained with the blood spilled in the War Games cage. He can’t tell which splotch of blood belongs to which opponent he engaged in the evening. Just the same, his sick mind begins to attempt dividing it anyway. Turning his hands to stare at the back of his hands Max takes in every patch of ruined flesh. He tries to play each cut and scratch, savoring the feeling of his bone knuckles at Cecilworth’s face.

As he attempts to smile at his handiwork he feels a fire brush across his face from where Jiles had caught him with an unexpectedly vicious strike. Cancer was a lot more dangerous than he remembered him being in the past. His eyes flicker up to the mirror on the wall of the private bathroom he was in. The swelling beneath his eye gave his face a lopsided appearance.

“Hayes.. Jiles.. Hessian.” Max says their names out loud as his eyes return to his battle scarred hands. “..Diamonds.”

That damn cowboy had turned up like a bad penny once again. Those four men had decided to engage the Lord of Kaelsalvania in the War Games match, each had decided, for whatever reason, to help rob him of his Justice.

He tastes the familiar acrid flavor of enamel as his jaw involuntarily grinds his teeth together, rage and hate building up in his chest.

“I had him in my HAN̵̛͉̖̘̝̦̰̜͐̋̄͌̐͌͑͋͒̔̕͜D̴͓̰̈Ş̶̤̲͖͓͚̯̮̲̍̑͆͘ͅ”

The sound Max creates when he howls the words is borderline inhuman. He pours every bit of his disappointment and sorrow, rage and self-pity into the words. He can feel his throat flex and twist, tearing internally as he forces the wretched air from his own lungs.

When he finishes Max continues to ruminate upon the entire War Games situation, staring down at his rage shaken hands. He reviews once again the events as they happened in the War Games match leading up to the elimination of Kenny Freeman. Lost in his own malignant thoughts he is caught off guard when he looks up to see Him staring back at him.

The sudden appearance of Lord Farthington causes Max to jump back in a panicky, jerky motion. The adrenaline pumping through his spine pushes away all the pain leaving his body flush with energy. Well, at least for the next few seconds as his fight or flight response continued to play out.

“He’s still alive.”

His cold voice cuts through Max’s flesh and saws through his bone.

“..a minor setback. And not unexpected.. War Games has a lot of va-”

Max is cut off as his left hand darts to his neck, his long, spidery line fingers tightening around his windpipe, cutting off his words.

“Failure has consequences. You and the rest of your freakshow fellowship are not above them.” He informs the INTENSE Champion. “I’ve already cleaned up your mess with Couth. I’m going to take care of Purple. I’m not an unreasonable man, I just want my son DEAD. It’s not a complicated situation, kill him or die trying. I’ll take care of everything else.”

That thing in the mirror, a simulacrum of the late Lord Farthington, grows more monstrous in appearance the longer He chokes Kael. Repressed frustration boils across his flesh, his eyes sizzle and burn away under his own molten anger.

Max tries to gasp but he can not. His eyes widen with fear as he struggles beneath His death grip. His face turns ashen then red and finally toward a sickly purple from a lack of oxygen. How was this possible? Was this asshole always capable of controlling the body? Was he about to die again to his own fucking left hand?! Oh god, he’d forgotten to have sex since being reborn! He was going to die a virgin!

Jesus Fucking Christ, he couldn’t die like this! HE HAD SOo.. MUc…h..

To…

…

“I’m not unreasonable.”

His hand releases Max’s throat as air rushes into his burning lungs. The INTENSE Champion collapses to the ground, coughing and hacking while taking ragged, desperate gulps of precious, life bringing oxygen. As light and color wash back into his eyes, Max can’t see Him but can still hear those cold, hollow words ringing like a disharmonious bell from the mirror.

“I’ll give you till the end of the year.. Fail me again and...”

As Max takes in another deep breath he can feel new agony rushing to his throat. He closes his eyes as that horrible, overly polite sounding voice slices his ear drums.

“..we’ll have to re-evaluate your value to my plans.”

-

..The Blackwood Lodge, Suite 7, London, England..

..Sometime during the Great American Eclipse..

“Wow, it’s very dark out!”

The Herald leans over the balcony, staring up at the sky in puzzlement. The lavish accommodations Max and the Herald are currently enjoying were of the private hunters lodge the Arkham Kael family had been members of for generations. Rumors were that the club hunted cryptids and supernatural creatures. As it turns out it was perfectly normal, regular old people they hunted.

1899 was a crazy year.

But now we’re in 2024 and that doesn’t happen anymore, according to the travel brochure.

“Well the internet is saying that the eclipse is happening RIGHT NOW” Max screams from somewhere inside the suite. The Herald pulls a pair of opera glasses from his tunic, peering through them up at the night sky.

“Well it’s completely dark out, Max, I don’t see the sun at all!”

“Of course not, idiot, it’s covered up by the moon! Look for the moon! The MOON!”

With an exasperated sigh the Herald shakes his head before once again peering through his opera glasses in search of the moon. Of course, it’s a New Moon and the Herald is looking for it in the heart of London close to nine o’clock at night.

“..I don’t even see the moon, oh Wise and Wonderful Maximillian Wilhelm Kael!”

Rushing out onto the balcony wearing a pair of eclipse glasses is Max Kael. He’s wearing a Great American Eclipse Hawaiian shirt, an official Great American Eclipse ballcap and, while you can’t see them, limited edition I WAS THERE FOR THE GREAT AMERICAN ECLIPSE socks. He’s wearing a broad, excited smile which quickly vanishes upon realizes that it is, as the Herald describes, a dark, moonless sky.

“..what the FUCK?!” he sneers. “Jesus Christ, no wonder why this is the second greatest country in the world. Did you forget to pay for your high speed internet SKY, FUCKING LONDON!?”

Tearing his eclipse glasses off his face, Max throws them off the balcony before marching back into the suite.

“Do you think the world being round has some effect on it?” the Herald reasons, surprisingly astute for the fancy lad.

“Oh.” Max stops, tapping his finger to his lips thoughtfully. “..I wonder, my Herald, if the Earth being a globe affects our ability to see it.”

“Brilliant, you solved the problem!”

“I am, aren’t I?” Max says with a particularly arrogant snarl at the end of it, his lip peeling up into a self-important sneer.

The injuries from War Games seem to be healing, the scratches on his hands now little more than faint white lines. The bruise on his neck seems to have some staying power though, the outlines of his thin fingers still noticeable.

“The good news, my the Herald, is that the powers that be at PRIME management read my mind. Sure, they gave Daytona Diamonds a shot at my… MY..” Max lets his eyes flicker down to the highly polished surface of the INTENSE title that sits on display on the suite's dining room table. “..INTENSE title.. They also gave me the first on my list of folks who cost me my chance murdering Cecilworth Farthingon.”

“And you’ve already beaten him once!” The cheerful voice of the Herald fills the dining room as he prances back in from the balcony, the bells on his little costume jingling and a jangling.

“Last time I also had the Children’s Choir but since then our lovable Five Star Champion has decided to adopt the whole lot of them.” the Lord of Kaelsalvania says with a sense of loss while his fingers trace along the surface of the INTENSE championship. He sure did beat Daytona but he didn’t have a single memory on how. “I shouldn’t complain though, feeding that lot was costing us a fortune in MEAT?. Still, that Bastard Making Son of a Bitch has picked up steam since last we faced each other. He even managed to take down Brandon Youngblood, no simple task.”

“But you did beat him before!” Bentley recounts correctly once again. “Though you don’t have VP and Ulsa N. Couth to help you out.. Say.. where have they been? I haven’t seen them in weeks!”

“I.. uh.. I don’t know.”

Max’s answer was kind of a blanket statement. He didn’t really know where Couth was or what He had planned for Violent Purple. He had watched the video of Daytona and his first match. Purple and Couth had been absolutely critical in garnering the victory and he had neither of them in his corner for this one.

Still, these were INTENSE Title rules which mean anything goes. That was why this championship was so important to Max. No matter the situation, no matter the opponent, no matter the location, this championship gave Max carte blanche to a buffet of violence. This was the kind of Championship that let you use REAL NAILS in a crucifixion death match.

Or something.

“We started putting a file together on Diamonds for Winters, forward me everything we’ve got in it, my Herald”

The INTENSE Champion hisses beneath his breath, staring down at the blurry, disjointed reflection of his face in the title.

“..I’m going to undo this buckaroo.”

-

You ain’t no cowboy, Diamonds.

Sure you might try to talk like one, you might dress like a techno-disco’s fever dream of a cowboy and boy, do you go to town on the marketing for it.

But you ain’t no fucking cowboy, Diamonds.

You’re a goddamn cattle rustler is what you are, coming down from the plains to steal the hard work and riches of better, more moral guided men like me or Don Winters. Keep JUSTICE from being doled out, you’re nothing but a yellow bellied bandit!

You won’t have a chance to run at ReVival 46 as justice finally comes a-callin’, Diamonds. When the bell rings and the gavel of justice comes crashing down on you, I want you to remember all the crimes you’ve committed against my good and just self. When you feel the tightening grip of righteous judgment around your neck I hope you feel a spit of remorse for what you’ve cost me.

As old Judge Holden wisely said “God is War” and you’ve got a full blown religious experience waiting for you in that ring, Daytona! You’re going to come home to Jesus in the most INTENSE experience of your life, up until this moment.

I will leave you changed, if not all together dead, in the middle of that ring to keep that which is mine.

To keep safe from a bottom feeding brigand MY INTENSE Championship.

You ain’t no fuckin’ Cowboy, Daytona Diamonds.

But I’ll be happy to bury you in your boots like one.

So in the local colloquialism of our host country, merry ol'England.

Yee-haw, you fucking git.