JUST BRO FOR IT

Huntin’, bro.

Ever been hunting?

I’ve done it.

Once.

I caught a turkey in the neck with an arrow.

Told me it was a ‘million dollar shot.’

Sure didn’t feel like it, bropache.

That turk didn’t deserve to die. It was just out then when we were.

Just like you, Harrison.

I don’t know if you deserve to be put down but… now that I’m out here.

Huntin’, bro.

We just happenin’ to cross paths and kick ass, right?

Well, sadly, I ain’t got a lot to say other than I ain’t walkin’ away from a fight.

Ever again.

I’ve been told I should quit. Told I won’t do anything worth a damn. Told… I’m nothin’ but a crumb, son.

Bro… you don’t even know.

Step aside if you like. Stand there if that’s what you wanna do, dude.

That turkey didn’t deserve to die but there’s a moment in life when you gotta ask yourself…

Am I gonna let that fucker get away?

No, bro.

Hell no.

Thunder rolls overhead, drawing Crash’s attention to what's brewing up above. The rip of lightning doesn’t really stir him, he simply admires the chaos happening around him. It’s actually quite beautiful sans raindrops to distort the view from below. A small grin flashes over his face.

BEEP

“This don’t look good, bromeo.”

That’s the part that causes his focus to drift. That feeling of impending danger, but smiling? What kind of sick fuck does that!? He’s not running for cover. He’s not crying for help. He’s just ready for whatever rears it’s ugly horseface fuckmug next. That’s just how things are… now.

BEEP

Another crack of very close and very scary thunder sounds off. That’s when the rain starts to come down. Like a curtain, it envelopes the… street? He’s not really sure where this is, but wherever isn’t relevant, because it’s raining like a beast. Crash starts to take in the other sights with fading interest in the weather.

Bright neon lights catch his attention. Two signs, one to his left, one to his right. Each with their appeal. Each with their perils.

“Good guys…”

The Northern Light turns to his right. He sees sunshine and bright lights and a million opportunities to do the right thing aways past that sign. He stares on, admiring what he can only dream of accomplishing should he choose that path. His eyes wander to his left and narrow, lowering his tone and brow.

BEEP

“Bad guys…”

His fists ball up at the mention of the mere concept of a fuckwad with a sinister plot on the brain. The wild part of being a part of his war with Max is that he’s not afraid to go down that way, just to fuck shit up and ruin each and every bad bro’s day he possibly can. Crash does his best to stifle the embers and remembers; that’s what they would do. That’s what they want me to do.

The rain starts to slow down, to a sprinkle. The Heartbroken Hot Dog checks the skies but is immediately distracted. A sign, in dull, faint spray paint lies ahead with one word to get his attention. In poor spraycanmanship and lackluster marketing, he spots a wooden sign straight ahead that reads…

“Hotdogs!”

His gate turns immediately down the dark path ahead, with the lone light on this sign for streetcart doggies. They’re the best by the way. Those guys do ‘em right. Crash knows that, it’s like the unwritten rule about streetfoods. As he nears the sign, that glorious smell of those gifted wieners hits the spot and gives him a rush of new life and vigor.

BEEPBEEP

BEEP

BEEPBEEP

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP

Crash springs forward but can’t get far as he is pulled back by the tubes and monitor cables. He looks to spot doctors, surgeons, and his HOTDOGS camp in the background. Glancing over the IV in his arm, the pressure on his head, the tubes in his nose… he spots Broque LaRoque holding two hotdogs - by the smell, they’re from a cart outside the hospital - and jumping up and down.

“See! I knew zis would work.”

A few of the nurses jump back with an audible gasp. The surgeon presses against Crash’s chest to ease him down. He smiles softly, nodding at the Hot Dog Hero, and gently presses against his forehead.

“Mister Jackson… please, lie down.”

Bro, what the fuck is goin’ on!?

“You had… a head injury. We had to operate for a minor… incision. It seems… for now… things are working in our favor.”

Fuck, bro…

The surgeon backs away, giving the nurses instructions to sponge bathe Crash and fulfill his utmost lustful desires. Well, that’s what he figures the surgeon is saying anyway. As the nurses descend on Crash to do mildly unspeakable things to him because he isn’t at full strength yet, and also very heartbroken; the surgeon gestures to Raffi Azarian and Greg Davis toward outside the room.

I don’t like that, bromigo.

Raffi steps into the hallway with great concern, running a stressful hand through his hair. The Ego checks his exits for a chance to get a cigarette and a pull off his flask. People cope in different ways. The surgeon waits for the door to close before turning to the two responsible members of Crash’s entourage. Broque and Jacque just tease Crash with those juicy street doggies.

“Fuckin’ assholes.”

Raffi darts a disapproving glance at Greg. He shrugs, immediately ready to fight because he hasn’t had a drink or smoke in 28 minutes. He’s fuckin’ counting.

“What? They know he wants it. He can’t fuckin’ have it, Raf!”

The surgeon guy certainly doesn’t have time for hotdog talk so he steps in. He opens the chart and takes a few seconds before looking them, both, in the eye.

“This isn’t good, gentlemen.”

Raffi spins, running both hands over his face and head, before turning back before he can think about anything else. Greg finally grips the reality of this situation. A kid, he told to fight for his life, who might not be able to walk out of here.

“What… what’s his chances?”

The surgeon - we don’t know his name because this is Portugal and everything we’re doing here is off the books - turns back to look at Crash. The LaRoques are trying to give him hotdogs but all the super cutie nurses are fighting them off. Crash slumps over, faking dead, so Jacque and/or Broque can get close enough to give him a bite.

“Chances? Oh, he’s going to live.”

Greg actually turns around with concern on his face and lets out a sigh of relief. Raffi doesn’t believe it and jumps into Portugal surgeon’s face. Greg does his best to keep them within reasonable distance.

“Live?”

The surgeon nods.

“How he’ll live… that’s another matter.”

Raffi literally stops where he is to turn back. Greg actually does the same. They both jump to ask questions but Greg’s voice is the one that dominates this moment. Not because he really cares but it’s sad to hear somebody might be permanently damaged from this sport… like he is.

“The fuck does that me-”

Raffi steps in, concern all over his body, and presses his palm against Greg’s chest. The two lock eyes before Azarian presses again. Right now, there’s more to worry about than wrestling.

“Look. He got stabbed in the head with a screwdriver. It didn’t go deep but… it broke the skull and hit… his brain.”

Wait, what, bro!?

“Oh christ.”

Portugal Surgeon Man looks back at the Hot Dog Hero before dropping his gaze. He lifts it, with the most unadmirable preface a person can have.

“The part where the screwdriver struck… we’ve sealed it. He’s going to be fine. But…”

Greg jumps ahead of Raffi.

“If you don’t stop stopping for dramatic effect, I’m gonna shove your nuts through your throat. Spit. It. Out.”

Raffi tries to press Greg back but he’s much bigger and doesn’t move a fuckin’ inch. Mister Portuguese Doctor Man lets out a deep sigh. Raffi hears it and lets Greg go, both of them waiting for some sort of explanation for all the dramatics.

“Crash is a good man. He knows that. You two, you know that.”

The buildup is exactly what they don’t need and the threatening postures of Greg and Raffi suggest similar sentiment. Mister Portugal Surgeon waves his hands at the thought of buttering them up.

“He won’t know how to see wrong from right now.”

Raffi’s brain goes BLZWTY as Greg’s goes ‘WHAAAA?’

“He’ll see something as right. Just. Pure. Good…”

Greg sighs.

“That’s how this guy is, doc.”

Mister Portugal Surgeon sighs.

“He won’t know when he’s done something wrong though. He’s going to find a righteous path and follow it, blindly.”

Raffi’s expression mildly shifts from concern to enthusiasm. Greg’s doesn’t. He knows this game and he’s not ready to let some foolish kid die because some doctor let him believe he’s okay. The surgeon turns back to look at his patient. He sighs.

“He’s never going to be the same.”

Raffi steps to the surgeon with a fire in his eyes. Greg elects to let him fly off the handles because he never let him do so. Eat a dick, Raf.

“I’m not saying this because he’s some sort of investment, surgeon doctor, bro. Is this man going to be able to live a normal life? Is he going to be able to be happy? Will… this man…. truly live?”

The doctor turns to Greg. The eye exchange there is enough to eat the doctor’s soul. He gulps just when Raffi Azarian slips into his eyeline.

“I. Asked you. A question, doctor.”

Mister Portugal Surgeon straightens his jacket. He glances over at his patient before being yeeted against the glass of Crash’s unit. Greg smiles while Raffi flexes.

“Is this man capable of physical activity?”

This is where the doors burst open and these cutie nurses rush the surgeon. They all point at Crash, eating a hotdog, and waving at Greg and Raffi. They all explain, in their native tongue, that not only has his sexual energy gotten them extremely vivacious, but also how his vitals have all become normal and even his charm grows by the second.

“He’s very capable, physically…”

The surgeon turns back with alarm. Greg steps in, unsure to trust these Portuguese medical professionals, before Raffi snaps his fingers at Jacque.

“We’re getting this big bro out of here, big bro.”

Greg boxes out all the sexy nurses. Crash becomes jealous. They lock eyes before Greg flashes a fuckin’ flawless wink.

“You son ofa-”

Broque grabs Crash, by his ribs, and he lets out a guttural scream. Greg writes down a bunch of phone numbers. Maybe they’ll help his boy feel better later?

“Damn, you, Greeeeegggggg Daaaaaaaviiiisssssss”

This is a weird call for people helping him not becoming a zombieman. The Hot Dog Hero glances at Greg in his hysteria and flexes.

“You are gonna regret this, Gregarious….”

Greg locks eyes with Crash. Seemingly deflating the balloon of hate before Greg springs to his feet. Crash locks eyes with the former grappler before they both let out a deep breath.

“I’m doing you a favor, young one. They’ve put me through the fuckin’ ringer.”

Crash can’t help but think about the beatdowns. The screwdriver. The shame. He stands out of the hospital bed.

“I’m not gonna stop, boss.”

Mister Ketchup & Mustard looks at the window, understanding how many absolute professionals got him to breathe the same air right now, before turning his attention towards the real boss, Raffi. Raffi turns to the surgeon. The sound of feet hitting the floor steals Papa Azarian's attention though, catching full view of the bruises and bandages covering Crash thanks to the classless MWK.

“I’m for sure not stoppin’ here, bro.”

I came here on a crutch, right?

Ridin’ Max’s coattails, all the way to Tropical Turmoil Night Two right?

Well… that’s too fuckin’ bad.

Because that's about as wrong as it gets.

Maybe I'm just projecting what everyone else is saying about me, on you, Harrisbro. Maybe I can just smell it on you. 

Like a rotten fuckin’ footlong.

You wanna do some shit at ReVivalfFiddy One, son!?

You wanna start a fire you can’t put out?

Stay frosty, Steve.

That’s my job, bro.

I don’t give a shit where and when you think you can beat me.

You haven’t been beaten like me, bro.

There’s nothin’ to say you haven’t been through what I have but… I can’t shake it.

So now…

You'll get it.

Boise.

Fuckin’ Idaho, bro.

For those of you who know Crash, you know that he’s just been through absolute fuckin’ Portuguese hell and also he's very irrational (see: his diet of hotdogs, anything THC, Labatt Blue Light, and soups. All sorts of soup.)

Fuck Gazpacho, bro.

This is why he is still wearing his medically mandated headwrap. The issue is that he's wearing it at Boise's most popular karaoke bar, the Blue Dragon Japanese Steakhouse and Sushi Palace.

It draws attention amongst the fellow karaoke lovers and patrons. It's not hard to figure out why everyone seems to be staring at the man who nearly died at the hands of the Minister. Alas, it's been nearly a week of recovery and monitoring, indoors, away from the world.

Raffi really likes the idea of getting Jason out on the town before realizing the Northern Light has a… different agenda. The moment Raffi takes his eyes away, Crash darts for the stage.

“To the stage, please welcome Crash Jackson, PRIME's… Hot Dog.”

This is a chaotic series of events that unfolds. Raffi turns lock eyes with Greg Davis, who is leading the LaRoques into the Blue Dragon, just when they all hear the announcement of the speakers. Jacque and Broque start whooping and hollering, pumped to see their friggin’ boy tear it up. Greg and Raffi simply turn their full focus and fear to the stage, pretty sure this is a baaaaad idea.

Two very different reactions, brotato.

Patrons, even employees, and - of course - the LaRoques pop their phones out to capture the moment. Crash shoots up a humble yet fiery wave. Seeing the flashes makes him ponder the optics of what's about to go down.

A wounded weenie, showing he's still kickin’ and, kickin’ ass, not to mention. 

Let's go, brooooooo!

“What's your song, Crash?”

“Tonight, I'd like to dedicate a song to my upcoming opponent, the Suplex Saint Steve Harrison.”

Raffi and Greg simultaneously take a gulp. Greg takes down most of his beer to prepare for what's gonna happen next. A few Boisians clap at the mere mention of an opponent, which means there's a fight coming.

“I'll be singing “Fuck Her Gently” by Tenacious D.”

This draws a huge pop from everyone with a heartbeat. The LaRoque boys bounce on their toes to hype it even more. More phones come out, more pictures and videos are taken, and the soft strum of a romantic acoustic guitar kicks in as Crash does a gun finger wink at the Bachelorette party at the big table.

“This is a song for the ladies…”

SPLOOOOOOOSHHH

“But fellas… listen closely.”

As Crash goes head first into a flawless rendition of Jack Black and his romantic masterpiece, Greg taps Raffi's shoulder. Neither one taking their eyes from the stage, The Ego leans in.

“Our boy doesn't seem like he's forgotten to carry a tune, Raf. I think you owe me a beer on that one.”

Raffi rolls his eyes and makes it a point to land on Greg's. He smiles, sarcastically. Greg empties his glass and gestures for another.

“I hardly count karaoke as an evaluation device for someone living a healthy life,  my man.”

Greg shrugs, knowing that it could also be the ultimate test, and focuses back on Crash as the crescendo grows. Crash's face goes intimate, displaying his true attachment to the lyrics. He lowers the mic before bringing it back up with his diaphragm full of honesty.

“Sometimes ya got ta sayyyy-e-ayyyy…”

Get it, bro.

“I'm gonna fuck you… softlyyyyyy. I'm gonna screw yooou gentlyyyy.”

Raffi chuckles and shakes his head. Greg does the same. Both of them notice it's been a while since they could do that with Crash in the same room. They share a glance that suggests our might make the other feel better about the situation.

“I think there's somethin’ in my teeth, could you get it out for me? Thaaat's fuckiiin’ teeeamwoooork!”

This is when they begin to notice the song along of, like, 50 plus with their boy at the center. He's killing it and making absolutely no sense at the same time. Raffi leans back with a sincere smile.

“He sings this song in the shower all the time, my man. He loves it.”

Time to bring it home, Michael Brolton.

“What's your favorite dish? I'm not gonna cook it, but I'll order it from Zanzibaaarrrr!”

The crowd grows into a frenzy. People are standing, and singing, and dancing. Crash finally takes on the sight of all these strangers. Helping him get through his shit and feel… good… again.

Stay true to you, bronado.

More singing follows, reaching that part of the song that made the Northern Light dedicate this lovely number to Steve Harrison in the first place.

I mean… I don't even know this guy. Kinda mean? Ahhhh fuck it, son.

“Buuut noooowwww… Iiiiiii'mmm gonnaaaaaa fuuuuuuuuck yooooouuuuu haaaaaaaarrrrrd.”

Crash's vocal range does the most precise impression of Jack's falsetto to make the ending the biggest bang. The crowd claps and cheers and clinks beers for all to hear. Greg and Raffi even exchange a celebratory tap of their glasses to seemingly push away the thought of anything going wrong whatsoever.

Crash takes a polite bow before pumping his fists in the air with an oddly vigorous smile on his battered face.

If they aren't gonna give me Max… I’m gonna make ‘em.

I'm sorry, Brother Brochandiser.

You caught me at an…. awkward time in my life.

I been goin’ through somethin’.

I fell in love. Twice.

One left.

The other stabbed me in the fuckin’ forehead with a shop tool, dude.

I feel alright. I appreciate the concern.

Thing is, I feel like a new man. 

Eyes wide open as they say.

I see what's important.

You’re here to win?

Not me.

Not anymore.

I've seen what winning does to people, bro. They win a lot then get jetskis, news trailers, golden thrones, gourmet hotdogs, turn their whole outfit from blue to red and then… the oversized egos.

I'm hoping’ that's not you, Steverinbro.

Because that'd put you on my radar.

And, honestly? 

I don't feel the same.

So that's the wrong radar to be on, got me brochacho?

Surrender brings rest. I'd die for peace. Heard that in a song once.

Resonates here.

In any other setting, I think we'd probably be able to have some not-beers and hotdogs in both hands, laughing at tales from the road that brought us here.

Again, you're unfortunately the bro who is gonna stand across from me when that first bell rings… since Bro War One.

It's not personal… towards you. 

Emotional projection, bro. 

Fuckin’ evil business, buddy.

That's the bitch though, right?

You're just my regularly scheduled opponent. I just happen to be the guy you get to face off against at ReVival 51. It's not like this is anything other than PRIME booking at it's finest.

Except… off paper? … it ain't that simple, homie.

I just brought Portugal to their feet by waging war. Not wrestling a match. By fighting the right fight. 

AKA you've got a long way to go to get to my level. 

Not because I'm great, bro. 

Not because I'm even good, my guy.

It's because I've got a purpose. 

Max.

The Commies.

The Poor Whoresmen.

Max Kael?

Cancer Jiles.

Max Kael!.

I'm here to right the wrongs.

To topple the evil giants. 

I don't know who sold you on this match. 

You might even win. 

It sure as hell won’t feel like it if you do, dude.