À Vos Marques, Prêt, Partez!

(All French has been translated for the benefit of the readers.)

Brasserie Montréal-Nord - April 24th, 2025 | 9:02 PM EST

On the Northern tip of Montreal, far from the bright lights of downtown, there lies a run-down, ragged little bar. Smoke-stained benches, gaudy slot machines, cheap booze and mediocre Google reviews. To most, it’s the shittiest place in the borough, a place you go to when you’re on your last dollar and all you can afford is a lukewarm Bud Light.

To Luc Labelle, it’s a second home. Ever since he turned 18 (if anybody asks), he’s been coming here with his older brother, Michel, to unwind. After fights, after dates, after fights that happened on dates - after anything.

The occasion tonight? Luc Labelle is officially no longer broke. Luc Labelle no longer has to sell plasma to make ends meet. Luc Labelle no longer needs to wash his MMA coach’s car in order to pay for lessons. That’s because today, the 20 year old e-signed a contract to officially become a PRIME-contracted talent.

Michel: Come on man, look alive. You get to see the world!

Michel Labelle has been a die-hard wrestling fan his entire life, and hasn’t missed an episode of ReVival since its, uh…revival. Luc can’t relate. His only interest is fighting, and he couldn’t care less about watching other people do it on the ACE Network.

Luc: Yeah, great. I get to see fuckin’ Winnipeg.

He chokes down half of his flat Whiskey-Coke and shakes his head.

Luc: Bullshit ass city. Not a part of MY country.

Michel: Don’t start with that shit, Luc. Not that kinda night. God, why can’t you ever accept when a good thing happens to you?

The young man fiddles with his cheap watch. He didn’t come here for one of his brother’s famous therapy sessions, but they’re always impossible to escape.

Luc: You’re an optimist, Mic. Who says this is something good? Who says they’re not gonna fly me out to fuckin’ Manitoba, stiff me on pay, kick me in the ass and send me right back here? Who says they’re not like that promoter up in Saint-Léonard? I knock his boy out, first round, no sweat, and he gives me forty bucks and a voucher for his dirty-ass restaurant! Watch, I bet you I get a first round knockout here too, and they’ll NEVER mention me again!

There’s an uncomfortable silence. Luc listens to the glasses clink and the burnouts argue around the pool table. He loves this place. He hopes he never has to come back here.

Michel: First of all, Luc…it’s wrestling. No rounds. No knockouts. How the fuck did you even get a contract if you don’t know this stuff?

Luc: I don’t know man, they saw a clip of me fighting that Heavyweight on short notice, I guess they liked it. I know you’re excited to see me on TV and all that, but Mic, you gotta know I’m doing this for the check.

Michel: Yeah man, I know. I still think you’ll grow to love it. Who are you facing anyways?

Luc: (scoffs) I don’t know man, uh…some guy named Dozer? Bulldozer?

Michel: Doozer? God damn. Haven’t heard that name in a LOOOOONG time. eGG Bandit. Used to work in DREAM. Has a MEANNNNNNN Spinebuster.

Luc: I have no idea what any of that means.

Michel throws his hands up, frustrated, and moves his busted stool closer to his younger brother.

Michel: Alright man, I’m not letting you go in there knowing nothing. Finish your drink, we’re sitting outside and I’m showing you everything I can before closing time.

Luc: Aw come on, you’re so fucking extra, can’t we ju-

Michel: NO! No, we can’t! This is something I’ve loved my whole life, and I’m not letting you bumble in like a fucking idiot that knows nothing! Finish your FUCKING drink, and watch some FUCKING wrestling with your older FUCKING brother, or I’ll kick your ass! I don’t care how trained you are, I’ll take things back to 2010 REAL quick!

Luc realizes two very important things at the exact same time. First of all, Michel is a little bit tipsier than Luc had previously thought, and it was probably best not to provoke him further.

Second of all, everybody else in the bar was staring at them. Not Luc’s favourite situation to be in.

Luc: Alright, alright, let’s go.

Luc downs his drink, grimaces, and drags himself (and Michel) out onto the front steps of the Brasserie. 

For the next five and a half hours, Michel excitedly explains everything he knows about PRIME to his newly-signed younger brother. At first, as Michel regales him with tales about Jason Snow and Max Kael, Luc feigns interest out of politeness. Michel is probably the only person he has patience for these days. 

Then, something strange happens.

Luc hears about Flamberge, and the Anglo Luchador, and Cecilworth Farthington, and Ivan Stanislav, and the Universal Title, and he starts to ask questions. Michel slurs his words through a detailed ranking of his favourite editions of Culture Shock, and Luc takes notes in his head.

Michel finally gets to the eGG Bandits, with a particular focus on Doozer, and Luc swears at himself.

He’s invested. The son of a bitch convinced him.

Hours have passed, and as much as Luc hates to admit it, he’s excited to fly to Winnipeg. The thought of travelling through the rest of Canada would usually make him want to hurl, and yet he can’t wait to step into a ring for the first time.

It’s time for last call, and Luc doesn’t want to leave. He wants to learn more.

Michel: So?! Do you get it now?!

Luc stares at his brother’s dilating pupils. He can’t let Michel win. 

Luc: I mean, it sounds okay. Not bad.

Michel looks a bit dejected, and Luc feels a twinge of guilt. Until he realizes that Michel won’t remember an ounce of this in the morning. 

Luc: Anyways, man, I’ll see you tomorrow. Let’s get you in an Uber.

Michel: You’re not coming with?

Luc: Nah, it’s a beautiful night. I’ll walk home.

Michel shakes his head. 

Michel: It’s fuckin’ Montreal-Nord, are you crazy?

Luc: You know the answer to that.

They shoot the shit for a few more minutes until Michel slumps his way into an Uber, pulling away into the night. Luc wishes the bartender a good night as she closes up. He doesn’t move. The night sky is an unbroken black sheen, the stars snuffed out by light pollution. The roads are empty, and the patches of grass, few and far between, are rotted by the now-dying winter. It’s cold out.

It’s depressing, it’s dreary. It’s just how Luc likes it.

He doesn’t know why he hasn’t yet moved from the creaky bar steps. For lack of anything else to do, he reaches into his pocket and checks his Jabber account. Ever since PRIME announced his signing, his follower count has slowly ticked up, despite the complete lack of any previous activity. He’s not a big social media guy.

For whatever reason, he decides to go live. He pauses for a moment, pointing the camera up to the sky as the amount of concurrent viewers increases. He points the phone to himself and clears his throat.

Luc: My name is Luc Labelle. I’m from right here, in Montreal, Quebec. I’m debuting for PRIME in a couple of days, on ReVival 67, live from Winnipeg. I’m facing Doozer.

Those are the facts. That’s the advertising pitch, that’s what it says on the card. But I’m about to tell you all why despite the pretty graphic for the main event between Whoever-the-Fuck and Whatever-the-Hell, despite the vast history that damn near everybody else on the show is carrying with them, despite the fact that before today, I had never watched even a minute of PRIME programming - I’m in the most important match on the show.

See, I’m not exactly what you’d call over the top. I’m not wearing flashy gear, I’m not slapping hands and signing autographs, I’m not excited to see an action figure of myself or anything. Hell, I don’t know if I’ll ever use this account again. If you like tuning into ReVival to laugh, if you like tuning in to watch your favourite kooky characters patter around the ring, then you’re gonna HATE me. But if you hate Doozer, which I’m told MANY of you do, then hey, you’re gonna like me a hell of a lot.

I’ve spent the past six hours drunkenly watching videos on this guy, on this old fuck. I imagine I’m one of the younger guys in this company, and I expected that from the jump, but holy shit, this guy is in his FIFTIES! I heard that this was his return match, and I figured he was jumping back into the shark tank to fulfil some sort of mid-life crisis, but this is more like an end-life crisis!

This guy is going to saunter into this ring, and he’s going to desperately try to cling to any semblance of relevancy and hype that he once had. I’ve watched clips, and honestly, Doozer, you look pretty solid. But in your last few matches, you were already lagging behind. What the fuck do you think is gonna happen now, when you’ve got a few extra years of rust on you? You can’t tell me that being the eGG Bandit’s elderly errand boy has kept you in great shape, can you?

You’re going through it, and it’s terribly obvious. Everything about you signals that you’re terribly unsure of who you want to be, and I get it. If I was from Boston, I’d look for things to fix about myself too! But you dye the little hair you have left a shade of blond that’s unachievable by natural standards. Your last time here, you had a crisis of identity, telling everybody to call you by your real name, Fred Mayhew, and then I imagine you realized how OLD that name sounds, and you went back to Doozer. You have no idea who you are, and you realize that you have way more time behind you than ahead of you. The clock is ticking, and you haven’t yet figured out who Doozer is. Your dreams are dashed. You know for a FACT that the peak of your time in PRIME was spent washing the clothes of a man twice as talented as you, at half your age.

You’re spent, and damn it, you were a BAD spender. If I was a nicer guy, I’d tell you that it’s all gonna be okay, that your life still has meaning, that being good in-ring makes up for the failures that you have inflicted on yourself time and time and time and time and time again!

Unfortunately, Dooz, I’m not here to help you. I’m here to hurt you, and I’m here to hurt you badly. There are a lot of empty threats in the world of professional wrestling, but I’m not from this world. I’m from a world where if someone says they’re gonna choke the life out of you, then they DO.

I’m twenty years old, and I’m more dangerous than you’ve ever been. I’m sure you’ve sat in front of your TV while doing other peoples’ chores, and you’ve watched Montreal beat Boston plenty of times. Now, you get to live it.

There’s no beef with the Bandits here. I don’t know y’all enough to have any hatred. But I know that I’m being paid to fight you. Luc Labelle ALWAYS earns his paycheck.

Bonne nuit, mon ami. Enjoy your last sleep.

Luc clicks the off button and finally commences his walk home. 

He’s ready.