I wanted to title this "Bowel Lemieux'vement" but there's only one poop mention in the whole thing so it didn't feel appropriate anyway here's like 14

Imagine for a minute that you’ve spent your entire life as an introvert. Never good at sports. Never really one to have much success in matters of romance. Destined to one day take over the family business, because beef is in your blood, and not in the way that gets you a stern lecture from your doctor about the dangers of cholesterol. You ain’t about that Atorvastatin life, boi.

Imagine that as a child, you spent all your free time watching reruns of American Gladiators, until you come to think of it as the apex of both sports and entertainment. Sports entertainment. What a fucking concept, am I right?

And then one day - and you’re still not entirely sure how this all came to be - you get a phone call that comes with the promise of being just like the men and women you idolized growing up. It sounds bullshit, until a very official document is delivered to your restaurant - one that your lawyer asserts is completely legitimate.

What do you do in that situation?

If you’re Steve Lemieux, you sign on the dotted line, never thinking much about the circumstances that got you here. You never once stop to ponder how you, an out-of-shape sandwich slinger from beautiful Peoria, Illinois is suddenly on the radar of the biggest professional wrestling promotion in the world. You put your name to paper and wait for your wildest dreams to become reality.

You stop thinking about what it would be like to be Laser, and instead start thinking about all those people who might one day wonder what it’s like to be you.

And then you show up to work completely unprepared for what awaits you. You spray mayonnaise on a bald man, the way god intended, and are thoroughly pummeled for your troubles. You fly through the air like Superman courtesy of a very large, very angry, very suspender’ed Russian.

When it’s over, and you’re done icing down your buns and beans, careful to not apply any IcyHot to your most sensitive areas, you should start to reconsider your predicament. You should at least begin to think about whether this opportunity you’ve been given was meant for someone else, or presented in jest - a cruel practical joke with you as the unwitting punchline.

Only you don’t.

You’re living on the cusp of heroism, and who argues with fortune when there’s spandex and a cape on the line?

Besides, professional wrestling isn’t real. It’s a stage show. An elaborate ruse put on by muscular actors to entertain. Not like American Gladiators. That was a real sport, with real people at its heart.

There’s a reason people remember the name Purple Roundy, and it’s not just because who the fuck names their kid “Purple Roundy”?

But, if you’re Steve Lemieux - and really, if you’ve been paying any attention over the last couple of months you should be very grateful that you’re not - then the world around you makes no sense.

If this is a stage show, then why are there no scripts? If this is a performance, why isn’t anyone telling you when rehearsals are?

Maybe this is the prank, the joke that you’re not in on. Maybe because you’re new the rest of the roster - sorry, “the cast of stunt people” - is deliberately holding back information.

You think that you must have accidentally hit Wade Elliott for real, hence why he obliterated your entire ass and sent most of your clothes flying in the process. So when advice comes your way from one the people you employ at your real job, you take it. After all, what’s the worst thing that can happen from asking Hessian about rehearsals, right? The man only has two Universal Championships and a hall of fame berth to his name. And even if you don’t know what half of that means, it still sounds impressive.

And the unthinkable happens.

You get your answers.

You, Steve Lemieux, are finally let in on the joke.

“Smartened up,” as Mister Murder put it.

Does it help you win your match? Fuck no. You still take that loss, but you start to feel like you belong. For the first time since god-knows-when you don’t feel like the outsider.

So what’s the next step?

Well, if you’re Steve Lemieux, it’s to spice up the act a little bit. You’ve always wanted to be a hero, but part of that means being a bit of a character as well. You need to spice up the presentation and find something that helps you stand out, and you hope that you’re able to pull it off before your next performance against Luc LaBelle.

PRIME is full of colorful individuals, so you hit up the video vault for some inspiration.

You start watching a number of videos featuring that wonderful man in the mask, Mister Anglo, who came to your aid when you were punched by Mister Legend. It doesn’t take long before you have to turn them off. Mister Anglo seems like a noble fellow, and he certainly has the presentation down, but you start to notice a trend in all of his performances that include a considerable amount of blood and sharp, pointy objects being used to draw it. That’s not what you’re about. You prefer to keep your blood on the inside. It’s already a miracle you don’t pass out at the doctor’s office, so best to not tempt fate.

You find videos of a number of people dressed as fruit, which seems like the most ridiculous thing in the world. There’s a blueberry man, and a raspberry lady, and it’s here where Paul tells you that the blueberry and the raspberry got married, which is somehow stranger than the two of them just being fruit people. Paul makes some off-color comments about how attractive the raspberry is, thoughts you agree with but don’t vocalize, and then remind him that even though LeMoo’s doesn’t have an official interoffice dating policy that it’s still something to be mindful of.

Paul says that you’re saying to not “poop where you eat.” Except he doesn’t say poop. He says the other word. The swear word.

You respond by telling him that your family has always said it as “best not to tinkle where you drinkle,” which means the same thing but is much less blue.

Paul, who has hair like broccoli, which is the style at the time, says that sounds worse but you don’t really hear him because you have already made up your mind to not be a fruit person.

Yes, even if the one in the lab coat does seem pretty cool.

You then remind him that LeMoo’s Fine Sandwiches does have a policy against using swear words at work, and that he has to put one American dollar in the swear jar.

At this point you’ve watched hours of footage and nothing is really jumping out at you. No fresh ideas to spark your own creativity. You’re just about to give up when something catches your eye. A figure unlike any you’ve seen before.

The broad chest. The rippling muscles. You feel like he has the look of a man who probably owns many motorcycles.

Part of you wonders what he smells like.

He parades around the ring with no shoes on, which you admit is kind of gross but also very deeply masculine.

And then there’s the face paint. The mark of a true warrior.

You pause the video and slowly digest the image frozen before you. This will be your inspiration. This is who you will champion when you prepare for your next performance. You will march down the aisle hoisted by the confidence Mister Murder gave you and show Luc LaBelle that you are Steve Lemieux, and son of a heck you are smartened-up and in on the joke.

A single word escapes your lips in the silence of your office.

“Bolamba.”

And then Big Ang’ pokes her head in and says something about “rich with a big dick” and the whole moment is ruined.