Focus

📸@satanjones is live

April 6, 2026 9:42AM

“What’s up my little devils! You’re LIVE! WITH! SATAN!”

Satan Jones appears to his audience as he always does: no shirt, black wrestling tights, his hair meticulously molded into devil horns, and a smile that stretches nearly across the screen. He looks at his phone as if to check on his appearance and his comments, then nods in approval.

hell yeah Satan hell yeah

“Hell yeah, guys. Hell yeah. I want to start off by thanking you. Y’all are tuning in to all of my streams, and it makes me feel so happy. Just knowing that this guy from Kansas could find a niche on the internet and that y’all are vibing with it? It warms my devil heart.”

im only here for his abs 

Satan laughs, then rubs his hand on his stomach.

“All right, down to business. This was a tough weekend for the Soldiers of the Foot. On Friday I had secured the most important interview of my life, a moment of time with The Queen Lindsay Troy before her match with the Murder Matriarch.”

matriarch????

He frowns for a moment before his smile returns.

“Yes, I know it’s patriarch, but alliteration is more important than fact. Anyway, my interview was interrupted by the opportunity of a lifetime, a chance to buy Fred Dick’s ring-worn shoes. But both opportunities turned to dust as I received a kick to my own little devils as a result.”

did he just call his balls the same thing he calls us

“And that’s not all. The next day my tag team partner and best friend Kris Roswell experienced defeat for the first time since joining PRIME, a fact that weighs on his brain and emotions as we speak.”

A door slams off screen, and Satan whirls the phone to show Kris Roswell standing in his ring gear, a smile on his face.

“Sorry about this weekend, Kris,” Satan offers.

“About what?”

“Losing the ladder match.”

“Oh, that? That doesn’t even count as a loss. I’m all good.”

The benefit (benefit?) of Satan holding the phone is that he can move it towards the person he’s talking to when they speak, then bring it back to himself for his reaction, and that’s exactly what he does here, giving a face of exaggerated skepticism. “Really? All good?”

“All good,” says Kris, his face tight.

“Well hell yeah then, brother. Let’s make today at Gray’s an epic one!” Satan moves his other hand into the frame. He is holding a cup which he lifts in the air. “A toast to the Foot Soldiers, and having a better week going forward!”

y’all stand no chance against tsonda and dawkins

Satan cuts the feed, but not before seeing the comment and narrowing his eyes.

_______

April 6

I wasn’t lying. I didn't care at all. It was a ladder match. Those aren’t real matches. It’s like trying to say the Pro Bowl is a real football game. There’s no comparison.

Would I have liked to win and give Satan and I a shot at the belts? Sure, who wouldn’t? But we beat Elise Ares before, in an actual match that counted. I wasn’t mad about losing a gimmick match with a bunch of people who clearly weren’t seen as important enough to be drafted to a Squad Goals team.

Sometimes a field goal goes wide right. You move on.

There were plenty of other dumb things going on at Gray’s to focus on.

_______

Dumb Thing to Focus On #1 Savannah Scandal

Savannah Scandal had been a frequent visitor to Gray’s since Quinn brought her by last month. It was weird. On basic appearances, she seemed harmless. Just your run-of-the-mill middle aged woman trying to dress like a younger version of herself.

But I was wary of her because of Satan’s warning, and I was right to be. A few minutes after I suited up, I walked out of the locker room to find Savannah hanging in the doorway.

“Ahhh!” I yelled. I hate jumpscares in horror movies, and it’s even scarier when the monster doesn’t look like a monster.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Krissy,” she said. Krissy. Only one person dared to call me that. I instinctively looked over her shoulder and saw that person. My brother was going through workouts with Ian Nackedy. He looked up at me and winked, then went back to his workout.

“Two ghosts now,” Savannah said, and I whipped my head back towards her. I tried to straighten my face, but she clearly saw my frown. “So what’s the story between you and Hunkules over there?”

“Gross,” I said without thinking, then shook my head. “Nothing. He’s my brother. Brothers wrestle together. Look at Foster and Ian.”

“Yes, but Ian and Foster’s brotherly hatred is at least subtle.” As she said the last word, she slid an anything-but-subtle finger down my chest. I almost swatted it away, but I felt like that would create more of a scene. “So tell me what he did that makes you so mad. Was it a girl? Did he move in on your territory?”

“God, no,” I said, again letting my emotions answer before my brain could. It’s something that consistently got me in trouble with my dad, and I had a feeling it would get me in trouble with Savannah too. I took a deep breath, then said, “I have to go get ready for my workout. Maybe we can talk later.”

“Oh we will,” she said with a smile, then thankfully let me slide past her towards the main floor.

“Hope not,” I muttered to myself, then turned around and bumped into someone. “Oh, sorry!” I said, bending down towards her. She was short and slight, and I was confused as I helped her to her feet. “Are you okay, Miss…?” I had no idea who she was, but Savannah Scandal helped solve that mystery.

“Jesus, Mindy, why are you such a klutz?” She looked from Mindy to me and shook her head. “Sorry about that, Krissy, my assistant is still learning how not to be a total screwup.”

I looked over at Mindy, this small, shy twenty-something who wouldn’t return my stare. She hugged a notebook to her chest and stared at the floor, looking like she was holding back tears. “It’s totally fine,” I said, more to Mindy than her boss.

“Even so, I’ll take care of her,” Scandal said. “Oh, and sorry your strong legs didn’t propel you up the ladder in time,” she said in a tone that betrayed how unsorry she was.

“No worries,” I grumbled, putting both the match and Savannah Scandal out of my mind. The match didn’t matter. Savannah’s presence didn’t matter. Too many other things to focus on.

_______

Dumb Thing to Focus On #2 Jonathan Rhine’s Baby

Okay, that’s unfair. It’s not the baby’s fault. But Ms. Shweta was going to have her baby any day now, and that meant Coach Rhine had taken a sabbatical from Gray’s. Which meant fucking Foster was the man in charge.

Obviously Rhine wasn’t able to physically go through drills or anything, but his presence was calming. He had this quiet knowledge and assurance that made me trust his words. He also talked about how the business could eat you up and spit you out, and he had the experience to prove it. Seeing him there, not able to walk but still dedicated to training the next generation of professional wrestlers, gave me the confidence that joining this gym was the right thing to do.

By comparison, Foster made me question why I even showed up to class. He was chaotic, gruff, angry, vindictive, and gave preferential treatment to some students, namely my brother. I guess his asshole radar picked something up in Hercules that was impossible for a fellow asshole to resist. Plus there was that whole me kicking him upside the head earlier this year, which obviously didn’t make me his favorite student.

Foster was acting even more like an asshole since Coach Rhine left. There were more students now, and he was running the classes by himself. I had heard about all the Gray’s Academy drama and the lengths that Foster went through to take the gym from Coach Rhine. Now that he had full control he was miserable, and making us miserable as a result.

“Line up you chumps,” he bellowed as we gathered around him in a circle. “Now as y’all know, we base our warmups on the results of our most successful students. And since our star Kris decided to come up short in the ladder match, everyone has to do rope runs for ten minutes.”

I heard the groans around me and tried to keep my eyes on Foster instead of my fellow students, who were presumably staring daggers into me. He grinned at me in response and continued. “Come on, guys, ten minutes isn’t too long. Just keep your mind on other things and it’ll pass like seconds.” Foster stepped forward towards me as the rest of the students dispersed. “Like maybe think about how close you were to a golden opportunity before you let it slip away.”

"Silver opportunity," Satan corrected him.

“I don’t care about that match,” I said.

“Sure you don’t. Hit the ropes.”

Rope runs were dumb. Everyone hated them, and I guess I did too, but not for the same reason. I heard Roosevelt telling Tani they were the hardest thing he did at the gym, but they’re honestly nothing. You just run from rope to rope, over and over again. If anything it’s boring. I had run suicides in full pads for four years at Duquesne. The ropes stung when you bounced off of them, but the real sting was from Foster.

In what world does it make sense to sow discord among your students? To make my results in PRIME directly responsible for the work they did? He said something that caught my ear too, and I was going to talk to him about it as soon as we were done.

I spared a look at my classmates as we bounced off the ropes back and forth. Any time their eyes met mine, there was resentment. Except Satan, of course; the guy somehow hit the ropes without ever putting his tongue back in his mouth. But was this Foster’s goal? To make everyone hate me? Were he and Hercules in on it together?

After an eternity the rope runs were finished, and Foster gave us a five minute break to drink water and catch our breath. I used my break to approach Foster. “As y’all know,” I said to him.

“Excuse me?”

“You said ‘as y’all know’ as if we always have punishments or benefits when someone in PRIME loses or wins. But we didn’t get anything when we beat Pop Culture Phenoms, or the Multiverse. We didn’t get anything with Satan won his match earlier.”

Foster looked confused for just a moment before hiding it with a smirk. “Sure you did. You didn’t get rope runs.”

“What’s going on here, Foster? Why are you giving me such a hard time?” I barely got the words out before my coach had pushed me against the wall.

“Giving you a hard time? Listen, kicker boy, I’m teaching you. This is what real teaching looks like. You were being coddled by Rhine, probably because he can’t throw you against the wall like this.” I moved towards him but he pushed me back. “I didn’t give you benefits when you won because you did what you were supposed to do, but this weekend in Mexico City, you failed. You were supposed to grab the silver ticket and represent Gray’s Wrestling Academy in a title match, but instead you let a failing movie star take advantage of your addiction to fucking kicking.” Foster rubbed his head as he said this, as if recalling the spot where I blasted him three months ago. “Rhine has his own baby to deal with now, so you're not getting treated with kid gloves anymore.”

“Kid gloves?” I asked.

“Yeah, you act like a baby, and I can guess why. You’re the youngest of five, right? You were probably treated like a baby all your life. Well, that ends today. You and Satan will have a match to prepare for Tsonda and Dawkins. You’re taking on Quinn and Hercules in an hour.”

_______

Dumb Thing To Focus On #3 Tsonda and Dawkins

This one wasn’t actually dumb. It was legitimate and should’ve taken up all of my focus. Unfortunately that’s not how it works at Gray’s Academy. Always some dumb drama in the air.

I was like six during PRIME’s first run, and I’m not a historian or anything, so most of Dawkins and Tsonda’s accomplishments were before my time. But I do know that in this era they both struggled to get their footing at first. Dawkins lost a ton of matches, and Tsonda has been in and out with injuries. But they’re here now, imposing and tough, both representing one thing: redefinition.

I heard that Dawkins was more of a highflyer in his youth, and now he tends to be more mat based. And Tsonda – well, Foster tells me he’s exactly the same now as he was then, but I watched some old clips, and he was far less controlled back then. He’s still cocky and outspoken, but it looks like he’s learned when to reel it in. Something that comes with age, I guess. Maybe I should ask him for advice on that after the match.

Redefinition is tricky, but Satan and I have been struggling with definition in the first place. Who are we in PRIME? I’m a kicker, Satan is a weirdo with Instagram. But even that has been going places: he’s got sponsorships, a ton of followers – he interviewed Lindsay Troy, for Christ’s sake. But what am I doing in PRIME? How am I seen? Where do I fit in? Everyone seems to understand their role and place. What is mine?

Maybe the problem isn’t about how hard definition or redefinition is. Maybe the problem is with me.

Got to get that out of my mind. After all, I have more things to focus on.

_______

Dumb Thing to Focus on #4 Hercules

The hour passed quickly, and soon Satan and I were in the ring with Quinn and Hercules. I hadn’t been this close to my brother since he knocked me off the ladder. Since he told me that he was going to ruin my life if I didn’t go home and start managing the new location of Roswell’s Deals.

I sneered at him as he met in the center of the ring, and he smirked in response. I gave him a kick to the shins, and man it felt good. The punch I got to the face felt less good, and with that the match was in full force.

I know I’ve become a broken record on this, but I have to say it: Satan and I work really well together. The joke when we got to PRIME was that all I do is kick and all he does is shove, but we’ve both learned a lot under the tutelage of Coach Rhine (and Foster I guess). The match against my brother and Quinn showed me that despite my worries about where I fit in, as a tag team the Foot Soldiers are formidable. I looked forward to proving it against two of the best singles wrestlers PRIME had to offer.

But in the middle of the match all of the dumb things that I had been focused on started to converge. Foster, who was reffing the match, was clearly letting Hercules and Quinn get away with more. Quinn hit me with a hammer kick to the groin – his form is terrible, but it still hurt – and Foster claimed he missed it, but he was smiling as he said it. He also stopped a three-count because he said he heard his cell phone ringing. What an asshole.

Even worse, Savannah Scandal kept stepping up on the apron trying to interview me for her stupid magazine. I’d get thrown into the turnbuckle and that woman would pop up holding a notepad and saying, “So what led to your decision to give up on your football dream? Do you have early-onset CTE?”

“Get down!” I yelled at her, then turned around to eat a spin kick from Hercules. As I fell to the canvas, he jumped on me and applied a headlock, whispering in my ear.

“This is delicious,” he said, wrenching on my neck. “You failed the pretend ladder match, then the real one, and now you’re about to get murked in a tag match against your brother who doesn’t even wrestle.”

“I don’t…care…about…the ladder match…” I spit out in reply. He hit me in the back of the head and continued to apply the headlock. I gurgled a response and tried to get to my feet, but my brother’s strength overwhelmed me. It had always been this way: I was the runt of the Roswell clan, the only one not graced with football player genetics. It didn’t matter how much I had trained, how much I had improved since joining Gray’s and PRIME – my brother was stronger than me. Physically and mentally. There had always been a block there. I couldn’t do anything to him because he was older. Bigger. Stronger.

I felt myself losing consciousness, but my brother made a fatal mistake. “Come home,” he whispered in my ear. “Come home or I’ll tell them what happened to Herbert.”

My eyes snapped open, and with a burst of strength I put my feet on the ropes and shoved myself backward, breaking the hold. “DON’T!” I said, placing a kick to Hercules’ head. “EVER!” Another kick. “BRING.” Kick. “UP.” Kick. “HERBERT!” I wouldn’t stop kicking. I couldn't stop kicking. Foster tried to grab me, but I shoved him away and continued to kick Hercules in his head. Satan, Quinn, they tried to stop me, but I wouldn’t stop kicking. The only thing that made me stop was looking over and seeing Mindy, Savannah Scandal's assistant. She was looking at me like I was a sociopath. In that moment I thought maybe I was. I slumped to my knees.

Eventually I was dragged away and thrown into the showers, left alone by the rest of the school. Even Satan didn’t visit me as I sat beneath the running water. I didn’t mind, though, because there were so many dumb things to focus on. Like how I had totally shut my brain off after Hercules brought up my other brother. Like how I could’ve murdered him if they hadn’t stopped me. Like how, just like at Culture Shock, I didn’t see anything going on around me except a head that needed to be kicked.

Dumb Thing to Focus on #5 The Pattern of Getting So Angry That I Black Out, Which Cost Me and Satan a Tag Title Opportunity In That Dumb Ladder Match and Possibly a Roster Spot at Gray’s

Fine. Maybe I cared about losing a little bit.