The Silent Treatment.

A small hand tumbled an edgy, gray rock between its fingers, pulled from the driveway’s gravel. A yellow wiffle ball bat twirled in the other, covered in tiny marks and notches, and tiny, frayed plastic.

High in a tree above, the enemy. Humming inside their gray, paper fortress. Their spindly legs hung awkwardly, patrolling their hanging home, darting inside and out, taking turns to keep their many eyes on the giant standing below.

Bare feet stood firm in the grass at the edge of the lawn, and dark eyes glared upward at the buzzing invaders with vengeful intent; the throb on his ankle a reminder of his hostile cause.

He gripped the bat tight, and tossed the rock into the air, swinging with all his might.

A hollow PONK sounded off the plastic, rocketing the gravel high to the treetops, whistling into the leaves with a smack, ricocheting off the branches. A miss, far right, and the intruders failed to notice.

Gritting his teeth, he shoved a hand into the pocket of his shorts, retrieving another piece of gravel, and swung again.

THOCK.

Closer that time, striking the trunk of the tree. But still, a miss.

A small growl. Another rock. Another swing.

THWAP.

Direct hit. Right in the spindle that held their home against the branch. He smiled wide, satisfied, as the fortress fell to the ground with thud. 

Grinning, until the invaders escaped their broken home, and began to swarm.

The bat fell to the ground, and bare feet swiftly sprinted across the grass, to the safety of his own large, white, wooden fortress.

The Tokyo Dome was nothing short of spectacular. It would be a fitting stage for the battles to come at Culture Shock.

Hayes had managed to find a quiet moment in the renowned arena, as the majority of the grunt work had been completed in the week leading up to Culture Shock. He’d found a seat near ringside, and crossed one leg over the other, hands tucked into his gray hoodie and scanning the rows and rows of empty seats; up to 55,000 people could fill the place. The “Temple of Professional Wrestling,” Cecilworth had called it back at ReVival 63. A structure home to some of the greatest wrestlers of all time; a litany of famed performers and death match murderers. The history of wrestling in Japan was absolutely enormous.

Most of which he knew almost nothing about.

And he wondered about that. Hayes had been called a “student of the game” by Lindsay Troy, and even Ivan Stanislav, at different points in his short career, but the more time he spent in Japan during PRIME’s international tour, he wondered how true that actually was. Olivia had scheduled so many promos and interviews, and in nearly all of them he’d been compared to legends he’d never heard of, with names he couldn’t pronounce, with his own moments of glory related to epochs in this dome that had transpired before he was even born.

There was so much here, in this strange, strange country. And all he knew was PRIME. He’d worn that as a badge of honor all this time.

Was it actually his achilles heel?

Regardless, on March 14th and 15th of 2025, the Tokyo Dome belonged to PRIME and Culture Shock; a supershow synonymous with wrestling history itself. Host to so many milestones, so many paradigm shifts in PRIME’s pantheon.

Culture Shock had become a part of himself, as well. It was the banner to his coming out party, where he became the ReVival’s First Crowned, telling the world he. Had. Arrived. The show where he took back the Universal Championship the very next year, and where he found himself victorious alongside his brothers in Glue at War Games, the year after that.

Still, in his own mind, none of that compared to the menacing Dual Halo.

Hayes took a breath, and imagined the twin-ring structure inside the Tokyo Dome, how they might have placed each half, and how they would have positioned the rings. He’d hoped Troy would bring it back someday; it’s where he imagined himself most often as a kid; running from ring to ring, spearing opponents against the thick plexiglass, hearing the buzzer and watching their names get eliminated with each pin.

He wanted to be a part of the monstrosity’s history. Like Wade Elliott, spending two hours and seventeen minutes kicking and punching his way through body after body. Or Tyler Rayne, and the golden confetti falling, when he claimed the Golden Ticket. And Garbage Bag Johnny, crawling across the mat in 2009, to do the very same.

By pinning Jason Snow, as it turned out.

...

Snow.

The memories of the Halo, and the promise of the Manhunt on the horizon with its opportunity to earn another shot at the Big Belt, took a backseat in his mind there, in the empty, quiet Tokyo Dome, and instead redirected its focus to the object he held in his hand

The six iron.

The six iron jolf club, that is.

Hayes studied the steel chair, eyeing each individual tack, glued on so meticulously. No possibly way they were staying attached after one swing. “AVALON”, written in sharpie, had been crossed out in favor of “NERD.” Maybe he'd ask Joe if he could write “SILENT TREATMENT” instead.

Tacks, steel chairs, and the Intense title. This was new territory for a pretty boy from West Linn, but he knew there was a real possibility that poking the hornet nest would lead to a night of shredded skin and broken bones. Hayes had never been big on the hardcore scene; too much gore, not enough fanfare. That said, you get thrown through a steel cage by a seven foot angry Russian man once, and the idea of getting piledrived into barbed wire doesn’t seem that bad.

What was frustrating, though, is that poking the hornet’s nest hadn’t yet produced any hornets. And Hayes didn’t like the silent treatment.

Still, all the poking and prodding the last two months had led to a shot at the Intense title, and with that came some renewed vigor. A chance at PRIME’s Triple Crown was a worthy pursuit, but the Intense Title itself held its own kind of gravitas. Hayes had shot to the Universal Title scene so quickly that the Intense belt was never really on the radar. But in truth, some of PRIME’s greatest and most gruesome acts were performed in the name of that jaggedy silver belt. It was a badge of honor to earn it, a testament to a wrestler’s willingness to go as far, or as deep, as needed.

He knew that, when he ran into the ring and made sure that Gamble wouldn’t take that opportunity away.

“Ah, ol’ number six! Nice choice. Really time consuming with all the tacks, but nice choice!”

Hayes glanced over his shoulder at the slight echo of Joe Fontaine’s voice. He smirked, bobbing the chair in his hands by the legs while Joe ambled his way down the steps, pausing next to his teammate to take in the Tokyo Dome’s grandeur.

“You really taped a bunch of cheese graters to one of these things, huh?” Hayes asked while turning his head to Jolfing’s crowned prince.

“Yeah, man! The 4-wood! That also didn’t work that great. Better in concept, less in practice.”

“I’ll have to give it a swing.”

Fontaine took a seat next to Hanlon, kicking his feet up onto the barricade. Hayes imagined Joe had some heavier thoughts of his own, sitting in such a storied building. Hayes wondered if Joe and Sid’s fathers had made it to this place. He’d ask him another time.

“Glad you’re not dead, man,” he said instead, breaking the silence.

“Me too, man. Mee too.”

“Not sure I'll be able to say the same for myself after Culture Shock.”

Joe’s turn to shift his head and offer an incredulous look of confusion, mouth contorted strangely, with an eyebrow raised.

“Buddy. You survived Rezin and Ivan in a steel cage! You'll be alright.”

Fontaine let it breathe when Hayes didn’t reply. He craned his neck, taking note of all the rows and columns, appreciating the patterns and balances. He twiddled his thumbs, and decided to prod a little further.

“But uh…if you don’t mind me asking…why did you decide to pick a fight with a guy who is quite possibly a literal murderer?”

Hayes mulled it over, his mustache twitching as the corners of his mouth shifted alternately, and took a long breath in.

“Last year fuckin’ sucked, man,” he replied with a long, conclusive exhale. “I couldn’t beat anyone. We won War Games, sure, but that didn’t lead to anything but bragging rights.”

Joe opted to listen, and Hayes rested the six iron against the barricade in front of him before leaning back in his chair, crossing his legs and counting on his fingers.

“I couldn’t beat Hessian. I couldn’t beat Youngblood, again. I couldn’t beat Clay Byrd. I couldn’t beat JC fucking Hall, AGAIN. And I couldn’t fucking beat Black. Sheep. Baez at Colossus. I put my brother in rehab, you know, as a thank you after our grandfather tried to kill him. My sister lost her job because of it, and my parents are getting divorced, but that’s probably long overdue.”

Joe, in a moment of true empathy, kept that mouth shut, and allowed his friend to vent all the frustrations of the last year and more. It was a cathartic moment for Hayes. He had been able to talk to his sister about everything he and their family went through, but talking to a friend? One of his bros? It was just…different.

“All that, while trying to just do anything right in PRIME. I thought joining Glue would lead to, fuck, I don’t know, all sorts of titles and shit. Maybe get me back to the main event. But it just…”

Hayes pushed a burst of air through his nose, and shook his head.

“...didn’t.”

He shook the melancholy away, and reset his jaw, turning his dark, burning gaze to the ring in the center of the building, barely visible in the dim lights overhead.

“I had to make a move,” he expounded. “I felt like I was on the verge of fading away in this place. I had to pick a fight with someone who meant something to PRIME.”

Hayes reached out his palm, gesturing toward a tall, vertical banner hanging from the rafters, with the image of himself, flexing and pointing, partitioned across from Ol’ Snake Eyes himself, staring that cold, empty stare.

“And here we are. I thought I would get to trade more words with the guy. But…”

Hayes lifted his chin toward the six iron, and grinned knowingly.

“...I’ll settle for trading jolf shots.”

Joe nodded, chewing on the string of confessions pouring from the Event Horizon.

“Can I give you some advice?”

Hayes raised his eyebrows, and nodded his approval.

“Warm up to the 4-wood. That’s an expert’s club right there.”

They shared a chuckle inside the empty dome, and relaxed back in their seats, feet up comfortable on the ringside barricade.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

The massive golden swastika inside the temple was…jarring.

Hayes had known, to some degree, that it had always been a stolen symbol. More appropriately known as a “manji”, its origins were rooted in good fortune, and “the auspicious footprints of the Buddha.” Maybe he’d learn what that meant one day.

Julien seemed less stupefied by the symbol’s presence, and more entranced in the ceremony performed by the monks in the temple’s center; maybe half a dozen monks, dressed in green robes with a white sash, covered in traditional Japanese imagery. They moved slowly and carefully, ringing gentle gongs and bells, and delivering low hymns.

They watched together, and dared not speak, nor cough, nor move muscle. Instead, they accepted the quiet of the ceremony, and allowed themselves to do nothing but experience its beauty, and simplicity.

The Boys in Glue had opted to take the three and a half hour drive to Nagano to see the sights, maybe take their minds off of Culture Shock, and the bloody battles to come. They found themselves, per local suggestion, at the Zenkoji Buddhist Temple in Nagano; a three and a half hour drive from Tokyo. It was a giant structure, painted brown and black, with gold lining the peak of its second tier, showcasing finally crafted woodwork, and adorned with manji and other symbols of Buddhism.

At the ceremony’s end, Hayes and Julien made way to an adjacent room of similar size. Somewhat disappointing, this temple wasn’t spared of its tourist attraction qualities. Visitors hustled about, inspecting aged statues, impressive artwork, and reading excerpts on bronze plaques about the temple’s history.

“You ate all of the gummy, non?” asked Julien as the two received tickets from a kiosk, providing access to the temple’s underground hallway.

“Yeah man, I usually take a whole one,” said Hayes, referring to some edibles he had acquired in Tokyo, and had somehow convinced Julien to partake.

But why was he asking?

“Why? You didn’t eat the whole thing, did you?”

“...bon.”

Hayes sucked in through his teeth with an exaggerated frown. FLAMBERGE was about to be FlamBURNT.

“Buddy, you’re gonna have a long day. Are you feeling anything?”

Julien shook his head, but Hayes could recognize the anxiety in his eyes. The Lizard King had suddenly become keenly aware of his surroundings, and all the people in it. Hayes clapped him on the shoulder, and led him to the line leading to the hallway’s entrance.

“You’ll be fine, let’s do this thing before the gummies kick in. They say it’s pitch black down there, and that you can see images and shit.”

None of that was of any help to the French Phenom, but he soldiered on regardless.

The hallways under the temple served a purpose to the monks long ago; they snaked back and forth beneath the structure, built to symbolize the slow and arduous path to enlightenment. Perhaps they still provided such in the modern era, but they also provided visitation and profit. It had piqued their interest all the same. Phone use prohibited, silence encouraged, and it couldn’t be that dark down there.

Could it?

The two approached the stairway, following the rest of the tourist group as they descended a red staircase toward a dark entrance, guided by a brass handrail. Hayes thudded as softly as he could down the steps, until he felt Julien’s hand on his shoulder.

“Do not be afraid, Mustache,” he said, whispering in his ear. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Hayes snickered as they reached the bottom of the long stairway. He wasn’t sure exactly how deep they were underground, but he'd heard that the Bhuddist monks would pride themselves on walking the winding hall with no need to touch the walls, or the ceiling, for guidance. So far, maybe fifty feet in, the darkness was of no consequence. It felt like getting up in the middle of the night to take a piss.

He felt the tips of Julien’s fingers poke him in the back.

“What?” asked Hayes, pausing a moment.

“Nothing,” whispered The Bearded Dragon. “I do not want to walk into your back.”

That made sense. So Hayes did the same, reaching out his fingertips, lest he clamber into the innocent tourist less than two feet in front of him.

And, because it was getting…dark.

Impossibly dark.

And he was starting to feel a little high.

“Oh…oh shit,” he thought to himself, crouched awkwardly in that small, lightless corridor. Hayes knew the feeling. He felt it in his cheeks, in his lips. In about five minutes he'd be hurtling through space, with no control, and stuck. Stuck twenty feet underneath a Buddhist Temple in Japan, trapped between a dozen tourists in front, and another dozen behind, while cramped underneath a ceiling designed for five and a half foot men.

He breathed in sharp, and focused on his steps. Left foot. Right foot. Left. Right. Left, and right, and left again.

“Jules,” Hayes whispered over his shoulder. “How ya feeling?”

“Sshh,” The Lizard hissed. “I am speaking with the universe.”

Houston, we have lift-off. Such are the risks of acquiring cannabis in a country with zero tolerance.

Julien clamped a hand onto the shoulder of the broad frame in front of them. Hayes walked slowly, hand outstretched, ducking slightly to avoid cracking his head against the hallway rafters. His face was flush, eyes wide like saucers, and with absolutely nothing to look at. Nothing to detect. Outer space couldn’t be this dark. There wasn’t a word in the English language to describe such an absolute absence of light.

His fingers made contact with a wall. Another turn in the hallway. Hayes shifted with baby steps to turn ninety degrees, then again, and soldiered on. He had no choice. There was no turning around. Only the desperate home that soon, they’d be at the end of the tunnel.

Another hard squeeze on the shoulder. “Mustaacccheee,”

“Y…yeah?”

“What do you seeee?”

“I..I don’t see…”

But he did.

His gait slowed. Somehow, out of the black, he could see light. An orange hue, without form. Like try to see through the back of your eyelids. Not light, no. Maybe the remnants of light? The last remnants of a phone screen’s display when a tourist lost their mind deep underneath the earth that the temple sat upon.

“...it’s…”

And then, shape in the negative of the orange. A body, black, silhouetted against the hue. Shaped by it. Just there, in the foreground and the back.

With nothing to say.

“...it’s him.”

Hayes felt his chest tighten, his heartbeat quicken. Julien’s grip was like a gorilla’s. He had no sense of how far they’d come, or how far they had to go. The body, whether in his eyes or in his mind, remained. As if it were burning, or had shaped itself with the hue’s absence.

“And he still won’t say a thing!” 

Julien stiffened at Hanlon’s harsh whisper. Surprisingly alert in the abyss. Unable to witness the visions of the Event Horizon.

“Look,” he then said, loosening his grip. “The end.”

A blink of light at the edge of the dark. Hayes felt his heart relax, his breath slowing. With each following step, the light fought through, exposing the heads and shoulders of the tourists in front, and providing shape and contrast to his fingertips.

The pair stifled a heavy sigh of relief as enough light returned shape and context to their world, signaling the hallway’s end.

But at its end, a mirror.

The Lizard and the Hammer stepped forward, cautiously. Witnessing themselves as they were at the hallway’s end; eyes wide, cheeks burning and flush, studying their own selves in the reflection.

Julien would ask again.

“What do you see?”

His parents squabbled and argued on the front lawn while Hayes sat on the steps of their porch. Paul sat close, oozing out a drop of Benadryl onto his finger, placing it onto red skin to alleviate the sting.

“Is that helping?” he asked.

“A little,” said Hayes, looking past his parents to the edge of the lawn where he had struck the nest down from its tree.

“She is notttt happy.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Hayes rolled up his sleeve, allowing his brother to tend to another sting.

“You’re lucky, little brother,” said Paul, rubbing in the gel. “Those things could have swarmed all OVER you. Don’t you remember that scene in “My Girl.”

“Yeah, I guess. But Pauly…”

Hayes turned to his brother, smiling wide and bright.

“It was a really good shot!”

Paul punched his arm playfully, and the two tried to giggle quietly, lest their parents hear.

“Why’d you want to knock it down in the first place?”

Hayes shrugged. “I dunno.” “I just wanted to see what would happen.”

At the end of Zenkoji Temple Village, there is an ice cream shop. It sells all the basics, and some exotic, alongside hundreds of Japanese spices. They recommend topping your ice cream with your spice of choice, especially the Bird’s Eye; an aggressive choice.

Hayes and Julien chose vanilla, topped with Bird’s Eye, and returned to the temple. High as kites, and stood side by side to look back on their short journey.

They swallowed small spoonfuls of ice cream, the heat of the Bird’s Eye burning their tongue, only to be extinguished by the sweet vanilla. An absurdly wonderful combination.

“I think I left something behind in there, Jules,” said Hayes, poking for another scoop.

Julien replied by swathing his tongue with his treat.

Some day, Hayes would return to find it. But that would have to wait.

He’d already poked the hornet’s nest too many times.