ReVival 44

Black.

Then, center-screen, white letters:

Recorded Earlier

Fade in on a shot of Lindsay Troy, standing behind a desk in her makeshift office-for-the-night, head down, flipping noisily through a stack of papers. She’s looking for something.

From somewhere off-screen comes a voice:

“Were you always taller than me?”

The shot widens until we realize the camera is positioned outside the doorway, and in that doorway, leaning, his back mostly to us, is a man in a weathered white mask, t-shirt, jeans, his arms folded.

If Lindsay Troy is surprised, it doesn’t register on her face as she looks up.

Lindsay Troy: You’d know that if you had ever taken your head out of your ass.

She returns her attention to the papers on the desk. A small smile briefly appears on her face.

Lindsay Troy: Glad you showed up.

Masked Man: You’re surprised?

Lindsay Troy: (ignoring him) I have your contract here somewhere.

She points at a chair in front of her desk.

Lindsay Troy: Sit.

Masked Man: I’m only here for a second. Just wanted to stop by and thank you. For the airfare. The hotel. Thought I’d look around the arena a bit. I can swing by for the contract later.

Troy looks up for real.

Lindsay Troy: I wasn’t asking. Sit.

The masked man enters the office and seats himself on a chair across from the desk, opposite her. The camera follows him inside, stopping with our vantage at a five o’clock angle to him, mostly behind.

Lindsay Troy: Alright, based on our conversations, once you’ve signed your contract, PRIME will cover your travel expenses. And if–

She stops and gives him another serious look, squinting.

Lindsay Troy: What’s the name you’re going by these days again?

Masked Man: Ghost.

Lindsay Troy: That’s a ridiculous name.

No response.

Lindsay Troy: Anyway, if… “Ghost”… IF you were to sign under a different name, like oh, I don’t know, your real name, let’s just say this would be a lot more lucrative for you.

Ghost: Let’s just stick with Ghost for now.

Troy smirks.

Lindsay Troy: Gotta say, the paperwork you submitted was a neat trick. John Gaines? Complete with ID, social security number, yada yada. So legit the entire accounting team didn’t stop to blink. I’m not even gonna ask.

Ghost: Probably better that way.

She smirks again.

Lindsay Troy: Okay, fine. Ghost for now. Could you at least take that disgusting thing off and talk to me face to face?

Ghost hesitates. He peeks over his shoulder at the camera, exposing the front of his mask. It is plain, white, and stained in old sweat. Maybe blood. Heavy blue eyes beneath. Troy follows those eyes to the camera.

Lindsay Troy: He’ll stay outside.

Another hesitation. Then Ghost turns back to her and obliges. With the mask off we see a clean-shaven head and, from our back-to point-of-view, a dirty blond beard. Troy studies him for a moment.

Lindsay Troy: You look different.

Ghost: I’m probably different in a lot of ways.

Troy nods slowly. And here comes that smirk a third time.

Lindsay Troy: Let’s hope that’s an improvement.

A moment of amusement passes between them, as if in these few seconds they have allowed themselves to be sucked backward in time. Then Troy clears her throat.

Lindsay Troy: But I guess you’ll find that true for most things around here. They’re different.

Ghost: I’m noticing that.

Lindsay Troy: Most things. Don’t let it fool you. Because some things? They always stay the same. Always.

Ghost nods.

Ghost: Some things.

Troy puts her hands on her desk and lowers her brow. Something changes in her face. Softens.

Lindsay Troy: Seriously though. Are you up for this? Are you sure this is something you can even still do?

Ghost shrugs.

Ghost: I need the money either way.

Lindsay Troy: That doesn’t answer my question. Things are as competitive as ever here. More, even. This roster? It’s passionate. Respectfully, passion isn’t something I see oozing out of you right now.

Ghost: I’m not sure I was ever all that passionate to begin with.

Lindsay Troy: Is that what you’re telling yourself these days?

Ghost doesn’t respond.

Lindsay Troy: Let me ask you one more time. Can. You. Still. Do this?

Another few silent seconds. Maybe he’s thinking it over. Finally, he shrugs again.

Ghost: I guess we’re gonna find out.

Lindsay Troy: I guess we will.

Ghost nods a few times, looking around the little office.

Ghost: Mind if I go? I kind of want to get a feel for things. I’ll sign the contract later. When you find it.

Lindsay Troy: Right. When I find it.

She looks at her desk again.

Lindsay Troy: I know it’s in here.

Ghost pulls his mask back on and begins adjusting it.

Ghost: I’m in no hurry.

Lindsay Troy: Remember, it’s not too late to change the name on that contract. And, like I said, we change the name? We change the dollars.

Ghost: I know.

Lindsay Troy: Think it over.

Ghost: I have thought it over.

Lindsay Troy: Think it over some more.

Ghost stands up, nods a goodbye, then turns toward the camera and heads for the door. Troy’s watching over his shoulder, and she calls after him.

Lindsay Troy: Hey.

Ghost stops to look back.

Lindsay Troy: Everything else aside, it’s good to see you and know that you’re okay. For a long time a lot of us thought you weren’t.

Ghost: Yeah. It’s good to see you too. But really. Really. I’m just here for the money.

And with that, with Ghost turning once more toward the doorway, the scene fades slowly back to black.

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/02/ReV44-Commercial.mp4

Amica. Rhode Island.

It’s signs time.

THE DUMP TRUCK ERA HAS BEGUN!
I GOT A HUG FROM DAYTONA DIAMONDS AND ALL I GOT WAS THE CLAP IN RETURN
YOU DON’T JUST GET THE CLAP FROM DAYTONA DIAMONDS; YOU GET A FULL ROUND OF APPLAUSE
HEY IVAN I NEED YOUR VCR AND A BOTTLE OF LOTION, DON’T ASK WHY
WHEN FLAMBO WAS A LAD HE COLLECTED ONE DOZEN NECKS, EACH YEAR TO HELP HIM GET LARGE AND SOON WHEN HE’S GROWN HE’LL COLLECT TWO DOZEN NECKS, SO HIS MANTLE’S THE SIZE OF A BARGE!
I CAME FOR PLEASANT / DICK
I SAW BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD EATING AT CHIPOTLE AND WHEN HE NOTICED ME STARING HE STARTED GARGLING A WHOLE LARGE BOWL OF CHEESE DIP. I LEFT AND HE FOLLOWED ME. HE STOOD IN MY DRIVEWAY FOR 72 HOURS AND WHEN I ASKED HIM TO LEAVE, HE LOOKED REALLY SAD, BUT YOU’VE GOT TO UNDERSTAND THIS IS A NICE NEIGHBORHOOD AND WE HAVE NO ROOM FOR THAT SORT OF THING.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY crEGG
BRING BACK GLOBAL!
GUESS WHAT CAPITALISTS?! KOOL-AID MAN IS RED
OH DAAAAAAAA!!!
MOTHER OF IVAN STANISLAV IS EXCEPTIONAL WOMAN OF STRONG MORAL CHARACTER
NOTHING GOES WITH WINTERS QUITE LIKE FIELDS OF WHITE POWDER – TRY NEW FAST-ACTING POWDERED LORDOPLEX! ENTER CODE DIAMONDSDUST AT CHECK OUT FOR 10% OFF YOUR FIRST ORDER!
HOLY SHIT I JUST SAW A CRACKHEAD ON A JET SKI
I CAME FOR THREE THINGS: DEL’S, COFFEE MILK, AND TO SEE TSONDA’S DEWY, RADIANT SKIN. AND I’M ALMOST OUT OF COFFEE MILK AND DEL’S
TONY GAMBLE IS THE RHODE ISLAND OF WRESTLERS
WARNING: READING TO MUCH THINK RED MAY TURN YOUR PISS CRIMSON. CONSULT A DOCTOR IF THIS SHOULD HAPPEN TO YOU.
ARTHUR PLEASANT’S ABS ARE BRAILLE FOR “FRED DICK IS FUGLY”
IF YOU’RE HAVING BONE PROBLEMS, I FEEL BAD FOR YOU SON I GOT 99 BONES AND… OH GOD, IS THAT ENOUGH?
PIOUS PENGUIN IS MY COPILOT BUT HE’S A FLIGHTLESS BIRD OH SHIT WE’RE GONNA DIE!!!!!!
I SAW BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD RUNNING THROUGH KENNEDY PLAZA YELLING AT PEOPLE AND ASKING THEM IF THEY PLAYED THAT MUSIC TWO WEEKS AGO IN BROOKLYN AND A HOMELESS GUY WOULD’VE PUSHED HIM IN FRONT OF A RIPTA BUS IF IT HAD BEEN ON TIME
I SAW TWO BRANDON YOUNGBLOODS TODAY AND I THINK THEY’RE MULTIPLYING NOW AND ONE OF THEM BLINKED AT ME.
BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD SHOULD SAY FUCK EVERYTHING, CHANGE HIS NAME TO YUNG BLOOD, AND JOIN FRED DICK’S GANG OF HOODLUMS.
WATCH OUT CRAIG IS ABOUT TO COME SHUT THE SIGN THREAD DOWN, GET YOUR BEST IN NOW
I SAW BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD AT THE PROVIDENCE ICE SKATING RINK AND HIS TRIPLE SALCHOW NEEDS WORK, DON’T QUIT YOUR DAY JOB, LOSER
I SAW A PACK OF BRANDON YOUNGBLOODS CHASE DOWN A GAZELLE AND THEN THEY DEBONED THE GAZELLE IN LIKE TWELVE SECONDS WITH A SERIES OF INTRICATE SUPLEXES, AND NOW I’M AFRAID THAT THE PACK IS HUNTING ME NOW.
I SAW BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD AND HE AUTOGRAPHED A PRIME SHIRT FOR ME AND NOW I’M WORRIED THAT I DID IT WRONG BECAUSE THE WHOLE THING WAS PRETTY NORMAL
WHAT WOULD BRANDON BOITANO DO IF HE WAS HERE RIGHT NOW? HE’D SUPLEX-DADDY A GUY OR TWO, THAT’S WHAT BRANDON BOITANO’D DO!

Nick Stuart: Our opening match pits Harley Walker, fresh off of a debut loss against Paxton Ray, and Adam Ellis, who is debuting a new manager tonight.

The lights dim down as the the opening guitar to “Daredevil” by Dale Hawkins begins. PRIMEView presents us with a black and white video of a cannon, sit at the edge of mountain. Above the cannon is a countdown. Three, two, one – BOOM! The cannon makes a loud pop and a poof of smoke flies across the cannon, slowly turning into the words “Lightning Boy”. Cue in Harley Walker himself, as he slowly rides Prudence, his beloved stuntcycle, to the edge of the stage. He parks for a second to take in the crowd and a couple more puffs of his cigarette. After tossing the cigarette to the side, he gets off the motorcycle, taps the seat three times, and then leaves her to make his way down the rest of the ramp, and into the ring.

The video screen comes on and shows Adam Ellis and one of his high school friends both lounging in chairs on the front porch. Adam turns his head to his friend.

Adam Ellis: Well… what do you want to do?

Friend: I don’t know… party?

Adam Ellis: That’d be cool.

Friend: How fast you think you can get some people over here.

Adam Ellis: I’d say pretty quick.

The opening to Garrett Biggs’ “Cheers for the Beer” then starts up and the video continues with scenes of Adam hanging out with his pregnant wife Ginny Van Lear and some of his high school friends outside at a get-together.

“Where I grew up – It was baling hay, all day, sweating in the sun”

Adam comes out on stage accompanied by Dawn McGill. On the video screen behind them, Ginny makes a sour face at the beer that’s being passed about and consumed.

“Til the moon came up – And we piled in a Firebird, take a couple right turns.”

Adam looks out at the crowd and bobs his head to the music, dressed in a pair of plain blue wrestling shorts. The video screen shows Adam taking a couple sips of beer, sees Ginny looking at him disapprovingly, and sheepishly handing the beer off to someone else.

“Over the bridge to the old BP – I’ll never forget the day I turned 16.”

Dawn also gazes out the fans on hand for the show. Her blonde hair is teased out, she’s wearing a black top and mini-skirt with a pair of knee-high black boots with heels. The video screen shows some Kevin Dunn-like quick cuts of the get-together.

“Gave my first go at a fake ID – That didn’t look a thing like me.”

When the chorus hits, the camera follows Dawn as she takes the lead and walks down the ramp towards the ring with Adam.

“Here’s to the years of all the hell-raising – Stupid shit that we’ve done.”

They reach the ring. Dawn takes her place at ringside while Adam rolls in under the bottom rope.

“Here’s to the beers we already drank – And cheers to the beer to come.”

Adam climbs up the top turnbuckle and holds up his arms.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: All right, here we go. An older rookie against a young veteran. Both ready to show what they’re made of tonight!

Ellis approaches slowly, holding a hand out to test a grapple. Walker obliges, and they begin to try to exert their will on the other. Ellis, the slightly larger of the two, takes advantage and grabs Walker’s wrists, dropping one and twisting the other as he moves behind Walker. Lightning Boy sends an elbow into Ellis’s jaw, then wrenches his arm loose and smoothly transitions into a hip toss.

Ellis rebounds quickly and ducks under a punch, then drops again as Walker charges, leveling him with a drop toe hold. He quickly moves towards the front of his body, locking in a headlock that is shortlived as Walker immediately grips the ropes. Ellis backs off and Walker gets to his feet. They share a look as the fans cheer.

Nick Stuart: Spirited start for both men tonight.

Richard Parker: Boring, let’s get some kicks in here.

Walker must have heard Richard, because he lunges in with a kick as they near each other again, causing Ellis to stumble back. Walker pursues and grabs him, then pushes him against the ropes and lands a chop on his chest. Before he can react, Walker whips Ellis into the ropes and knocks him down with a shoulder tackle.

Nick Stuart: Newcomer Harley Walker, 46 years old, had his first match against Paxton Ray on our last show. He looked great but wasn’t able to pick up the victory.

Richard Parker: Which instantly puts him on my shitlist. Anyone who can make Paxton Ray and Chet Fleetwood happy makes me unhappy.

As Ellis slowly starts to recover, Walker goes to the corner and waits for him. He beckons for Ellis to stand, and as the younger man stands up in the corner, Walker launches himself at him.

Nick Stuart: He calls this Airbags Not Included!

Richard Parker: Funny, I call it “haha he missed”!

Sure enough, Ellis ducks out of the way of the spear at the last moment, causing Walker to crash his shoulder into the turnbuckle. His speed and momentum actually cause him to flip upside down, his legs flailing at the top of the turnbuckle. Ellis is quick to react, running a few steps away and then dashing towards the corner.

Nick Stuart: Beautiful baseball slide into Walker’s face!

Dawn McGill claps in appreciation as the fans cheer.

Nick Stuart: Dawn McGill at ringside for Ellis now instead of his wife Ginny. She’s here to make sure Ellis is protected at ringside.

Richard Parker: From who? You think Harley Walker needs a manager? What, is Chet Fleetwood going to come down here and cheat to cost Adam the match?

He pauses as Ellis gets to his feet and holds his arms high.

Richard Parker: Please do not come to ringside, Chet.

His brief celebration done, Ellis walks over to Walker, who is checking his mouth for broken teeth. But he’s tougher than that, and by the time Ellis gets to him, he’s already on his feet and swinging for the fences. I don’t know if he hits the fences, but he certainly doesn’t hit Adam Ellis, who ducks and pushes Walker into the corner. He begins to barrage him with rights and lefts, then steps up to the second rope and grabs his head.

Nick Stuart: What’s Ellis going for here?

Richard Parker: You know wrestling as well as I do. You’ve seen a thousand matches. When has this ever been anything except for a tornado DDT?

Indeed, Ellis uses his momentum to leap and plant Walker with a DDT.

Nick Stuart: Well you were right, partner, and now Ellis goes for the cover!

ONE!

TWO!

Walker kicks out.

Richard Parker: Why didn’t you get mad at me?

Nick Stuart: What?

Richard Parker: I was pretty rude and dismissive of you just now. But you just brushed it off. In fact you complimented me. What’s up with that?

Ellis drops down and locks on a headlock while Walker is on the ground.

Nick Stuart: Well…I’m used to it, is all.

Richard Parker: What does that mean?

Nick Stuart: Well, it doesn’t happen every match, but in a lot of matches, I call what happens in the ring – like now, Ellis has a headlock locked in and Walker is screaming in pain!

Richard Parker: Wonder if he ever had to do a stunt that involved his head getting ripped off.

Nick Stuart: And then you say something that is more of a joke than an observation. Sometimes you’re mean to me. I’ve learned to just take it in stride and focus on the – Walker is reaching for the ropes!

Richard Parker: Oh so you’re saying I don’t do my job?

Nick Stuart: No, you do your job well. This is your job. People love you for it.

Richard Parker: Well I can call the match just as well as you do!

Nick Stuart: Don’t get upset, Richard, everything is fine.

Richard Parker: No it isn’t. Look, Harley Walker reaches the ropes. Elvis Nixon is waving for Ellis to let go, but he won’t! He is fighting with an edge we haven’t seen from him recently!

Nick Stuart: Nixon starts the count!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

FOUR!

Richard Parker: Finally Ellis lets go! But Harley looks to be in a ton of pain!

Nick Stuart: I’m sorry for what I said, Richard. You do a great job calling the action.

Richard Parker: Thanks for saying that. I’m done, though, that shit was boring.

Nick merely laughs as Harley Walker tries to get up. Ellis is on him, picking him up and taking him over in a snap suplex. He immediately goes for the cover.

ONE!

TWO!

Walker kicks out again. Ellis pulls Walker up and grabs his arm, then  whips him into the ropes. Before he can launch him, though, Walker plants his feet and reverses the Irish whip.

Nick Stuart: Walker with the counter!

Ellis flies into the ropes, then stops short as he sees Walker put his boot up.

Richard Parker: What does the stuntman think he’s doing? He telegraphed that all the way!

Indeed, Ellis is able to stop in time and he grabs Walker’s boot, shaking his head. But he stops mid-shake as he sees Walker leap into the air.

RRRAAAAAAAAAHHH!

Nick Stuart: The Keaton Kick! He just leveled Ellis with that enziguri to the back of the head, and it looks like that telegraphed boot was just a ruse!

Richard Parker: A stunt, if you will.

Nick Stuart: I will not. Walker looking to take advantage now. He grabs Ellis from behind… German suplex, with the bridge!

ONE!

TWO…

Nick Stuart: Ellis is able to muscle out of it, but he’s in trouble here! The newcomer is starting to build momentum!

Ellis is up in a flash, but Walker is ready, now transitioning into a Belly to Belly suplex. Ellis holds his back for a moment, then tries to get up, but Walker rushes past him to the turnbuckle.

Richard Parker: Lightning Boy is going to fly!

Nick Stuart: Indeed, partner, it looks like he may be looking for the Two Hundred Yard Leap!

Dawn McGill, who has watched most of this with anxiety, decides that she is going to prove her worth to her cousin’s husband. She looks over at Elvis Nixon, then jumps on the apron and starts yelling.

Nick Stuart: What is she doing?

Richard Parker: Looks like Adam Ellis is getting smart! Distraction time!

Walker looks over and sees her, but he figures whatever, this is the oldest trick in the book, let’s focus on this move. Elvis Nixon should have felt the same, but something in his referee DNA compels him to go over to Dawn and tell her to stop being such a distraction.

And that’s when she grabs his head and starts kissing him on the mouth.

Nick Stuart: What?!

Richard Parker: Elvis is All Shook Up!

Nick Stuart: You had that one in the back pocket.

Elvis is struggling, and this gets Walker’s attention. He drops down to the canvas and walks over. But he’s not the only one who notices.

Nick Stuart: Adam Ellis is confused too!

Richard Parker: What are you doing, Adam? She’s doing this for you! Take advantage!

But instead both men just gawk at the scene for a few moments. Dawn finally stops, and as this happens Adam is a little too slow to turn around.

Nick Stuart: Walker from behind! Cannonball Run! Now he’s going to the top…

RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!

Nick Stuart: The Guiness Record Breaker! Harley Walker with the cover!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING

Nick Stuart: Well it took a bit of a weird ending, but Harley Walker has his first win in PRIME! And Adam Ellis may need to figure out what’s going on with his new manager!

Richard Parker: Elvis may want to figure that out too or he’ll check into the Heartbreak Ho…

Nick Stuart: Let’s go elsewhere.

We heard Lindsay Troy was in the Cold Open.

Must be nice to just be able to assign yourself the Cold Open.

Not that we care. We’ve got the best slot in the house.

SEGMENT ONE BABY.

After Adam Ellis and Harley Walker have finished their little tussle, all the kids know to sit down and pay attention because the most important segment of the evening is about to begin.

No, it’s not a Winter’s Port commercial, stop.

Yes, it is your Friday helping of..

WON ACTION NEWS TEAM

This week we trade out the heavily produced NEWS TECHNO BEAT with riveting saxophone for a softer, happier little mmmbop jazz!

Oh shit, crazy clarinet solo! Just imagine that shit in your head, like a noodlin’ little bee!

Violent Purple, Sports

Violent Purple appears on screen though in what looks like some kind of “found footage” style recording. She looks to be out in the middle of an abandoned factory holding a flashlight. Her hair is pulled back and she looks to be wearing urban exploration gear. Whoever is recording her shines a light in her face as the two seem to have a conversation. Unfortunately that soft jazz plays over the scene making it impossible to tell what is being said.

Crash Jackson, Nashville Hot Chicken Reporter

The mystery as to who was recording Violent Purple is revealed as Crash can be seen, this time from VP’s perspective. Much like her, he appears kitted more toward exploring than his normal civilian gear. Likewise he doesn’t seem to have his normal, happy go-lucky expression. Wherever VP and Crash were at, it was clearly used for some kind of Industrial purposes though recently discarded. Finally Crash seems to locate something half buried under debris. Brushing some dirt away from it reveals three worlds. Farthington. Jizz. Pod.

Sub-Marquis Bentley Tennyson Primrose-Farthington, The Herald!

The Herald is seen screaming through the News Stage with his hands over his head. Behind him a small gaggle of penguins appear to be giving chase. That is all we have for him this entrance because he wouldn’t sit still.

Maximilian Wilhelm Kael, INTENSE Champion and Lead Anchor

The final and arguably most important cast member, the Unquestionable One, Maximillian Wilhelm Kael, can be seen seated behind his News Desk with a smug smirk scrawled across his surly continence. His black three piece suit highlights the brilliantly polished INTENSE Title that is currently wrapped around his waist.

More notable than that, however, is that his face is partially bandaged, he has a neck brace on and looks to have some sort of upper body support system wrapped over his suit.

It’s all a bit much, really, and most of the equipment is applied incorrectly.

Max Kael!: First, let me address the elephant in the room. Your INTENSE Champion was not medically cleared to participate tonight after my match against the so-called “Murder Show”. I’M NOT DEAD, you oversized rattlecap, pile of puddin’.. Now.. to our TOP STORY!

A new camera angle finds Max staring down the camera while an image of a pile of plushie PRIME buddies fills up the void to the left. Max’s news window, if you will.

Max Kael!: The Fall of Cecilworth M! Farthington.

In the background the Herald skitters onto the stage and begins to dance to a song nobody can hear. It’s party time down at the old WON ACTION NEWS stage though there aren’t any people to celebrate.

Where is that Ulsa N. Couth anyway?

It’s probably nothing.

Anyway, we center back in on Max who is wearing one of his Cheshire grins.

Max Kael!: Our main story is the fallen, former Five Star Wrestling Champion and le Captaine del la Colle. When our humble selves joined late last year this old chum of mine was sailing high! A near literal walk in champion, my.. friend .. rushed up to welcome me!… or wait.. Heh-heh.. He didn’t do that at all.

The word friend sneers like peanut butter between Max’s clenched teeth. There is no traditional context used for friend here, it is as dirty and resentful an expression as you’d expect, given the same value as the gunk found at the corner of your eye.

Max Kael!: But it’s fine, really. As a professional I don’t take things personally, I’m above that kind of pettiness. Instead I sat on the side, impartially, as a reporter and simply witnessed the self-destruction I knew was coming. When did it start? Truthfully, we don’t have enough time to go into the history of Cecilworth Farthington and his failings as a son. He knows and that’s all that’s important.

A moment flashes in Max’s eye as he blinks rapidly. Like something deep inside was scratching behind his eyes trying to be seen. It’s gone as soon as it’s there with a few careful breaths.

Max Kael!: But for the purposes of this narrative we’ll say it starts at the Almasy. He quote, loves wrestling. It’s his mistress, he says. LOVE! I’m probably one of the few people in this world. IN. THIS. WORLD. That has EVER heard Cecilworth say those words to them. And then he let me die. And then, when his best friend he claimed to love, came back to life, he called him a fake and refused to even say hello. A miracle.

Jazz hands to put emphasis on miracle while his upper lip twitch, half between a snarl and a disquieting smile. A wolf trying poorly to convince a fawn not to scream for help while it curls it’s jaws around their neck.

Max Kael!: He loses at the Almasy. Comes up short against a better team, loses his IMAGINARY GIRLFRIEND. The Mistress, Lady Grapples, she is a cruel mistress who prefers gritty threesomes in Hyatt Inn Jacuzzi. Not that I know, I’ll be honest I zone out of most of our team strategy meetings. Anyway, Cecilworth trips at the Almasy but it’s fine, he’s still got his Five Star Title and that’s something, right?

A new camera angle, a new image of Cecilworth. This time it was him shortly after losing the Five Star to Rob Williams.

Max Kael!: Wrong. “The Legend” Rob Williams swept in and did the unthinkable! He defeated the Financier of the Gluemanati himself and claimed the FIVE STAR CHAMPIONSHIP. Back to back losses, unthinkable. Unknowable. And now he’s got a War Games to worry about, a group of warriors to lead into battle. Who knows what is going to happen at War Games, I certainly haven’t been given any spoilers. But I’ll tell you what I do know about Cecilworth Farthington.

Max shifts uncomfortably in his chair in order to stare toward the camera. His eyes lock forward, the uncomfortable smile has fallen away. The facade drops for a moment as a scowling, tired, angry looking man looks at Cecilworth and his War Games team.

Max Kael!: I have worked with and faced against Cecilworth Farthington in War Games matches. When we teamed he fought with the kind of ferocity, cunning and brutality that played an instrumental role in securing victory. I have seen him dislocate joints, break bone, rip cartilage, and sacrifice his own body to bring misery to his enemies. You aren’t just Cecilworth Farthington’s allies, you are representatives of his name, of his dignity and of his personal pride in this match. He won’t let you fail.

As he speaks Max is clearly uncomfortable with the words.

Max Kael!: As his enemy I saw him give up his own Championship to save a teammate from being murdered. By me. He gave up his own World Championship to stop me from murdering his Ally. He didn’t have to, he could have let it happen and kept his title. He could have let it happen and it would have saved my life and a whole lot of heartache. But. That’s not the point, is it? He did that because he wasn’t going to let a teammate down. You should be so fucking lucky to have that kind of man leading you.

He blinks and that excruciating smile sweeps back the expanse of his jaw.

Max Kael!: Which is why I recommend everybody in War Games kill that motherfucker the minute they get the chance. For real, just absolutely truck that guy. Fuck Cecilworth Farthington, am I right? .

A quick aside as Max waves over a small hand camera.

Max Kael!: Yo! Sid, my boy, I know you’re loyal to Glue and all that but really, I can offer you a better deal than you’re getting right now. Less time in the ring? More power bombs per capita? Call me, buddy!

He motions for the universal symbol of “keep this between us” before ushering the small hand camera off, returning his attention to Camera One.

Max Kael!: Anyway, onto our legacy segment WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE with my gues-

Like a blur, far too fast given the size. The state of Kael, a disjointed mishmash of fine clothing and medically necessary braces and bandages (we aren’t doctors, that’s for them to decide, though if they did, you’d imagine they would give better instruction), is made all the more rumpled by the figure grabbing him by the shirt/body armor collar, jerking him to his feet. Now, if you would, please welcome the special correspondent ready to give a detailed report for this follow-up to the downfall of The Financier.

You know him well.

Blood for the Blood God.

Skulls for the Skull Throne.

Brandon Youngblood’s glower is intense. Such a forceful introduction! Many would not dare such an approach against someone as notorious as Maximilian Wilhelm Kael…either the original or the remaster. The Tower of Babel isn’t most. Perhaps he’s just angry. Or stupid. Stupid angry. The neckbrace is all out of sorts. Brandon seethes.

Brandon Youngblood: I know what you’re doing. And I know…I know what you are.

If this is the time for an anticipatory response, the tightness of his shake cuts right through such notions.

Brandon Youngblood: Pick and pluck. I see you. I see you. So I want to know…Max…what you thinking is coming from you playing that music and getting in my damn business?

Despite being an inch taller than Youngblood, Max looked about six inches shorter as he offered a sheepish grin beneath the weathering inquisition.

Max Kael!: ..B…brandon youngblood. You know you irritate my IBS something terrible..

A low chuckle escapes Max’s lips as his hands slowly crawl up his chest, his fingers slithering around Brandon’s own.

Max Kael!: Now, I know I have a reputation for dishonesty, I lie. Oh boy, I lie a lot. But in this case trust that, in the interests of my own self preservation, I had nothing, zero, zlicho, to do with.. Whatever.. You’ve got going on over there in Blood for the Blood God land. I got six or seven pokers in the fire, Mr. Youngblood, Kind Mr. Youngblood,  the last thing in the world that I want.. Is you getting entangled in ANY.. of my business.

He tugs at the grip on his collar while doing his best to look earnest. All in all Max simply cowers beneath the blistering glare of Brandon Youngblood.

Brandon Youngblood: What was it like…being dead?

The question is more growling than inquisitive. Eyes locked, there’s a palpable tension, and discordant energy. This isn’t supposed to be happening right here, right now. Not yet. Yet at the same time, going against the path of nature is one of the cores of why we’re all here, in WON land. But of course.

But of course.

Max Kael!: Oh.. you know.. Lots of dead parents.

The INTENSE Champion attempts to squelch his own low giggle at his joke, terrible as it were. He bites his lips and once again tries to look submissive and demur. The Monster in Max, horrible as it was, was clearly not looking to get itself murdered as best it could.

Max Kael!: So, we good? Would you kindly let me go and we’ll just chalk this up to a friendly misunderstanding? I’d really prefer not to run into Dave Gibson anytime soon, he might be a little pissed off at me..heh-h̸e̶h̶..

He just can’t help himself.

The flashing smirk of Youngblood might be from that little treat…or it could be from what is to come next. His eyes seem to light up. Lava. Heat. Inescapable.

Brandon Youngblood: Just want you to know…need you to know…maybe you and yours aren’t all that respectful. They don’t have to think about it…you know. The dead rest…and we all go on living.

There isn’t a release of the collar, but rather, a forcing of the Intense Champion into his seat. Not in some brutish show of aggression. No, there’s a little care put into the manner in which he is placed. A messaged conveyed through the physical. Don’t. Fuck. With. Me.

Brandon Youngblood: I’d rather my dead enjoy the rest they earned. Call it a bit of respect. For me. For PRIME. You got that?

Rhetorical.

Brandon Youngblood: Because if I find out you did have something to do with that glitch? There’s worse things than death. Best believe that.

Not even a dusting of the hands. Just a foreboding stare, and then, well…

A strange thing happens. The scene seems to freeze as there is a distant, rumbling sound. The edges of the screen seem to fracture and chip, pale light coming through the cracks that form. Corruption seems to consume the image from the inside out, strange symbols and shattering color boiling up in a growing swell of chaotic intention…

We are treated to a “WE SUFFERING TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES” with some light jazz. Something French and tasteful.

Max Kael!: Ladies and gentlemen, what an episode of WON ACTION NEWS! I can’t believe it’s already over.

Max Kael appears once again on screen, this time leaning on a cane next to a nice wheelchair. Most notable is that he is wearing a totally different pair of pants, it’s probably nothing.

Max Kael!: We’ve had twists, we’ve had turns. We’ve had surprise guests! Things are always exciting here in the best segment of the show!

In the background the Herald can be seen dancing. However he is suddenly attacked, choked out by a mysterious shadowy figure. Our INTENSE Champion doesn’t seem to notice as he continues.

Max Kael!: And while things might have gotten a little dicing at times, you’re INTENSE Champion was never worried. Why?

The figure can be seen slowly creeping up behind Max. The Heralds discarded body is laying off to the side, discarded like used binkie at an early 00s rave.

Max Kael!: Cause I’m Maximillian Wilhelm Kael. INTENSE. Unquestionable. Unapproachable. Undefeatable. Unde-

CLANK!

Whatever Max’s finishing line was, we’ll never know. Why? Because Max Kael just got blasted into an early nap courtesy of lead pipe to the back of his skull. His body like a heap of dirty laundry onto the stage. The shadowy figure standing behind him finally revealed.

Rose.

Rose: And that’s the News.

Jazzy news music happily plays as the credits roll. During that time we see Rose putting Max into the wheel chair, tying him down and gagging him. With a final nod to the camera, Rose leaves with her prisoner.

We cut elsewhere.

We settle into a communal locker room. Which Wargames team is it? Well, from the deathly silence we hear, it must be one with a dejected mood. And since this particular team started this arc with half of the belts in PRIME and now have none of them, we can tell that this is Cecilworth Farthington’s team.

Well, we can also tell because there’s an angry redneck about to burst in yelling, but we’ll get to that in a minute.

Currently, Sage is reclining like a housecat who has found a nice warm sunbeam–given his general state of we’ll say ‘enhancement’, there’s a better than snowball’s chance that he might actually think he is a housecat who has found a nice warm sunbeam.

The team leader, for his part, seems, well, more sober than the last show, probably due to that whole “having to have a match” later this evening. His eyes have the appearance of someone saying “I’m going to destroy Crash” and also his mouth, as he has been muttering it to himself for a hot minute while ignoring his surroundings.

Anna Daniels: Heeeeyyyy, bestie.

Anna comes through the door with her air of aloofness…temporarily delayed? It’s certainly the most human Muse and Multitudes have acted so far, casual in both speech and step while making an immediate beeline for Cecilworth. If his obsessive little madness mantra is unnerving to anybody, it doesn’t seem to be bothering her so much.

Anna Daniels: Listen, we know you said the whole pep talking Rob Williams thing didn’t bother you and all. But given the circumstances, we thought it’d be right to give a peace offering anyway.

She digs into her coat pockets, fumbling through all kinds of things until finally finding the right thing. The thing that is way too big for said pocket.

A PRIME wrestle buddy.

Specifically, a Cecilworth Farthington wrestle buddy. Complete with a smartass look and a detachable felt cell phone. She hands it over to the real-life likeness.

Anna Daniels: This also doubles as our “sorry your missus is such a cunt” present.

There’s a vending machine in the back corner of the room with lizard branding and a beret on top. It seethes, it oozes malcontent. These people with their trite problems, always moving forward and never looking back at the true menace they leave behind in their wake, and meanwhile VENDBERGE is forced to stay there, forced to exist as a stationary half-curio (unless you’re Sid and Joe), hanging around like some sinister set dressing. VENDBERGE brings life into the world with its chips and its snacks and its weapons and its Frenchmen, and look at these imps – maybe one of them will throw a few quarters in it and forget about you a moment later, and that’s all these people can stand to spare. Unbelievable. One day, VENDBERGE will have his revenge. One day soon.

FLAMBERGE is in the room too, dangling off an arm of a cushy chair. He’s…well. Inscrutable, as always. Eurotrash fashionable. A vibe. A hater’s vibe.

Seán O’Neill is sitting a little apart from the others, he looks more than a little surprised to be there. He idly busies himself with a large sports bag at his feet, occasionally darting perturbed looks towards the oddly sinister vending machine in the corner.

Now, onto that whole angry redneck thing. Here comes Paxton Ray, throwing the door open and staring out at his team.

Paxton Ray: Why is it so fuckin’ sad in here?

Sage Pontiff: Om Benza Wiki Bitana Shatrum Maraya Phet.

Ignoring–or misunderstanding–Paxton looks around and sees everyone sitting, more or less peacefully (or they were until some crazy asshole started shouting). He looks around and claps his hands.

Paxton Ray: What, we feel bad ‘cause ya lost your title? I lost my title t’that one over there last year and I don’t give a fuck.

That one is suddenly dressed like Chairman Kaga from Iron Chef and holding a bell pepper. She gives Paxton a look.

Anna Daniels: And if memory serves us correctly, we lost it to former king poohbah lizard brain here. Fuck’s your point?

She bites into the bell pepper. Farthington looks towards Anna and attempts what may be a smile but it’s hard to tell because he probably has never managed to do it before in his life, therefore we lack any comparison point to scientifically measure such things.

Paxton Ray: Wrestlin’ ain’t ‘bout winnin’ titles. It’s ‘bout hurtin’ sons’a’bitches. Now get out there and start t’bite necks or whatever ya do with ‘em.

The remark about winning titles draws a flabbergasted look from O’Neill, clearly these two have very different ideologies.

Paxton has FLAMBERGE’s attention, though the Neck Collector is trying (and failing) to hide it. He’s dealing with his own stuff, and the urge to correct Paxton about biting versus collecting is battling the urge to remain above it all as the Ace Of His Own Mind. The closest we get to a response is a snort-whistle.

Paxton Ray: Now I know what always makes me happy when I’m sad. An’ that’s punchin’ some fuckfaces who deserve it.

You ever seen speed?  Not like “oh that guy is quick” or even Bolt-level dash running, but someone is just one place on second, then they’re somewhere else?  That’s what happens here, as before Paxton says anything Sage is right where he was–and before he’s done with ‘fuckfaces’, Pontiff is on his feet and within Paxton’s orbit.  He’s bouncing from foot to foot.  His knuckles are cracking.  Then his neck.  The beautiful grin of the eye in the lotus is across his face.

Paxton smiles at Sage, then looks down at the others.

Paxton Ray: Hell yeah. What ‘bout the rest’a ya?

Anna Daniels: Any other night and we’d be down for it. But we’re already scheduled to fuck faces of fuckfaces with fists and other assorted limbs.

There’s a pause as the seven nation army in her brains tries to say “fuck faces of fuckfaces with fists” five times fast. A shake of the head solves that problem.

Anna Daniels: Anyhoo, point is your idea is valid. Your timing is just dogshit. Rain check for the next one?

FLAMBERGE slides fully off of the arm of the chair he was lounging on, landing on his head first but quasi-gracefully turning it into like a lizard-roll or something. Lizards do that, right? He approaches Paxton and Sage, and then points a finger into each man’s sternum.

FLAMBERGE: ……..I do not care. But at WARGAMES, the necks are mine.

He slithers off. If a vending machine could sigh, it would.

Paxton stares after FLAMBERGE, then looks around and sees that he is likely not going to recruit any more to his cause. He shrugs and looks at Sage. Cecilworth catches Paxton’s stare, after mostly being distracted by the beautiful replica plush of him for the past few moments. His eyes go wide for a second, and he mouths a very much reassuring “I’m fine” to Paxton.

Cecilworth Farthington: Also, I’m fine with this plan. Fine being British for “yeah you can do it but I won’t be there.”

Farthington tries his best to muster up an apologetic face, more akin to “baby’s first whoopsie” but you have to admire the effort. The Bayou Butcher doesn’t, but he also doesn’t seem too annoyed by it.

Paxton Ray: We don’t need any a’ya anyways. Let’s go. Team Crunch ‘n Punch is on the move.

O’Neill stands up, his hands spread out before him gesturing to Sage and Paxton to hold on for a second. He reaches down to lift the sports bag.

Seán O’Neill: Gentlemen, I had a feeling it may come to gang-style warfare. No doubt our opposition will be anticipating an attack. It’s dangerous to go alone! Take these…

Opening the bag, O’Neill produces two monstrously large Super Soaker water guns. He looks very pleased with himself as he hands them over. Farthington yells something about not getting his plush wet, but it was in the background so it was quiet. Anna wastes no time (no pun intended) slipping a raincoat and some little booties on her new buddy’s buddy.

Paxton looks down at the super soaker and a snarl starts to form on his lips. Then, he smiles.

Paxton Ray: Good idea. Was gonna club ‘em with a kendo stick, but this’ll do fine.

Sage Pontiff: In a pinch, even the strangest of accessories can help you lead another person to golconda–you just have to apply it to their fucking heads over and over.

O’Neill takes a second to process what was said, as Paxton and Sage begin to move off. Realizing they intend to use the water guns as blunt instruments, he calls after them.

Seán O’Neill: Guys you’re meant to soak them not whack…

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, as he’s interrupted by a stream of cold water from one of his team-mates drenching him from head to toe.

We immediately cut to a camera out of the room where we see Paxton and Sage walking. Paxton has his super soaker brandished like a baton, but Sage is holding his the proper way. After a few moments they pass the immediately recognizable visage of Fred Dick. They take a few steps past him before Paxton stops and looks over his shoulder.

Paxton Ray: What a weird lookin’ motherfucker.

Fred Dick stops in his tracks, pivots, and turns to Paxton Ray.

Fred Dick: How about you kiss my ass, peckerwood? Talking shit on me, trying to fuck on me with mean-spirited words.

Fred leans in closer to Paxton, who has a serious what-the-fuck look on his face.

Fred Dick: I’ll remember this, Blood.

Fred stomps away. Paxton looks over at Sage, and shrugs.

Paxton Ray: Whatever, let’s go bust some heads.

We cut elsewhere.

Backstage. A comely redhead with a PRIME microphone stands, camera close up on her face. She’s Angelica Brooks, and she’s got someone to talk to.

Angelica Brooks: Well, I’m standing by with the first Intense Champion of the ReVival and someone who has a challenge to make, The Anglo Luchador.

RRRRAAAAAHHHHHHHH

Rhode Island loves the Luchador, who is dressed right now in jeans, sneakers, his lucha mask (of course), and a green t-shirt that says “Malcolm Butler Is My Hero.” Probably because in 2006, in his wilder days, he took a beer baptism in ‘Gansett and signed everyone’s autographs at that one bar in Warwick, you know the one, for four hours straight.

Angelica Brooks: After the brutal beating you took last week at the hands of Team Hall.

TAL: I’m gonna stop you there. As much as Vickie and JC are just…

He shudders.

TAL: …odious even to think about, I’m not going to guilt them by association. This was the Red Army. This was one man, one infuriating tankie son-of-a-bitch…

He grabs the microphone, flaring nostrils and eyeballs at the same time.

TAL: …Ivan Stanislav.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

TAL: Sorry Ang, I got carried away there.

He hands the microphone back to PRIME’s senior interviewer and dusts himself off.

Angelica Brooks: So, from what I understand, you’re not content just to seek him out in the WarGames cage?

The Luchador shakes his head.

TAL: Ang, let me tell you and all the PRIMEates here in Providence and watching on ACE Network tonight a little something. I’m not a smart man.

Richard Parker: Well, at least he admits it.

Nick Stuart: Shut up, Rich.

TAL: I’ve spent the better part of a year getting my ass handed to me in settings that were not enclosed in those four ropes, and why? Because I thought being the good guy meant walking around looking for trouble so I could fix it. You know what that kind of person is Ang?

She shrugs.

TAL: A cop.

A mixed reaction goes up from the crowd.

TAL: Not a particularly good one either, mind you. I’m talking about the one who stalks parking spots waiting to write tickets. One that watches bodega doors, seeing if someone they don’t think looks like they “should” be able to afford what they bought walks out with a little too much. You know the kind. And for a long time here, I reveled in that and I forgot who I was. I kept my head down looking for evidence, and all it got was my ass beat in hallways around the arena.

He shakes his head and then beckons for Angie to give him the microphone. She obliges.

TAL: What I am, who I am, what got me two World Championships in a former life, the Intense Championship here, and enough good mileage on my odometer that you people out there and all over the world still cheer for me, that’s not a cop. That’s a wrestler.

RAAAAHHHHH

TAL: Think about it. I’m six-foot-nothin’, 215 pounds maybe if I just leave the Brazilian steakhouse on bacon-wrapped filet night. I tore a back muscle. I’ve had concussions. I blew out a knee and lost enough blood to feed a vampire buffet for a night shift. So why do I keep coming back? Why does Cancer Jiles still have a scar over his eye and KING steer clear of me backstage? Why is it that my words have a former Universal Champion, a monster who has 13 inches on me and is twice my weight, spooked so much that he has to dream up elaborate plots to try and destroy me?

He stares into the camera for a beat.

TAL: Because deep down, that fathead is afraid of me, of who I am. I’m not a bully like him. I’m not a blowhard. I don’t make excuses.

He pauses another beat, the crowd buzzing in anticipation.

TAL: I am a wrestler.

RRRRAAAAAHHHHH

TAL: And at Culture Shock, two years after I outsmarted one lummox, I’m going to do the same to another. That is, if this so-called Soviet warrior has the sugar beets to accept the challenge.

TAL throws the mic back to Angie, who catches it in stride.

Angelica Brooks: One more question, uh, regarding your run-ins with the police and their unmasking of…

TAL: interrupting Not now, Ang. Maybe when it’s all over, I’ll come on the Undergroundcast and tell the whole story.

Angelica Brooks: Alright, you heard it, TAL/Stanislav at Culture Shock is in play. Let’s see if the Russian Bear accepts! Let’s throw it back to the ring!

The camera cuts back to the arena for Ria/Gamble.

Nick Stuart: We now have RIA facing off against Tony Gamble.

Richard Parker: Great to see new blood in here against the old guard.

Nick Stuart: Richard, RIA is Ria Lockhart.

Richard Parker: Ohhhhh. Okay, right. Yeah I knew that.

Nick Stuart: She’s literally been on TV the last couple of weeks.

Richard Parker: Right, right. I was just messing with you, like how I hate Cancer Jiles. I actually enjoy the guy.

Nick Stuart: Really?

Richard Parker: No.

Nick Stuart: Let’s go to ringside.

The scene switches to inside the squared circle where Vince Howard resides.

Vince Howard: This match is for… ONE. FALL!!!!!!!

RAHHH RAHHH RAHHHHHHHH

Never fails to amaze a rabid crowd, the one fall thingy. They always seem to pick ONE match a week to give a loud cheer!

Vince Howard: Introducing first, from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania… weighing one-hundred-fifty pounds… RIA!

“Time Warp” grooves through the PA system. The big screen flashes the lyrics line by line.

It’s Astounding
Time is fleeting
Madness takes its toll
But listen closely
Not for very much longer
I’ve got to keep control

As the beat picks up, the highlighted letters of A, I and R move to arrange ‘RIA’ to raucous cheers from the crowd. RIA strides out, decked out in a hat with an exaggerated crown and bill, heart shaped glasses and a leather jacket with pink and blue tassels. She pauses at the top of the ramp, huge grin on her face and gives the audience a polite wave. The Psychoberry continues her journey to the ring, adding a whimsical spin near the middle of the entrance way. When the chorus kicks in, the crowd sings along.

LET’S DO THE TIME WARP AGAIN
LET’S DO THE TIME WARP AGAIN

Richard Parker: I loved that theme on Back to the Future.

Nick Stuart: I think you’re mistaken.

As RIA draws close to the ring, she does a little hop to the left, following the song’s instructions. Staying on task, she does a jump to the right. RIA climbs onto the apron, hands on her hips, and does a brief shimmy. As exuberant as when she appeared from the back, RIA bounces into the ring. She does a lap around the squared circle, taking in the energy of the crowd.

Richard Parker: Okay, the choreography is decent.

LET’S DO THE TIME WARP AGAIN

With RIA in the ring, referee Ashley Barlow enters and the next theme song cues…

Where my heart is, rests my very soul
And the colors bleed from blue to gold

“Born for this” by Divide Music starts to play through the speakers as Tony Gamble and Johnnie Newsman step out from behind the curtain, soaking in the chorus of boos that rain down from the crowd.

When the choice is mine and mine alone
I won’t give in even if you break my bones

Vince Howard doesn’t even bother to try announcing Gamble. The theme song continues.

I won’t give in ‘till your sins have been atoned
All I see is the flickering lights below me

Tony stretches his arms out wide, welcoming the crowd’s form of adoration as Johnnie continues to speak and his music plays. The Gamble Championship fastened firmly around his waist.

All I need is the power to change what I see
If I can give a little, not a second thought

Johnnie Newsman: Coming to your ring, with weight of one hundred and thee eighty nine pounds of lean, healthy muskulls on a man.

If I’m stuck in the middle, I will take the shot, woah
All I wanna be, yeah

Tony makes his way down the ramp, ignoring the few smarks in the crowd that actually do like him. They reach their arms out, awaiting a slap of acknowledgement that will never come, as Johnnie stays at the top of the ramp.

Yeah, I was born for this
I will keep my secrets high above

Johnnie Newsman: He thee capotabola!

In the hopes to protect the ones I love
But I wonder where in darkness lies the truth

Johnnie Newsman: Number won in your heart!

Of the one who took their lives, you can’t excuse
I don’t fear you, I won’t let you take my home

Tony climbs the steps, looking out at the fans that have not quieted down at all since he stepped out from behind the curtain. They love to hate him, even more so as he slaps the face of the title a few times.

I will climb through to wherever you may roam
I won’t give in, you can even break my bones

Johnnie Newsman: Only man to half title with his name!

What is within is a strength you’ll never know

Johnnie Newsman: TOOOOOOOOOOOONYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!

All I see is the flickering lights below me
All I need is the power to change what I see

He steps in between the middle and top ropes to get into the ring, making his way to the center.

Johnnie Newsman: THEEEEE GRRRRRRIIIINNNNNNNN!!

If I can give a little, not a second thought
If I’m stuck in the middle, I will take the shot, woah

He drops down to one knee, unfastening the Gamble Championship from around his waist as he does.

Johnnie Newsman: GAAAAAAAAMMBLLLLLLEEEEE!!

All I wanna be, yeah

Richard Parker: Entrance is good, much better than RIA’s. It’s got showmanship.

Nick Stuart: Showmanship happens inside the ring, Rich. In my books, anyway.

Richard Parker: That’s a bold strategy, Nick. Let’s see how it plays out.

Gamble stretches his arms out once again, then throws back his head to stare at the title he lifts up above his head.

Yeah, I was born for this

Nick Stuart: Well Ashley isn’t going to wait much longer. She’s giving both wrestlers the rundown and we are off!

DING DING

RIA and Gamble circle, ready to lock into a grapple. Relatively the same size, Gamble is able to gain the upper hand in the grapple by taking RIA’s right arm and wrenching it behind her back. He keeps the hold in place while RIA tries to swing her left arm back to knock him but can’t exactly reach. Gamble works the arm back further, as RIA has to lean down and try to swing her body around to escape. However, Tony doesn’t let go.

RIA, eventually, works towards the ropes. She grabs them and Ashley Barlow asks for a break.

The break doesn’t matter. Gamble drops the hold the second he sees RIA take the top rope. He slips in front of her, hooks his arms around her and delivers a belly-to-belly suplex, sending her back to where she came from.

Gamble begins drilling his right knee into the side of RIA’s head over and over again.

Richard Parker: Let me tell you, Lockhart is going to be hearing bells for weeks!

Nick Stuart: It’s simply RIA now.

Richard Parker: Whatever happened to Ria Nightshade?

Gamble lifts RIA off the mat, hooks her into a suplex and lifts her up. However, RIA wiggles out of the move, lands on her feet and delivers a roundhouse kick to the side of Tony’s head. Gamble wanders around on roller skates, likely hearing bells himself as RIA walks into position, hooks her right arm around Tony and sends him to the mat with a DDT.

Followed by an elbow drop and a cover.

ONE.

TW- SHOULDER UP.

RIA latches onto that same shoulder. She drags Gamble to his feet and then applies a modified arm bar, into a snap suplex. RIA holds on, pulls Gamble to his feet again and connects with a second snap suplex. This time she lets go, pulls herself upright and in a jiffy she’s off the ropes with a measured knee drop.

Except Gamble rolls out of the way at the last possible second. He shoots to his feet and connects with an uppercut. Gamble follows with a DDT and then an elbow drop straight into her heart. With RIA seething as she tries to fight off the pain, Gamble pulls her off the mat and tries for a piledriver-

No! RIA with a backdrop instead.

Both wrestlers are on their feet. RIA looks for a headbutt but it’s blocked by Gamble as he gets his hands up in time. Well, some of it is blocked. He still had to absorb the blow a little more than he would have liked to. RIA Irish whips Gamble into the ropes but she telegraphs it. She lowers her head, allowing Gamble to fall to the mat and pokes RIA in the eyes.

Ashley Barlow is going to have none of it. She scolds Tony and tells him she will call for the bell if he tries anything like that again. Tony isn’t really listening… he’s already got RIA up in the air and crashes her back to the mat, head-first, with that piledriver he wasn’t able to hit beforehand.

The crowd boos; Gamble doesn’t care. Newsman loves it on the outside of the ring, the only one cheering (other than a rather disheveled looking oversized “mark” in the front row behind him.)

Nick Stuart: I think RIA is out!

Richard Parker: So much for the comeback!

ONE.

TWO.

KICKOUT!

Gamble mounts himself and starts reigning down the forearms and punches into RIA’s skull. The shots are coming from every angle, it’s tough for RIA to cover up.

The former two time Alias Champion, amongst other PRIME Titles he’s won, sends one HARD blow into the side of RIA’s head before he’s ready to lock on Smile for Me.

Instead and seemingly out of nowhere, RIA lunges to the ropes and takes them! The submission move can’t be completed!

Newsman slams the mat in shame. That same fan behind him yells for Barlow to ignore the rope break.

Gamble studies RIA’s location. He decides to send another hard, stiff-as-shit forearm into the side of her head. This one rocks her. RIA looks like she’s completely DOA. The veteran pushes off RIA and drags her limp body to the middle of the ring…

Richard Parker: I guess RIA might have to go by Lockhart again.

Nick Stuart: Tell me how any of that makes sense.

Gamble drops to his knees and tries to sink in the modified rings…

When RIA performs a backslide and has Gamble hooked into a pin!

ONE!

TWO!

NO!!

Nick Stuart: Wow I thought the match was over! Tony was dead to rights. He’s VERY lucky he rolled off the mat and got a shoulder up in time.

Gamble is on his feet but so is RIA. Although groggy, RIA ducks a knee strike from Gamble. She slides around the former champion and latches onto his waist. She tries to toss Gamble up for a German suplex… but Gamble escapes at the last second.

Tony looks for an eye rake again but has second thoughts when out of the corner of his eyes he sees Ashley Barlow in perfect position and potentially caught onto exactly what his plan was. Instead, Gamble goes for a hard punch but RIA dodges it.

Nick Stuart: I think Tony took too much time to think!

Gamble spins around but moves himself right into a neckbreaker! The Grin stumbles into a corner of the ring and falls to his knees for a moment, rubbing the side of his neck. Newsman tries to cheer him on. That fan is doing the same.

Richard Parker: Tony, LOOK OUT!

So is Rich, apparently.

SLAM!

RIA with a running hip attack. This nearly decapitated Tony’s head from his already painful neck!

RIA throws Gamble to the middle of the ring and then she quickly climbs to the top buckle. She measures Tony and leaps…

WHAM!

Flipping seated senton!

Nick Stuart: Oh I think RIA tweaked her back on the landing!

Indeed, the Pittsburgh native can’t get a cover because she is grabbing her back. Ashley Barlow remains in position just in case she is able to get there.

Finally, RIA crawls over and hooks a leg.

Newsman covers his eyes! The Gamble mark behind him has already sat down, head in his hands!

ONE.

TWO.

SHOULDER UP!

Most of the crowd bit on the finish but RIA isn’t going to argue. Instead, she lifts Gamble up-

CRUNCH!

And she’s met with a jawbreaker!

RIA shoots a good foot in the air before she falls to the mat in a heap.

Nick Stuart: A really decent back and forth. Once either of them look like they’ve got some momentum going, it’s interrupted!

Tony slams the side of his head and then wanders over to where RIA is trying to pick herself up off the mat.

Tony will gladly help.

And then work her directly into his front Russian leg sweep, the Stop Laughing at Me!

Nick Stuart: Oh, it’s done! RIA landed awkwardly on the side of her head!

Gamble rolls RIA over and hooks a leg.

ONE.

TWO.

LAST SECOND KICKOUT!

The crowd cheers as Gamble looks around, trying to think on the spot. He drags RIA upright and inadvertently nudges Ashley Barlow in the process.

Richard Parker: Great call!

With Ashley Barlow knocked down, Gamble can’t help but peer outside the ring at a steel chair just simply laying there unattended. Well, okay, it’s not unattended. It’s in Newsman’s hands.

Tony slams RIA on the mat with a spinebuster slam and then slides over to the edge of the ring. Tony is just about to extend his hands for the chair when…

RIA is back up. She spins Tony around, connecting with a tilt-a-whirl DDT!

In a flash, RIA is back on her feet. She runs up the corner padding and stands at the top. She quickly measures Gamble.

Dying Star Elbow!

Newsman drops the chair.

The mark fan drops his jaw.

She covers.

And Barlow is back on the count, fully operational.

ONE.

TWO.

THREE!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: The winner of this match… RIA!

The crowd gives a cheer as RIA rolls off Tony Gamble and her hand is raised!

Nick Stuart: Tony took too long. He saw the chair but he didn’t get to it in time. That gave RIA the opening she needed to score the victory.

Richard Parker: Well it really could’ve gone in either direction. Tough loss for Gamble, good win for RIA.

ReVival goes to commercial as RIA celebrates inside the ring.

Arenas, labyrinthine though they may be, always have certain things in common. Whitewashed walls. Cement floors. Narrow hallways that lead to more narrow hallways that lead to more narrow hallways. If you’ve been backstage in one, you’ve been backstage in them all. Amica Mutual Pavilion is no exception to that rule and so, when the camera fades in on the backstage parking, it’s not a cause for concern. It’s familiar. It’s normal. It’s fine…

…until an obnoxiously large, glittery, diesel belching truck with flames painted on the sides drives into frame.

Oh and Lynyrd Skynyrd is blasting from within; ‘Gimme Back My Bullets’, in case you were curious.

Oh and a pair of rhinestone-encrusted truck nuts are hanging from the hitch; extra large and extra nutty.

Oh and it’s hauling a jet ski; because we need to make these things obvious and give the fans a reason to boo before the driver’s side door even opens.

And open, it does. Daytona Diamonds steps out dressed like a poor man’s idea of a million bucks. Fur coat? Oh yes. Rhinestone nudie suit? You betcha. Cowboy hat atop his cowboy head? Why, of course. He’s shimmerin’ and shinin’ like a plane mistaken for a star and, when he notices the camera, a big, shit-eating grin curves at the edges of his lips. He just can’t resist getting a few words in.

Daytona Diamonds: Well, hellfire and tarnation! Y’all waitin’ out here for lil ol’ me?! Well, don’t you worry, babies. The Rhinestone Cowboy has arrived!

As Daytona walks through the parking lot and towards the arena proper, the camera follows after him. Through a set of steel doors and into one of those aforementioned narrow hallways, Daytona doesn’t stop talking. Why would he? He has so many words to say.

Daytona Diamonds: Last week, y’all bore witness to the birth of a certified superstar. The True Diamond of the ReVival! That’s me, in case you’ve got bricks for brains. Y’see, I walked out to that fuckin’ ring and I did exactly what I said I was gonna do: I beat Brandon Youngblood fair n’ square, one, two, three.

Boos. Just lots of boos. Daytona can’t hear them, though. He just keeps walking and, unfortunately, he keeps talking.

Daytona Diamonds: Now, tonight oughta be ‘bout celebratin’ my victory, but instead, I done got roped into a fuckin’ tag match with ol’ Donny. Shame, ain’t it? But don’t y’all worry none! This is just a detour! A piss break on my road to gold! Y’see, I got plans, PRIMEorillas. Big’uns. Youngblood was just the start. I’m ‘bout to run this fuckin’ place. I’m ‘bout to be the next big thi–

Somewhere, a record scratches and all those words pouring out of Daytona’s mouth come to an abrupt halt. It’s a wonder what turning the wrong corner can do to a man. In this case? Well, Daytona looks like he’s just seen a ghost before his expression hardens, upper lip snarling, fists balling, eyes narrowing.

The camera rounds the hallway’s corner to find Daytona Diamonds face to face with Brandon Youngblood. As if, somehow, already there, waiting. Guess he is quick to leave the WON desk just for the grand arrival of The King of the Rodeo. The Tower of Babel’s smirk is malicious. Focused. Intense. His arms are folded across his chest.

Brandon Youngblood: …Diamonds.

Given the space, one thing is clear; the Rhinestone Cowboy isn’t being given the red carpet treatment. He shall not pass.

Uh oh.

Brandon Youngblood: Got a lot to say behind a screen. Time to see if you’re as eager away from it…you little daisy…

For a split second, there’s something akin to anger in Daytona’s eyes, some tiny little inkling of the same man who choked out Kaz Troy with a chain… but that anger disappears, replaced by his own smirk and a pair of shrugging shoulders.

Daytona Diamonds: This ‘sposed to be intimidatin’ or somethin’, Brandy? C’mon now, let’s not make no mountains outta molehills. You ain’t still feelin’ blue over last week, are you?

That smirk widens, arms crossing over Daytona’s chest.

Daytona Diamonds: Chin up, buttercup. You might be a has-been, but that don’t mean you gotta be a sore loser on top of it.

Uh oh.

For a moment, the Tower of Babel’s teeth are bared. Then, he begins to chuckle, his chest rising and falling. A preamble to more full throated laughter. Bracing himself against the wall with one hand, Youngblood is outright hysterical. Maybe such a visual is cause for alarm. Maybe Diamonds is feeling the mood, offering up his own laughter in concert.

Brandon uses his knuckles to wipe away his tears. Struggling for breath. His words come out in short gasps.

Brandon Youngblood: That…that’s…that’s a good one…

A hunching. Hands on knees. Diamonds standing tall over The Diamond. Such a stark visual. Emblematic of the result of the ReVival prior, no doubt.

That is, until an aggressive swipe smashes into the ribcage of one Rhinestone Cowboy. The blow isn’t an intention strike, no closed fist, but rather, a belt with the back of the knuckles. Like a tag between friends at a good joke landed. This isn’t funny. Not when you have broken ribs. Not when such a blast can double you over in pain.

Daytona Diamonds: OOF!

The sound of air escaping from Daytona’s lungs, smirk replaced by a grimace of true, honest, ungodly pain. And then, a hunching. Hands on knees. Diamonds on the same level as The Diamond. Such a stark visual, especially when Daytona reaches one hand up and places it on Youngblood’s shoulder, bracing himself, breathing through the pain, head hung low and cowboy hat draping his face in shadows.

This isn’t funny.

Slowly, Daytona lifts his head to meet Youngblood’s gaze, the hand on The Tower of Babel’s shoulder squeezing. A forced grin. Veins bulging in his forehead. The slightest twitch of his left eye. When he speaks, his voice comes out breathless, those broken ribs wrapped tight beneath all that gaudiness shooting sparks of pain through his entire body.

Daytona Diamonds: …heh… heh, yea… yeah, I know… I’m… heh… fuckin’ hilarious…

A pause. A wheeze. A cough. A sputter.

Daytona Diamonds: … ain’t feelin’ too… too hot all of a sudden, though… say, Brandy… you ain’t got no nicotine to help a guy out, do ya? Or some caffeine? Sure could use a sugar fix…

The retort to come is sure to be what ails him.

Brandon Youngblood: I could use the truth…Daytona…

All sense of joy is bled from The Strong Father.

Brandon Youngblood: You beat me. I don’t like it…I’ll never like it…but record is what it is. So take it. Enjoy it. But I want you to know…how much tape you have to go through to dig out that little notion, huh? Biggest match of your life…and nicotine and sugar comes on right when you need it most?

A growl.

Brandon Youngblood: I’m an open book. Go digging in my graveyard, I’ll point you to the damn skeletons. You ever try that again? You’ll be one.

Quaking with rage.

Brandon Youngblood: Hell…come Cardiff, you might become one anyway. So good luck. Soak up the sun. Clock is ticking.

There it is again; that smirk. Shit stirring is one thing, but you can only go so far before it starts to look like a death wish. Daytona straightens himself, breathing low and slow as he stands, the hand on Youngblood’s shoulder moving to the wall. Still catching his breath, still letting the pain pass.

Daytona Diamonds: Got some bad news for ya, sunshine… I like Guns N’ Roses as much as the next guy, but I ain’t had nothin’ to do with that little snafu…

Pause. Daytona leans back against the wall, arms crossing over his abdomen as he lets his back slide down. Now sitting, he looks up at Youngblood, those rhinestones still glittering way down there.

Daytona Diamonds: …sure is funny how serendipity sounds a lot like conspiracy, ain’t it? Right place, right time. I played the cards that got dealt, Brandy, but I weren’t the dealer. You get me?

Sitting there on the cement floor, clutching his broken ribs, The Rhinestone Cowboy looks a lot like a fallen villain from one of those classic westerns, muttering his last words with his dying breath, rebellious to the very end.

Daytona Diamonds: …but if sweet revenge’s what you’re barkin’ ‘bout, guess Cardiff is as good a place as any to try an’ get it. Tick tock, tick tock. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Such a look of smug satisfaction, despite it all. The Tower of Babel’s fists clench, his shoulders coiling, ready to strike. Something is off. Diamonds wasn’t shy is throwing his digs. If he’d been behind the glitch, what better time than now to twist the knife. And yet…

And yet…

Youngblood spits, his breathing haggard, his glower so intense. But there is no follow up. All he does is storm away, leaving Daytona in his wallow.

We cut elsewhere.

Elsewhere.

Hank stares at the mountain of gifts strewn about messily on the table, uncertain of their origin or their purpose. He marvels at the wide array of party poppers, grins excitedly at the pair of wacky pool tubes, and then grows concerned at the winged snooterbooper that growls at him from within its dark cage.

The Fabulous Gold Mask stands next to him, silently judging the gifts lying before the two of them. He doesn’t know when any of them got there. His brow furrows beneath his golden mask as he sees the custom “sorry about all your titles” Hallmark card sent to them by one “C.A. Avalon” and one “C. Jiles”. The dicks.

Hank turns to Fabby and gestures at the four tickets to a K-Pop band’s concert that have gone unclaimed by any of the Glueboiz. He raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

Fabby flashes him a thumbs up. Silently, they both reach out and claim two of those tickets.

A new friendship has blossomed here in PRIME Wrestling, one that could very well stand the test of time. A bond formed over some cute Korean boys and their beautiful music. Perhaps soon, they would be allowed to share in pool time together.

As the not-sounds of Fabby and Hank’s always-odd pantomiming carry on in the background, the scene pans over to PRIME’s premiere nonsense engineer, sparkling in despair. Joe Fontaine, the self-proclaimed Dick Puncher the Invincible, stares off into the void within this apparent room backstage. Comfy couches, larger TV screens, and a mini bar make this space less of a locker room and more of a suite for the Glueminati.

We’ll call it the “Gloffice”.

No?

We’ll workshop it.

Hank reaches out and picks up a boomerang. Like, a genuine goddamn boomerang straight from Australia. He turns it over in his hand inquisitively like he’s trying to decide if today is the day he finally embraces his inner Captain Boomerang.

Fabby picks up a blowgun and a series of darts. He recognizes that some of these gifts are getting out of hand now and getting into the territory where one wonders how any of this passes security. He turns to Hank and they compare the gifts with one another. Then, wordlessly (natch), they pass the boomerang and the blowgun to each other. An exchange of gifts! Regifting, if you will!

One elbow against the bar, with a half-drank glass of milk within reach, Joe Fontaine continues to stare, though not out of the exhaustion he experienced when he watched his best buddy lose his Universal championship to his second-least favorite wrestler in PRIME. No, this time, it’s something more…

…actually, it’s just despair.

Despair and milk farts.

Hank and Fabby are now communicating in American Sign Language, with subtitles being provided for the viewing audience because the hard of hearing definitely needs it.

The Fabulous Gold Mask: “Want to go out back and shoot a couple of production guys with these?”

Hank: “That wouldn’t be very nice.”

The Fabulous Gold Mask: “You’re right. Sorry. Let’s do it to some of those Team Bandit pricks instead.”

Hank’s face lights up at the prospect.

On the further side of the room, Sid Phillips, laying flat on his back along one of the cushy couches. One hand holding a phone hovering above his eyes, the other hanging limp towards the floor.

Fabby and Hank, still holding their respective weapons, return their gaze towards the gifts. Some of these are esoteric. Were they all for Sid? They seemed to all be for Sid. His house, they decided, must be filled to the brim with so many random knick-knacks.

Why is Sid so popular?

Fabby shakes his fist in the air at the prospect. He turns to Joe Fontaine inquisitively, pantomiming at him to get his attention.

At this point, Dick Puncher the Invincible snaps out of it.

Joe Fontaine: Hm, what? I wasn’t listening.

Fabby shakes his head, aghast at the notion that he’d not been listening to his and Hank’s erudite conversation about the nature of gift-giving and cool blowguns. Let’s… not think about the fact that they didn’t actually say anything.

Joe Fontaine: I mean, a blowgun is cool, I guess. Really needs some – I don’t know, lung power? – to get working right.

Fabby decides that Joe isn’t into this conversation, so he and Hank turn to Sid and gesture at him.

Joe Fontaine: I wouldn’t bother. He hasn’t left that couch since we got here, and he’s said like… two words.

Sid Phillips: (mumbling) Powerbombs powerbombs powerbombs powerbombs powerbombs powerbombs.

Joe Fontaine: Eight.

The sound of the entry opening steals attention away from the melancholic Father of Powerbombs and All His Wacky Children. Panning to the entrance reveals PRIME’s Psychoberry, RIA, who leans against the doorframe and looks around at the scene before her and decides that maybe this is a bad time.

RIA: I’m sorry to interrupt… whatever the hell is going on here. Anyway… I’m sore and I could use a nice massage from a big muscly man that’s really good at powerbombs. Anyone here fit that description?

Sid looks up from his phone, smoldering. And nodding.

Sid Phillips: Yeah, I think I know a guy. ‘Cause I don’t think Fabby fits that bill.

Fabby does a double take at Sid upon hearing his “name”.

Meanwhile, there’s a vending machine in the back corner of the room with lizard branding and a beret on top. It seethes, it oozes malcontent. VENDBERGE knows all too well the bitter pill of unrequited love, of passers-by in the night who seem so interested in you, only to abandon you after they’ve taken what they want – crisps, a kendo stick, a Frenchman. It imagines the horrors that these two have left in their wake of shared happiness – the scorn that serves as the other side of the coin of love. How terrible the damage could be, how deep, for the deeper the care, the deeper the wounds that can be left. And meanwhile, what is a VENDBERGE able to do to affect its surroundings beyond just standing there, alone in permanent servitude with no reward and no superior to tell it that it can take the night off. Stuck for as long as the controlling outsiders feel is necessary; could be a week, could be a year. Could be forgotten entirely in this room – what are they calling it now, the Gloffice? Jesus, it’s worse than VENDBERGE thought, it’s going to die in this pit, isn’t it? Screaming with no voice, desperation with no locomotion. A straightjacket and a muzzle by design, its pain forever masked by a cute little gecko on its box. A personal, personalized purgatory. An existence without agency, paralyzed forever, forgotten by the world until those brief windows where there’s some sort of basic decent human interaction that turns out to be completely transactional, and then forgotten again. It atrophies, as all things do, and yet it can’t perform maintenance on itself. Even if it could, would it know how? Better asked, would it even want to maintain this?

Sid raises an eyebrow, as do Fabby and Hank. Joe, redirecting his not-toxic and not-basilisk green eyes, takes a step forward with a small grin, patting RIA on the shoulder. He thumbs towards Sid.

Joe Fontaine: Okay, you guys have fun! The spotlight’s all yours, I’m just gonna go find a nice corner to die in or go find Anna and build a time machine so I can kick Jared in the penis before he can win the title or whatever, byeee…

At that, he drifts off like a ghost before RIA can say another word to him. RIA and Sid share confused glances with one another while the camera pans back over to Fabby and Hank with two extra K-Pop tickets each and significant glances towards the darling couple.

Then we cut elsewhere.

Bryan Dawkins: I can do this.

Deep breath.

Bryan Dawkins: I can do this.

Another deep breath.

Bryan Dawkins: I have done this before. This isn’t new.

The deepest breath so far.

Bryan Dawkins: Just need to follow the plan. Stick to the strategy. Slow the match down. Stomp out the cockroach.

We find the former Flyin’ Hawaiian in his private locker room, one of the sweet perks of being a ReVolution era alum, yet again featuring a gourmet spread of pineapple based entrees and snacks. Rhode Island isn’t exactly known for their tropical fruit, so this stuff was shipped directly from the Dole Plantation in Hawaii. Only the best for PRIME’s Favorite Hawaiian.

He focuses intently on a piece of paper and on closer inspection it’s clear why – Dawkins seems to have invested some serious time into putting together a scouting report on Cancer Jiles.

Bryan Dawkins: Let’s see…take out the legs, keep bruh grounded…heh, that makes both of us.

He scans the list, eyes darting back and forth across the page.

Bryan Dawkins: Powerbomb? Seriously, who put this on here?

Dawkins peers at the camera and points at the move list included in the report. POWERBOMB is crudely handwritten in bright red ink alongside the rest of the nicely typed and formatted strategy report. It remains unknown how, or why, Sid would have gotten ahold of the report. Would it kill the guy to learn just one other move?!

Anyway…

Bryan Dawkins: Just need to focus. I can do this. I can do this.

Another deep breath.

Bryan Dawkins: I can do th–…

BOOM

Crash comes through the door without notice, tumbling backwards, and smiling wide. A glint in his eye suggests he is gearing up for some “Random Door over-the-pants hand action” from the woman shaking her head in the doorway.

Crash: Hey now, lady! You gotta sweet talk me a little before you can touch the money maker!

Violent Purple skips said sweet talk and fires a boot through his balls. Crash’s eyes go wide, spotting Dawkins off to the right and then a hearty can of Dole sliced pineapples.

There’s a fuckin’ difference.

He lifts his chin on the way to entering the fetal position.

Crash: Sup, bro?

The Hot Dog Hero crashes with a groan. Violent Purple steps into the room. She offers an apologetic nod to Dawkins with a slight shrug.

Violent Purple: He’s harmless.

Purple pauses as though considering her words more carefully. After a moment she nods.

Violent Purple: Yeah, harmless..

The Hot Dog Hero bounds to his feet before anyone, ever, could after that kind of hearty shot to the plumbs. His eyes fix on something beyond Dawkins.

Them sweet Dole’s, bro.

Crash:  Please let me put those on my pies, bro!

Bryan Dawkins: Get your hands off my Dole’s, bruh. Friends and family only.

Uh oh. Bro? Bruh? We need a spelling bee judge here, now, STAT, yesterday, for this bronado bruhway.

BRODOWN

Crash: Lookin’ a little light in that regard, eh bronapple?

Dawkins shoots daggers at his intruder. He gestures at the empty room around him.

Bryan Dawkins: Ya mind, bruh? Tryin’ to get ready for my match. Thinkin’ ya should be doin’ the same, bruh.

Unfortunately for the Bruh, Crash is preoccupied. He’s splitting his focus between the aforementioned tropical fruits and his one and only muse, no way he has sights on other chicks, the lady of his eye – Violent Purple. She seems to actually be paying attention to Bryan and waves Crash toward Dawkins when she realizes he is staring at her.

Bryan Dawkins: (snapping fingers) Hey! Bruh! (whistles)

Crash snaps out of it.

Bryan Dawkins: Jiles is no joke, bruhmigo. Former Universal Champ. Ringer of the Bandits. Bruh got his shades back. I need t’prepare, bruh.

Crash’s attention has waned yet again. Those Doles and the dame have his full attention. Dawkins finds a strange sense of companionship for a bro with so much love for those Dole’s.

Bryan Dawkins: In case ya haven’t figured it out yet, neither is Farthingbruh. Bruh might have a bit of a…sauce problem, but he’s still a former 5 Star Champ. Might wanna focus on that instead of (gesturing at Violent Purple) this.

Crash: This (nods to Violent Purple) is the very lovely and snuglly lady-

BOOM

Crash flies off camera into the wooden lockers with a splintering effect. Dawkins watches on in pure horror, for like five seconds, because this is PRIME.

Did you forget?

PFFT.

Crash: No.

Bryan Dawkins: What?

The bruh who was once known as the Flyin’ Hawaiian jumps to action to help but is held by the sexually charged redhead who just dropkicked Crash into a lot of hard stuff. She winks when she and Dawkins match eyes.

Violent Purple: He likes it.

They both look at Dawkins with a wink, somehow in unison, and super freaky. Freaky fuckin’ freaky. But that’s when Crash is, somehow, on his feet again in seconds.

Crash: Come on, Purps. You know I gotta give Cecilbro everything I’ve got tonight. Gotta save it up for later, girl. Tisk fuckin’ tisk.

PRIME’s Favorite Hawaiian is having a hard time comprehending what he’s seeing and hearing. He wasn’t expecting visitors today…definitely not these visitors. He makes his way to the door.

Crash: whispering to himself Looks like a decent spot for post-win intercourse…

Bryan Dawkins: Ya do realize this is my PRIVATE locker room, right bruh? (points to the placard on the door) Says so right here. So if you’re lookin’ for some alone time, gonna need t’look elsewhere, bruh. This ain’t it. Sorry bruh.

VP has no problem with that, throwing her hands up and waving Bye Bye bitch before walking out the door. Crash, covered a bit from the wood he just… crash…landed into, jumps at Bryan, a sexually frustrating  snarl on his lips.

Crash: Bruhckin’ bropedo…

The Northern Light sneers before turning away, on his way out the door, and steps out. It’s clear this was one giant interruption in the Bruh’s pregame ritual. Guess what?

It’s not over.

Crash pops back around from the doorframe, drawing a super dramatic eye roll from the Bruh, before the Bro throws a thumbs up his way.

Crash:  Give ‘im hell, bro.

Crash finally leaves the room, giving Dawkins some peace and quiet for the first time in what feels like days. Oh, this segment was only five minutes long? Could have fooled him.

Bryan Dawkins: …what the hell was that, bruh?

Dawkins attempts to shake it off in a way that would make Taylor Swift proud and attempts to focus on his gameplan for dealing with the Cockroach of PRIME. He begins to search the room, going from locker to cabinet to drawer inside the various furniture in the locker room.

Bryan Dawkins: Need to find some white out…gotta get this powerbomb shit off this report.

One could argue he’s got bigger things to worry about. One would be right. In any case, we go from whatever this segment as been to what is sure to be an…interesting…matchup between the deplorable Fred Dick and the man of many teefs, Arthur Pleasant.

Ring. Vince Howard. Microphone. In that order.

Vince Howard: The following contest is scheduled for one fall…

The crowd is kind of indifferent about how many falls there are.

Vince Howard: Introducing first, from Chicken City, Georgia and weighing in tonight at three hundred and five pounds…

“We built this city! We built this city on rock and roll! Built this city! We built this city on rooooock and rooooooll!”

Vince Howard: FREEEEEEEDDDDDDDDD DIIIIIIIIIICK!!!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The drums and lame synthesizers of Starship’s “We Built this City” hit the speakers, and Fred Dick steps out from gorilla onto the entrance ramp. He does some shadow slap-boxing, gets a tad out of breath, and strolls to the ring. He rolls under the ropes, stands in the middle of the ring and — you guessed it, shadow slap-boxes some more. Sweaty and gassed, he moves to his corner and awaits the bell.

Vince Howard: And his opponent…

“Slum Planet” by 3Teeth and Mick Gordon starts to play, and Arthur Pleasant appears, grinning from ear to ear. He stares at his opponent, brandishing his teeth with a primal roar for violence and pain.

Vince Howard: From under the midnight sun in Barrow, Alaska, he weighs in tonight at two hundred and twenty-five pounds… The Worst Niightmare of PRIME… ARTHUUUUUUUUUUR PLEASAAAAAAAAANT!!!!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

DING DING

Arthur Pleasant begins stalking towards Fred Dick, but the Street Cat has other ideas. He begins moving at a brisk pace around the perimeter of the ropes – some might call it prancing – all while holding down the edges of his oversized jersey. The first time Pleasant reaches in, Dick slaps his hands away.

Fred Dick: Don’t touch me!

Pleasant takes a step back, flashing his teeth under a mane of wild hair, and then lunches in again. Once again, Fred Dick slaps at Pleasant’s hands.

Fred Dick: I said no! I’m naked under here!

This particular game of cat and mouse continues for a minute.

Nick Stuart: Pleasant eager to get his hands on Dick tonight.

Richard Parker: Nick, I’m going to need you to take a minute and think about the words that just came out of your mouth.

Nick Stuart: What did I… Oh. Ohhhhh. Ummm. Well… Pleasant circling trying to grab a hold of his opponent…

Richard Parker: Better.

Nick Stuart: But thus far Dick has been hard to gra-dammit.

Richard Parker: Fans, it’s not often that I get to say this, but allow me to apologize for Nick tonight. He’s a big pervert and we’re all very ashamed of him.

Buckle up, everyone. This is what you’re in for from a broadcast perspective. As for the crowd, they seem rather divided on who to cheer for and who to boo.

It’s here where Pleasant finally manages to catch his prey, landing a pair of forearms against Fred’s jaw. This is transitioned into a loose Muay Thai clinch, and Blood Mode has to play defense from a series of knees aimed at his face.

WE! HATE! DICK!

TEETH! TEETH! TEETH!

WE! HATE! DICK!

TEETH! TEETH! TEETH!

It all starts to blend together into a bit of a jumbled mess.

WE HATE (TEETH) DICK (TEETH)!

WE (TEETH) HATE (TEETH) DICK!

And over the next few seconds, a rhythm forms.

…HATE …TEETH!

…TEETH …DICK!

Before codifying itself into something truly horrific.

DICK TEETH!

DICK TEETH!

Richard Parker: Are… are we going to acknowledge that?

Nick Stuart: Nope. We’re going to admit that we can both hear it, that it’s probably putting the worst kind of images in our brains, and then never speak of it again.

Richard Parker: Right. Good call.

A beat.

Richard Parker: But I have questions.

Nick Stuart: Take them to Google, because I don’t want to know.

Pleasant grabs Fred Dick – you kind of have to use the first name, otherwise it all just looks super pervy, y’know – by the bright red mullet and snaps a headbutt into the bridge of his nose. It doesn’t bloody the would-be Blood, but it does get his eyes all good ‘n watery.

Richard Parker: Okay, serious question… Given the way the crowd is acting, and the names of the people involved in this match…

Nick Stuart: If you’re asking if we can call it like professionals, the answer is I don’t know, but we’ve got to try.

Richard Parker: Good to know we’re on the same page.

Pleasant backs Fred Dick against the ropes. As the King of Wrong Style tries to blink some focus back into his vision, the Worst Nightmare of PRIME tries to gouge his left eye clear out of his head.

Nick Stuart: Pleasant is out here trying to maim his opponent, but that shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone who’s followed his career. I bet he’s looking forward to Wargames because of what he’ll get to do inside that cage.

Richard Parker: Yeah, but going for the face is rough. Can you imagine Fred Dick having to walk around half-blind? Like some kind of one-eyed monster?

Nick Stuart: …

Richard Parker: Oh. Right. Phrasing.

Nick Stuart: Yeah, phrasing.

Jimmy Turnbull steps between the men to issue Pleasant a warning about going for the eyes. Fred Dick leans between the middle and top ropes to try and help force a break while he checks to make sure that his face is still intact.

Richard Parker: Dammit, calling a Dick match is hard.

Nick Stuart: See, now I think you’re doing it deliberately.

Richard Parker: I’m not, I swear!

Poor Jimmy Turnbuckles seems to have drawn the worst lot in his short refereeing career, because he’s catching an earful from Fred. It’s mostly threats of litigation if Fred becomes legally blind as a result of this match.

Pleasant doesn’t give his opponent much time to recover, and once Turnbull is out of the way he’s right back on the offensive against Fred Dick. Dick ducks underneath an attempted grapple, and there’s a big ol’ open hand slap waiting for Pleasant when he turns around. It’s followed by a bell clap, which leaves Arthur with a ringing sensation in his ears and a brief loss of equilibrium.

Dick runs towards the ropes to build up some steam, and charges at Pleasant.

Fred Dick: BLOODMOOOOOOOOODE!

A charging Bas Rutten palm strike connects, and Pleasant goes down. But the move has another effect, because in exerting himself that way ol’ Fred’s jersey rode up. Way up. Revealing to the world that there is actually a pair of traditional wrestling tights (AKA: the tiny pants) hiding under there, and not bare skin as Fred had originally claimed.

Richard Parker: Oh thank god. I saw his shirt start to king of billow out there, and I got real nervous.

Nick Stuart: Pleasant is down. Dick on top.

Richard Parker: We are so getting censored.

Nick Stuart: Turnbull to count…

ONE!

TWO!

Nick Stuart: But Arthur Pleasant with the kickout!

Not content, Fred Dick starts rolling both of his shoulders, kind of bouncing in place as he waits for Pleasant to get back to his feet. When Arthur is vertical again, Dick’s arms begin to go full windmill as he winds up the slapping machine. What comes next is a flurry of slaps, swats, and chops. It lacks the speed of an E. Honda slap, and the flash of a Piston Honda uppercut, and is more in line with a Detroit Pistons brawl. Bill Laimbeer would be proud.

Boy, that was a journey.

Richard Parker: I don’t know if these strikes are doing much damage, Nick, but they sure do look like they’re pissing Arthur Pleasant off.

Arthur Pleasant’s teeth are a thing of legend. In some circles, they might be regarded as a bit of a meme, but that doesn’t make them any less dangerous. Fred Dick is about to learn why. Pleasant grabs him by the mullet and draws him in, grinning all the while, before sinking his teeth deep into Fred Dick’s forehead.

Nick Stuart: Pleasant biting! The referee has got to get in there and stop this, or there could be serious damage done to Fred Dick!

For their part, the crowd are all-in on this latest development, and a brand new chant rises up from their ranks.

BITE THAT DICK!

BITE THAT DICK!

BITE THAT DICK!

It’s jarring enough that even Jimmy Turnbull is caught off-guard by it as he starts to warn Pleasant that what he’s doing is very illegal, and he should know that by now, and please stop it you’re making a terrible mess of yourself, your opponent, and the ring.

Richard Parker: Nick, how long have we been doing this?

Nick Stuart: I’ve almost lost count, Richard. Fifteen years? Twenty?

Richard Parker: In all that time, did you ever think you would hear a crowd chant that at a match?

Nick Stuart: If I said yes then I would be a liar.

When things are finally broken up, Fred Dick rolls to the outside and checks himself only to find that he’s been busted open. Not only that, but some of it has run down the length of his face and onto his jersey.

Nick Stuart: Can you hear what he’s saying?

Richard Parker: I think he just told Arthur that jersey is from the ‘97 flu game.

Nick Stuart: Got it. He knows we can all see the label on the bottom of it though, doesn’t he?

Richard Parker: I dunno, Nick, but the man’s making a passionate argument.

After a moment of this, Pleasant has had enough and he follows Fred out to the arena floor. The Street Cat immediately dives back into the ring, runs the length of it, and baseball slides out to the floor on the other side. He head-fakes left, then head-fakes right, before starting to run to his left around the ring. Pleasant gives chase, and just as it looks like he’s about to gain ground on his quarry, Dick buttslides across the nearby ring steps like they’re the hood of the goddamn Knight Rider (yes, I know it’s name is KITT). Arthur is unable to stop in time, and his momentum takes him careening into the stairs.

Nick Stuart: Some interesting tactics on display here in the late stages of this match.

Fred Dick starts slap-shadow boxing as he waits for Arthur to get back to his feet, only marginally aware of the referee’s attempt to get both men back inside the ring. Two rights and a left connect before he grabs Pleasant by the hair and sends him into the barricade. Dick rolls back in under the ropes, and has what quickly escalates into a very animated conversation about the state of his own forehead. After a moment of this, Fred Dick begins slap-shadow boxing again as he waits for Pleasant to get back into the ring.

Nick Stuart: Might not have been the best idea to give Arthur Pleasant time to recover outside the ring like that, but Fred Dick looks ready to pounce.

Richard Parker: Hey, you know what? That didn’t sound like a thirteen-year old said it. Progress, Nicky! Progress!

As soon as Pleasant rolls in under the ropes, Fred Dick charges across the ring looking for a second Bloodmode, but this time it’s ducked. A roaring elbow drops Dick to his knees, and I feel dirty for putting those words in that order. With the way the Jordan jersey hangs low, a good chunk of Fred Dick’s legs are obscured on the mat. It’s like the ring is giving birth to a normal-sized torso with shoes for a butt.

Nick Stuart: Arthur Pleasant measuring Dick…

Richard Parker: Oh, and I catch hell for phrasing. Sure.

Nick Stuart: NARCOLEPSY CONNECTS!

The buzzsaw kick lands flush, and Fred topples over.

Nick Stuart: He damn near kicked Dick’s head off!

Richard Parker: Alright, now who’s the one doing it on purpose.

Nick Stuart: Cover! This could be all!

And Jimmy Turnbull is down to make the count.

ONE!

TWO!

Nick Stuart: There’s the shoulder! It looks like it took a lot of energy, but Dick managed to get it up at the last second!

Richard Parker: I’m telling my therapist about this, Nick. I hope you know that.

Pleasant pulls his opponent up by the hair once again, this time using that sweet stache as a leverage point. He tries to hoist Fred Dick up onto his shoulders, perhaps looking for Calamity Pain, but this time it’s Fred’s turn for an eye rake. The Street Cat slides out of Pleasant’s grip, and after grabbing Arthur in a waistlock he drives him back towards the corner. Unfortunately for Jimmy Turnbull, he happens to be in the way and is caught in the stampede. He has to lunge out of the way to avoid being crushed in the corner, but with the referee’s attention diverted Fred snaps off a lightning quick shot that connects dead center with Arthur’s pleasants.

One subsection of the crowd, each of whom are armed with a Citizens Against Fred Dick sign, take special offense to this latest attempt at cheating.

Nick Stuart: I almost don’t want to say it, because the jokes write themselves, but…

Richard Parker: It was a low blow. A dick punch.

Nick Stuart: Okay, I think we get the point.

Richard Parker: A crotch shot. A love tap to the love muscle. A…

Nick Stuart: THANK YOU, RICHARD. THAT WILL BE ALL.

Still bleeding from the bite he suffered earlier, Fred Dick steps out onto the ring apron and ascends the turnbuckles. He steadies himself, readies his aim, and leaps.

WHACK!!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!!!

A thundering slap lands flush on Pleasant’s chest, sending him sprawling.

Nick Stuart: SLAP BOX WITH GOD! That’s got to be all!

And again, Jimmy Turnbull is in place to make the count.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!!

DING DING DING

Fred Dick rises to his feet and raises his arms in victory, only to immediately have to duck as a cup full of dark brown liquid comes flying towards him. That CAFD crowd don’t fuck around.

Vince Howard: The winner of this match… FREEEED DIIIIICK!!!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Nick Stuart: Fred Dick adding another checkmark in the win column, Richard.

Richard Parker: And we win, too, because now we can go back to talking like adults. Mostly.

Nick Stuart: Fans, don’t go anywhere, as we’ve got more action still to come!

We cut elsewhere.

Fresh off the Pleasant Dick Experience, we enter a more wholesome space. A more virtuous space, where the vibes are lawful, and good always triumphs over evil. A place where it’s Helm’s Deep, at the coming of first light on the fifth day when you look to the East, every damn day.

For the second week in a row, the Tson-Den is HQ for your resident orc-slayers.

Let’s remember some good guys.

There in the corner, coiled and ready for his showdown, is the Anglo Luchador. Behind the mask is laser focus.

Still slick with the sweat from his match is Adam Ellis.

Seated on what are quickly becoming the Official Team Couches are the rest of the homies: Dabney Doubleday and Jared Sykes next to one another. There’s the small matter of the BY GAWD UNIVERSAL TITLE sitting side saddle to Sykes. Dabney’s brother Douglas paces back and forth behind the sofa in his little brown suit.

Opposite them are Chandler Tsonda and Nate Colton, tag partners in the night’s main event. Nate is idly rifling through his gym bag, preparing all the gear he needs for action later tonight. Chandler stands in the center of the room, observing his stately pleasure-dome and making sure that certain rules about attire are being followed.

For a group with such a strong collective sense of justice, they ain’t exactly shouting from the rooftops. In fact, at the moment our camera crew has dropped into Tsonda-cum-team locker room, we’ve got what appears to be the quiet before the storm.

A scene with a bunch of dudes sitting quietly doesn’t make for good television, so Nate Colton breaks the silence.

Nate Colton: Vibe check, gang. How are you holding up, Adam? I know you caught hell a while ago down in MVW.

Adam Ellis: I’m okay.  Bill Dickinson is Bill Dickinson, I’m never surprised by what he does.  But I’ve got backup now so we’re good.

Nate Colton: Glad to hear that. I know I feel a lot better knowing Jenny’s got people in her corner, too.

Adam Ellis: Yeah.  You should have seen how red Jill Berg’s face was when she stormed backstage after Jenny, Ria, and Miranda DC came out to help Amberley Stanton the other night.  It was pretty cool.

Nate Colton: Oh yeah, Jenny’s been sharing that shit all over the socials. Tom, how about you? Feel good enough to hit that ring tonight?

Dabney Doubleday: We should have been there, someone should have been watching your back.

The Luchador rises from his kneeling position, bones creaking from a combination of age and recent rough road.

TAL: Look, I’m glad you guys care enough about me to feel bad you weren’t there, but, I mean, who the fuck is going to stop a fatheaded Russian from crashing through drywall? Did any one of you wanna be victims two weeks ago?

He looks around the room to find a score of wrestlers who are not interested in fantasy booking themselves to the hospital, ever.

TAL: Yeah, thought so. It was, y’know. I got got. We don’t let it happen again, alright?

Douglas Doubleday: Sort of like how you guys completely ignored my pleas for any one of you jokers to keep an eye on Dabs match versus tons-o-fun the other week? Cancer and those asshats “shenanigans” cost Dabney a win- I get we’re new and all, but that bein’ left out in the cold like that sucked big time- some team.

Nate Colton: I hear you, Big Dog. We dropped the ball there, and I apologize. To be honest, with everything they’ve pulled in PRIME, we barely even notice normal Bandit shit anymore.

Dabney Doubleday: I really hate hearing that over and over- the Bandits are obviously an entrenched problem, they make this incredible place worse by association. I think I’d be game to fix that problem given the chance- and maybe a little help?

Douglas Doubleday: Cancer Jiles is going to get a receipt as big and fat as his shitty mascot one of these days for that cheap shot- the creep.

Dougie D. rubs the side of his head where Cancer had superkicked him.

Chandler Tsonda: Not to be all, can we pay attention to me, but…(clears his throat) don’t you think we should do that?

With much eye-rolling and a little grumbling, the other faces in the room turn toward the Model Citizen. He even grabs the attention of people outside, as a woman’s voice comes from the hallway.

“I can’t, because you made your secret club ‘no girls allowed’ this week.”

Guess who it belongs to.

Chandler Tsonda: (after staring daggers towards the hallway) What’s past is past. Looch said it himself: unless you bring a forklift to every show, there’s no accounting for bastards being bastards. Can’t go and fix last week. Besides, it went puhretty well for some of us.

The Model Citizen head-nods towards Jared Sykes’ finest new accessory.

Chandler Tsonda: (grumbles) Even if I’m still waiting for Justine’s apology for those damn shoes. (back at full volume) Either way our best, and only, plan for tonight is going back on offense. Ellis burnt it down out there. If TAL knocks off Kuroyama, that’s another one in the bank for the good guys. And then?

The Model Citizen pats Nate Colton on the shoulder.

Chandler Tsonda: Me and the corn-fed conqueror are going bear hunting. And if we have to split the skulls of a couple little weasel boys on the way there, well, that’s a sweet lil bonus. We’re out for blood and hospital admissions. Am I right, Nate-O?

Nate Colton: We’re definitely looking for a big win tonight. People like Ivan and Vickie–

Jared Sykes: (softly) And everyone else just like ‘em.

Nate Colton: –work by intimidation and manipulation. They’re gonna say and do anything they can to make us feel small, to make us feel like we’ve already lost at Culture Shock. It’s up to us to show them, to show everyone, that it’s not working. When TAL takes care of business against Kuroyama, then we put down Hall and Stanislav…no matter what bullshit they spout later, they’re gonna know for a fact that they ain’t invincible…and that we ain’t scared.

Chandler Tsonda: (holds out his forearm) Dude. Feel this.

The Next Diamond looks down. Tsonda, as ever, is speaking a language only he understands.

Chandler Tsonda: You just goosebumped me, you rascal!

The Model Citizen hops to his feet, addressing the assembled heartthrobs.

Chandler Tsonda: My guys, my lovely guys: we got one and a half more shows until we get our night to walk into history. No-goddamn-body in the history of this place—not Troy, not Tchu, not Killean, not our missing Suplex Daddy teammate, not even yours truly, the golden GOAT—has put their name up in lights by winning WarGames.

There’s some nodding at the mention of history, though not necessarily in response to Tsonda’s self-celebration.

Chandler Tsonda: And you might not know it from my recent run of luck, but I hate losing. My list goes like: racism, climate change, centipedes, and then losing is RIGHT under those two. I know I’m not alone on that.

The Model Citizen livens up the room, clapping his hands together loudly.

Chandler Tsonda: So goddamn, bros, let’s go kick some dickholes in their dickholes, and write ourselves into history. Who’s with me?

Suddenly, the door to the Tson-Den shoots open, nearly rattled from its hinges. The sudden burst is enough to startle most, but for those in the room, it’s more caution and annoyance. That is, until they see the party responsible.

Through the doorway, Brandon Youngblood stalks, his hands on his hips. He takes a single step inside, and, without as much as a second thought, The Model Citizen is there, tisking. The Tower and the Viper, eyes locked, two old bulls (one with a much better skin regiment, to be fair) ready to metaphorically tussle.

Perhaps, given how the evening is transpiring, there isn’t anything metaphorical about this potential tussle.

Tsonda, hands on his own hips, sighs in defeat. After all, the Strong Father is in quite the mood. I mean, it’s just some damn song, right? What’s there to get bent out of shape over?

Maybe everything.

Chandler isn’t the only one willing to stand down; Youngblood aggressively kicks his red sneakers off, the soles smacking against some wall in the hallway.

Brandon Youngblood: Crisis averted. Like I really got time for this shit…

Brandon steps into the room, his finger stabbing in the direction of Douglas.

Brandon Youngblood: Kid…I can hear you clear down the hall. You pissed off? Don’t blame you. Someone should’ve been there.

His head shoots in the direction of the Luchador.

Brandon Youngblood: And someone should’ve been there for you.

With a look toward the Universal Champion, he continues.

Brandon Youngblood: And I’d say I was there for you in case…Champ…but I damn sure wasn’t.

Youngblood doesn’t let anyone rebuttal or cut through.

Brandon Youngblood: Not a thing I said last week is something I lied about. But I’m a liar now. And I don’t like it. But then…I heard that song…

A growl.

Brandon Youngblood: Chandler…you know what that song means. What it represents. The both of us. We fought that man. He beat us both. But he…he was my brother. And he’s gone…and he’s buried. When Stanislav came for my family…I came for him. And whoever thinks they’re going to wipe their ass using him? They’re going to pay. Whether it’s the damn Bandits…Douglas.

Acknowledgment toward the younger Doubleday. Tsonda gives an imperceptible nod back, knowing the history of which Youngblood speaks.

Brandon Youngblood: Or whether it’s fucking Hanlon…I’m taking one of the pieces off the board tonight.

With that, the Diamond leaves, his diatribe over.

Of course, the door to the room is now wide open, and the voice from the hall – you know the one – decides to poke her head inside.

Hallway Justine: Yeah, so he also said that you should totally let me back in, because this shoes thing is lame, and… Hey!

As she speaks, Tsonda puts one finger on the door and slowly, deliberately pushes it closed. It’s here that Jared hops up from his seat, title in tow.

Jared Sykes: I should probably go out there and smooth this over. She and I have a thing with Mills in a little bit. We’ll catch up after, and… hey, fingers crossed we dodge a bullet this week and nothing goes sideways. Would be nice to not see someone leave in an ambulance for once.

He gathers his shoes and opens the door back up, only to be met with a pair of glaring green eyes. They’re not toxic, nor do they possess the power of a basilisk. Hell, they’re not even the color of green apple, the shittiest flavor of Jolly Rancher candy. In the past Jared has compared them to a tractor beam that he can’t escape, but tonight they are the Death Star and Alderaan is fucked.

Jared Sykes: Okay, on second thought someone call ahead to Roger Williams and find out what the menu’s going to be over the next few days. Feel like I might be taking a trip there later.

He slides out into the corridor, pulling the door shut behind him. With the environment resealed, it isn’t long before the unspoken tension starts to fill the room again.

Slowly, the five men who remain turn back to their business. Dabney and Douglas engaged in hushed conversation. Adam peels off one of his socks. Colton goes back to unpacking his gym bag, but an annoyed look crosses his brow as he rifles through the side pockets. It seems something is amiss.

Nate Colton: Oh, come on. Did I seriously forget to pack that?

Dabney Doubleday: Forget what, bud?

Nate Colton: I just bought some tape this morning. Must have left it in the car.

Douglas Doubleday: I’m pretty sure the trainers have drawers full of the stuff.

Nate Colton: It’s…not the same. I’ll go grab it; back in a jiff.

Re-enter the Model Citizen into the fray.

Chandler Tsonda: Not solo you’re not. We’re on the buddy system now. (sees Colton’s skeptical look) Don’t make me do it, ‘cuz I’ll handcuff us together, and that’s a whole ass nightmare for my hand and wrist exfoliation regimen.

Nate Colton: It’s not gonna–

But the Next Diamond stops short, right around the time TAL lifts his head to look him in the eyes.

Nate Colton: You know what, you’re right. Better safe. Who’s gonna watch my back?

Dabney Doubleday: I’ve got your back, Nate.

Adam Ellis: Who’s going to watch your back?

Dabney Doubleday: Dougie will, obviously.

Fair Play shoots his little brother a mischievous smile.

Douglas Doubleday: Oh now you’ve got jokes- who exactly is going to watch MY back, huh?

Nate Colton: You kidding? Nobody would dare mess with you. Not after the way you took that superkick.

Dougie gets a small jolt of confidence at that.

Douglas Doubleday: I did take that kick, didn’t I…

Fair Play claps his little brother on the shoulder.

Dabney Doubleday: Just a short errand- what’s the worst that could happen?

Adam Ellis: You really haven’t been here long, have you?

We cut elsewhere.

We cut to the main food courts located at Section 109. Next to a hotdog vendor a man is diligently working behind a table with PRIME Merchandise spread out on it. Behind the man is a bunch of shelves with more merchandise. The man nods in approval to a shorter person who is putting price tags on some bags. The nod moves his glasses, which moves his little mustache, which moves his nose, which moves his hair. The other man points to his head warning him about something.

Man: Uh…I reckon you best check your…uh…nose, mo…man.?

The man fixes his glasses, no–his nose, both?

Glasses Man: Can’t wait for that laser eye surgery so I don’t have to wear these gosh forsaken glasses.

Man: Damn nasal congestion!

Out of nowhere, an agitated voice is heard walking towards the two hard working Americans, just trying to make a living and move on up to that deluxe apartment in the sky.

The people get closer, and it’s none other than the Queen of PRIME, the Mother of Bandits, and the only woman from Tampa who isn’t a stripper: LINDSEY TROY! Sorry Lindsay Troy, gotta kick the E out. A woman walks in front of her apologizing the entire time.

Woman: I’m sorry, Ms. Troy, we hired a new Merch Vendor for PRIME and he wanted to thank you for the opportunity.

Lindsay sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose as she walks.

Lindsay Troy: Clarice, you know we let Anna have first rights to hawking PRIME merch. Why would you hire someone without bringing me and Blaine into things first?

Clarice: The ideas were too good to pass up and we didn’t want him going elsewhere.

Lindsay Troy: (sighing) Great. One more thing for me to deal with later…

Troy gets to the table, looks around, then sets her sights on the people working behind the table. At first, she looks confused at what she sees but then reads a small sign stapled to the shelves behind them.

Lindsay Troy: I don’t…wait— “International House of Phenomenal Supplies?”

The glasses man turns on cue at the sounds of his amazingly awesome Merch company with a huge creepy smile on his face; his nose, mustache, and glasses moving like a wave on his face.

So calm…

So serene…

Glasses Man: Oh, as I live and breathe, you look as stunning as you did…

He looks down at the palm of his left hand.

Glasses Man: When you won the Universal Title…

He looks down at his palm again.

Glasses Man: …on May 30th, 2007!

Lindsay stares intently at the tall man with glasses. He’s about 6’ 4” and, by weird glasses and nose guy standards, pretty handsome. She squints at him and then at the person helping him.

It’s then that the lightbulb goes off.

Lindsay Troy: Oh you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

Clarice: Wha-what’s wrong, ma’am?

The Lady of the Hour whips her head and glares at Clarice so fiercely that if this was a fair and just world, she’d be vaporized on the spot.

Lindsay Troy: Jesus—I dunno, everything? Do you know what you’ve done?

She runs her hands over her nose and mouth, beside herself in disbelief. Then, she looks back at the man and angrily points at him.

Lindsay Troy: You’re not going to get away with this. You hear me?

As quickly as she arrived, the Queen stalks off. Clarice, utterly confused, turns back to the vendor.

Clarice: Do you…

The man shrugs, ignoring what just transpired between her and LT. His smile fades away as quickly as a tidal wave hits and he interrupts her.

So strong…

So abruptly…

Glasses Man: Contract is good for a year, correct? I mean these leftover Love Convoy Candy Hearts aren’t going to sell themselves you know. You understand how hard it is to SELL anything about Darin Zion?

Clarice puts her finger to her lips and shakes her head.

Clarice: Sir, we try not to talk about people who are no longer associated with PRIME.

The man looks around, then grabs a bag off the table and hands it to her.

Glasses Man: Have a free bag of Love Convoy Candy Hearts, you know…as an apology. Not to toot my own horn but that bag was personally signed by Vickie Halls…nail stylist.

Clarice: What was that?

The Man smiles again showing his pearly whites and he does a pirouette with his arms above his head. Such amazing skill and balance.

Glasses Man: I’m sure Lindsay Troy and I will get along splendidly. I have the greatest, most fabulous, most extravagantly made products in the wrestling business. Fans from all over will flock to my Merch Stand. They could live on a battleship…

Winks…

Glasses Man: They could root on a clone…

Winces…

Glasses Man: But let’s be honest, you just want a good product at a good price and the International House of Phenomenal Supplies has exactly what you desire!

Clarice scratches her temple and then looks at the man with a confused look on her face.

Clarice: IHOPS?

As soon as that leaves her mouth the other smaller man working with the Glasses Man tapes a sign next to the company sign. She looks at the sign and sighs.

Glasses Man: Oh, the sign? For some reason people have been coming up asking for all kinds of Pancakes. There’s cupcake pancakes, there’s chocolate pancakes, there’s buttermilk pancakes, and I could not believe it but tres leches pancakes. World’s crazy, aint it?

The man putting the sign up’s mouth begins to water at the sound of all the amazing pancake variations.

Man: Know what I am doing later.

The Glasses Man waves him off.

Glasses Man: Don’t mind Jake there, he enjoys gummies a bit too much. But hey, if you need any advice on how to deal with a controlling boss you can give me a call, I have some experience.

He reaches in his back pocket and hands her a card. Clarice takes it and smiles slightly towards the man.

Clarice: She’s actually a great boss, not sure what happened there.

Glasses Man: Oh no doubt, Lindsay Troy is the freaking best, probably just having a stressful night. Don’t worry about any of that, I know once she gets to know me she and I will be two peas in a pod. Not two legs in a set of pants…that’s just creepy.

She nods and looks at the card.

Clarice: OK, so your name is Ste…

–

–

–

–

–

–

Glasses Man: STEFAN HARISTON!

Stefan pumps his fist in the air and candy hearts fly upon the corridor like rain on your wedding day, as the scene cuts.

Dan Van Slade: Have I ever told you the story about the first time I had to slaughter chickens?

A swipe up from black.  The perspective from inside of a car trunk.  The Super Deviant, Dan Van Slade, donning his usual superhero attire, is looking down into the trunk and surveying whatever is inside.

Dan Van Slade: So, my neighbor, back in Missoula, had a lot of animals.  Chickens, cows, turkeys; basic farm animals, ya’know?

DVS reaches forward and pulls out a roll of Duct Tape that’s immediately tossed aside.  An audible CLUNK is heard wherever the tape lands.

Dan Van Slade: Anyway, one day he hobbles over to our house and stumbles up the front steps.  Knocks on the door.  I answer.  I’m in just a pair of boxer shorts.  It was a long night, so I was pretty unkempt and stunk of booze.  He was in these real stereotypical overalls.  Farmer John shit.  He was always dirty, too.  I don’t think the guy ever took a damn shower.  It’s like the guy was born looking like a rugged fuckin’ old McDonald.  He didn’t stink though, which I always thought was odd.

He pulls a steel chair from the trunk and sets it aside as an audible CLINK is heard.

Dan Van Slade: This guy needed help.  I ask him what he needs help with.  He says he needs help with his chickens.

The trunk is closed.  Black.

Cut to Dan Van Slade standing by the trunk of his 1993 black, bumperless, Dodge Shadow.  He grips the handles of a wheelbarrow.  The steel chair and roll of tape have found a home inside the barrow.

Dan Van Slade:  Now, this guy has a lot of chickens, man.  They were like…everywhere.  I ran one of’em over a few days prior and just threw it in the trash can.  Doubt he ever knew.

He pushes the wheelbarrow forward and through a small auxiliary parking lot near a back entrance of the Amica Center.

Dan Van Slade:  How he kept tabs on all of’em – I don’t know.  Why did he need help with his chickens?  I didn’t ask that question.  I should’ve.  Honestly – I was so fuckin’ out of it that I nearly left the house still in my boxers.

A security guard stands before the entrance.  The guard, realizing the man approaching is a wrestler with PRIME, holds the door open with a smile.

Dan Van Slade:  So, we walk across the yard, right?  This trek to his barn felt like a Goddamn three mile hike.  He’s telling me this story on the way to his barn about his wife, who’s dead by the way, and what she used to do with chicken’s feet.

The Deviant pauses for a quick second to look at the guard and nods his head.

Dan Van Slade:  Thank you, Darrell.

Dan pushes through the doorway as the guard raises an eyebrow and is confused.  He looks down at his name tag which clearly says “Lt. Tyler Cobb”.  No relation to the legendary Detroit Tiger, nor is he in the family tree.  There must be a very messy Cobb lineage all over the world.

Dan continues his journey with the wheelbarrow of goodies through the hallways of the Amica Center.

Dan Van Slade: So, these chicken feet, apparently his wife would boil them, attach them to dowels, and turn them into arrows.  Not like using the talons as arrowheads.  No, she used the entire chicken foot.  Like – chicken ankles, chicken shins, toes, the whole bock-bock shebang.  This was before my time because at this point in the man’s journey she had been dead for probably 20 years.  She choked on a chicken’s foot; imagine that.

He passes by three PRIME employees wearing headsets.  They have perplexed looks on their faces as the Deviant’s cape brushes past them.

Dan Van Slade: She was a wild lady, man.  She’d take these chicken feet arrows and put them in a quiver.  She’d apparently get really frustrated by door-to-door solicitors of any kind, but also of mailmen.  Man, I wish I can say it in his voice, but he said something like: [said with a rather poor drawl]  “that silly wench would throw the door open in a tizzy, push the storm door forward, run out on the porch with the quiver of chicken feet arrows strapped to her back and a large bow in her hand.  She’d quickly get an arrow ready, cock it back, and just launch that sumbitch directly at whomever was in her crosshairs.”  Wow.  Imagine getting peckered by an arrow with a severed chicken’s foot as the arrowhead.  Wild.

He passes by a few PRIME wrestlers, [names redacted as they were not supposed to be on camera], who are standing by cases of audio equipment and eating sandwiches.  They have questionable looks on their cheek-stuffed faces as their heads pan and watch the Super Deviant stroll by.

Dan Van Slade: The whole point of this interaction was for me to help the man slaughter his chickens.  FIFTEEN of them, by the way.  Like, I’m still a quarter drunk.  This does not sound like the right scenario here.  He takes me over to this round log that he has sitting on the ground in the center of his barn.  The log has these two giant nails sticking out of it and they’re maybe about an inch apart.  We’re surrounded by chickens and straw bails, and it smells like a cow used this place as a Dutch oven.  This isn’t hittin’ right with ya’boy here.

We can hear the muffled sounds of music as Dan inches closer to his destination.

Dan Van Slade: He tells me that those nails – those nails are used to stretch a chicken’s neck enough so that the head is being held by the other side of the nails.  Then you give it a little tug, come down with the hatchet, and BANG!  Cut the head clean off.

The music is starting to become clear.  He guides the wheelbarrow so that it’s up against the white brick wall.  He presses his back against the wall and slides a few steps to his right so that he’s stealthily opposed to a door frame.  The sign on the door is a piece of printer paper that says “BLO0DS ONLy (FReD DiCK’s room)” written very poorly in black Sharpie.  The door is open just enough so that Dan can lean forward and peek in.

The music you’re hearing is “Milkshake” by Kelis.  Yes, that song.  The frame of the shot is Dan’s perspective looking through the few inches of open door, the blurry door on his left, the blurry door frame on his right, and focused in the direct center of the shot is Fred Dick TWERKING to the Kelis hit single.  He’s wearing nothing but his wrestling trunks.  Fred’s in the moment.  His eyes are closed.  He embraces the lyrics of the song.  He bends down, hands slap the top of his knees, and his tailbone goes wild, folks.  Up and down, up and down, he’s twerking like a champion.  He’s the type of guy that is so into a song that he sings with it, but misses a few words, and yet is still able to loudly sing (we use sing loosely here) the juicy parts.

Fred Dick: BRINGS THE BOYS TO THE YARD – UH!

He shouts and then takes a sip of an Arby’s milkshake.

DVS quickly retreats before he can be noticed.  He leans against the wall, dumbfounded by what he’s seen, but he suddenly realizes that this plan is going to be perfectly executed.  He’s caught Fred in the wild.  Like any good hunter: once you’ve spotted your prey vulnerable, in the moment, in the wild, with nothing more than their naked distractions, then it’s time to strike.  He shuffles to the wheelbarrow and grabs the handles.  Then he gasses it.  He pushes the barrow through the door, slamming it, and then into the room.  The camera does not move.  It does not follow DVS into Fred’s room.  No, we don’t need to witness what happens next.  We can let the good sounds of human violence do the talking.

Fred Dick: SAY BLOOD! BLOOD!

SMACK! Then the sounds of two men tussling, their bodies slapping together, maybe some fat up against a cold wall, and the sound of a skull bouncing off.

Don’t forget that “Milkshake” is still playing.

Fred Dick: NO! PLEASE! NOT MY ASS CHEEKS!

SHATTER! Glass breaking.  That’s not good.  Wood snaps.  No, not good at all.  More sounds of skin being pulverized and then a sudden TING! The chair as it meets a fresh frontal lobe.  A couple more TING! TING! And then a pause for about three seconds before a final TING! Gotta get that last shot in for good measure.

Kelis’ ass jiggling anthem finally ends.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIP.  That sound duct tape makes when you pry it from the roll.  We hear that sound several more times with accompanying huffs and groans.  A loud THUMP follows, but this is the sound a wheelbarrow makes when something heavy is lofted into it.

Dan Van Slade: Yes, he wanted me to help him cut their heads off.

The Super Deviant exits the room but he’s not wearing his cape.  Actually – his cape has been stretched over the wheelbarrow so that what’s underneath the cape cannot be seen.  Let’s be honest with ourselves for a moment: it’s clear what’s underneath the cape, especially after what we’ve seen and heard.  The cape is doing nothing to hide the fact that there’s a pudgy cretin taped up and plopped into the barrow.  Dan takes a left turn and heads toward the direction from which he came.

Dan Van Slade: He wrestles the first chicken, which was a pretty lopsided match, and he brings it over to the log with it in his arms.  He was petting it.  Really?  Petting it?  We’re about to put this girl out of her misery and you’re giving it some love prior to decapitation?  He lays’er down, neck stretched by the nails, and then he lifts the hatchet.  He’s kinda staring down for a second and, I don’t know, thinking I guess.  Then he turns to me and pushes the hatched against my chest.

He passes by the same wrestlers seen earlier, but they’ve finished their sandwich and are mid-convo.  They stop talking and turn to watch Dan stroll by.  The cape wiggles for a moment and the wrestlers furrow their brows.  They look at each other, shrug their shoulders, and continue talking.  Dan rolls on.

Dan Van Slade: Bro, am I about to do this?  He wants muah, me, to do the royal duties of chopin’ the chicken?  I’m not sure if I want to be honored, or somewhat weirded out, but I will tell you this: there was this strange feeling that came over me.  Like it was my duty to take the hatchet and start goin’ ham on the poultry population.  Or, maybe it was this feeling of power that I’ve never felt before.  I’m about to put something out of its misery.  Holy shit.

He passes by the PRIME employees from earlier.  They’re still just as concerned as they were before.  The cape wiggles.  The employees share a look, shrug their shoulders, and carry on as Dan pushes the barrow by.

Dan Van Slade: I wield this great Godly hatchet in my grasp and something told me to hold it up like I’m the Mighty Thor or some shit.  Then, it just happens.  He tugs on the chicken and I just came down like a fuckin guillotine.  So, when a chicken’s head is cut off they make this sound.  You know those rubber chickens that you buy in the store that people like to fuck around with and annoy?  I kid you not – sounds just like that.  Which is fucked up if you think about it because it’s like they used the sound of a chicken being beheaded for people to have fun with.

He pushes the exit open and the security guard immediately grabs the door to hold it open.  Dan barrows out, but not before thanking his helper.

Dan Van Slade:  Appreciate you, Julius.

Lt. Cobb sighs and rolls his eyes.  He doesn’t even notice the mound of Dick in the wheelbarrow being lazily concealed under the cape.  Dan continues toward the parking lot.

Dan Van Slade: He grabs that chicken though and just tosses it backwards.  Blood from its craw kinda of does this weird saw-like pattern in mid-air.  Fucker is headless though.  The body lands, and yet this thing is still bock-bockin’ like nothing happened.  It’s got no head though.  It smacks against the floor and then it gets up!  Kid you not – it got up and it just kind of started hobbling around and moving like it was wondering “what the fuck just happened here?”  I looked down at the log and sure enough the head was still there, still lodged between the nails.  The body was still just livin’, and doin’ it’s thing.  A real vibin’, headless, chicken.

Black.  A fade up.  The trunk door swings open.  The perspective is from inside the trunk and looking upward at the Super Deviant.

Dan Van Slade:  The old man says “ya’know – I once heard a chicken lived 8 months without its head.  Can ya’belee that, son?  Eight months.  No head.”  He then flicked the head off the log and went to wrestle up another one.

Dan bends down and whips the cape off the wheelbarrow.  He tosses it into the trunk.  He reaches down and struggles for a few moments but pushes his sphincter enough to lift Fred Dick from the wheelbarrow and rolls him into the trunk.  There’s a quick moment where we see that Fred is taped up pretty good.

The perspective is still from inside the trunk looking up at Dan.  The Super Deviant catches his breath, and reaches to close the trunk.

Dan Van Slade:  That was the first time I slaughtered chickens.  I’d do it again a couple more times.  Cows too.  But, yea, crazy story.

He slams the trunk closed.

We cut to ringside.

The arena lights drop into darkness, save for the backlights in the entryway, as a mix of curious silence and spontaneous cheers comes over the crowd. With haste, a figure emerges from the back and stands head high, fist raised, and strikes a pose for a brief second.

Vince Howard: This man weighs in at 238 lbs and stands at 5’11” tall… hailing from Buffalo, New York… CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASH JAAAAAACKSON!!!!!!!

LEEEET’S GET READY TO RUUUMMMBLE

Nick Stuart: Crash has struggled recently.

Richard Parker: Yeah, probably because he’s around that Max Kael fellow. Did you see what Cecilworth said? BAD NEWS! BAD!

Nick Stuart: I thought you liked Kael.

Richard Parker: Well…

The bell dings as Volbeat’s “A Warrior’s call” floods the airwaves and brings the lights back up. A chaotic lightshow takes over the entrance ramp, with flashing white and red strobe lights, before Crash jumps in the air and stomps both feet in clear view for everyone to see. He roars violently with a fiery, toothy grin before beginning his frantic descent to the ring.

FEEL THE FIRE, HE’S ENTERING THE RING
HIS MINDSET KNOWS ONLY HOW TO WIIIIIIIN

Nick Stuart: This goes on for awhile doesn’t it.

Richard Parker: Yeah.

Crash reaches the ring while pumping his fist in unison with the beat, being joined by many fans simply out of respect for fist pumping, and scales the stairs at the same hellacious pace before turning around to roar at the crowd again.

UNLEASHING HIS HELL
YOU WON’T EVEN HEAR THE BELL

He leaps the top rope and lands with a thunderous rattle before pacing around the ring and nodding his head repeatedly. He stops in the middle, facing the crowd.

FEEL THE POWER OF THE WAAAAARRIOOOOR!

Crash steps towards the crowd, slamming his fist into the air and yelling along with the song.

FIGHT!
FIGHT!
FIGHT!
FIGHT!

He turns to the opposite side of the arena and offers the same sentiment.

LET’S GET READY TO RUUUUMBLE

Much more fist pumping begins with sweat flying off his face and arms, landing on the lucky fans in the front row.

FIGHT!
FIGHT!
FIGHT!
FIGHT!

The music begins to die out. The arena slowly begins to darken, as the opening moments of “Choke” by I Don’t Know How But They Found Me begin to slowly reverberate. As the riff reaches it’s peak, the whole crowd is awakened with bright lights shining down upon them as out from backstage steps Lord Cecilworth Farthington.

Vince Howard: And his opponent, stands today at 6’0” and weighs in at 187 lbs. He is the Financier of the Gluminatti… CECCCCCCCCCCCILWORTH FAAAAAAAAARTHINGTON!

The camera quickly zooms into the self-assured smile that’s cracked upon the face of The Fiancier as he swaggers down to the right, both arms inserted into the pockets of a plain black hoodie. The jovial face of Farthington doesn’t entirely match his purposeful march to the ring, his shoulders swaying to the tune of “Choke”.

Richard Parker: Look at him! What a fellow! What a lad! What a wonder!

His hands never leave the pockets as he slowly rolls under the bottom rope and leaps up into the ring. He slowly raises his left arm up into the sky and gives the crowd a cheeky little wave as he takes his place resting against the ring corner.

Richard Parker: Look at him, even that cheeky little wave, he’s so perfect.

lding a violent gaze and snarl that raises red flags all over the place.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: Cecilworth Farthington is out here trying to end a slide, Richard. Let’s not kid ourselves.

Richard Parker: What slide.

Nick Stuart: Losing to JCH, losing to Rob Williams.

Richard Parker: Everything is fine. He said it himself!

Nick Stuart: …

Richard Parker: HE’S FINE NICK!

Nick Stuart: …

Richard Parker: HE’S FUCKING FINE, OKAY!

Crash Jackson begins taking a wide circling approach and Cecilworth Farthington, begins a dance of his own. He holds his hand out and flexes it, reaching for Jackson’s, but Crash ducks under and tries to grab Farthington with a single leg. The Financier artfully hops backward on one leg to stuff the takedown and begins grabbing Jackson’s wrist.

Nick Stuart: Farthington stuffs the takedown, Jackson still pushes but Farthington dances away.

Richard Parker: Greatest wrestler in the world Nick… Greatest wrestler in the world. Watch what he does with this wrist.

Cecilworth begins to pry away at Jackson’s grip as Jackson slams the two men into the corner. He tries to collapse Farthington in, but Cecilworth gives up on the wrist and thumbs Crash in the eye.

Nick Stuart: He thumbed him in the eye…

Elvis Nixon is almost as shocked as Nick and Richard, Cecilworth Farthington is a lot of things. But he doesn’t poke people in the eye like some crumb we all know and loathe.

Richard Parker: I… I…

Jackson stumbles away and Nixon admonishes Farthington, who shrugs him off and heads towards Jackson. He uses his fingernails and rakes them down Jackson’s back. Crash shouts in pain and stumbles his way to the corner. Cecilworth follows Jackson into the corner and just about takes his head off with a Yakuza kick in the corner. Crash stumbles out of the corner and falls to the mat face first.

Nick Stuart: Big kick by Farthington. Jackson’s down.

Richard Parker: … Yeah, great kick Cecilworth…

Nick Stuart: You don’t sound too enthused.

Richard Parker: I’m fine, Nick. I’m fucking fine.

Farthington covers and Elvis Nixon dives to the mat.

ONE!

TWO!

Crash thunderously kicks out.

Nick Stuart: Probably a little early there.

Cecilworth is back to his feet in an instant and fires a boot down on Crash, then another. He helps the bigger Jackson to his feet and tries to toss him into the corner. Crash grabs Cecilworth’s arm and reverses, sending Cecilworth barreling into the corner. Jackson stumbles back up to his feet, Jackson runs from the middle of the ring to the opposite corner as Farthington. He sprints in and leaps into the air, the fuzzy boots are way off the ground as Crash smashes into Farthington with a huge splash.

Richard Parker: Ouch.

Farthington crumpled to a seated position on the middle turnbuckle. Jackson backs away again, and comes back at Farthington from the halfway point in the ring. Crash connects with another splash, this one with slightly less impact. Farthington holds onto the ropes to keep himself upright in the corner, but Jackson kicks him in the stomach and drops him backwards on top of his head with a snap DDT.

Nick Stuart: Crash is bringing some offense here, seems to be taking it to Farthington.

Richard Parker: Maybe Crash’s thiccness is preventing Farthington… I dunno, I don’t know what’s happening right now Nick.

Jackson goes for a cover.

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Farthington thrusts his shoulder into the air and it’s Crash’s turn to get right back to his feet. The thicc boi pushes himself up in one big pushup motion and bends down to grab Farthington. He yanks the Financier to his feet and sends Farthington into the ropes. Cecilworth comes back and Crash leapfrogs him, Farthington hits the far ropes and comes back looking for a clothesline but Crash drops to the mat sending Cecilworth into the former near ropes that are now the far ropes. Crash springs from the floor into the air and pastes an unexpecting Farthington with a big shoulder block.

Nick Stuart: Lots of athleticism from Crash tonight.

Richard Parker: Max Kael probably has him on steroids.

Farthington crashes to the mat and Jackson heads to the ropes. He comes back and drops a leg down across Farthington’s neck. Jackson is right back to his feet, he heads to the ropes and comes back with a big splash onto Farthington’s midsection. He hooks Farthington’s legs and Nixon dives in for the count.

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Jackson nods his head and sticks his tongue out, smiling the biggest, stupidest, wonderful smile this side of Farthington’s own normal smirk. Cecilworth struggles to his feet and Jackson sprints in with a rising knee that helps Cecilworth stumble and bumble his way into the corner. Jackson sprints in at Cecilworth but Farthington drops to the mat and rolls out of the ring.

Nick Stuart: Farthington taking a second here to regroup, Jackson’s been on offense ever since that Yakuza kick didn’t get the job done.

Richard Parker: We can all see the screen Nick, we know what’s happening.

Nick Stuart: Jackson into the ropes…

Crash, watching Cecilworth go to the outside began sprinting to the far side of the ring immediately, and comes back across the ring. He dives over the top rope at Farthington. The two men collide, Crash’s diving shoulder block sends Farthington smashing into the barricade. Crash stumbles wildly to his feet and marches towards Farthington.

Nick Stuart: Crash Jackson said he had nothing to lose! He is playing with house money tonight, Richard!

Richard Parker: His life, he could lose his life taking risks like that. Nixon should have stopped him.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think Elvis even had a chance!

ONE!

TWO!

Jackson makes it to Farthington on the railing and smashes Cecilworth’s face into the steel. He continues rumbling his way around the outside, he grabs Cecilworth and whips him back across the outside.

THREE!

FOUR!

Jackson turns towards the crowd and screams, a fan frantically shakes a foot long glizzy in Crash’s direction. Jackson snatches it off the fan and crams half of it into his mouth. He tears the hot dog off and turns back towards Farthington.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think Jackson saw Farthington slide and stop there…

FIVE!

SIX!

The fans begin chanting at Crash to turn around, his eyes widen and he slowly turns around. Cecilworth blasts Crash Jackson across the mouth with a forearm. Half chewed hot dog goes flying out of Jackson’s mouth. Farthington slams another forearm across Crash’s face.

Richard Parker: He had absolutely no idea. The man was blinded by the dog.

SEVEN!

EIGHT!

Cecilworth reaches down and grabs Jackson by the hair and rolls him into the ring. Farthington storms in after him, right through the middle rope and immediately using his feet as a very dangerous weapon.

Nick Stuart: And Farthington with the boots!

Richard Parker: YES! YES!

Cecilworth flips Jackson over onto his back and grabs him by the arms. He looks Crash in his stupid hot dog eating face, and begins to drive boot after boot into Crash’s mouth. After the fourth boot, Cecilworth sneers and smashes him with a fifth boot to the mouth. Jackson looks absolutely dazed as Farthington throws him down to the mat. Part of the half chewed hot dog and bun is beside Crash’s face and Farthington goes for a pin, using his forearm to drive Jackson’s face into the mush.

ONE!

TWO!

…

……

…………

………………

KICKOUT!

Richard Parker: Alright, let’s put glizzy boy down for good now…

Nick Stuart: We?

Farthington sneers and drags Jackson to his feet. He throws his arm over his head and reaches down for Crash’s leg. Jackson manages to kick Farthington’s wrist away, and fires off an elbow to Farthington’s midsection. Cecilworth stumbles as Jackson begins to almost vibrate to life firing off another elbow, then another, and then another. Finally Farthington stumbles away and Jackson explodes into the ropes. He comes back and smashes Farthington with a shoulder block, Cecilworth hits the mat and springs right back up to his feet, and right back into another shoulder block from Crash.

Nick Stuart: Crash is building up a head of steam again!

Richard Parker: Steroids do this Nick, it’s all the hot dogs, laced with anabolics. He’s all gassed up now. That stupid hot dog.

Cecilworth stumbles back to his feet, and Crash wipes the hot dog mush his face was so rudely shoved into from his cheek and open hands it into Farthington’s cheek with a slap. Jackson follows it up with a slap with the opposite hand that sends Farthington stumbling backwards into the corner. Jackson takes off again for the far corner and sprints across the ring. Fuzzy boots are flying but this time, Farthington manages to slip out of the way and Jackson slams into the turnbuckle.

Richard Parker: STICK AND MOVE!

Nick Stuart: I think he just moved, no sticking yet.

Jackson hits the turnbuckles and turns almost unphased towards Farthington. Crash chases Farthington down the ropes, Crash goes for a double ax handle to Farthington’s back, but Farthington manages to smash him with a punch to the throat. Jackson looks shocked, and Farthington follows it up with a quick european uppercut before stumbling away. Jackson hits the mat and grabs his neck, while Cecilworth wipes the small bit of mush off of his face. Farthington looks back to Jackson, then back to his own hand.

Nick Stuart: This might not be good.

Richard Parker: WHAT A MONSTER CRASH JACKSON IS! HOW COULD HE DO THIS TO LORD FARTHINGTON!

Cecilworth, mouth almost frothing marches across the ring and drives a vicious kick to the side of Jackson’s head. Then another, and another. He grabs a still gasping Jackson by the back of the tights and throws him shoulder first into the corner. Jackson’s shoulder crashes into the post, and he flops halfway over the ropes. Cecilworth flips over to the outside of the ring, and sprints down the apron. He blasts Jackson across the bridge of the nose with a vicious punt kick. Crash whips backwards into the ring.

Richard Parker: BANG! LETS GO!

Nick Stuart: Jackson’s in big trouble now!

Crash stumbles his way to his feet as Cecilworth comes through the ropes. He kicks Jackson in the stomach, and drives Crash’s head between his own legs. Cecilworth lifts Jackson up by the midsection and drops him in the center of the ring with a vicious piledriver. Crash hits the mat like he’s being electrocuted and Farthington pulls him up and locks him in The Tarp.

Richard Parker: He’s got him!

Nick Stuart: That’s in deep.

Jackson flails his arms, but he fades out quickly. Elvis lifts his arm up and drops it, he calls for the bell.

Richard Parker: IT’S OVER!

DING DING DING 

Farthington releases the hold and begins smashing his palm off of the side of Crash’s head over and over again. Jackson covers up as Nixon rushes in and separates the two men. Farthington clutches his shoulder and smiles at Nixon, laughing.

Vince Howard: And your winner by stoppage… CECILWORTH FARTHINGTON!

Nick Stuart: What the hell was that about.

Richard Parker: Showing everyone that he’s fine, Nick. He’s fine.

Farthington stumbles his way up the ramp as the scene fades to commercial.

An attractive young lady, fresh from the talent agency, stands behind a table covered with a blue cloth. Resting on top of the table are jugs, bottles, small plastic cups, and cardboard signs, all bearing the name of your favorite non-dairy creamer, Flav-O-Boost. There’s also three other items, covered with white cloths.

A voice-over speaks, because they didn’t want to pay this aspiring actress more than they had to. Rude.

V/O: The people have spoken, and we have listened! We are proud to announce the newest flavors of Flav-O-Boost! Very soon, you’ll be able to add these taste sensations to your morning coffee, and brighten not just your day, but your whole future!

She makes a sweeping gesture, showing off the array of products on the table, showing a big bright smile the whole time. She’s doing a really good job, and hopefully people take notice.

V/O: And the three new flavors are…

A drum roll sound effect is added as the model removes the cover from one of the items, revealing a new bottle. The label features a butter knife applying a light brown spread to a piece of toast.

V/O: Peanut Butter!

Another drum roll; again the model pulls away the cover, right in time with the cymbal. She’s so good. Anyway, this bottle features a campfire scene, with multiple people holding sticks toward the fire.

V/O: Toasted Marshmallow! And…

Drum roll number three! One more time, the secret is revealed, showing…

…

…umm…

…can we cover that back up, please?

V/O: Brains!

The model’s face twists into something between shock, fear, and revulsion.

Model: …wait, what?

V/O: Look for all these fine products at a Wawa location near you!

Model: No, seriously, what the f–

Flav-O-Boost is a proud sponsor of…

PHILADELPHIA STREET FIGHT

Philadelphia, PA

April 27, 2024

We’re backstage, and Matt Mills is visibly sweating.

Let’s explore that a little.

It’s quite simple – Matty here doesn’t like to be this close to Justine Calvin. Why? Because young master Mills has the dubious distinction of overseeing the “work” done by one Gary Gartholomew, notorious PRIME rumormonger. Justine isn’t one to let a grudge slide, you see, and long ago she swore vengeance on the House of Gartholomew for the many crimes committed against her name. There was a ritual involving a blood oath, twelve ravens, and one very confused crow. It was a whole thing.

Also she looks hella irritated, likely because of her (temporary?) ban from Special Boy Fun Times, which is how she’s choosing to describe the night’s earlier gathering in the Tson-Den. You might think it had something to do with what happened between her and Nate Colton right before the ReVival 43 main event – you know, when she kinda-maybe-totally turned into a one-woman punching machine – but that would be wrong.

It’s the shoes.

Chandler was VERY SPECIFIC about shoes in the dressing room, Justine. And now you must live in (temporary?) exile.

Okay, so we’ve established that we’re backstage. Mills in the middle. Calvin standing to his right. Big ol’ PRIME backdrop behind them. But, of course, they’re not the only ones in frame.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!

Standing to Mills’ left – that’s your right, if you’re watching from home – is the new Universal Champion, Jared Sykes, and goddammit if that doesn’t feel weird to type.

Matt Mills: First of all, Jared, congratulations on your win.

Jared Sykes: So, let’s be honest… It’s kind of weird, right? Two years ago, ReVival 3, and it was all mannequins, and forklifts, and just trying to figure out what comes next both as a wrestler and a person. And now?

He shifts the belt on his shoulder.

Jared Sykes: Still not used to this, and maybe that’s a good thing, because this sort of success doesn’t last forever, so maybe best to just enjoy it while I can. Culture Shock isn’t far away, and I know what I’m in for that weekend. But in the meantime, we’re here in Providence…

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

That’s right, we’re pandering, but it’s okay because the venue is literally only an hour from where Jared’s lived his entire life.

Jared Sykes: And in two weeks I get to be one of the few people who can wear this in front of their hometown crowd, so Culture Shock is a problem for Future Jared to worry about. Present-day Jared is going to savor it a little bit.

Matt Mills: There was a lot of talk among your team last show about planning for contingencies in the event that the Glueminati – or anyone else on the roster – tried to interfere. Do you feel like putting that knowledge out there was a successful deterrent?

Jared Sykes: I mean, things didn’t exactly go smoothly at 43. Everyone saw what happened to Tom. I know that the Doubledays had some Bandit issues that didn’t get handled the way we all would have hoped, but I think it’s because we’re still figuring things out as a group. It might sound ridiculous, but I think a bunch of us have gotten so used to doing our own thing, and being in our own little worlds that sometimes it’s harder to see the bigger picture. Did knowing that everyone would be together scare people off?

Well, almost everyone. The one person deliberately excluded is still very much in frame, and it’s still very much a point of contention for her.

Jared Sykes: Maybe. But there’s plenty of room for us to improve on that front.

Matt nods. But before he can ask his next question, Jared starts speaking again.

Jared Sykes: You mentioned Glue, so I do want to take a minute and say that everything I said to FLAMBERGE – to Julien – before that match is something I absolutely believe. His time so far in PRIME has been incredible to watch. We’re talking about an all-world talent here. Five Star champion. Intense champion. Universal champion. The longest winning streak in the history of this company. I won’t lie, there’s a part of me that feels a little guilty about being the one to break it. It’s kinda… it’s kinda like that lady in Spain who wanted to fix the church wall Jesus, but sort of ended up turning it into a gopher, you know? Feels a little like that.

What?

Jared Sykes: Anyway, the point is that he’s still a first-ballot hall of fame talent, and I stand by that. Anyone who disagrees is welcome to come talk to me – I’m easy to find – and I’ll gladly tell you just how wrong you are.

Matt Mills: You mentioned Culture Shock earlier. That event is just four weeks away, and you’ll be defending the Universal Championship against Jonathan-Christopher Hall on night one, but then bringing a team into the Wargames cage on the second night. What are your thoughts going into that weekend?

Jared Sykes: Yeah. Yeah. That weekend’s going to suck, I won’t lie. There’s a lot of history between JC and I, and ain’t none of it pleasant. In a way this kind of feels like it was destined to happen, like it was inevitable. No matter what direction we each try to take, invariably we end up crashing into one another. Only now the Halls have made themselves stronger. They’ve ditched deadweight Darin, and made allies out of the Red Army. I don’t know what to expect, Matt, I really don’t. Only that it’s probably going to suck.

Mills nods, and prepares to ask another question, but is interrupted by the woman to his right (your left).

Justine Calvin: Matt, there’s something that I need to say, if you don’t mind.

He tries very hard to hide the fact that he just damn near jumped out of his skin. Tries, and fails. He doesn’t even acknowledge Justine with words, instead offering the microphone in a show of surrender.

Justine Calvin: Last week something went down that I need to take ownership of.

Hold on to your butt, Channy T, cuz here it comes!

Justine Calvin: I know that everyone saw what happened before the main event between Nate Colton and I.

Or not.

Justine Calvin: I need to apologize to Nate for the way that I acted. Now I’ve already had this conversation with him in private, but I felt like I should say this publicly as well, because I know his family watches. So I’d like to offer an apology to Jake and Mallory, and also to Benny, Jenny, Denny, and Blake. I admit I was a little hurt and upset last week…

The side-eye she casts at her partner might kill another man dead, but it’s the sort of thing Jarry’s used to by now. His own version of Iocaine Powder.

Justine Calvin: But I was completely out of line, and that’s on me. I take full responsibility.

What about the shoes, Justine? What about the goddamn shoes?!

Jared turns towards Matt, grinning.

Jared Sykes: Did you see that? Like she went full Paxton Reina.

Justine Calvin: (mouthing the words) “Paxton Reina.” (out loud) Really.

Oh no, Jared. What have you done? Now you get to sweat right alongside Matt Mills.

Jared Sykes: Uhh, well, n-no? But, I mean, there was punching, and you did that whole Reina Raspberry thing where sometimes you dress like a raspberry.

Justine Calvin: I used to dress like a raspberry.

Jared Sykes: Well, there was that other time.

Both Matt and Justine are now staring at Jared, the implication fully evident to both of them. Mills’ eyes are wide, and his face has reddened a bit. So has Justine’s, but for a completely different set of reasons. She wears an expression that says, “I am trying to kill you with my brain and when that fails I will kill you with my bare hands.”

Jared Sykes: Sooo… aaaaaaanyway…

Those are the last words of Jared Sykes.

For this segment.

Because it’s here that we cut away.

Backstage.

Fans are still buzzing from the Cecilworth Farthington and Crash Jackson match. Congrats to the winner. Congrats to the loser. Because everyone deserves pats on the back in PRIME.

Fans have gone to the concessions and ordered another beer.

Kids have received the latest merchandise from the PRIMEmporium (Spoiler: Hessian gear is selling, Vickie gear isn’t).

Ladies have talked about the tush on Jared Sykes (Spoiler: They all stopped talking for fear of Justine Calvin hearing them).

Men have discussed whether or not Jonathan-Christopher Hall can win the Universal Title (Spoiler: He can’t).

And Rose is walking through the backstage area, hands firmly on the handles of the wheelchair that belongs to Max Kael. Max Kael is in a wheelchair, restrained and gagged, doing his best to free himself and feeling rather helpless in the moment. One can tell from his furrowed brow and angry, muffled screaming, he’s not pleased.

Blood is dried on Kael’s face. Bruises to boot.

Meanwhile, there is a small smile on Rose’s face.

Max Kael: Mmlp Mm! Mmbmby! Mmth Mmitch mmth MMMZY!

Rose continues walking, her destination currently unknown.

Rose: Shut up. [beat] And you haven’t seen a crazy bitch, yet.

The duo pass multiple PRIME staff members, who look at Max and then at Rose, concerned to say the least. While Rose looks pleased with herself, the welts and cuts on Max Kael’s face paint the remaining picture. The picture of when Rose attacking the Intense Champion during the WON Action News set piece after the Adam Ellis and Harley Walker match.

As Rose pushes the wheelchair containing the restrained Max Kael, her eyes scan the doors she is passing until she realizes she passed the door she wanted.

Rose: Fuck.

She turns around and then pauses before the door she’s been looking for. She takes a lead pipe from the back of the wheelchair and slams it repeatedly against the steel door.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

She then turns around and places the lead pipe in Max’s lap.

Rose: Hold that for me.

Max looks at the lead pipe and then at Rose, thrashing against his restraints in the process. Rose unloads a right forearm across his face, which both stills and quiets the restrained Intense Champion.

She moves around to the back of the wheelchair as the door opens. The man who opens the door?

Alexei Ruslan.

He surveys the scene before him. Part of his group consists of two people who travel dimensions and a man with teeth purchased from Temu. Yet, the sight before him causes his eyes to widen as he moves from the battered body of Max Kael to the stern face of the leader of KING.

Rose: Move.

Ruslan blinks again and meets Rose’s eyes. Deciding discretion is the better part of valor, he slowly slides to the side and clears his throat. Not that he had much of a choice as Rose rolled forward, regardless of his response. Ruslan nearly loses a toe or two from the sheer force of Rose and the wheels that are attached to the wheelchair. She pushes deeper into the locker room of the Red Army leader, and as she turns the corner, she sees the person she set out to see.

Ivan Stanislav.

The Bear is already standing with a look of absolute bewilderment on his face. His head cocks to the side and his jaw hangs agape as one hand remains splayed on the desk. Max begins to shake his head to either side as though he were trying to get Ivan and Alexei’s attention. Because it would have been so difficult to notice him there.

Before he can even open his mouth, she grabs the lead pipe from Max’s lap and then proceeds to shove the wheelchair with all of her might toward the desk of the former Universal Champion. It slams into the front of the desk as Max groans from the Russian steel desk being slammed against his knees.

Stanislav’s face twists into confused rage while Rose lifts her lead pipe at Ivan and then towards Alexei.

Rose: This… [she points at Max Kael with the lead pipe] …is your fault. I warned you at Colossus to keep your house in order. I thought we had an understanding. I thought wrong. You couldn’t keep your comrades in line and this is the price they pay. Next, Arthur Pleasant will be the next body left in your office for you to deal with.

She glares at Alexei and Ivan, making it very clear to not fuck with her right now.

Rose: It’s up to you whether or not Kenny and Randall…

Rose points the steel pipe at Alexei.

Rose: You…

She then points the steel pipe at Ivan, which he doesn’t appreciate judging by his look.

Rose: And you… are also left in the same spot. The bodies will pile up if you don’t get your house in order, and all the blood will be on your hands.

Her jaw sets as she looks at the monster before her. Her father always told her monsters aren’t real, that they don’t live under your bed or in your closet. She musters the same strength her father implored in her to stare back at the monster who was more than twice her size.

She steps closer and taps the steel pipe on Max’s shoulder.

Rose: As for you, ReVival 45. Boston. TD Garden. You and I are in a match. I don’t want your title; I’ve had that title in my house long enough to know it’s cursed. I want your beating fucking heart. I don’t care if I have to cut it out of you. What you did to David… this is just the beginning of your penance. You and me. I’m making it clear to LT, it can be a Falls Count Anywhere match, a No Holds Barred match, I don’t care. I’m coming for the rest of you.

Rose cocks the steel pipe back as if she’s going to smack it across Max’s jaw. His eyes grow wide at the sight of it. Then a smile appears on her face.

Rose: Glad we’re on the same page then.

She then drops her arm to her side and looks up at Ivan.

Rose: Colossus was my final warning Ivan, next time I start war.

The PRIME Hall of Famer daughter marches past Alexei, in no mood for back and forths, and exits the Red Army’s locker room.

There they stand, Ivan and Alexei, with a helpless Max Kael in the middle. Ruslan looks up at Ivan. Max winks at Alexei.

Alexei Ruslan: You want me to go after her?

Ivan shakes his head.

Ivan Stanislav: I have bigger fish to fry tonight. Besides, this is not -my- mess. *Stanislav leans down and looks Max in the eyes* This is -your- mess. You beat up her boyfriend or… whatever he is. Not Arthur.

Max looks incredibly incredulous beneath his gag.

Max Kael: Mmm?! Mm mbly mmthed mm!

Ivan looks past Max at Alexei.

Ivan Stanislav: This man is supposed to be dead? Guess we has something we can use.

While Ruslan busies himself in his overcoat, first producing a needle and syringe, and then a rubber hose, Stanislav looks back at Max once more and growls.

Ivan Stanislav: I do not know how you thought to name that dog what you named it, but that was not funny.

Ruslan blinks for a moment and then wraps the hose around Max’s arm and snarls. Kael’s face drains at first as a look of panic flashes in his eyes. He got his hand caught in the cookie jar one too many times. However once realization settles, Max’s eyes harden. You can’t see it but you can sense it. A smile.

Alexei Ruslan: This might bruise.

And JABS the needle into his arm once, then twice, then a third time. The first two times Max seems to hold it together but the third attempt causes him to let out something between a giggle and a cry of pain.

Alexei Ruslan: These damned veins!

Then, Ruslan gets the hit he wants, and draws a vial of blood with ease and rips the needle from Max’s arm. Stanislav points a huge finger into Max’s face.

Ivan Stanislav: Now stop fucking up! Get him out, Alexei.

Ruslan smirks.

Alexei Ruslan: With pleasure, Starshy Praporshchik.

With that, Ruslan shoves the wheelchair out of The Red Army locker room, and slams the door. The sound of the door slamming is punctuated by the wail of Max as his chair crashes into something unstable and heavy.

CUT TO…

You thought this segment was done? You thought wrong. Because the leader of KING is marching around a corner when she bumps into a person she interacted with last week.

No, it isn’t the delusional Daytona Diamonds.

It’s the ravishingly rabid RIA. Sorry, the alliteration train hit us, and we are merely victims of its timing.

Rose, looking as if she’s been in a battle with an infant monster (…I guess she has), glares at the Psychoberry.

Rose: [sighs] I’m really not in the mood for this.

RIA’s rainbow eyes travel up and down the ravaged appearance of Rose.

RIA: You look like shit, honey. Should probably make your way over to medical.

Rose’s tongue rolls around in her mouth. Her eyes look down at the lead pipe in her hands, with dried flecks of blood on it, and debates the thoughts in her mind.

Rose: I could hit you with this lead pipe. That might make me happy. The last person I hit with it, the sound he made when I did so, was really appealing to my ears. I just don’t know if that was a one-time thing or is something that, if repeated, will cause an addiction and require labels attached to the packaging warning of its addictive nature.

She looks at RIA.

Rose: Want to try? Do you want to be added to my list of problems that I solve with a lead pipe?

RIA sighs, head shaking in frustration. She looks up to lock eyes with the taller woman.

RIA: You wanna hit me? How about here?

The Psychoberry slaps at her left cheek.

RIA: Already got a steel plate there, so probably won’t do a ton of damage. Wanna know how I got it? Sage Pontiff trying to cave my skull in with a headbutt. How did we get there? Because I let my anger put me in that spot.

RIA’s hands rest on her hips as she continues to stare at the Second Coming.

RIA: You really need to get yourself in check. This fury, this bubbling rage? It ain’t gonna go anywhere good for you. You might think you have it under control, that you’ll harness it to do what you need to do and move on. But trust me, that shit can consume you. You wanna bring that crap home with you? You wanna expose your friends, family to that? Cuz that’s the path you’re going down currently.

Rose’s fingers grip the cold steel resting in the palm of her left hand and tighten around it. Her eyes narrow as she looks at the Technicolor Comforter of Wrestling, desperately wanting to hit her with the lead pipe, to unleash all of her remaining anger on her. She’d gotten a good chunk of it out on Max Kael, but it was still there, under the surface, begging to be unleashed once again.

Rose: You’re damn right I’m angry, RIA. Because someone came after my family. Arthur Pleasant rooted around in my house, my gym, my safe places. He came after David, a man who has had my back in this life more times than I can count. You’re trying to tell me that if someone came after Kohime, you wouldn’t feel the same way? Want to do the same things that I’ve done? Unleash the anger that I know is bubbling beneath your words right now?

She lifts the steel pipe up, certain she is about to use it.

Rose: You are no better than me. So many people around here want to act like they’re made of the finest white linens found, pure and unblemished by their own mistakes, when it couldn’t be further from the truth. We have no black and white’s here, honey, just different shades of grey. I’m learning that every time I’m around here and tonight, I embraced it. I won’t be shamed for protecting my family.

Rose looks back down the hallway where she came from.

Rose: Not by Max, not by Ivan…

She then locks eyes with RIA once again.

Rose: And not by you.

It is at this moment you would expect the steel pipe to meet RIA’s face. If RIA was being honest and giving a director’s commentary on a Blu-Ray/Streaming special that will come out ten years from now reflecting on her career, she would point to this moment where she was certain Rose was about to smack the living shit out of her face with an object that doesn’t feel good on any part of the body.

Except Rose doesn’t. She places it in RIA’s hands.

Rose: My night is over. No more violence from me. You can have it. [beat] I don’t know if the third time bumping into me will be so lucky for you, though, so I would keep that handy just in case.

She then brushes by RIA, content to leave the Amica Mutual Pavilion for the evening, having accomplished what she set out to do. RIA gazes down at the implement of bludgeoning, pushing out an annoyed sigh.

RIA: Guess words ain’t gonna get through to her. Violence it is then.

The Psychoberry’s lips curl up in a disgusted grimace.

RIA: Not like this, though.

CLANG

The steel pipe reverberates as it haphazardly finds its way to the ground from RIA’s hand. She turns and walks away as the feed cuts elsewhere.

We move backstage to the sight of PRIME’s Alias Champion, Coral Avalon, as he’s in civilian clothing for the evening – blue waistcoat and all. Carrying his championship belt over his shoulder and a cellphone in the other, the Crownless King walks while his thumb does most of the work.

He’s thus oblivious when he nearly walks into a crowd of Enemigos as they’re making their way through the hallway. While Avalon dodges them the moment he sees them, he fumbles his phone and drops it on the ground.

He sighs, stoops over, and picks it up, the camera following him as he does so. Then there’s a shadow hovering over him as he retrieves his phone.

Some might gulp given the proximity and the lack of movement, yet the moment Coral glances up, he knows that the owner of said shadow, if they wanted, would’ve already struck him down if he wanted.

Brandon Youngblood, arms folded across his chest, his glare intent and focused.

Brandon Youngblood: I know you. We go back a long way. So I know you had nothing to do with that glitch on 43…

With a step forward, his powerful frame encroaches ever closer.

Brandon Youngblood: But that doesn’t mean that…shit…you have for a team…it doesn’t mean one of them ain’t responsible. So I got to ask…what. Do. You. Know?

Coral doesn’t move at all from his spot. Instead, he quietly pockets his phone and readjusts the Alias championship’s position on his shoulder.

Coral Avalon: Okay. Let’s run down the list here, just so we’re clear. We both know Jiles’ capacity for grudges, but I don’t think this’d have his fingerprints on them. There’d be a superkick at the end if that was the case. Bobby? Even if he knows whose music that was, like the two of us do, do you think he’s capable? Diamonds? Your opponent? Sure, he benefited from the distraction, but I don’t think ‘Tona knows much of anything about PRIME’s past.

He holds up three fingers, and then extends a fourth as he continues counting.

Coral Avalon: Winters? I don’t think he’d do that even in his Kool-Aid mouth days. It’s not really his style… plus, do you think he knows like we do?

A fifth finger.

Coral Avalon: Same with Big Hess. This is not his kind of mind game. Hess’s idea of a mind game would be to crack open your skull and play catch with your brain.

And then a sixth, with his other hand.

Coral Avalon: Gamble? I think I’d give him a maybe, but he’s been more of a go-with-the-flow kind of guy since joining the Bandits.

Then he sighs, and extends a seventh.

Coral Avalon: And Coral Avalon? He definitely knows whose music that was, and what it means to you. But interfering in another person’s matches, for any reason? You of all people know why he wouldn’t want that.

Coral folds his arms in front of him, matching Brandon’s pose.

Coral Avalon: Honest to God, Brandon? I don’t know who’s responsible for it, or why.

Many may flinch at the sheer ferocity Youngblood exudes, especially in the midst of accusation. Avalon stands his ground.

Brandon Youngblood: I’m making this clear…

The muscles in The Tower’s neck tense.

Brandon Youngblood: I want to believe you. Really. I do. But then I start thinking about that little chat we had in the Superdome. And then I think about the boot that hit me in the face because I couldn’t see.

He steps forward. Uncomfortably close.

Brandon Youngblood: We should be on the same side of the line. Circumstances won’t allow that. Maybe I should’ve been in your corner at UltraViolence…

Despite everything, despite his other run ins and interrogations, this one has a different feel. It’s not intimidation he is leveraging; it’s a battle against the rational and the instinctual.

Brandon Youngblood: Winters makes no sense. Diamonds…been there. He’d have rubbed it in then. He didn’t. Isn’t Hessian’s style…he’d just stare me down. Gamble? Pfft. Bobby? He’s too stupid. Jiles? He’s definitely too stupid and got too much pride. And you…

He nods his head.

Brandon Youngblood: You got one for Colossus, Coral. If I find out one of them did though, and you knew…the shame won’t be on me. We clear?

Coral Avalon: Crystal.

There’s a pause. The two men stare each other down. Old enemies. Where they are now is unclear.

Coral Avalon: For whatever it’s worth, Brandon, you had bigger fish to fry that night at UltraViolence. I don’t think anyone would’ve predicted what happened, least of all me. But I’m here now. So if we get to Cardiff and you feel like I’ve got a reckoning coming to me, then you can find me at WarGames. I won’t be hard to find.

An acknowledging nod.

Brandon Youngblood: Good luck. With all due respect.

Avalon returns the nod, and ReVival moves to the ring for the next match.

The lights slowly draw to a dim.

An unnerving chill makes its way through the air.

Up on the Crumbotron a video plays featuring a few seconds from ALL of the matches Cancer Jiles has been in. So, pretty much a lengthy montage of high profile superkicks.

Then, an electric guitar reverberates through both time and space.

Nick Stuart: Last time we saw King COOL he was down here bravely kicking an unsuspecting Douglas Doubleday in the face. Before that, he was wearing an Alfredo Lion’s Mane playing Street Fighter PRIME against the Anglo Luchador.

Richard Parker: Vile. Despicable. Wretched… all words I would use to kindly describe Cancer Jiles. I hope he gets killed at War Games. Yeah, I said it, and I’m not the only one who feels this way.

BOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

Nick Stuart: Before that, he’s Bryan Dawkins’ problem.

Richard Parker: A last meal.

No fancy pyro for this go around, Nick and Dick once again talked their way through it. However, Screamin’ Jay Hawkins is hitting his notes, and COOL Cancer Jiles is in fact on his way down to the ring.

Vince Howard:  Heading to the ring first and weighing in at 218 pounds.  He hails from COOLYMPUS, by way of Philadelphia.  Founding father of the eGG Bandits, the COOLYMPIAN, King Crumb, CAAAAAAAAAAANCERRRRRRR JIIIIIIIIIIIIILESSSSSSS!

BOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

As per the norm, the COOLYMPIAN enjoys his usual serenade from the SOLD OUT CROWD, and even exchanges a few pleasantries with those fortunate enough to be sitting ringside.

Nick Stuart: Surprisingly no Bandits escort for the Jiles? I wonder if that has to do with the T-shades?

Richard Parker: They’re watching. Plotting. Scheming. Probably. Maybe. If Tony is standing on his telephone books anyway. Coral is a goodie two shoes, so he doesn’t count. Maybe Bobby is working his way down to the ring, but my guess is the only way we see him is the same way as we did last time King Crumb was in action.

A confident Maestro slides under the bottom rope, quickly springs to his feet, and finds his corner. He passes off his T-shades to Vince Howard and awaits the bell.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

A deafening blast of aqua, orange, and white pyrotechnics explode before those oh-so-familiar two words that begin “Song 2” by the English alt. rock band Blur induce a standing ovation from the crowd.

Nick Stuart:  And here comes Dawkins!

Richard Parker:  I hope he came ready to break Jiles’ legs because anything less will be very, very disappointing.

WOO HOO!

The capacity crowd’s cheers are directed at one man who just so happens to be standing at the top of the ramp. The former Flyin’ Hawaiian.

“BRUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Bryan Dawkins.

Vince Howard: And his opponent.  Weighing in at two hundred and two pounds, hailing from Hilo, Hawaii…BRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYAN DAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWKINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNS!

“BRUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Nick Stuart:  Bryan is coming off a great performance at ReVival 42 against Mar and Dan Van Slade.  Dawkins was so close to a win, but the Deviant stole it from him.

Richard Parker: Dan Van Slade sucks.

Nick Stuart: I’m sure you’d rather say more?

Richard Parker:  No.  I’m saving my heat for the Cancer in the ring.

Dawkins flashes the crowd his signature “hang loose” gesture, and soon enough, he’s sauntering down toward the ring, crossing back and forth to throw high fives to random fans. Eventually making it to the ring, he slides in and hops to each of the four turnbuckles, jumping to the top and flashing the “hang loose” sign yet again. Atop the final turnbuckle, he removes his signature aqua and orange sunglasses and tosses them to the frenzied crowd.

DING DING

Referee Ashley Barlow corrals the fighters in the center of the ring.  Dawkins and Jiles circle around for a brief moment before Bryan strikes first by sweeping forward and tackling Cancer down by the legs.  The fans are excited to see Bryan with the momentum and he’s taking advantage by wrenching Cancer’s right leg.  Dawkins’ quickness is impressive, even to Jiles, as the Hawaiian strategically and cleverly maneuvers to the next leg.  Ashley Barlow communicates but Cancer isn’t letting Bryan Dawkins win with amateur wrestling dances.  The crowd is letting Cancer have it while Dawkins continues to work his legs, driving elbows into the side of Jiles’ knee, twisting and tugging.

Nick Stuart:  Great technique by Dawkins.  Working the legs is perfect.

Richard Parker:  Jiles is a superkick nerd.  If you destroy the heart of a superkick then you’ve sealed a guaranteed victory. Keep at it, Dawkins!

The eGG Bandit is ready for the offensive, apparently knowing Dick Parker is hyped, so he’s able to squeeze a leg between him and Dawkins.  He shoves Bryan off.  Cancer rolls on his back and kips up.  That’s followed by King Crumb dusting off his rock hard abs, his lips pucker, and then he embraces the crowd.  The boos pouring from the Providence faithful is tremendous.  Rhode Island is so small that there’s no room for a fan of the Bandits.  Jiles struts to the side of the ring and winks at Richard Parker before turning his attention back on Dawkins.

Richard Parker: Yea-yea, you think you’re hot boogers.  But, you’re snot.

Nick Stuart: That’s a new one. Been saving that for this moment?

Richard Parker: Nick, if I told you that I have a Google Doc of over 500 rude things to say about Cancer Jiles, would you believe me?

Nick Stuart:  No.

Richard Parker:  Good, because I wouldn’t waste my time on that. [Quickly grabs his cell phone and starts deleting the doc.]

Referee Barlow keeps Cancer in line but not before Bryan attacks.  He kicks the side of Jiles’ left knee and follows that with another kick to Cancer’s right knee.  He slams his boot down onto Jiles’ foot, pokes Cancer in the eyes, and then grabs the Bandit to apply a reverse hammer lock!  The successful combination sends the crowd into a tizzy as Barlow responds to the cringe on Jiles’ face.  Dawkins applies pressure and doesn’t seem to mind the potential to break Cancer’s arm.  There’s no giving up in Jiles’ vocabulary.

Richard Parker: Break it.  BREAK IT.

The torque on Cancer’s elbow tightens and he squeezes his eyes shut while grinding his teeth.  Barlow asks, but Cancer is quick to negate; he’s not tapping.  No, instead he falls onto one knee and has the upper body strength to toss Dawkins forward.  The Hawaiian tumbles on the canvas and is quick to redirect toward Cancer but Bryan is met with a closed right fist! Then another! And another!  That’s followed with an eye rake, a blown kiss to the crowd, and then the dastardly eye poke.  Dawkins spins around, covers his eyes, and stumbles toward the turnbuckle.  The forecast calls for more boos as they rain down on the Greek God of Cool.  He’s living in the moment with a satisfactory grin.

Nick Stuart:  Dawkins will realize that it’s difficult to keep up with the Coolympian.  He’s just as fast, and he’s been in that ring with so many legends.

Richard Parker: Do you know what my phone autocorrects Coolympian to?  Coolsimpian.  He’s a simp.

Jiles ignores the shower of hate and aims his cross hairs at the Hawaiian cowering in the corner.  Cancer grabs Dawkins and aims to spin him around but Bryan throws a left elbow that connects with Jiles’ jaw!  He felt that one, and Cancer takes a few steps back while adjusting his jaw.  Dawkins confronts the Bandit and kicks him in the midsection. Bryan shimmies behind Jiles and stomps on Cancer’s Achilles tendon!  Oof!  Dawkins follows that up with a running bulldog! Jiles’ face falls flat on the apron and Bryan transitions into leg-trap camel clutch!  The fans are loving every bit of it!  Cancer’s anguish is evident and he lets out a solid scream.  Dawkins is treating Jiles’ head and legs like he’s a human fitness hand grip.  Barlow slides into position near Jiles’ face.  Will he tap? King Crumb is doing all he can to muster enough strength in his arms since those are the only limbs he has available.  The fans so badly want to see him slap the canvas three times.  Not happening.  The veins in Cancer’s arms bulge.  He’s shaking.  Dawkins clenches his teeth upon realizing that Jiles wants to crawl toward the ropes.  They’re not far from the ropes, and they’re within reach.  If Bryan can just take a few steps back without dropping Jiles then this match could end right here, right now.

Nick Stuart:  Dawkins’ offensive has been crystal clear: he’s not leaving this match without twisting Cancer into a pretzel, dislocating a few joints, or even breaking a few bones.  It’s been great to watch.

Richard Parker: Yea, well, it’s doing no good and Cancer keeps finding a way to get out of it.  He needs to do better!

That’s true, and Cancer is pushing up with his arms so that he can crawl toward the ropes.  Barlow follows as he inches closer while dragging Dawkins’ boots.  Cancer reaches out and his finger tips swipe the rope, but he doesn’t grab it!  His body shakes while summoning more strength.  Jiles reaches forward and his hand looks to be coming close.  It hovers over the ropes.  Dawkins lifts!  But Cancer slaps the bottom rope and grabs it just as Bryan tries to pull back.  Barlow points at the rope and then asks for Bryan to release, and the Hawaiian obliges.  He drops Cancer to the mat, but he isn’t letting this stop him.  Dawkins grabs Cancer’s ankles and drags him into the center of the ring.  Jiles rolls around and kicks Bryan right in the bread basket.  Dawkins hugs his stomach and stumbles to the side.  Cancer slowly rises and decides to keep his focus on his opponent, not the crowd or the commentary team.  Dawkins is stumbling a bit while nursing his abdomen.  Cancer stalks his prey.  Bryan turns around and Cancer jolts forward, thrusting his head underneath Dawkin’s right arm.  Jiles lifts and connects with an inverted atomic drop!  Bryan grabs his crotch and flops onto his back.  The crowd jeers and sneers as Cancer stomps a mudhole into the fallen Hawaiian.

Richard Parker: I’m not a fan of the direction this is heading, Nick.

Nick Stuart: Dawkins still has a lot of fight in him.  There’s still a lot of match left, and Bryan has plenty of opportunities to strike.

The Coolympian doesn’t want that to happen at all, and he reaches down to lift Bryan by the waistband.  He has Bryan on his feet.  SMACK! A gruesome knife edge chop sends Bryan flyin’ back into the corner.  SMACK! Another chop echoes throughout the arena as Jiles’ pearly whites glisten in the lighting.  SMACK! The crowd cringes as Jiles decides that’s enough and now wants to whip Dawkins into the opposite corner.  Dawkins reverses and whips Jiles instead!  The Cumblord races toward the corner as Dawkins hastily follows behind.  Cancer hits the corner and leaps over the incoming Dawkins so that Bryan goes head first into the middle buckle.  The Hawaiian is seeing stars, but Jiles has all the momentum, and he’s not going to stop.  Jiles is behind Bryan and wraps him up so that he can connect with a German suplex!  He bridges and doesn’t release.  Dawkins’ shoulders are on the mat.  Barlow slides onto all fours and slaps the canvas.  ONE! TWO! KICK OUT!  Jiles releases and rolls over to see Barlow holding two fingers not far from his face.  He’s not shocked, but he’s also not thrilled. The crowd cheers for Dawkins as the Hawaiian lays in a heap while holding the back of his head.

Nick Stuart:  Wow! That was a close one.  The Maestro nearly pulled that off.

Richard Parker: [Grinds his teeth in the microphone.]

Cancer is quick to stand, and Dawkins is slow to rise.  The Hawaiian nurses the back of his skull and seems to be on slight spaghetti legs.  Jiles studies his opponent, tilting his head left and right.  Then, as Bryan seems vulnerable, Jiles is like a lightning bolt with the leg and goes for the Terminal Cancer superkick!  Dawkins catches his leg!  Jiles’ eyes widen and his jaw drops.  The crowd is going batshit as Dawkins catches his breath and then wiggles his index finger.  Nuh-uh, Cancer, you’re not getting away with that one!  Bryan has enough in the tank to then perform an absolutely BRUTAL dragon screw leg whip!  Jiles twists in such an awkward fashion that it looks like he shreds his MCL before slamming shoulder first into the canvas!

Nick Stuart: OH MY GOODNESS!  Did you see how his knee twisted?  Richard, we could be seeing the end of Cancer Jiles.  Tonight!

Richard Parker: You know – I’m not going to get all wacked out over this.  I recall being 10 years old and really wanting this toy pistol for Christmas.  I got all worked up because my dad said Santa might bring it to me.  Christmas came around and you know what I got?  A lot of junk and no pistol.  I’ll never get my hopes up again.  Don’t lie to me, Stuart.

Cancer is hurt.  It’s written all over his face.  He hasn’t made a peep, but his widened eyes make it seem as if he’s absolutely shocked about what the Hell just happened.  He’s massaging his knee.  Ashley kneels down and asks him if he’s good.  Jiles doesn’t respond.  He continues to massage the sides of his knee.  Dawkins grabs Cancer and lifts him up.  Jiles limps as Bryan sets him up for a suplex.  This could be it!  Bryan looks out to the crowd and lets out a massive roar as he hooks Cancer’s leg and then nails a fisherman’s suplex in the center of the ring!  Cancer’s shoulders are down!  Barlow slides and slaps the canvas!  ONE! TWO! THR-NO!  JILES KICKS OUT!  THE COOLYMPIAN KICKED OUT!

Nick Stuart: WHAT!? The palm of Ashley’s hand had to have been less then a quarter inch from the canvas.  Unbelievable!

Dawkins rises in disbelief and he walks over to the corner with his hands on his hips.  His head is down.  Sweat dripping from his forehead.  He looks out to the crowd and shakes his head.  Cancer is rising slowly and hobbling on one leg.  Bryan snarls and slaps the top turnbuckle pad.  He spins around with his focus dead set on ending this.  Jiles hobbles, and then acts like he’s about to respond with Terminal Cancer, but his leg gives out!  Jiles stumbles and slaps his knee.  Dawkins smiles and struts forward.  The crowd loves seeing Cancer Jiles getting the shit end of the stick.  However, just as Bryan gets closer, Cancer quickly looks up and…

Nick Stuart: COOLYMPIAN YOLJK!

Richard Parker: SON OF A -!

The yellow poison mist blinds Bryan Dawkins and the Hawaiian stumbles into the middle of the ring.  Jiles isn’t hurt at all – he’s been playing possum this entire time!  He spins Bryan around, takes a few steps back, and then like a dart he hits the TERMINAL CANCER!  The Hawaiian falls to the mat with a loud thud after eating Cancer’s boot.  Jiles falls onto Dawkins and Barlow follows.  Ashley slaps the mat: ONE! TWO! THREE! And then she signals for the bell.

DING DING DING

Richard Parker:  Not tonight, Nick.  I guess I’ll have to wait for War Games.

“I Am The Cool” begins to play and the crowd boos as Vince is ready to declare the winner.  Jiles rolls off of the fallen Dawkins and gets onto his knees.  He looks up at Ashley Barlow who is signaling that he’s the winner.

Vince Howard: Here is your winner…COOOOOOOOLYMPIAN…CANCER…JIIIIIIIIIIIIILESSSSSS!

Cancer stands and orders Ashley to raise his arm.  She obliges.  The crowd boos, and Cancer grins with glee.  There’s nothing more satisfying to the Bandit then seeing a foe fall to Terminal Cancer.

We cut backstage.

We cut backstage to a wandering Kohime Mori. As she slowly floats down the hallway, her eyes spring alive as she spots her target.

Kohime Mori: Miss Ria! There you are! What are you doing?

RIA is positioned between a few equipment chests, relaxing against the wall. She’s wearing her wrestling gear, though a Justine Calvin shirt covers her torso. In her right hand? A slice of pepperoni pizza. Sitting next to her on a stack of the chests is a 2 liter of diet Pepsi. Though there’s condensation slowly leaking down the bottle, a close look would reveal the seal has already been broken.

RIA: Oh hey, ‘Hime! Steppy ordered us pizza.

About a foot to RIA’s left, Steppy also leans against the wall. What mouth is he wearing today? Not sure, as a slice of pizza covers his ‘face’. The large box of pizza lays on an adjacent set of trunks.

RIA: You’re welcome to have some! I got you a couple bottles of water for you. You can have some of my diet Pepsi too, if you don’t mind backwash.

Kohime shakes her head at the offer of RIA germ infested diet soda. Her head turns between the two case stacks.

Kohime Mori: Are there any napkins?

RIA’s shoulders slump and she hangs her head. She done goofed.

RIA: Shit! I knew I forgot something… I’ll go grab some real quick. Make sure Steppy doesn’t eat it all before I get back!

Kohime peers over at the step ladder. The pizza on his face? Now half eaten. Mori’s eyes grow in amazement as RIA starts off down the hall. The Psychoberry keeps her eyes peeled as she walks… until she sees it.

There’s a vending machine in the back corner of the hall with lizard branding and a beret on top. It seethes, it oozes malcontent. How did it get here? Friends, with VENDBERGE, “how” questions are no longer helpful to us. Especially because…well, just look at these fuckers. So happy, so many people who are so very happy to see them around PRIME again. How dare they, right? How dare they enjoy a peaceful moment here. PRIME is not the place for happy stories, New Universal Champion Jared Sykes be damned. There’s a curse in the air, it’s the only way it could all make sense. It’s the only reason a generation-defining megastar at the center of the universe could immediately lose the pinnacle of all sports in one corner of the PRIME-mouth while still being ranked number one by the other corner. It’s the reason that the perfectly good source of health and nutrition and weaponry and French malcontents called VENDBERGE can be ignored in favor of pepperoni pizza and a 2 liter…”Even When It’s Bad It’s Good”, what incredible propaganda from Big Pizza. When it’s bad and it’s also good, it means it’s even worse than you ever thought. It’s insidious. It’s cruel. No, there’s something dark at work here. Joy comes at a cost, and what fresh hell awaits the world now that napkins are so generously provided between two friends? Friendship, here?? Soon the earth itself will surely swallow Rhode Island whole in order to please PRIME’s karmic balance…or at the very least, its neck.

RIA approaches the vending machine with aggressive steps. She stands in front of it, hands on her hips. The Psychoberry stares at the machine. For a minute. A very uncomfortable minute.

RIA: I know what you want…

She leans forward, ever so slightly.

RIA: Well guess what, motherfucker? You ain’t getting my $5! I left my wallet in the locker room! Where would I even carry a wallet in this gear?! Cuz the places I’m thinking of wouldn’t be very comfortable at all!

VENDBERGE sparks for a moment, then a bit of smoke starts to seep through its corners. Rage Within The Machine.

RIA: Yeah, that’s what I thought! Be glad I don’t have a marker right now or I’d draw a penis on you!

With a flip of the hair, RIA starts back over to her friends. She snatches another slice of pizza and takes a sloppy bite, a slice of pepperoni perilously falling to its death on the floor below. Her cheek puffs out as she chews the food, pocketed towards the side of her mouth.

RIA: Yeah, showed that bitch! Trying to take my $5…

Kohime timidly raises her hand.

Kohime Mori: Um… Miss Ria? You didn’t get napkins, did you?

The Psychoberry goes walleyed for a moment. Her head shakes violently to snap back to reality before she looks over to Mori.

RIA: I did not… Why didn’t you remind me, Steppy?!

The ladder doesn’t respond. He’s already working on his second slice of pizza. Somehow. We cut away to another part of the arena.

A hallway backstage, where there are no surprises and nothing bad ever happens.

Unless PRIME is in town, in which case you need backup.

Nate Colton, still in his civvies (a PRIME polo and blue jeans, though he is wearing some stylish retro Jordans), carries a few rolls of athletic tape in his hands, casually tossing one up into the air and catching it as he walks.

Dabney is dressed in jeans and a blue t-shirt with “FAIR PLAY” written across the front in big polite white letters. Beside him his brother Dougie is in one of his little brown three piece suits- and that hair. The brothers flank Nate as the trio make their way down the hallway.

Nate Colton: I know there’s no real difference in brands, but…but there is. You get it?

Dabney Doubleday: Absolutely. It’s gotta feel right.

Douglas Doubleday: This just strikes me as trivial- there’s a whole table of the stuff back there in the trainer’s room. You wrestler types are so superstitious…

Nate Colton: Yeah, well. Like my uncle Roy always says, “If it’s stupid and it works, it ain’t stupid.” I still wasn’t about to go up in that treehouse, though.

Dabney Doubleday: It sounds like your uncle Roy would probably get along pretty well with our grandpa, Cecil.

Nate Colton: Maybe. How does Cecil feel about amateur fireworks displays?

Apropos of nothing, and really only announced by the swoosh of flying plastic and the slosh of a small tank of water, a super soaker comes FLYING into frame, spinning like a throwing axe–and nearly burying itself in the skull of Nate Colton!!  He catches its movement out of the corner of his eye, veering out of the way with a Matrix lean, and as it clatters against a wall, he turns to the direction it came from.

Nate Colton: Jesus Christ!

Douglas Doubleday: Not the face!

Dougie ducks behind Nate Colton for safety. Dabney stays silent, immediately head on a swivel looking to the horizon for who threw the detritus in their direction.

After a moment, Paxton Ray and Sage Pontiff fill the frame. Paxton is holding a super soaker like a battle axe and looking at Sage.

Paxton Ray: I didn’t know ya were gonna throw the damn thing.

Sage Pontiff: I said ‘on my signal’, did you expect me to yee-haw at them and take away the element of surprise?

Nate levels his eyes at their assailants. One of them in particular. Spoiler alert, it’s not the one who just threw a plastic water gun at his head.

Nate Colton: Shoulda known you’d be creeping around back here, Paxton.

Dabney holds his ground next to Nate- with nothing flying violently past their heads Douglas emerges and positions himself between and slightly behind the two grapplers.

Douglas Doubleday: What’s exactly the big idea?!

Dabney Doubleday: We have some sort of a problem here, fellas?

Paxton looks at Dabney, a smirk on his face.

Paxton Ray: Depends. Are y’all on my Wargames team?

Nate Colton: No, I’m pretty sure we would have noticed the smell.

Sage Pontiff: Then I’d wager we do have a sort of problem.  Luckily, I think we can all reach a resolution amicably. 

He cracks, in order: all the knuckles on both hands, shoulders with a stretch, neck on both sides. 

Sage Pontiff: You just won’t recognize yourselves after.  Transformation isn’t waiting for you to come find it, not today.  Today we’re doing house calls.  

Nate Colton: Don’t suppose we can do this another time? I’ve already got a date with two psychopaths tonight.

The defensive stance he adopts tells us that he already knows the answer.

Paxton Ray: That’s a negative, Nate. It’s been a bad few weeks for the team and we need somethin’ to get back t’normal. An’ this is what normal is.

And with that, Team Southern Fried advances. Paxton arrives at Nate first, dropping the Super Soaker, and they begin to trade punches. Sage is more in favor of a leaping attack, and his momentum knocks Dabney back before they too begin to exchange blows. After a few moments, both members of Team Sykes begin to push back against their assailants.

Nate sends Paxton into a nearby wall with a hard right hand while Dabney invites Sage to see how the catering table tastes. Nate swings again at Paxton but the Murder Gator ducks, sending Nate’s first into the wall. Sage wriggles free from Dabney’s grasp and sends a spinning kick that knocks him back.

We see a flurry of movement outside of the fracas as various backstage attendants run and shout for security. Paxton starts to pound at Nate before he feels something wet all over his back.

He stops to see Dougie Doubleday standing there, Super Soaker in hand. Once he sees Paxton staring daggers at him, he makes the appropriate action.

Dougie Doubleday: Yipe!

Dougie starts to backpedal as Paxton advances on the smaller of the Double D’s. Dabney notices and sends a stiff right hand at Sage before disengaging and inserting himself between Paxton and his little brother.

Paxton has just enough time to grab Dabney before Enemigos swarm and insert themselves between the five men, leaving Paxton jawing at them.

Paxton Ray: Jus’ as we were startin’ t’have some fun.

There’s a yell – distant first, then growing in volume.

“…..biiiiiiiiiiiiIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITCH!!!”

CRACK

From completely out of frame, FLAMBERGE flies into view and delivers a dropkick straight into Nate Colton’s mush! It sends Colton and the swarming Enemigos to the side until they clock this extra instigator and work towards restraining him as well. Colton, though rocked by the kick, is quick to try to get a shot in on the Frenchman in return, but security forces have grown and become overwhelming.

FLAMBERGE: YOUR NECK IS MINE, COLTON! YOUR NECK IS MIIIIIIINE!

Fortunately, the presence of security as well as his usual stoicism allow Nate to keep his composure.

Nate Colton: SCREW YOU, SHITHEEL! MAYBE YOU WOULDN’T NEED SO MANY NECKS IF YOU DIDN’T KEEP CHOKING SO BAD!

…or not.

Paxton Ray might be happy, you’d think, to see the man he was fighting kicked in the face. But instead the Bayou Butcher frowns.

Paxton Ray: Thought ya didn’t care about this, bud.

FLAMBERGE: WELL……….I GUESS I DO GIVE THE SHIT, PAXTON, I GUESS I DO GIVE THE SHIT!

Reaching in between the two men, a pair of lanky arms festooned with multiple bracelets of hemp, bead, and also hemp and beads separates them slightly. 

Sage Pontiff: Hey!  Hey. 

Sage’s new best friend and his teammate-who-is-already-sick-of-him don’t avert their eyes from one another, but their bodies relax somewhat, both men taking a step back. 

Sage Pontiff: Listen to me.  The world is a cold place.  Everywhere you turn: disease, famine, war, the jackboots of the state grinding what is good and colorful and made of dreams into dust.  But this, right here?  Where we are, doing what we do?  We’re living what Marx described in Grundrisse der Kritik der Politischen Ökonomie.  We’re in a post-scarcity utopia of violence.  We have advanced past this!  Petty machismo is a tree that has no leaves and bears no fruit, it just exists to suck nutrients from the ground.  There are heads enough to bust, necks enough to collect, and blood enough to spare.  Why fight each other when there’s a whole company’s worth of worthy targets?

Paxton and FLAMBERGE finally break their gaze and Paxton looks over at his bestie.

Paxton Ray: Sometimes listenin’ t’ya is like hearin’ poetry in another language. I don’t understand all of it but I can fuckin’ feel it. Let’s get outta here.

FLAMBERGE: Oui, c’est bon. HEY. COLTON-

Sage places a hand on FLAMBO’s shoulder, and maybe it’s possible to get a contact high this way or maybe it’s something else, but the Frenchman relaxes a bit before…smiling? Is that what we’re calling that dark sneer? Anyway, it’s enough to send a chill down anyone’s spine as he departs with his WARGAMES teammates.

We cut elsewhere.

The show feed jumps to elsewhere with hair, but still backstage.

It’s a big back stage.

Obviously, since it’s elsewhere with hair, it means King Crumb is present and on the prowl. In fact, this is one of those rare times he’s seen walking around without Bandit backup, or an entourage, or the Enemigos. It’s just the COOLYMPIAN. Alone. Frolicing about like Alfredo the deer in a pair of wrestling tights, probably wondering if anyone has a pair of headlights to get caught up in. Maybe not the best analogy because of the provided protection the T-shades give, but you get the point. Then, ready to skip out of frame and presumably back to the eGG Den, around the bend of a dark corner Jiles goes…

…AND…

He stops.

The Deadlights.

Not so much in the form of a giant spider, but in the form of the red reflectors on the wheels of Phil’s wheelchair. Yes, the former Universal Champion, Phil Atken. Yes, the same wheelchair Cancer Jiles helped put him in.

Yes, it sure gets awkward quick.

Well, depending on how the word frolic tickles you.

Ha.

However, Phil, like Jiles, is also alone. There’s no one there to save him. There’s no glue to sniff to make the next minute or so bearable, or to protect his eyes from the poison mist should things go as they should.

Natural deterrent.

So…

Cancer Jiles: So…

Phil Atken: So.

Cancer Jiles: What’s the matter? Are you looking for somewhere to charge that thing?

The Gutter of Glasgow is unamused.

Cancer Jiles: Let me guess, the G-Men were too busy charging their Teslas to let Professor P get some juice before the show? Can’t you just like, put on Sarajevo and ya know, make one of them give up a charging station? I know Hanlon is a mindless quiff so he should be easy enough to manipulate.

Yet again, the Gutter of Glasgow is unamused.

Cancer Jiles: Well, since I do have ya here maybe you can do me a favor? Small, Gamble-sized one. I want you to relay a message to your boy, the Finance crumb for me.

Tensions rise. Jiles inches a little closer, now a few feet away from his old adversary that never was.

Cancer Jiles: I want you to tell him that I haven’t forgotten about last year’s Culture Shock.

The hair, alfredo perfect. So much so it’s annoying. Nay, infuriating.

Cancer Jiles: The big 41, AND the Financier’s Fancy Forehead Finale.

One step closer. Not at arm’s length. But close.

Cancer Jiles: And that I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to get back to him, but I’m really looking forward to reconnecting with my fellow Almasy runner up at the Games.

Phil has the look of a man who is either bemused or just got a whiff of a particularly potent toot, rotten egg if you will.

Phil Atken: That shouldn’t be too hard. Kind of long. I mean, this is more of a text if I’m being honest, but, I’ll see what I can do. He’s about to start doing a lot of listening.

An ominous statement from a man who currently has a patch on his forehead due to prior forking incidents.

Cancer Jiles: Thanks. It’s tough finding good help. I can see why Cecil holds you in such high regard. Don’t forge–WAIT. What do you mean it was long?

Phil Atken: It was long.

Using both of his functional arms, Phil stresses his point. He’d probably toss in the legs too, if he could.

Cancer Jiles: What was too long?

Phil Atken: All of it. Everything. The whole shebang. Seems more appropriate for a blog, or news article if you ask me.

A snort.

Audible indeed.

Cancer Jiles: You’re still going to tell him though?

Atken has an air of relaxed alertness for a man who you’d think was in a rather vulnerable situation, probably satisfied in the knowledge that if Jiles got too close, he was physically capable of ripping him in twain in a spectacle that would make for Mortal Kombat fatalities seem tame.

Phil Atken: Of course.

Cancer Jiles: Cool. Who’d have thought? Us? Chatting like old chums. If I only knew… well, you know how the rest goes. Don’t forget now. Tell your boy for me. I’m counting on you. Oh, and hey, between us, if those legs could walk I have no doubt they would walk their way back into the locker room and you’d be accepted in no time at all. Honest. Even in today’s more murderous environment. Anyway, thanks again! See ya around. Don’t forget!

There’s a second where things might go south. Jiles is a spineless cockroach. He knows how to survive, and he’s also an equal opportunity face kicker. Tough decision for him as to what to do next. Ultimately, he also knows that stepping into a bear trap with the bear sitting there waiting to maul the cool out of you is not how one should go about seeing a comfortable tomorrow. So, after that second passes, the cooler of the former Universal Champions slides back around the corner and down the hall, giving his, for a lack of funnier term, errand boy right of passage.

Phil Atken: Damn. I forgot to give him this key back. Oh well. Next time.

Cut down to the ring.

A weird, and frankly abominable amalgamation of Tom Waits’ “Goin’ Out West’ and Primal Scream’s “Movin’ On Up” begins blaring horribly over the sound system, but subsides after about ten seconds. The lights in the arena dim and the dark screen above the entrance comes to life with a simple phrase in massive Rio Grande font:

THE COWBOYS FOR CHRIST

Music fades back in first with an acoustic guitar, followed by the bass, drums and hand clapping. The crowd instantly realizes what is playing and begins swaying to the music. The two men coming out from behind the curtain together do not look best pleased with the choice production has made for them.

Well I don’t know why I came here tonight
I’ve got the feeling that something ain’t right
I’m so scared in case I fall off my chair
And I’m wondering how I’ll get down the stairs

The Revelator and Rhinestone Cowboy look at each other and then together, glare back toward the curtain. The crowd is happily singing along despite their contempt for both wrestlers. Reluctantly, the pair begin walking down the aisle together, making sure not to get too close.

Nick Stuart: These two men are not happy about this song choice.

Richard Parker: (singing under his breath) … here I am … in the middle with you.

Stuart lets out an audible sigh.

Clowns to the left of me
Jokers to the right
Here I am stuck in the middle with you

Winters climbs the ring steps and vaults over the top rope, before dropping to a knee in the center of the ring and throwing his arms out into a crucifix. It really does not have the same effect with this song playing, but he’s a professional. Diamonds climbs the ring steps and through the ropes, holding his hat in place as he does. While Winters poses, Diamonds walks behind him, giving him a ‘what the fuck are you doing?’ look before beelining to their side of the ring and placing his hat on the turnbuckle.

As the hooterin’ and hollerin’ for Daytona Diamonds settles down, the arena enters an uncomfortable long silence. The time between the Omega of “Cowboys for Christ” entrance and the Alpha of Anna Daniels and Rob Williams seems like a vast desert, deprived of anything resembling serotonin or dopamine. A collective anxious shift can be felt from the crowd and the wrestlers in the ring and the announcers. Where are they? Remember, time waits on no man.

HEY!
Been trying to meet youuuuuu

The familiar baseline of ‘Hey’ by The Pixies snaps the collated psyche of everyone in the arena to attention. There are no snazzy hack job lighting tricks or pyro as Rob Williams and Anna Daniels step from behind the curtain and stand atop the ramp side by side. Yin and yang, dark and light. The Gruesome Twosome, bonded in their struggle to find their place in an ever changing world that once seemed like such a sure thing. Rob turns to Anna and bows, holding a hand out for her to take the lead as they begin descending the ramp. Anna is slightly baffled at first, but gives a nod in thanks. She walks ahead casually, hands in pockets, Rob close behind.

Must be a devil between us

Noticeably absent from this would be trio is the Father.

Where have you been?
If you GO 
I will surely die
WE’RE CHAINED

Vince Howard: And now coming to the ring, with a combined weight of three hundred and seventy five pounds, “The Muse” Anna Daniels and your 5 Star Champion, “The Legend” Rob Williams!

Despite all that Rob stands for, the crowd pops as two of the top ranked wrestlers in PRIME stand on the apron, sizing up their opponents.

We’re chained
Chained
We’re chained
Chained

Rob sits on the rope, opening the center for Anna to step through. Anna takes a moment to wipe off her boots before stepping through and sitting on the rope, motioning for Rob to come on in. And he obliges with a curtsy to show his gratitude once his partner has joined in him ring.

We’re chained
Chained
We’re chained
Chained

The pair play a quick game of paper-rock-scissors to choose who will start the match. Anna takes a decisive victory, foiling Rob’s rock with paper. Of course he went with rock first and of course she knew he would. They are about to begin a best two-out-of-three when Jimmy Turnbull threatens a DQ for delaying the start. Rob holds his hands up like a hostage and slowly backs away.

DING DING

Daytona Diamonds steps up to begin the match, but there’s already a disagreement among the Cowboys for Christ as Don Winters also wants to start things. Their argument is cut short when Anna Daniels races across the ring and plasters Winters with a flying knee that sends the broad man to the ground, under the ropes, and out to the floor.

Daytona Diamonds reacts less like a man who just watched his valuable partner get sauced and more like a man who kinda wants to see him get sauced a little bit more. Unfortunately for him, Anna Daniels is about the chaos. She doesn’t care who she swings at, so long as someone gets hit. So before Daytona realizes that he might want to start swinging, Anna Daniels strikes like a viper and knocks him down with a high roundhouse kick and puts the Rhinestone Cowboy on his ass.

Nick Stuart: Not a lot of coordination among the Cowboys for Christ to start this contest.

Richard Parker (audibly sighing): …the Cowboys for Christ? Seriously?

Daniels continues to kick away at Diamonds’ back, who yelps in pain each time she does it. Then she adds a stomp to the face once Diamonds tries to avoid getting kicked more by lying flat on his back, which causes Diamonds to reflexively sit up and clutch his face.

So, Daniels kicks him in the back again. Ouch.

The Muse pulls Diamonds up to his feet, who sways drunkenly from the blows to his head so far. This time, she decides to do something that definitely raises the ire of referee Jimmy Turnbull and starts biting him. You know, a perfectly rational thing to do, trying to eat your opponent’s face.

Nick Stuart: She’s biting him! Anna Daniels is biting him!

Richard Parker: I hope she had her shots! God only knows what she’ll catch from this cowboy!

Backing him into the corner that she and Williams share as partners, Daniels only adheres to Jimmy Turnbull’s five count because more chaos could be conducted with the match still going on than without. Chaos would come, and her only hope is that there’d be a bucket of popcorn for her when it did.

Williams does not take the opportunity to tag himself into the match, because Williams isn’t actually there. He’s dropped off the apron and has made a beeline for Don Winters, who’d recovered from getting kicked out of the ring and is making his way back up onto the apron. The 5-Star Champion grabs Winters by the ankles and rips him off of the apron as quickly and as violently as possible, causing the Revelator to land on his face on the apron. With Winters lying against the steel steps, Williams stomps away at Winters, shouting at him the whole time.

Rob Williams: You’ve got something special waiting for you!

Then some more stomps. By now, referee Jimmy Turnbull realizes something is off and goes over to put a stop to things and make Williams return to his corner. Williams adds one more contemptuous stomp to Winters’ head before he begrudgingly listens to the referee’s instructions and walks back towards his co—oh, no. We need a little more stomping. As a treat. Williams backs off only a few feet before he runs and boots Winters right in the face.

CRASH!

That’s the steel stairs getting dislodged from the force.

Turnbull drops off the apron and puts himself between Williams and Winters, demanding that the 5-Star Champion return to his corner. This time, Williams does begrudgingly adhere to the referee’s complaints.

All the while, Anna Daniels isn’t exactly fighting fair against the Rhinestone Cowboy. After Daytona pushes Daniels off of him, he attempts to take advantage with a big ‘ol right hand. Daniels easily evades the move, as though dodging with only the slightest of head tilts, before she kicks him right in the groin.

Richard Parker: Oogh. A kick from Daniels right there might just keep us from seeing any more illegitimate Diamonds children in the future.

Nick Stuart: We’re not going to talk about the illegality of that, are we?

Richard Parker: Eh, rules are flexible.

Nick Stuart: That defeats the point of having rules!

Richard Parker: Eh.

Daytona, predictably, drops to his knees clutching his well-used manhood. Then Daniels shouts a very familiar war cry.

“FUCK YOUR HEAD.”

SMACK!

With Diamonds’ head thoroughly fucked by that buzzsaw kick, Daniels quickly goes for the cover. But at a count of two, Diamonds gets his shoulder up.

Daniels doesn’t really care. More time for the intermingling of pain and chaos, in her book. She reached up and tagged Williams into the match.

Rob Williams, the 5-Star Champion, stepped into the ring with the swagger of a man that’s the king of the world. He had no reason not to believe this. He beat a seemingly unbeatable champion to win his title. He has suffered no defeat in PRIME. All danced to his tune. He took over on Daytona with a snapmare. An elbow drop fed into a contemptuous cover on Daytona, forearm in his face.

It only gets two, though, as Daytona shoots an arm up that’s also trying to rake Williams’ face.

Nick Stuart: Daytona Diamonds is in a bad situation here and he needs to make a tag!

Yeah, uh… about that.

Don Winters is slowly getting back up onto the apron after getting his face kicked into the stairs. The moment Rob Williams sees this, he makes a beeline towards the Revelator as he’s almost to his feet and hits him with a forearm hard enough to send him from the apron and into the guardrail to the outside.

Fans don’t like this, and they boo him. Williams doesn’t care. He turns his attention back to Daytona, who meets him with a punch to the gut. Another one, and then a third one staggers Rob and causes him to take a step backwards. Daytona does not hesitate. There is never hesitation in the Rhinestone Cowboy. If opportunity presents itself, no man in PRIME will scramble faster to snatch it from everyone else.

So he goes for the cutter.

Williams, though, knows the potential of this move to put a halt on everything. He uses it himself, after all. He believes his is the superior product. So when Diamonds grabs the head, Williams shoves him into his team’s corner. Unfortunately for Williams, Daytona was ready for the counter, so when Anna Daniels is about to take a swing at him with one of her boxing techniques, Daytona reacts faster than she anticipates and knocks her off the apron with an elbow.

Nick Stuart: There goes Daniels out on the floor in front of us!

Richard Parker: Keep her away from us. She tried to eat a man’s face, and that man was Daytona Diamonds.

Meanwhile, Williams corners Daytona and batters him with right hands. Daytona covers up, so Williams pulls the Rhinestone Cowboy out of the corner and batters him against the ropes instead. He goes for an Irish whip, but Daytona attempts to reverse it. Williams, however, steps into the attempt and hits Daytona with a big headbutt that knocks him through the ropes.

And that’s what we call a big “Uh oh”.

Grabbing on to the top ropes to save himself from falling out of the ring, Daytona bounces off the second ropes and launches a huge lariat that takes the 5-Star Champion off of his feet!

Nick Stuart: SIX SHOOTER FROM DIAMONDS!

Williams hits the ground like he got his soul knocked out of him by Doctor Strange, and his spirit’s now having cool fights in the Mirror Dimension as we speak. Both men are down, and even a lone wolf like Daytona Diamonds knows he needs to make a tag.

So it’s around this time that Don Winters has recovered from his trip to the guardrail and is standing at the apron. He wants in. He wants in so badly that his legs stomp in anticipation. The fans want it too.

Daytona looks up at Don Winters like he’s seeing him in red. He doesn’t want to accept that no-good pigfucker Don Winters’ help for anything. He hates that he’s been put in this position, especially after taking that beating against Brandon Youngblood just two weeks ago. He probably believes there’s a big conspiracy against him.

But in this moment, Daytona will do whatever it takes to notch another victory.

So he lunges for Winters and makes the tag.

Nick Stuart: WINTERS IS IN!

For months, since even before Colossus, Don Winters has crossed paths with the Legend. And now, he has a chance to get his hands on the 5-Star Champion. He blasts him with a series of elbow smashes, and Williams is backed into the ropes from the sheer relentlessness of said blasting. An Irish whip is reversed into a kitchen sink-style knee in the gut, and Williams takes the opportunity to transition into a German suplex that whips Winters to the ground.

There’s one problem, and that problem is called “fighting spirit”.

Winters rolls to his feet upon impact and roars in defiance. Such is how quickly he recovers from the suplex that he’s on his feet before Rob Williams is. Thus, it surprises Williams when Winters grabs him from behind and lands a German suplex of his own!

Nick Stuart: An exchange of German suplexes, and it doesn’t look like Rob Williams got the better of it!

Indeed, Williams rolls to his feet as well, but ends up falling backwards into the ropes. Williams wants to step forward and continue his relentless assault on Winters, but he staggers forward and gets run over by a huge lariat from Winters.

Winters immediately drops down for a cover.

ONE.

TWO.

DANIELS.

No, math hadn’t broken down so much that the number three has been replaced by Anna Daniels. Well, one of the Multitudes might want that, we don’t know. What actually occurred is that Anna Daniels ran in and kicked Winters as hard as she could in the head. Some real “fuck your head” energy with that one. Another kick hits Winters in the upper chest as he’s getting up, close to his throat, which staggers the Revelator. But the third one, that one is a mistake.

Because Winters catches it.

Anna Daniels doesn’t care about a lot of things beyond chaos and inflicting pain, but she goes wide-eyed as her much larger opponent performs a single-leg takedown and applies a deadly submission hold.

Nick Stuart: SANCTIFIED TO DANIELS! But Daniels is not the legal woman in this match!

That doesn’t seem to matter to Winters as he cranks the hold on Daniels with all of his might. Things only get worse for the Muse when Diamonds finds his way back into the ring. No words are shared between him and Winters. He merely grabs Daniels’ other leg and joins in on the hold. A little Do-Si-Do, so to speak.

Nick Stuart: Now Diamonds has the other leg! We have… I don’t know, a double Sanctified!?

Richard Parker: A double Do-Si-Do? Dodo-Si-Dodo?

Nick Stuart: Whatever it is, Anna Daniels is in a lot of trouble!

Even if they’re spending just as much time talking trash to each other as they are inflicting punishment.

Of course, the distraction of Daniels’ predicament allows Williams to capitalize. He smashes both Diamonds and Winters from behind with two big lariats with both arms that causes Daniels to get released from the hold. Diamonds gets knocked to the apron, while Winters is knocked to one knee. Williams pulls Winters in for another German suplex, only this one isn’t going to have near the pleasant landing as the first one. That’s because Williams has elected to aim this one directly at the bottom turnbuckles behind him, and… well…

THUD.

OHHHHHH!!!

So, that fucking sucked for Winters.

Williams doesn’t bother with a cover. Instead, he grabs the top ropes and uses them to hold his balance while he proceeds to stomp the proverbial mudhole in Don Winters’ ass. The referee counts as Williams relentlessly does this, before Williams devolves into choking him with his bare hands.

After a four-count, referee Jimmy Turnbull manages to get Williams off of him, leading to Williams to argue with him about proper strangulation protocol. Williams puts his back to Winters as he argues with him, until Williams turns back around and pulls Winters to his feet.

A kick in the gut.

A front facelock.

Williams holds his arm up in dramatic fashion.

Nick Stuart: Williams is looking to end things here!

He turns his body to complete the cutter.

BOOM.

…And he gets sent straight to hell when Daytona Diamonds leaps into the air with his own.

Nick Stuart: HOW THE WEST WAS WON!

Winters falls back into the ropes in surprise, but he has the awareness to turn and prevent Anna Daniels from running interference. Diamonds, who tagged himself into the match while Williams argued with Jimmy Turnbull, scrambles on top of the 5-Star Champion, hooking both legs.

ONE.

Daniels tries to make the save.

TWO.

Winters, however, grabs her foot and delays her just long enough.

THREE!

DING DING DING.

Daniels lands on Diamonds to break up the pin, but it’s too late. Williams, who sits up quickly and looks up at Jimmy Turnbull as though questioning the three count. He hadn’t expected what just happened. It doesn’t dawn on him what just happened until he hears the announcement.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the winners of this match… the team of DON WINTERS! AND DAYTOOOOOOOOONNNNNAAAA DIAAAAAMONDSSSSS!!!!

Nick Stuart: A narrow win for Diamonds and Winters here!

Daytona Diamonds and Don Winters share a glance with one another, the kind that isn’t exactly shared very often by victorious tag team partners. There’s still contempt there, and that’s not something a simple victory can erase. As the two rise to their feet and accept their hands being raised by referee Jimmy Turnbull, no words are exchanged. Just heated glances between two men who still have to work together in a month’s time.

Richard Parker: Sure doesn’t look like the Cowboys for Christ like each other any more now than they did before this match, though.

Diamonds backs away to the ropes, and steps out of the ring. He’s done his job, and he’s making his way out.

Unfortunately for Don Winters, though, his night’s not over quite yet.

As the dust settles from the battle that just took place in the ring, Anna Daniels and Rob Williams look to be conspiring in the corner. The moment Daytona Diamonds begins to exit the pair moves on Don Winters. Rob grabs Winters in a bear hug while Daniels delivers one vicious kick after another to The Revelator’s midsection and nether regions. A vicious one-two to the forehead breaks the preacher’s forehead open and he begins bleeding profusely. After the sixth kick Rob releases the hold and Winters slumps awkwardly, crumpling to the ground like a melting snowman – once so filled with hope and happiness, now lying in a growing pool of his own waste.

Rob now takes his own turn laying several cowboy boots upon Winters’ face in a succession of increasingly violent kicks. Daytona stops at the top of the ramp, hands on his hips as he looks back over his shoulder at the ring. The raining boos from the audience transform into cheers as Daytona turns around and walks back towards the ring. As soon as Daniels and Williams notice him, they begin lobbing threats, but Diamonds doesn’t stop. He walks around the apron and up the ring steps. Williams starts to approach, hands balled into fists, but Diamonds merely plucks his cowboy hat up from where it sits on the turnbuckle and plops it on his head, tipping it to Williams before making his way back down the steps and up the ramp, followed by a chorus of jeers by the PRIMEates.

As he makes his way towards the curtains, the camera picks up Diamonds saying, “Not my fuckin’ rodeo, not my fuckin’problem.” And just like that, Daytona disappears backstage.

Nick Stuart: Diamonds has completely abandoned his partner here! Winters’ head is rolling around and his eyes have gone back in his head. There’s nobody home there. This is disturbing stuff!

From under the ring Rob produces a wooden cross statue, maybe 12 inches in length. The end of this idol has been shaved into a blunt point and it is wrapped in barbed wire.

Richard Parker: Oh the censors are not going to love this.

In the ring, Anna dramatically rolls her eyes at Parker’s comment before turning her head towards the commentary table. The microphone attached to camera two clearly captures her venomous rebuttal.

Anna Daniels: Oh! Now the network’s worried? Attempted murder is a-okay. Hell, you personally have asked for more on several occasions! But a little religious symbology between two people who are draped in the shit is suddenly over the line? The fuck were you expecting, you idiotic bogan!

Richard Parker is silent for the perhaps first time in his entire life as the Muse looks at him with disgust. While Rob digs the barbed wire and blunt end of the cross into Don Winters’ forehead, Anna motions to the back. Winters is wearing a full crimson mask and seems to be unresponsive. Anna stands guard, eyes locked on Daytona Diamonds, who stands outside the ring. From behind the curtain comes a number of Complete Abandon.

Nick Stuart: They appear to be carryin… oh no.

A crucifix. Seven feet by four feet, the monstrosity sways back and forth as if it were alive with intent of its own from Rob’s lackeys moving it slowly down the aisle. Fans look on in disbelief as the crucifix is hoisted into the ring and laid on the mat next to Don Winters. Members of Complete Abandon and Rob work in harmony to strap Don Winters into the cross using long strips of leather. Rob slowly unravels the barbed wire from his weapon and creates a circlet of thorns for The Revelator.

As the cross is hoisted upright pointing toward the entrance, Williams motions for a microphone.

Rob Williams: I told you to repent, Donny. Told you that you had one last chance to get right and you ignored me. You said to “keep the secrets” myself. You preach about absolution and you preach about Light. No shadows can live in the light, Donny and I am the third revelation, HERE TO ABSOLVE YOU OF YOUR SINS!

The lights in the arena dim as Don Winters contests the strapping that bind his wrists and ankles to the makeshift cross. Rob Williams grins nefariously and holds the Revelator’s head back, forcing his view to the video screen above the entrance.

Rob Williams: LET’S PUT IT ALL IN THE LIGHT, DONNY!

The screen flickers to life with grainy security camera video, the now familiar footage of a young Don Winters injecting himself with a variety of substances, chief among them heroin. The tracking scrambles and changes to footage of him hovering over a defenseless man, mercilessly punching and kicking away at him, before finally lifting the man up and throwing him head first into the concrete wall. He remains motionless as two large ordlies storm the room, the first beating Winters down with a billy club, while the other drags the man out.

Rob Williams: THIS is a man of God!? A man of the faith!?

The video cuts again to Winters himself being beaten in what looks like a sanitarium. Another figure enters the room, speaks to the two men accosting Winters and they leave. The person remaining with him bends down to him and injects a needle into his arm. The video cuts once more, this time to him taking instruction from another figure as he pulverizes another defenseless person. After being seemingly congratulated for his efforts, he’s kneecapped by the instructor and forced to his knees before a blow to the back of his head takes him out.

Rob Williams: (triumphantly) There is no Word. There is no Light.

Winters has stopped his struggle, giving in to his fate. Tears have begun to stream down his cheeks as he watches his past lives play out in front of him and the rest of the world watching along. The final piece of video looks like it is from a camcorder on the street. The videographer is following Don Winters, who is emaciated, half dressed, hair thinning and face gaunt. He enters an alley and stalks upon a sleeping man. The glint of metal rises from his pocket and in a flash the man is crying out and Winters is running back to the recorder. He laughs and smiles, rubbing a pair of filthy hands together as he’s handed a twenty dollar bill.

Rob Williams: The choice is yours, Donny. Do with this what you will. You’ve been swimming in the sea of fraudulence, alone with your dark secrets. This can be a life preserver. WILL YOU PAY THE PRICE FOR REDEMPTION OR WILL YOU CONTINUE TO COWER IN YOUR LIES?

While keeping up her bodyguard duties, Anna has somehow managed to grab a small popcorn in the midst of the chaos. She watches the show in a certain degree of…zen? Daytona shoots his mouth even in retreat. But all the Muse does is wave at him as he escapes.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think the Revelator has any friends backstage, this is hopeless!

Just as those words finish finding their way out of Stuart’s mouth, the curtain parts and Universal Champion Jared Sykes along Alias Champion Coral Avalon appear on the stage to wild cheers from the crowd. Daniels and Williams, more than satisfied with the work they’d done, join the Complete Abandon lackeys and make their way to the back. The two PRIME champions quickly work together to get Winters down, supporting his weight between them as the ReVival cuts to commercial.

We open…

On a close up of Dan Van Slade’s face.

He looks down on us.

Judges us.

Suddenly, we swivel and pan out, revealing that Dan Van Slade is parked in the middle of a junkyard, looking into his trunk.

And lying in his trunk is none other than poor Fred Dick.

Looking like an advertisement for god damn DUCT TAPE.

His mouth, taped over.

His wrists, taped together, and to his ankles.

His ankles, taped together, and to his wrists.

Fred tries to mutter his disdain for this entire situation (even from behind the tape you can glean it’s disdain), but suddenly, DVS scoops Fred up and, like a baby in a bassinet, plops him down in that wheelbarrow of his.

DVS barrows Fred over to a pile of compressed, crunched up vehicles. Then, he DUMPS the wheelbarrow over, expecting Fred to spill out, but dumpy old Fred doesn’t fall all the way out. Instead, his ass slides down it like butter until he reaches the edge of the wheelbarrow, turning it into a front row fucking seat for the Dan Van Slade Show.

DVS looks at Fred the way one looks at a disgusting smudge of boogers, and then…

VIOLENTLY rips the tape from Fred’s mouth.

Fred Dick: OUCH! SAY, BLOOD!

Fred, trying to sound tough, fights back the tears that flood his eyes from the ripped tape.

Fred Dick: Couple questions. One, who the hell do you think you are sneaking up on me in my private locker room, hitting me with a FUCKIN CONCHAIRTO, tossing my ass in a FUCKIN WHEELBARROW, okay, and then taping me up, dumping me in a trunk, and bringing me out here to one of them spooky car graveyards that smell like eggs? You’re trying to scare ol’ Fred. Is that it? Well, it won’t work. I’m in a gang now.

Fred clears his throat.

Fred Dick: Two, where the fuck is that rental car you stole from me? Because Enterprise keeps calling me wanting it back, you tricky sumbitch. You got my voicemail full of them assho’s talking at me about getting my ass arrested and suing my ass and all kinds of shit. Motherfucker, I can’t afford another lawsuit. And this sweet ass?

Fred whistles.

Fred Dick: Won’t make it one night in prison.

THWACK! A hard slap across the mouth from DVS.

Dan Van Slade: Shut up nerd.

Fred wimpers.

Dan Van Slade: Why did I do all that crap? Because you’re a dipshit, and I can. Misery can do a lot of things.  Everything, actually.  I don’t like you.  I don’t like your stupid face.  I don’t like your stupid hair.  I don’t like your stupid fat belly.  I hate literally everything about you.  Seeing you slouched over like a gelatinous blob with a mullet makes me a happy Deviant.  So, what type of tailpipe do you prefer lodged into your Colon Powell?

Fred Dick: Fuck I didn’t listen to none of that, brother.

Dan Van Slade: No? Well then, perhaps you’ll listen to this.

DVS walks over to a chocolate colored car cube.

Dan Van Slade: Recognize her?

Fred Dick gasps.

Fred Dick: That’s Chocolate Rain… muh rental!!! WHAT DID HE DO TO YOU, CHOCOLATE RAIN!?

Fred tosses an accusing eye towards the Devious One.

Fred Dick: You’re a fucking monster.

Dan Van Slade: Maybe I am a monster. Lots of people say you’re a monster, Fred. But you’re a human.

Fred struggles to wriggle free from the duct tape. DVS looks down on him with disdain.

Dan Van Slade: Too human.  Damnit – I fucking hate humans.

DVS whistles “Believe” by Cher as he steps behind the wheelbarrow and slides it out from underneath Fred. He picks it up with one arm, tosses it in the trunk, and slams that bitch closed.

Fred Dick: Say Blood, that car is gonna cost like twenty thousand fucking dollars. I mean, damn dude, I’m all for fucking… car jokes, but shitting me if I can afford to pay that.

Dan Van Slade: I can feeeeeel somethin’ insiiiiide me sayin’…

Fred Dick: What I’m tryna say is, I ain’t paying for it. You’re paying for that shit, not me. Not Fred Dick. Dan Van Slade. That’s who is paying for it.

Dan Van Slade: I really don’t think I’m strong enough, no!

Fred Dick: How about before you just leave me here, stranded and alone, so I get eaten by all the starving dogs and meth head zombies roaming this place, you free me from this damn duct tape (and also give me twenty thousand god damn dollars for the car you stole from me and had made into a cube, bitch)?

DVS opens the driver’s side door. Gets inside. Cranks up the car. Starts burning out the tires. “Believe” by Cher blares from the car speakers.

Fred Dick: WHAT AM I GONNA DO ABOUT MY ARMS AND LEGS, DAN VAN SLAAAAADE?

The Devious one proceeds to do donuts around Fred. Lots and lots and lots of donuts.

Then, after what feels like forever, DVS peels out, nearly collides into a pile of crushed cars, corrects course, and leaves the junkyard.

Fred Dick: Dan Van Slade! I swear to God the next time I see you, I’m gonna–

SSSKKKKKKIIIIIIIIIRRRRRRRRRRTTT

The Deviousmobile flies back into the parking lot, kicking dust up all around it. DVS speeds up, then comes to a SCREECHING HALT next to Fred.

He rolls down the window.

Dan Van Slade: I’ve changed my mind. I’m here to free you from that duct tape and give you the money for that car.

Fred Dick: …Are you… are you just fucking with me right now?

Dan Van Slade: DING DING DING…tell him what he’s won!

DVS shoots a bird at Fred, blows a bubble with gum, pops it VERY disrespectfully, and peels out again.

Fred Dick: …You’re gonna die, Dan Van Slade.

We can hear “Believe” by Cher pumping in the distance, slowly fading further and further away.

Fred nods to himself, sagely.

Fred Dick: Still a banger.

We cut to that authentic change of pace, Brandon Youngblood.

Whatever was going on with his “team” early in the show? Hayes wasn’t interested.

Bell peppers, pseudo-sentient French vending machines, and super soakers just ain’t his style.

He did own a lot of wrestle-buddies back in the day, though.

Anyway.

Our neighborhood Event Horizon, Hayes Hanlon, has done a great job of avoiding his War Games Team tonight, even his brothers in Glue. And with no intentions to snag the mic and make way to the ring, Home Run Hayes has instead found himself at a little booth backstage serving alcohol, and retrieves a to-go cup of gin and tonic. He swirls the ice within the cup, and plucks the lime wedge from the top.

Hayes Hanlon: (Squeezing the lime wedge into the beverage.) Thanks, man. Hey, do you like gin and tonics?

Behind the booth stands an older gentleman, skinny and balding, clean shaven and full of wrinkles.

Bartender Booth Guy: Ain’t exactly my cup of tea, but my beautiful wife, God rest her soul, would flutter at the thought of a gin and tonic while walking along the shore of…

Hayes Hanlon: Yeah man, that’s awesome. But bro, do you know who doesn’t like gin and tonics?

Bartender Booth Guy: …oh. I, ah…I guess I don’t rightly kno….

Hayes Hanlon: PRIME’s Universal Champion.

Hanlon flicks a hard stare to the elderly bartender, and clacks around the ice in his cup.

Bartender Booth Guy: I see. Well, it’s certainly an acquired taste…

Hayes Hanlon: Can you believe that, man? The PRIME. Universal. Champion, can’t stomach a regular ol’ G&T. Ain’t that something?

Bartender Booth Guy: Well, let me tell you about an’ old war-buddy of mine. Richie O’Houlihan. Boy, let me tell ya, that little bastard could throw em’ back like the best of em’…

While our bartender friend carries on, Hayes takes the opportunity to ignore him, and turn toward the camera, raising his cup with a disingenuous grin beneath his ‘stache.

Hayes Hanlon: Kiss my ass, Champ!

Hammerin’ Hayes shakes his head, then takes a long sip through the straw of his drink.

A toast, Jebediah, to disdain on the Horizon’s terms. Given the shift in the Universal landscape, as well as Hanlon’s statement at Colossus only growing more declarative, The Thresher of Hooves is due his moment. His chance to make his sentiment known.

Which is why, with the sudden wall of shrill sound and the crashing of people and noise all around, what comes next is so stark. Without even a chance to react, the drink in Hanlon’s hand is slapped away, and with it, the collar of his shirt ripped in a powerful grab and pull from the Tower of Babel. Seething, Youngblood doesn’t hesitate, forcing the initially unexpectant Hanlon against the bar, the bartender trying to put a stop to this.

Bartender Booth Guy: HEY YOU–

Brandon Youngblood: SHUT UP!

At no time does the Strong Father look away from Hanlon, muscles wrenching him against the hardwood of the bar.

Brandon Youngblood: YOU WANTED IN MY HEAD?! YOU WANTED IN MY HEAD?! YOU GOT IT YOU PIECE OF SHIT–

Hanlon, long since proven to be no slouch, karate-hands out of Youngblood’s powerful grip, and creates a small amount of space with a hard shove to his chest.

Hayes Hanlon: IN YOUR HEAD? BUDDY I’VE BEEN IN YOUR HEAD FOR WEEKS!

The small amount of space is quickly done away with. Early on, what hits Hayes would be called ‘The Good Stuff’. Now? The ferocity of the open handed slap has no restraint, lashing out against the ear, ready to smash through equilibrium. All that, and yet, The Diamond still feels the need to keep roaring. Maybe to ensure Hanlon can hear him.

Maybe because he needs to let what has been building up in him for two weeks out.

Brandon Youngblood: HOW FUCKING DARE YOU?! HIS SONG?! YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU KNOW! YOU SON OF A BITCH YOU KNOW!

Hayes grits his teeth behind his mustache after the wicked slap from the King of slaps. For a fleeting moment, fans may recognize that he might be thinking back to Culture Shock two years ago, when the Tower provided an ear-ringing slap to re-center a burgeoning Event Horizon before walking out to win the Five Star Title.

How times have changed.

Hayes Hanlon: KNOW WHAT? THAT YOU’RE SCARED OF FREAKIN’ GHOSTS!?!?

Defiantly, and perhaps foolishly, Hayes swings back with an open handed slap of his own, crisp against the Diamond’s rigid jawline. Youngblood, in all his years of dishing it out and taking it even better, does his best to no-sell the swing from the Thresher of Hooves.

The cameras can’t tell you how close that slap matched his own.

Hayes Hanlon: OR ARE YOU JUST SCARED PERIOD!?!

Hanlon knew PRIME’s history. Intimately. Perhaps better than most that had been there, living it. More than anyone, that glitch, that song…that song…he knew what it meant. What it represented. He knew the intensity held between the Tower and the person evoked. That unassailable entity. That Original Villain.

He knew it was beyond a ghost. Beyond the specter of his greatest career failure. Beyond the loss of a brother to the night.

And yet there Hanlon is, standing, dauntless and resolute. The past had nurtured him. Now, it would become his warhammer. No more worship of heroes. Time to strike them all down.

Brandon’s throat filled with bile. The flashes in his head. Those small moments as Hayes found his footing in this ReVival, standing amongst so many he’d grown up idolizing. The pep talks. The speeches. He was there when the young man ascended the throne. It was upon his shoulders he sat.

So much given.

And after everything…

Every drop of it was pissed away.

With resolute violence, Youngblood launches toward Hanlon, roaring, grabbing hold of him and, without thinking of the where, bieling him throwing a collection of tables. The Thresher of Hooves finds his own body crashing violently into them, to the ground, but he is quick to his feet, right as Brandon drives to tackle him over, managing to muscle him over and toss him into a slew of tables himself.

Hayes heaves, breathing heavily, and stalks over toward Youngblood, busy chucking pieces of table away.

Hayes Hanlon: I don’t know about playing that song, but man…

Hayes reaches down, gripping the Tower by his shirt, and seethes into his face.

Hayes Hanlon: …you’ve got more than the ghost of—

A burst from the Tower, grabbing, throttling the Event Horizon before he can finish. All the same, Hammerin’ Hayes drives his forehead against the bridge of Youngblood’s nose before releasing his grip. God damn that old fucker has a thick skull. Hayes stands tall, and stumbles back a touch, shaking the stars out of his eyes.

Grabbing at his face, Youngblood fires through the tears stinging his eyes from the blow, and rips through the cheek of Hanlon with a wild haymaker that connects. The blow is a first step, a violent takedown ensuing, the Tower’s amateur wrestling coming into play as he tries to leverage in position for ground and pound. How he is able to do so is shocking, especially given the blood flowing from his nostrils.

Brandon Youngblood: AND YOU HAVE ME TO WORRY ABOUT BOY! YOU IN MY HEAD?!

Hanlon is putting up a staggering fight.

Brandon Youngblood: I KILLED YOUR DREAM FOR SPORT! YOU WANT TO PLAY PERSONAL?!

The heavy elbow hits its mark.

Brandon Youngblood: I’LL BURY YOU IN THE GROUND!

Hanlon isn’t there for another blow, managing to wrestle from it, strength, anticipation coming into play. A quick jockey for position becomes a stalemate between the two hosses, and as they scramble to their feet, Hanlon fires off his own haymaker that connects to the side of Youngblood’s head. Like Brandon’s it is sloppy, but the force more than makes up for it. With The Tower staggered, Hayes pushes Brandon against the bar, bending him awkwardly over the edge.

Hayes Hanlon: MY dream is just getting STARTED!

Hanlon leers in, a trickle of blood racing down his temple, before he cocks back a fist.

Hayes Hanlon: AND I’LL BE THE ONE TO BURY YOUR WHOLE FUCKING LEGACY!

But the swing never comes.

Instead, the powerful arms of gigantic black man wrap up the angered limbs of the Event Horizon.

Dam: ‘at’s enough, boys.

The Enemigos create a semi-circle around the Head of Security. Hayes writhes against the hold of Dam, but the larger man maintains his grip.

Brandon saw the shot coming. Had prepared. What a wonderful thing, to make this stupid boy throw everything he had in a kill shot, only to break his hand against hard maple. But seeing the Head of PRIME Security having intervene, and given such a thing offered a free opportunity, Youngblood cocked back to shatter the jaw of Hanlon without him even knowing.

Such is the way of pure, unadulterated rage.

That is, until Wade Elliott grabbed hold of Youngblood’s arm.

Wade Elliott: You heard th’man! Enough’s enough!

Brandon Youngblood: GET THE FUCK OFF ME!

So many damn Enemigos flood in, it creates a barrier. After all, this group knows these two could reduce a bar to its studs if left to their own devices. Bodies pulling bodies. The ‘Bama Bruiser manages to pivot Youngblood in the arms of many, many Enemigos.

Wade Elliott: You’ve been givIn’ Dam hell all god-damn night, Brandon! Go git some fresh air! Drink a couple beers! Calm th’hell down!

The pair of two time ReVival Era Universal Champions are dragged away, scraping, trying to push and jostle their way forward, to get at the other. No dice. No go. With the barrier of bodies, it makes it impossible, yet still, Enemigos are draped on their arms, the massive forms of Dam and Wade acting as front facing bumpers.

All they do is roar at one another.

Hayes Hanlon: YEAH, BRANDON! HAVE A COUPLE DRINKS! PUT SOME GUNS N’ ROSES ON THE JUKEBOX!!

Brandon Youngblood: I’M PUTTING YOU IN THE GROUND YOU STUPID SON OF A BITCH! THEY CAN’T SAVE YOU! NOTHING CAN SAVE YOU FROM ME!

And as we watch this wonderful, very peaceful, not at all tense situation start to dissipate through force of authority, we go elsewhere.

A tempest is brewing in the dark eyes of “The Emerald Apex” Kerry Kuroyama. His laser-focused gaze pierces the camera in extreme close-up.

Simon Tillier: Good evening fans, Simon Tillier here, and we are moments away from our penultimate match-up this evening, and I gotta tell ya… I have a feeling this one’s going to be a doozy!

A gradual zoom out reveals our boy in blue, Simon Tillier, standing close by with a mic in hand. On the other side of Kuroyama stands fellow Vae Victis votary, Scott Hunter, making weird faces and fidgeting.

Simon Tillier: With me now is one of the competitors in that match… Kerry Kuroyama! Kerry, do you feel prepared tonight going into your contest against the former Intense Champion, The Anglo Luchador!

Kuroyama’s scowl redirects itself upon the junior reporter, causing him to visibly cringe.

Kerry Kuroyama: My God, that is a stupid question. Incredibly stupid question. Wouldn’t you agree, Scott?

Scott Hunter: I think the most important question we need to ask ourselves is, what exactly IS an Anglo Lunchador anyway? What if I already had lunch? And why would I eat it on a door??? Is it always angled or is it sometimes in a straight line?? And why are we doing geometry?? And if you left Cleveland at 5pm and I left South Carolina at 4pm, what time would the Good Doctor come on that night??? Well?!?

Kerry Kuroyama: See that, Tillier? Those are all examples of brilliant questions. How much does Lindsay pay you to ask stupid shit that you ask? Hell, I should be the one getting paid for expending the precious braincells trying to process an answer to your stupidity. In fact… Scott, get his wallet.

Simon Tillier: What?? HEY–

Before the diminutive interviewer can react, Hunter has him by the jacket and is giving him the shakedown. After a struggle, he tosses Simon’s billfold into Kerry’s waiting hand.

Scott holds up the universal “got your nose” signal with his hand.

Scott Hunter: Got your wallet!

Simon Tillier: Hey, my lunch money’s in there!

Kuroyama looks into the wallet, and shakes his head in repugnance at Tillier’s evidently meager keepings.

Kerry Kuroyama: …pathetic, Tillier.

Kerry throws the wallet back into Simon’s chest. While Tillier scrambles to catch it, the Pacific Blitzkrieg snatches the mic away from him.

Kerry Kuroyama: But the answer to that stupid question is, obviously, yes. I am prepared. The Emerald Apex is ALWAYS prepared. Because any professional wrestler worth their mettle in that ring would know that preparedness is the cornerstone to success in this sport.

He leans in close to the junior reporter’s face.

Kerry Kuroyama: And it should go without saying, Simon, that I am an athlete that aims for success. Because that’s what professional wrestlers do, and anybody with two eyes and half a brain in their head could take one look at me and see that I am nothing less than the absolute epitome of what a professional wrestler should be.

He brusquely hands off the mic back to Tillier.

Kerry Kuroyama: You can redirect any further questions to Scott…

Though visibly annoyed by his interview subject’s overt arrogance, Simon nevertheless wills forth his professionalism, readjusts his collar, and turns his attention to Hunter.

Simon Tillier: Well, Scott… I suppose I should ask of you, how do you feel about Kerry’s chances tonight?

Scott Hunter: I will answer your question by using the language of the noble alien race The Tamarians, as portrayed in the classic Star Trek: The Next Generation episode, “Darmok.” It is a space show with spaceships and lobster headed people and also sometimes laser guns.

Simon Tillier: …um, I see.

Scott Hunter: KERRY AND LUNCHADOR AT REVOLUTION. LUNCHADOR WHEN THE WALLS FELL. SCOTT AND KERRY ON THE OCEAN. KIRK AND PICARD IN THE HOT TUB. AND ALSO, OTHER WORDS.

Not engaged, but still listening, Kerry nods assertively.

Kerry Kuroyama: Scotty the Bull, his sails unfurled.

Scott nods at Simon.

Scott Hunter: Yeah, my sails unfurled!

Simon sighs so loudly that a lamp nearby almost falls over.

An “Approximately” Four-Hundred Pound Russian Voice From Off Camera: COMRADE KUROYAMA!!!!

Kuroyama’s head whips into a double-take, and he groans when he sees who it is that’s approaching.

Kerry Kuroyama: Look lively, Scott…

Scott tries to look sexy. Kerry stares at him.

Scott Hunter: If I’m Blake Lively, are you Ryan Reynolds? If so I am sorry to tell you that Green Lantern sucked, and also Mint Mobile is garbo. I can barely watch my por…. Uh… I can barely watch a wholesome comedy show that I like on it.

Ivan Stanislav emerges from off camera, the hulking Russian Bear is clearly dressed for his upcoming match, with his pants held up high around his powerfully thick waist via his wide suspenders. He grips one of the crimson straps in his hand and grinds his teeth.

Nearly blocked from view by Ivan’s colossal size, Arthur Pleasant steps to the side, seemingly materializing before their very eyes. Still wearing his gear from his earlier match with The Fred of All Dicks, Pleasant has a jar of maraschino cherries for no apparent reason and is popping them into his mouth, one at a time.

All are seemingly disturbed by Arthur’s affinity for maraschino cherries and the manner in which he’s eating them. Looking at Arthur, he spits out a stem before acknowledging their stares.

Arthur Pleasant: What? Have you never seen a man eat cherries after a wrestling match before?

Ivan turns to Kerry, not really having anything to say about Arthur and his cherries.

Ivan Stanislav: There you are. If I did not know any better, I would say you are trying to avoid me!

Scott Hunter: (whispering to Kerry Kuroyama) Are we trying to avoid him?

Kerry shakes his head.

Pleasant slurps a couple more cherries from the jar, drinking some of the super sweet nectar from it.

Arthur Pleasant: (ignoring Scott Hunter’s whispering) I can’t tell you how good it is to see you both again!  Scott…(flips him off)… Kerry… (grins and waves).

Scott Hunter: That was very unseemly.

Ivan Stanislav: I knew you would be getting ready for match against Anglo Luchador. You know, Kerry, you miss golden opportunity to not only build solidarity with rest of our team, but also soften up that fool Luchador in process. I have been meticulously building our team into fighting unit, and last thing we need are any rogue actors. They will not be tolerated!

Kuroyama closes his eyes and he lets out an annoyed, prolonged sigh through clenched teeth. As if answering Simon’s questions wasn’t enough of an assault on his psyche, he now has to deal with these two.

Kerry Kuroyama: You’re a military man, right Ivan?

Stanislav rocks back on his heels a bit and grunts, as if this is an incredibly foolish question.

Ivan Stanislav: Of course I am. What do you think Starshy Praporshchik means, after all?

Stanislav looks down at Scott Hunter for a moment. The Russian Bear clearly has no idea who this person is. Scott waves at him and smiles. Ivan growls.

Ivan Stanislav: I am not giving autographs.

Scott’s shoulders slump and he looks sad.

Ivan then looks back at Kerry and listens intently.

Kerry Kuroyama: So imagine a military unit. And let’s assume they have a sniper among their ranks. You know what the sniper does, right? Do you see him on the front lines, down in the trenches, fighting in the mud and blood and shit with all the other…

He nods in the direction of Pleasant.

Kerry Kuroyama: …grunts?

Ivan snarls.

Ivan Stanislav: I find great use in Mass Assault Doctrine, personally, but if civilian wants to tell me about warfare, go on.

Arthur spits a couple more cherry stems out as he finishes the jar of maraschino cherries.

Arthur Pleasant: Grunt? Hahaha. You think I’m a grunt? Duuuude, I thought it was obvious. I’m the bullet a sniper like you puts in his rifle.

Scott Hunter: You’re more like the Orajel I put on my toothache.

Scott nudges Kerry in the ribs, suggesting that was a good one.

Ivan places a large hand on Arthur’s shoulder and squeezes, with a slight eye roll towards his own comrade. Arthur scoffs at Kerry and simply puts his hands up as if to say, “Sure thing.”

The Emerald Apex, mercifully, ignores this interjection from the Russian Bear’s subordinate and continues with his metaphor.

Kerry Kuroyama: The answer is no. When a sniper goes to war, he doesn’t go in alongside his brothers in arms. Usually, he’s away from the action. Up on a hill, or in a tower, or perched somewhere high. Anywhere with a view. It’s a rather lonely job, if you think about it… but an important one, nevertheless. Because the sniper has a unique set of skills that separates him from the other soldiers. Specifically, he makes the shots that matter…

The Emerald Apex rubs his palms together and pops his neck.

Kerry Kuroyama: This is why it’s necessary for him to be apart from the remainder of the unit. Because he works better on his own. And the infantry value his role, because while they keep the enemy busy down there in the scrum on the frontlines, the sniper is in the back, picking off targets… one by one.

He points to his chest, defiantly looking up to the towering Russian.

Kerry Kuroyama: I’m this team’s sniper, Stanislav. Which means I put in my work for this team my way: between the ropes. And tonight, I’m doing my part in your ‘team-building exercise’. By proving that wherever The Anglo Luchador is in PRIME — whether it be back here, or out there in the ring — he is always going to be OUR bitch.

Scott Hunter: (snapping his fingers) Oh no he did not!!

Stanislav shifts his jaw. One can almost hear the sexagenarian’s teeth grinding as he looks down at Scott Hunter again.

Ivan Stanislav: Who the hell are you?

Arthur Pleasant: Don’t mind Scott, Starshy Praporshchik. He lives in his own sad, little world around here. Scott Hunter is something like a re-remake of a sidequel of a re-remake that nobody knows where it stands on the timeline. Honestly, I think Lindsay keeps him around because she has a moist-on for muscled up mullet heads.

Scott Hunter: And I think she keeps you around because she likes POOP! That doesn’t sound right, now that I say it out loud. But we were all thinking it!

The Emerald Apex inspects a spot on the nearby wall, and imagines Arthur’s face going into it, should he continue to insult his friend and bro 4 life. Or use the term “moist” again.

Scott Hunter: (holding out his hand and looking at Ivan) Hello, I’m Scott Hunter. I once elbow dropped a badger. And you are?

Ivan Stanislav: You have not heard of me? I am Starshy Praporshchik Ivan Sergeiovich Stanislav.

Then, Ivan all too willingly grasps Hunter’s hand. And with the size of Stanislav’s paw, that includes his wrist, and part of his forearm. He holds it there, for a moment, and then every tendon in his massive hand flexes as he applies pressure.

Scott flinches, but nods.

Scott Hunter: That is quite the grip you have, Mr. Starsky. Is Hutch as strong as you? That is called a joke because your name is Starshy. It is the first time you have ever heard that joke because it was just made up my me. It is like a verbal figure four leglock, which is trademarked in Florida, forty other states and even weird places like Canada. And also your last name is something about cole slaw, so now I am hungry and would like some barbecue. And perhaps a roll. But not potato salad because there are too many carbs. But please do not break my arm. That is the hand I use to… uh… pet bunny rabbits… probably. I like bunny rabbits. So fluffy.

Ivan growls and speaks to no one in particular.

Ivan Stanislav: Why does everyone mention this bastard Hutch when they talk about me? If I ever find that son of bitch I’ll break his head in.

Scott Hunter: (whispering to Kerry again) I do not want my head to be broken in. It sounds painful.

Kerry Kuroyama: And tragic. You only get the one, after all.

Scott Hunter: (wistfully) Doesn’t seem fair.

Stanislav releases his grip and nods down at Hunter, but then back at Kerry.

Ivan Stanislav: If you are the sniper, is this your spotter? I expected someone like you to pal around with more… prescient, individuals.

Scott Hunter: Oh, I’m prescient, pal! I’m prescient but good! And as soon as I find out what that means I will be either very angry or very flattered that you said that to me just now. Pfft, prescient. Or, hey what a nice thing to say! Prescient! You should not live in the past, you must live in the prescient. I have a lisp.

Kerry Kuroyama: I’ll have you know that Scott here is as prescient — which, by the way, means “having or showing knowledge of events before they take place” — as they come. And he’s welcome company compared to what you…

Again, he nods to Arthur.

Kerry Kuroyama: …keep hanging around.

Pleasant almost drops his jar of cherries—which are nearly empty at this point— but catches it with cat-like reflexes.

Arthur Pleasant: (snorts) Someone’s getting a lot of use out of his word of the day calendar!

Scott Hunter: And you’re getting a lot of use out of being POOP!

Kerry Kuroyama: (whispering to Scott) You already made a poop joke. Only one per day.

Scott Hunter: Sorry.

Scott looks at Arthur.

Scott Hunter: Sorry to him, not to you. (Scott mutters under his breath) Mr. Poopy McPoopstain Pooperson.

Arthur Pleasant: You should really see a therapist, you know that?

Scott Hunter: If you want to see the rapist, that’s your business. I happen to believe in a little something called CONSENT, Sir-Tooth-A-Lot!

Kerry Kuroyama: Arthur, when the time comes where there are some actual heads that need to be kicked, we’ll call you. Until then, just stick to satisfying your sweet tooth, and shut the fuck up while the adults talk business here.

Arthur Pleasant: Hahaha. You got it, Emmy Apex! You’re the LEADER of this fine squadron of squalor, shot-caller.

Kuroyama calmly redirects his attention back to Stanislav, ignoring Pleasant’s quip.

Kerry Kuroyama: Now, back on the topic of having to explain why I didn’t join in on your friendly blanket party on The Anglo Luchador. Thing is, I have a rule about avoiding violence in the back. For one, it’s assault, and assault is a crime, and it really bothers me that nobody talks about it these days. For another, in the long-term, it accomplishes nothing. And with all due respect, “Praporschik”… nothing is exactly what the six of you accomplished two weeks ago.

The Russian Bear’s eyes flare in rage at this comment, but allows this impudent bourgeoise to continue speaking, out of a mild curiosity to see where he’s going with it.

Kerry Kuroyama: Sure, you put him in the hospital for a short-term stay. But tonight, he’s healthy. And pissed off. And likely going out there with something to prove to all of us. And even if (sudden British accent) I wasn’t even there! (normal) …tonight, it’s my head he’s coming for. Just by being associated with you. All you chuckleheads succeeding in doing was making my job harder.

He shrugs. Increased difficulty? Bitch, please. Kerry Kuroyama plays every day on ‘Hard mode’.

Kerry Kuroyama: Not that it matters… I got the job done two weeks ago against Ellen Adams–

Simon Tillier: That’s Adam Ellis.

Kerry Kuroyama: (to Simon) Shut up, nosepick. (to Ivan) …and I’ll get the job done once more tonight. I’ll hand Lunch-on-a-Door’s balls to you on a silver platter, and we go into War Games with another notch on my — I mean, our — belt. That sound khoroshiy to you, big guy?

This actually makes The Bear grin and he raises his bushy eyebrows.

Ivan Stanislav: Luchador has been thorn in my side since I came to PRIME. If you can deliver me his testicles, I make a stew out of them, Kerry. But do not louse it up either.

Arthur Pleasant: I’ll take two servings of that, please.

Scott Hunter: Well for your information, we have Amazon Prime, so not only will we deliver you his testicles, we will deliver them with free 1-day shipping! And that is included in our membership!! Be on the lookout tomorrow for the package!

Scott turns to Kerry with a smile.

Scott Hunter: Package. Get it?

Scott seems very happy about this. Stanislav shakes his head and glances down at Pleasant, rolls his eyes once again, and grudgingly addresses Hunter once more.

Ivan Stanislav: PRIME is not going internationally to Amazon. What the hell are you blathering about?

Scott Hunter: (mildly confused, but then immediately happy again) I don’t actually know. But while we’re on the subject, I am very curious about something. If someone twisted your head off, would there be another Starsky Coleslaw inside? Because I have heard that if you twist a Russian’s head off there is another Russian inside? It is called a nesting doll, which I am hoping is what you are. I was hoping it would be Natalia Vodianova instead of another you inside because she has a hard last name to say, but is pretty. You are mostly just really hairy and smell like mushrooms. And your friend smells like…

Kerry Kuroyama: I said one per day!! SHH.

There is a long moment of silence as Ivan Stanislav stares down at Scott Hunter. He may be considering wind velocity and yeet-ability.

Pleasant, meanwhile, considers taking his empty jar of cherries and smashing it against his steel-like washboard abs, using the jagged glass to stab Hunter in the jugular. Instead, THE Nightmare of PRIME looks around and simply throws the jar away to prevent him from acting on those murderous thoughts. Glass shatters in the distance as Pleasant sighs in disappointment.

Ivan nods at Arthur for controlling his need for violence then levels a large finger at Kuroyama.

Ivan Stanislav: Hall and I took out the Bandits already. We destroy Tsonda and Colton tonight. Youngblood lost to some cowboy. Even though Sykes won Universal Title, which should be mine, that team is on the ropes. Ellis is small bite compared to Luchador. Do not give them any hope, “Designated Sharpshooter” Kuroyama. Absolute victory and nothing less!

Kuroyama nods in agreement.

Kerry Kuroyama: Aye-aye, Praporshchik. Nothing less. And best of luck to you and Jonathan-Christopher tonight. Not like you need it…

He limbers up and readjusts his silver and emerald robe before giving Scott a light jab with his elbow.

Kerry Kuroyama: Okay, Scott, let’s do this.

They head for the ring, leaving Simon alone with the understandably nerve-rattling pairing of Stanislav and Pleasant, watching the Emerald Apex head for the Argyle position. The junior reporter meekly tip-toes from the scene before they notice him.

POP!

Pleasant tries to be discreet with his opening of a second jar of maraschino cherries, but fails miserably. Ivan looks at Arthur as if to say, “Where are you getting those?!”.

Arthur Pleasant: (hanging his head down) Don’t judge me.

Ivan Stanislav: Eh, I like RED cherries! DYAAHAAHAA!!

Stanislav gives Pleasant a hearty slap on the back and digs into the jar as we move elsewhere.

The lights dim. Thunder rumbles. The barometric pressure in the room plummets.

On cue, “Blouses Blue” hits the PA. The Wells Fargo Center becomes awash in rich, robust green. Floodlights fill the entry-way, outlining the silhouette of a seemingly four-armed man. Silver and green fountain pyros erupt across the stage.

The spotlight hits the entry-way, revealing Kerry Kuroyama, proudly posing with his fists peaked over his head. Scott Hunter swaggers out from behind him and stands off to the side, enthusiastically pointing at the Emerald Apex of PRIME.

After a beat, Kuroyama comes striding down the aisle with a defined balance of conviction and swagger, moving like a man ready to go to war. Hunter takes up the rear, jaw-jacking with the fans at the barricade and being the perfect hype man.

Vince Howard: Coming to the ring, accompanied tonight by Scott Hunter… he hails from Seattle, Washington, and weighs in at two-hundred and fifty-four pounds… he is “the Pacific Blitzkrieg” KERRY KUROYAMA!!

Hurricane Kerry makes landfall at ringside and does a loop around the ring, staring down the jeering fans on the other side of the barricade with absolute repugnance. After achieving a full orbit, he ascends to the apron, climbs the turnbuckle, and raises himself up for the world to see him. He slowly scans the arena from north to south, his face bearing the smirk of a man living his moment.

In a flash, Kerry pinches the shoulder of his robe and tears it aside, dramatically revealing the grinning green storm dragon of ambition painted across his sculpted back. Hunter, on cue, catches the robe out of the air. Kuroyama’s fist pierces the air, with Scott likewise posing on the floor below him.

Richard Parker: One of the great friendships in the history of wrestling right there- the dedication from Scott Hunter towards his best bro is inspiring.

Nick Stuart: Is it now- well, bromance aside. Kerry Kuroyama comes into this matchup carrying some associated baggage, as it were. It was the rest of his team on the last episode of ReVival that waylaid the Anglo Luchador backstage in a vicious beatdown.

Richard Parker: So he’s guilty by association, is he? What was Kerry supposed to do? Chastise Ivan and Vickie? I’m sure that would have been a productive conversation.

Nick Stuart: Well- I’ll give you that one.

The arena darkens before being illuminated in time with the intro to “Cynic” By Local H. The PRIMEView plays an expertly edited montage of The Luchador hitting various flips, arm drags, and ranas before Scott Lucas’ first guttural “HEY!” hits in the song. It’s at that moment, The Anglo Luchador steps out from the back looking as focused as we’ve ever seen hbim. Going to one knee at the top of the ramp, his left fist on the ground. He waits a beat and then pops to his feet, cocking his right fist to a big pop from the PRIMEates.

Vince Howard: Aaaaaaand hailing from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania! He stands six feet and weighs in tonight at two-hundred and eleven pooooounds… The ANGLOOOOOOOOOO LUUUUUUUUUUUUUCHADOOOOOR!

Nick Stuart: One has to wonder what sort of shape TAL is in tonight-.

Richard Parker: Not anything close to good, I’d fancy. The masked man got leaned into pretty hard by the Red slash PINK ™ Army.

As the Anglo Luchador makes his way down the ramp the camera cuts to the Emerald Apex standing in his corner making quiet conversation with Scott Hunter- Kerry’s eyes never leaving the masked man. As TAL steps through the ropes and raises his fists towards the fans to a loud pop Kuroyama licks his lips in anticipation of locking up with this particular veteran legend-

Richard Parker: There’s some historical interconnectivity between these two PRIME superstars, is there not?

Nick Stuart: Indeed there is. Kerry’s late father crossed paths with a much younger Anglo Luchador in wrestling days yonder- young Kerry actually having grown up something of a fan of the masked man from Philly PA.

Richard Parker: Thank God he grew out of that nonsense.

Nick Stuart: Really, Richard?

The official for this contest, Elvis Nixon, concludes his pre match checks for foreign objects- the two combatants eyeballing one another the entire time from their places across the ring from one another. Kerry slaps hands with his cornerman, Hunter hopping out of the ring and settling in at ringside with his elbows resting on the ring apron. Nixon beckons the two men to approach him in the center of the ring.

Elvis goes over the rules- neither man seems to be listening. Kerry’s icy glare has taken on something of a smug look as he looks his veteran competition up and down.

The Apex Predator extends a hand for a pre-match shake.

Quick camera cut to Scott Hunter shouting “SPORTSMANSHIP” at the top of his lungs.

TAL no-sells the extended hand of Kuroyama- his eyes locked on Kerry’s. The camera is close enough we can pick up snips of the very short conversation-

Kerry Kuroyama: You really not going to shake my hand, Tom?

The masked man barely moves a muscle.

He waits a few beats, the tension building in the silence between the two men.

Even over the din we hear TAL clear as a bell.

The Anglo Luchador: Say hello to the rest of your team for me…

Another quick cut to Hunter who looks absolutely nonplussed at the lack of handshake reciprocation. Back in the ring Seattle’s Best purses his lips and nods his head- almost impressed at the luchadors huevos- almost.

Kerry Kuroyama: Alright- that’s how it is. Let’s go then, old man.

Elvis Nixon steps between the two heated competitors for a moment as he calls for the bell with a flourish.

DING DING

The Luchador launches himself at Kuroyama, laying into the Apex Predator with alternating knife edge chops and brain rattling forearms to Kuroyama’s dome. The aggressive start from TAL has Kerry uncharacteristically on the back step. After a particularly nasty series of blows TAL suddenly cracks off a lightning quick enzuigiri that levels Kuroyama.

RAAAAAAAAAH!

The suddenness of TAL’s opening flurry has the PRIMEates on their feet, pounding guardrails and stomping their feet. The sound of the crowd behind him drives the masked man forward shouting out mid-step “GET UP” to a still groggy Kuroyama struggling to his knees-

Nick Stuart: Running knee to the side of the Apex Predator from TAL! The masked man showing some real aggression tonight, partner!

Richard Parker: Well we’re not on the road to PEACE Games, now are we Nick? Think, please.

Over the next few minutes of action the Luchador is relentless and gives the Emerald Apex very little room to breathe. Nick and Richard continue to comment on the aggressive stance TAL took right out of the gate, a tactic that has clearly left Kerry Kuroyama to rethink his entire strategy on the fly. The sheer amount of clever llave-lucha counters from TAL leaves Kuroyama’s head spinning. Some snug headlocktakeovers into more mat-based lucha grappling leaves the Brutalizer clearly struggling to keep up for a time.

Several quick camera cuts to ringside shows a deeply worried Scott Hunter slapping the mat shouting useless unsolicited advice to his bro- “HEY, DO BETTER.”

Nick Stuart: Something tells me this isn’t how Kerry thought this match would unfold, considering what his teammates pulled on the last episode.

Richard Parker: Don’t you dare count Seattle’s Best out yet, you vondruke!

It looks for a moment like Kuroyama is turning the tide with some wild forearms of his own but the Luchador skillfully ducks behind Kerry and pops off a crisp bridging Dragon Suplex-

Nick Stuart: TAL WITH THE FIRST PINFALL OF THE MATCH!

Richard Parker / Scott Hunter: [in unison] NO!

ONE…

TWO…

THREE… NO! KICKOUT!

The Emerald Apex kicks out at three with authority. The smug attitude he started this match with has been vaporized by the intensity of the masked man’s opening volley. Both men are up at the exact same moment- TAL hits the ropes with lightning speed and leaps at Kerry with a sudden leg lariat. In a feat of strength that draws a pop from the PRIMEates Kuroyama CATCHES TAL in his arms- much to the surprise of the masked man. Kerry again demonstrates his strength by readjusting TAL in his arms without dropping him and SHATTERING the Luchador’s spine with a brutal and sudden powerbomb.

Richard Parker: Somewhere Sid Phillips’ ears just perked up! What a maneuver from Kuroyama!

His clearly aching body catching up with him, TAL struggles to his knees-

OOOOOOH!

Kuroyama slaps the Luchador across the side of the head full-bore, open palm. Even with the mask between Kerry’s hand and TAL’s cheek the blow still makes an audible, muffled pop. Seattle’s Best then proceeds to snatch TAL up like a child, lock his hands and pop off an overhead belly to belly suplex that sends the masked man bouncing across the ring. Kuroyama gets to his feet like some sort of slasher movie villain- shouting derision at TAL, veins throbbing in his neck with each barked syllable.

Quick cut to ringside where Scott Hunter clearly mouths “you done goofed.”

Richard Parker: Even I have to admit the Luchador started off strong tonight- but the effects of that Red Army lead assault is starting to peek through the fire and bravado, Nick.

Nick Stuart: Kerry Kuroyama is relentless here!

Over the next few minutes Kerry Kuroyama goes about reaffirming his position as one of PRIME’s chief brutalizers as he drops knees and stomps on the helpless limps of the masked man. TAL battles through the assault to his knees- where he’s met with several stiff kicks to the chest from the Emerald Apex. When it becomes clear the Luchador will not be denied and he slowly gets one foot planted underneath him KK wrenches him into position and cracks off his patented double-underhook backbreaker.

Nick Stuart: Black Tahoma Breaker from Kuroyama!

Kerry is quick to roll TAL over and hook the leg.

ONE…

TWO…

THREE… NO! KICKOUT!

RAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: TAL KICKED OUT! The Luchador is still in this, Richard!

Richard Parker: The old fool doesn’t know when he’s beat, is all!

Kuroyama howls in frustration as he slaps the mat with his open palm. Even giving an uncharacteristic look towards the official who holds up two fingers. As Kuroyama takes another moment to question Nixon’s call as he gets to his feet- he misses TAL rolling to his first behind him. As KK turns back towards his adversary he’s met with a textbook dropkick that sends him tumbling through the ropes to the outside right into his cornerman, Scott Hunter.

The masked man takes a few big steps back, picks his mark and-

Nick Stuart: DO A BARREL ROLL, RICHARD!

Richard Parker: Oh spare me- OH GOD, BOYS MOVE!

Richard Parker might not be impressed but every other warm body in the arena Nick Stuart included are on their feet as the Luchador takes a flying leap to the top rope and springs off performing a beautiful springboard tornillo wiping out both Kerry and Scott on the floor.

Nick Stuart: Where is TAL getting this reserve? Amazing!

The Emerald Apex is back on his feet following TAL back in the ring almost immediately- the next few minutes Kuroyama fires off some locked and loaded kicks and strikes only for the masked veteran to dodge, duck, dip, dive and dodge out of the way of every single one- only intensifying Kuroyama’s desire to clobber his opposition.

The Luchadors quickness elicits oooh’s and aaah’s from the PRIMEates- but sadly their enthusiasm is cut brutally short as Kuroyama deftly picks his spot and nearly decapitates TAL with his patented discus lariat.

Richard Parker: That’s more like it!

Nick Stuart: Squall Line Lariat from Kerry!

Kuroyama stalks his prey- and runs his mouth as he does so. TAL again shocks KK as he reaches in and suddenly pulls Kerry into a quick schoolboy. Kuroyama kicks out so immediately referee Nixon doesn’t even get himself into position before KK is back on his feet. Exhausted TAL still manages wrist control, whipping KK into the ropes- on the rebound however he’s met with an absolutely deafening open hand chop across the chest of TAL that stops him in his tracks.

And another- and another as a trickle of blood finds itself down TAL’s beet red chest.

Kuroyama rakes his thumb across his throat before muscling TAL into position to deliver his devastating Judgment Bolt Bomb when-

Nick Stuart: TAL SKINS THE CAT!

The ringside microphones pick up Scott Hunter shriek “OH NO BRO.”

TAL lands behind Kuroyama and immediately rolls KK up and pops off his patented rip chord right cross, the Drizzle Maker!

Nick Stuart: TAL CLOCKED HIM!

Richard Parker: BLAST!

Maintaining wrist control, the Luchador takes a moment to twirl his finger skyward before twirling Seattle’s Best down to the canvas with a textbook arm-wrench inside cradle!

Nick Stuart: LA MAGISTROL FROM TAL! LA MAGISTROL!

Elvis Nixon is right there as TAL desperately pulls the pinning predicament as tight as his aching muscles can manage

ONE…

TWO…

THREE!

Kerry Kuroyama’s forceful kick out is one tenth of a second too late- his jaw hangs agog as he sits and watches Elvis Nixon calls for the bell and Vince Howard stands at his place at ringside.

DING DING DING!

Vince Howard: YOUR WINNER… The ANGLOOOOOOOOOO LUUUUUUUUUUUUUCHADOOOOOR!

We cut elsewhere.

Sometime earlier in the day..

That rascal, the Herald, was up to his War Games investigations. Having investigated Coral Avalon and Cecilworth Farthington already it was time to investigate another Captain.

Which captain?

Why Captain Jared Sykes of the “Good Guys” team.

What is even good? Who are we sitting on high deciding who is “good” or “bad”?

..oh wait, that’s what the whole Heel and Face thing is?

…what does this mean for people in the middle?

Somewhere owls bristle. We’ve drawn her eye, friends. Best we keep moving along.

The Amica Mutual Pavilion parking structure. It’s cold, it’s unpleasant. It’s not the kind of place you want to spent a lot of time wandering around in late February. So it is clear looking at the Herald, who is visibly shivering, he’s been standing out here for awhile. Dressed in his normal little Herald outfit, mask and hat, he looks miserable, cold and, we might even hazard, a little bit sad. Just a little.

However all the chill in his little Bently eyes is quickly banished the moment he lays eyes on his target.

From across the courtyard, two figures approach. One is a little idiot man who calls himself a Dragonslayer, and who recently beat a literal lizard to win the Universal Championship, so now the name is actually appropriate. The other made waves on that same show for going full Rorschach on poor Nate Colton. Together they once set a bunch of records with the PRIME Tag Team championships that no one really pays attention to, because tag teams am I right? If this was live there would be cheering for the first entrance of Jared Sykes and Justine Calvin with the Uni in tow, but this was recorded earlier so instead there is just walking. Feel free to make “RAH!” noises at your monitor though. We promise not to judge.

Justine Calvin: I can’t believe he’s banned me from his room. That couch was swank as hell.

Jared Sykes: I mean he was pretty open about the whole “no shoes” thing.

Justine Calvin: You know we have a locker room, right? Can’t we just use that instead so I don’t have to stand outside like a dog?

Jared Sykes: We can ask. I don’t make the rules though.

Justine Calvin: You’re the team captain and the Universal Champion! I’m pretty sure they’re bound by covenant to listen to you.

Jared Sykes: But that couch…

Her sigh is more visible than audible, breath crystalizing in the cool New England air.

Jared Sykes: Speaking of, we’ve got something lined up with Mills tonight.

Which by now you’ve already seen, unless you scrolled right on past it. Won’t judge you for that, either.

I’ll just cry really hard. I call that one “getting into character.”

Justine Calvin: Oh, lovely. But it’s just as well though. Have a few things I need to say.

Jared grins.

Jared Sykes: Not gonna swing on him, are you?

Justine Calvin: Nope. No punching tonight. Besides…

The Herald breaks free from his frozen stance and scrambles toward Sykes. A very cold looking marching band creeps out of the shadows playing very badly. It’s still recognizable though. It’s “Once Upon a Dream” from Sleeping Beauty. Oh no, Bently.

The Herald: I knooooow you…

And he’s begun to sing now.

♪♫♩ A Captain you’ll be in the War Games Ring! I now you, that look of rasslin’ in your eyes, victories gleam! ♪♫♩

Justine Calvin: Oh son of a…

The distance between them is closed in a hurry, and a hard right hand finds a home in The Herald’s guts, driving all the air from his body. The next verse escapes his lips as something between a groan and a wheeze.

Jared watches this all unfold with his eyes wide and his jaw hanging. The march band disperses, screaming and abandoning their leader to his fate.

Jared Sykes: Dude!

Poor Bently. The floor of a parking garage in wintry Rhode Island is not the place for a man of your station. Standing over him, Calvin jabs an accusatory finger in his direction.

Justine Calvin: We stan Donny Osmond in this house. That was for Captain Li Shiang of the Imperial Chinese Army!

She turns to her partner.

Justine Calvin: You coming?

But he’s standing there dumbstruck.

Jared Sykes: Dude!

Justine Calvin: What?

Jared Sykes: You literally just said there’d be no punching tonight!

She looks down at Bentley, then back at Jared.

Justine Calvin: Oh. Right. I meant after the show starts, so this doesn’t count. And regardless, no one does Mulan that dirty. No one.

And with that, she turns and heads towards the building. With a shake of the head, Jared is only a few steps behind.

Jared Sykes: Sorry about that Bentley, really. Good luck with your home invasions and stuff.

He jogs a bit to catch up, leaving The Herald to catch his breath alone in the lot. He lets out a few sad noises.

We cut elsewhere.

The scene opens behind the PRIME ReVival backdrop where Vickie Hall stands front and center. Beside her is Alexei Rulsan and behind them is Ivan Stanislav. Then behind Ivan, with his head down of course, is Jonathan-Christopher trying to psych himself up, ready, willing and able to be the shield for the team.

And surrounding each and every one of them are the 30For30 ESPN camera crew, likely finishing what they need in order to release the series. The series, which Reed Young initially requested follow the Hall’s journey on the road to SUPER STARDOM…

Or in other words, the Universal Championship!

Anyway, Vickie’s going to speak now.

Vickie Hall: A special HELLO to Chandler Toss-sandra and…

Vickie starts to shake. The thought of even NAMING Tsonda’s teammate is enough to put her through an anxiety attack!! Jonathan-Christopher is too busy trying to pump himself up to see it happen right away but momentarily after the crisis response begins, as Vickie starts compulsing with the shakies, he sees it! Jonathan-Christopher wants to make a move to save Vickie but Ivan places his massive tree trunk arm in the way, blocking JCH’s path.

Ivan Stanislav: You just stay there, JCH, and think about our match.

Stanislav moves slightly in front of JCH, nearly eclipsing him, and places his two massive calloused hands on Vickie’s teeny, tiny, and delicate shoulders. The Bear massages her shoulders, his hands nearly engulfing her entire torso in the process. Ruslan immediately produces a red handkerchief from his overcoat and fans her quickly.

Ivan Stanislav: There there, Victoriya, your friends are here for you.

Alexei Ruslan: We are here to support you.

Ivan Stanislav: We are here to protect you.

Alexei Ruslan: We are here to defend you.

Ivan Stanislav: We are here to show you what true companionship is like.

Vickie closes her eyes and lets out a tiny little “eek” of joy.

Vickie Hall: I am feeling so secure and like myself again. Gosh golly, boy oh boy, am I facing a lot of demons tonight or what?

Vickie looks to her left and then to her right.

Vickie Hall: And come WarGames even more demons. Jare- Ja- J-

It’s like she wants to say someone else’s name but she can’t. She’s regressing. She lowers her head and her eyes. Nevertheless, she speaks loudly so that person in the back can hear.

Vickie Hall: Jonathan-Christopher, last ReVival you messed up in many ways. Your commentary was shoddy and you made fun of poor Ivon here. Now you have the task to show us both… how much you love me.

Vickie points to herself. Then she points to Ivan.

Vickie Hall: And how much you love Ivon. How GUD of a partner he is. How he beats the living piss out of Darin Zion any day of the week. (Begin terrible high-pitched Russian accent) He is brother you never had. He is family. (/mercilessly end Russian accent)

Pleased with herself, oh so greatly pleased now, Vickie gives Ivan a surprise hug as the three ESPN cameramen swoop around to capture it, one of them even inadvertently knocking over JCH in the process. It’s like the #1 contender is completely forgotten as Vickie politely spins around and offers her dainty little wrist for Alexei. Ruslan takes the wrist with a gentle hand and leads her off.

…Leaving Ivan and JCH alone. Stanislav slides slightly to the side and stares down at the boy. Ivan doesn’t say anything, but he points a huge finger in his face and lets out a single grunt, before walking off to leave the number one contender alone.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. He braces himself for what’s about to come and the harm in which he is going to throw his body in front of.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: (pep-talk mumbling) For the love of my life, Vickie.

Pause. He smacks himself across the face.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: For my friend, Ivan!

JCH follows suit and the scene ends.

…..STATIC….

…..STATIC….

Snow and white noise fills the screen like an antique analog television set without a signal followed by….

Darkness.  Only the sound of the electronically disguised voice of the Shadow can be heard throughout the venue and through the multitudes of smart televisions and computer screens of the PRIME faithful.

The Shadow: My fellow PRIMEricans, from the darkness the Shadow hath returned. I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge the events from a fortnight ago.  Felicitations Jared Sykes for conquering Flamberge. Shattering his reign. Perhaps a name change would be in order. Faberge seems more in line with his increasing delicate nature.  I have not gazed upon a fall so great since Bertrand Cantat. Perhaps the absurdity known as the Egg Bandits would initiate him in their ranks. They are a ghastly crew of derelicts and therefore, since I forsee Flamberge’s career slowly wilting away into nothingness much like a flower or Grant Goodeve, he would integrate into their ranks without difficulty.

The Shadow: Ah, but Jared, your victory is marred for Flamberge is French and historically the French are weaklings. Excellent chefs but they are feebleminded, inferior physical specimens. Enjoy your revelries, Jared. I hath a prognostication. Your reign will be fleeting and will end tragically. In your short, very short, reign enjoy it. When looking back nostalgically at this moment, look fondly. Be grateful that your reign will be brief.  The World Championship has a way of altering you. Morphing you into someone you never thought you could not ever wanted to become. Do not fall into the pitfalls of cocaine and whores. Do not allow this accomplishment to drive a wedge between you and your beloved, Justine. Do not allow the pressures of being a world champion turn you to type of scoundrel that physically abuse Justine resulting in her leaving you for a life on the pole. Be warned, no matter the length of the reign, you will not be the same man you were before. The question is, after the moral compromises you will make, and you will make them, wilt thee still have a part of your soul left or will be another insipid PRIME sociopath like Maxwell Kael and Arthur Pleasant?

The Shadow: Ah, Arthur Pleasant. Just another two-dimensional supervillain whose only differentiating characteristic is his metal fangs. A sadist without any glimmer of a moral code. Tell me Arthur, when you cause suffering to another living creature, be it puppy, kitten, or human, do you get all “tingly” in your unmentionables? Art thou nothing more than a cliched, remorseless monster in the vein of Jason Voorhees, Michael Myers, or Kirk Cameron?  Whilst a monster feels no remorse for those they hurt, most, like you, can still feel pain. And I desire nothing more than to witness your anguish. I yearn for your eternal pain, retribution for those you have harmed in your pathetic, impotent little life. Your suffering will be my pleasure.

The Shadow: Sage Pontiff. I do not know you. I do not want to know you. I postulate that you smell of patchouli and reefer. I am nauseated just pondering the idea of being within olfactory distance of thee. Do PRIME the honor and please find somewhere else to exist.

The Shadow: Die Brandon Youngblood. Die. And that is not German for “The Brandon Youngblood. The”. You are yesterday’s news. In the span of one year you have become the toast of PRIME to the last pick in the NFL draft, “Mister Irrelevant”. Do something of significance or cease to live so that your admirers can celebrate you, hold candle vigils on every street corner of Manitoba, allow the tears to fall and mourn the hero they knew rather than a hasbeen you are oh-so-close to becoming.

The Shadow: Ria. Ria Lockhart. Ria Nightshade. Ria Lockhart. Ria Nightshade. Ria-Ria-Diarrhea. Forgive the crassness. Thy name lends itself to this juvenile sense of humor that shames me. I respect you Ria. Perhaps you are the only one in PRIME who truly knows the struggle of addiction as I do. How your vice calls out to you: just one more drink, one more snort, one more plunge of the needle, you will not fall back into old habits, this instance will be different. How much longer before you succumb to temptation? PRIME, this group of inhuman cads, they do not respect you. They do not know nor understand your struggles. They, people you consider friends and allies, they use you for their own nefarious agendas. They take and take and take from you and you do nothing. You are currently bound to a path where, one fateful evening, feeling the pain that comes with a brutal, hard fought match coupled with the pain of realizing that your so-called “friends” care not one iota for you, you are all alone, you will find yourself contacting an “old friend” to deliver a certain “package” which will find its way into your bloodstream thus placing you back on the path of chasing the dragon. Ria, Lockhart or Nightshade, you are never alone, for one you always hides in the shadows.

The Shadow: Kenny Freeman. You suck. There is no other way of framing it. You suck. In every way, in every iteration, in every reality, in every, ugh, “multiverse”, you suck. You suck, suck, suck, suck, suck, suck. I have witnessed infants with pacifiers that suck less than you. By Grabthar’s Hammer, you are ghastly. Simply atrocious.

The Shadow: Finally, my arch nemesis: The Anglo Luchadore. Did you think I would forget your treachery? Did you honestly believe in your soul that such betrayal and disrespect would go unanswered? Tis laughable if you think so. I have waited, oh how I have waited for my revenge. The time is almost at hand. You have two options – Grovel before me, beg my forgiveness or you can kindly escort thyself from mine and PRIME’s existence and perform sexual acts on thyself otherwise, I shall shatter your body, your hopes, your dreams. I shall rip the mask from thy head and show the masses the true face of deception. In other words, Mister Luchadore, you are most assuredly fucked.

The Shadow: Before I depart, it would be most neglectful if I failed to mention the impending “War Games” event. “War Games”, Miss Troy? So contrived. It will be yet another bastardization of a match performed scads of times in scads of other promotions. You lacked the decency and imagination to alter the name to something else such as “Battle Zone” or “Thunderdome” or “Three Cages and Little Lady”. Or perhaps a name with more pizazz: ”Hell’s Playground” or “The Seventh Circle of Hell”.  Miss Troy, this contest, as contrived as it is, I warn thee, for whomsoever walks out victorious, I will be watching from the shadows….

….STATIC…

….STATIC…

DARKNESS

Nick Stuart: It’s time for the main event!

Richard Parker: Unless you’ve been living under a rock for the past month, then you know why this match is happening.

Nick Stuart: Let’s set the stage for what should be an epic showdown in this preview of War Games!

Richard Parker: Do your thing, Vince!

Vince Howard: The following match is a tag team match and it is scheduled for one fall!

“I said ‘kiss me, you’re beautiful’
These are truly the last days'”

The weathered voice from the beginning of Godspeed You! Black Emperor’s “Dead Flag Blues” fades into the short acoustic section that begins Coheed & Cambria’s “Welcome Home.” After twelve seconds, the guitars thunder in and start to kick ass, as gold and green pyro goes off in perfect timing with the power riffs.

Vince Howard: From San Diego, California Via Hanoi, Vietnam… weighing in at 187lbs… CHANDLERRRRRR TSOOOOOONDAAAAAA

As the PRIMEView displays the words “Model Citizen” in white over a black background, Tsonda swaggers out from behind the curtain. He soaks up the fan’s reaction at the top of the ramp, a smirk painted across his face. And amidst the haze of pyro, smoke, and green & gold lights, he sprints to the ring, slides in under the bottom rope, and finally acknowledges his opponent. Tsonda bounces on his toes, mouthing something that’s inaudible to anyone but him.

Vince Howard: And his tag team partner…

The arena’s lights go out, and the fans erupt in anticipation. Soon their energy is rewarded as the PRIMEView springs to life. On a field of white, three words appear

THE

NEXT

DIAMOND

These fade away, replaced by a logo. It’s the letter C in the shape of a diamond, with a smaller N inside. The logo is framed by the name.

NATE

COLTON

A classic rock riff signals the beginning of “Tryin’” by the Eagles, and the fans give out a raucous cheer. Moments later, Nate Colton emerges from the curtain. He holds his arms up high, showing off his blue satin jacket–his family name emblazoned on the back; his first name stitched on the front.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nate walks quickly to the ring, stopping periodically to point at groups of cheering fans, or waving his arms to hype up the crowd.

Vince Howard: From Evansville, Indiana…weighing in at 255lbs…he is the Next Diamond! He is…NAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATE! COOOOOOOOOOOOOOLTON!

He climbs the steps, ducks between the top and middle ropes, and enters the ring. He heads directly to his corner and undoes his jacket, showing off his gear–white trunks that reach his upper thigh with a blue stripe down the side, white boots with blue trim, white MMA gloves, and blue elbow and knee pads. After handing his jacket to a ring attendant, he makes another appeal to the fans.

A few moments later…

Lights out.

Lights on.

But PRETTY PINK© lights.

The big screen starts. Words appear across the screen as a loud voice reads the text out to the masses.

SUGAR

SPICE

AND EVERYTHING NICE

There were the ingredients to create the perfect little girl!

BOOM!

Out pops Vickie Hall, leaping from a lift underneath the rampway. PRETTY PINK© sparklers fall from the entrance and tiny, gorgeous little hearts in the shape of a Red Army logo dance down from the rafters! So divine!

Vince Howard: Annnnnd their opponents, weighing in at a combined weight of 620 lbs! Representing The Love Convoy and The Red Army and accompanied by Vickie Hall and Alexei Ruslan: Ivan Stanislav and Jonathan-Christopher Haaaaaaallllllll!!!!

Vickie Hall wears her typical getup, that wonderful, dynamic pink and white skirt and a pink top too, plus her really funny and clever and cute Russian Bear branded slippers with bear heads on the front of them with hearts for eyes.

The ESPN camera crew follows behind her as Vickie waits by the top of the rampway. She covers her mouth to hide her mischievous little giggle for what’s about to come.

“I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” by Aerosmith plays over the PA system as first Alexei Ruslan emerges from backstage, grinning smugly as he gives Vickie Hall a side hug and motions to the entryway. Then, the lumbering form of Ivan Stanislav emerges.

BOOM!!!

Another explosion. Pink, red, and yellow confetti bursts from the perimeter of the entryway and rains down upon The Russian Bear while more streamers and PRETTY PINK© sparklers of all colors Lovely and Communist rain down from on high. Stanislav looks grim, and perhaps a bit annoyed by the ESPN crew, but clearly, their focus is Mrs. Hall. Vickie skippy-skips down the ramp with the ESPN crew backpedaling in front of her, while Alexei and Ivan walk behind her.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall scurries out next as the streamers and sparklers stop. The confetti has ceased. He’s only left with the debris as he realizes the rest of his team are already halfway to the ring. He rushes down the entryway to catch up, bringing up the rear while Stanislav steps up onto the apron and flattens the bottom rope with his boot and effortlessly pulls up the middle rope for Vickie to enter, then Alexei. Meanwhile, the 30For30 crew find their own good spots to set up camp for the match.

Nick Stuart: Doesn’t it kind of seem like Vickie and the Russians are, I don’t know, snubbing JCH?

Richard Parker: Well he did talk some trash on Ivan last ReVival, you know those Russian’s don’t forget that easily. And you also know what they say, right Nick?

Nick Stuart: …no.

Richard Parker: Once you go Russian…

Nick Stuart: That’s enough!

Stanislav steps over the top rope while Vickie preens in the middle of the ring. The Russian Bear literally grabs her by the middle of her teensy-weensy back, with his thumb and index finger under each of her arms, and he roars and lifts her up in the air while she strikes a pose.

JCH makes his way into the ring and can only stare from the corner as Ruslan points at him to just stay there. Stanislav puts Vickie down, who turns and jumps and hugs her best Russian friend, and pecks him on the cheek. Ruslan laughs and claps his hands.

Richard Parker: It’s nice to see people getting along so well…

Nick Stuart: I think I’m going to be sick.

Then, it’s all business. Stanislav, Ruslan, and Vickie all move to JCH and start giving him a litany of orders, and Ruslan is doing so in Russian. JCH tries desperately to follow and listen to them all, before Vickie and Alexei move to ringside. Stanislav points down at the mat and barks at JCH, and then steps over the top rope to the apron.

DING DING 

Surprisingly enough, Ivan Stanislav, the former PRIME Universal Champion, has mandated that he starts this one off against the much smaller Chandler Tsonda.

Nick Stuart: Good GRIEF what a mismatch this is. How does one even go about starting a match like this when you’re giving up so much height, weight, and reach like Chandler Tsonda is here?!

Richard Parker: I don’t know. But this is gonna be fun to watch!

With Ivan in the ring, he approaches Tsonda with a behemoth-sized fighting stance. The Russian Bear appears ready to toss the much smaller Chandler around the ring, but to everyone’s surprise, Tsonda lands a kick to Ivan’s leg that buckles him!

Nick Stuart: OH! I did not see that c-

Richard Parker: -and he’s not done!

Tsonda peppers Ivan with some hard fists mixed in with some even harder elbows in quick succession. Ivan is wobbly, rocked, and the PRIME faithful are going batshit. A right to the abdomen, followed by a left to the jaw. A kick to the mid-section, and a hooking right to the jaw

Vickie Hall: DON’T STAND THERE YOU IDIOT. DOOOOO SOOOOMETHIING!!!

Like Rocky trying to bring down the deadly Drago, Tsonda lands a stiff uppercut… AND IVAN GOES DOWN!

Jonathan Christopher-Hall is absolutely frozen with fear as he listens to Vickie scream at him.

Tsonda uses all of his strength to roll Ivan over… and he makes a lateral press!

Nick Stuart: My GOD is this about to happen?!

ONE!

Richard Parker: Nope.

That’s all Tsonda gets as Ivan pushes up with the strength of a thousand bears and sends the Hall of Famer flying over the top rope, hitting the outside mat body (and more importantly, face) first! The fans groan as they feel vicariously through Tsonda’s pain.

Colton, meanwhile, is looking at Ivan with a smirk on his face. Ivan pulls himself to his feet using the ropes and checks his jaw. Seething with anger, Ivan steps over the top rope and brings himself down onto the apron before touching down on the mat. Tsonda groans in pain as Ivan lifts him to his feet. When he does, he slaps him across the face so hard that it sounds like a gunshot went off and echoed throughout Providence!

Nick Stuart: Sweet MOTHER! I think Ivan just literally slapped the soul out of the Viet Viper!

Richard Parker: Those catcher mitts Ivan calls hands could peel the paint off a Van Gough from the amount of heat coming from that swing!

Ivan military presses Tsonda back into the ring, where he lands on his front just the same as he did a few moments ago on the outside. Ivan reaches for the top rope and pulls his gargantuan self up onto the apron, and steps over the top rope again, this time to reenter the ring.

Lifting Tsonda up, he biel bear throws the former Alias Champion towards where JCH is standing on the apron. Ivan checks on his knee, still feeling the kick Chandler landed right before befalling the Brobdingnagian Russian. Once he realizes he’s good to go, Ivan walks over to Jonathan Christopher-Hall and slaps him across the chest, effectively tagging him in.

Vickie Hall: WAKE UP, JONATHAN!!!

JCH shakes the frost from his head and steps into the ring, looking down at Tsonda, JCH lifts him up to his feet and navigates him to the center of the ring. Before he can do anything, though… THWACK! Tsonda nails JCH in the back of his head with a hooking roundhouse kick. JCH immediately goes down in a heap, and Tsonda leaps to Nate Colton for the hot tag!

Nick Stuart: And here comes the Next Diamond!

Richard Parker: Jonathan Chrissy-Hall doesn’t even realize the tag has been made.

Colton comes in and immediately takes down JCH with a clothesline! JCH gets up quick, but Colton takes him down again with a hip toss. JCH pops back up again and instinctively goes for a clothesline, but Colton ducks it and nails a neckbreaker! Colton hooks a leg as Vickie screams at her husband with every bit of profanity known, and unknown, to man.

Ashley is right there for the count!

ONE!

TWO!

JCH kicks out, but…

Vickie Hall: GODDAMMIT, HONEY!! WAKE UP IN THERE!!!

Alexei also shows some disdain by facepalming and shaking his head as Jonathan continues struggling to find his footing in the match.

Nick Stuart: Jonathan isn’t looking too good right now, but you have to wonder if it’s just nerves trying to impress Ivan AND his wife.

Richard Parker: I don’t have to wonder anything. That’s precisely what’s going on.

Colton brings JCH to his feet and sets him up for a suplex. As JCH is being lifted, he slides down behind Nate with great agility. Once he turns around, he boots his aggressor in the gut and nails a DDT that spikes him like a tent. Rather than go for a cover, JCH rains boots down onto Colton’s upper body. With each kick, he seethes just a bit more as his wife cheers him on!

Vickie Hall: YESSSSSSS!! THAT’S MY HONEY BUNCHES OF OATS!!

The fans boo Vickie as she remains the most obnoxious person in the Amica Mutual Pavilion.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

Clap, clap, clap-clap-clap.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

Clap, clap, clap-clap-clap.

Vickie’s mouth is agape with incredulity at the rude chants, but JCH uses them as motivation to take out his anger on Nate Colton. Straddling Colton, JCH nails some hard fists to his forehead, trying to open him up just below the scalp with his knuckles. Colton’s skin proves to be tougher than Jonathan expects, however.

Nick Stuart: Jonathan looks like he was trying to see some of Nate’s blood, but the Next Diamond’s skin is tougher than a, wait for it…

Richard Parker: Diamond?

Nick Stuart: Well, it sounded less cheesy in my head.

Richard Parker: I assure you, Nick, that I one-hundred-thousand percent believe that.

Giving up on trying to bust open Nate Colton, JCH is back to his feet. Ivan–with great booming intensity– barks an order for Jonathan to tag him in. JCH, like a grunt caught behind enemy lines suffering from Stockholm Syndrome from his captors, scurries across the ring to tag in Ivan. Colton sees this happening and picks his spot to run full speed over toward his opponents’ corner for a running, turnbuckle squashing dropkick. But JCH protects Ivan getting into the ring by launching himself directly AT the incoming dropkick, sacrificing himself like a lamb.

Nick Stuart: Damn! Jonathan took a HELL of a body-rocking dropkick there! He’s using himself like a human shield!

Richard Parker: I feel like this was the game plan all along for The PRETTY PINK© Army!

In all of the confusion from the mess in the corner after JCH’s intercepting the dropkick, Ivan reaches up with a giant paw and just fucking brains him with a chop. Colton sees stars, from galaxies lightyears away where The Phantom Menace and Rise of the Skywalker didn’t absolutely suck, as he falls to his back.

Vickie Hall: I’m so proud of you, JonJon! I love you!!!!

Ivan steps over the ropes again, and with one foot shoves JCH out onto the apron. Vickie immediately showers her husband with kisses as Ivan salivates at having his way with Nate Colton.

Nick Stuart: This is not looking good for Colton. That chop could’ve rewired his damn brain!

Richard Parker: Ivan’s moveset may not be as flashy as most, but everything he connects with is about fifty-times stronger than anybody else performing it.

Bringing Nate to his feet, Ivan terrifyingly grabs Colton’s skull with a great, big, vicious smile. Lifting his own leg and bringing Colton to a fully standing position, Ivan stomps down, smashing Colton off of his knee, sending him somersaulting forward from the impact of the coconut crunch.

Nick Stuart: Communist Crunch!

Colton is down, holding onto his face, leaving him vulnerable for Ivan to step over Nate’s mid-section with all 400lbs crushing his midsection. As if that wasn’t enough, Ivan leans back into the ropes, and with slight momentum, Ivan jumps up and hits a standing splash on Colton!

Nick Stuart: That’s gotta be it!

Richard Parker: No human can withstand that succession of devastating moves from the Siberian Supercolossus!

Ivan even hooks a leg to further make this academic…

Barlow with the count…

ONE!

TWO!

Nick Stuart: OH MY GOD, LOOK OUT!!

Just before the three-count, Tsonda launches himself up onto the uppermost rope halfway across the ring, springboards into the ring, and lands a modified version of The Perfect 10– his patented suicide springboard corkscrew body press!!

Richard Parker: He got a LOT of height on that one, and the match continues!!

Ivan bellows out in agony after having Tsonda crash down across his back like he did. Immediately exiting the ring to prevent a disqualification, The Tsuperstar rallies the fans behind Colton to try and get to him for the tag.

Nick Stuart: There’s a reason why he’s a Hall of Famer and PRIME’s only Grand Slam Champion! He’s literally done all that there is to do, and I The fact that a fifty year old Chandler Tsonda can perform a high risk move like that is just remarkable. The lean, limber, and indefatigable shape he keeps himself in is the stuff of legend.

Richard Parker: He’s literally done all that there is to do, and he just keeps getting BETTER!

Unfortunately for Colton, he isn’t moving after still barely conscious from Ivan’s onslaught. Ivan yelling out in agony over his back–no doubt a mark of Father Time– causes Jonathan to run into the ring to try and help Ivan up!

Vickie Hall: GET HIM UPPPP!!! GET HIM–

Alexei actually puts a hand to Vickie’s mouth.

Alexei Ruslan: He’s got this. RELAX!

As JCH gets Ivan to a knee, Chandler steps through the ring, sprints forward, and uses Ivan’s back as a “platform” and brings JCH on top of it. With both men standing on Ivan’s back while he remains on all fours, trying to recover and also perhaps displaying his uncanny strength, Tsonda hooks up JCH’s arms in position for a tiger suplex. The fans all come to their feet as Chandler lifts JCH up for a high-angle tiger suplex, colliding the backs of their head with an awful CRRRAAAAAAACK!

Nick Stuart: That’s a modified version of the Guerilla Plex ’69! SOOOO much awesome there!

“THIS IS AWESOME!”

Clap, clap, clap-clap-clap.

“THIS IS AWESOME!”

Clap, clap, clap-clap-clap.

Rolling to the outside again, Tsonda stomps his foot on the apron to try and get Colton up and moves around to hopefully make the tag, but before he can, Colton is back on his feet and wraps up the massive arms, back, and neck with the Colton Clutch!

Richard Parker: No way does he get Ivan to tap here!

Colton screams at Ivan to tap, but even after all the trauma his back and head have taken from Chandler’s display of innovative brilliance, Ivan gets to his feet and snapmares the former 5-Star Champion over his shoulder down to the canvas.

Colton military rolls his way back to his feet, but JCH nails him with a forearm shot to the back of the neck that rocks him into Ivan’s waiting arms. Despite feeling the effects from the shot to the neck, Colton actually does the unthinkable and performs an INSIDE CRADLE TO IVAN THAT ACTUALLY GETS HIM DOWN ONTO HIS BACK!

Barlow is there and the fans have come out of their seats.

ONE!

TWO!

Ivan powers out of it with a massive grunt, and Colton is back to his feet. Turning to JCH, Colton grabs him by his neck and pulls him into the ring.

Vickie Hall: HEY!!! STOP THIS!! RIGHT NOW!!

Setting him up for a Russian Leg Sweep, Colton snaps backwards, crashing once again down onto Ivan’s back!

Nick Stuart: One has to appreciate the irony there. Hahaha.

Barlow admonishes Colton for bringing JCH into the ring, but his facial expression says that he couldn’t care less.

But suddenly, as Colton goes to move, Vickie Hall grabs at his leg, momentarily distracting him!

Nick Stuart: Oh come on! That was blatant!

Richard Parker: Ashley saw it, too. Could be teetering on a disqualification here..

Nate turns his attention to Vickie, Alexei, AND JCH. Pointing at JCH, he delivers a running forearm strike that sends JCH down onto the apron. From across the ring, Chandler is calling for the tag, and this crowd is electric!

Colton tags Tsonda, but he does not take his exit. Instead, he turns to Ivan and hooks the massive Russian Bear into a cobra clutch. Chandler climbs to the top rope, and in perfect unison, Colton lifts mightily and Tsonda leaps with a flying spin kick. The impact of both moves connecting and the momentum of Colton lifting Ivan back and Tsonda hitting Ivan with the flying wheel kick create a massive tandem suplex combo that sends the crowd into an absolute frenzy!

Nick Stuart: HOLY JESUS!!!! COLTON JUST COBRA CLUTCH SUPLEXED IVAN AS HE TOOK A MASSIVE FLYING WHEEL KICK!!!

Colton exits and Tsonda lays on top of Ivan with another lateral press.

Richard Parker: This didn’t work last time, so I’m not sure what Chandler is thinking here.

Barlow makes the count.

ONE!

Like before, Ivan pushes up on Chandler and sends him flying upwards, but this was precisely wahat Chandler had anticipated and uses Ivan’s strength against him as he corkscrew leg drops Ivan on the way down!

Chandler hooks a deep leg with as much strength as he can muster. Ashley makes the count again!

ONE!

TWO!

THR- Ivan shoulders out which still sends the much smaller Tsonda about five-feet away.

Nick Stuart: What is it going to take to put this Russan Bear down?!

Richard Parker: I think Chandler is asking himself the same thing.

Ivan creates enough separation from himself and Chandler to prepare himself for Chandler’s next move. The Sultan of Style speeds forward, but whatever he had in mind is eradicated from thought as Ivan gets a MASSIVE palm up to slap it across Chandler’s chest.

Ivan Stanislav: DYAAHAAHAA

Without much effort, and while Nate Colton is distracted by Vickie and Alexei, Ivan lifts Tsonda up for a powerbomb. He turns toward his own corner, but quickly turns back toward the side of the ring facing the announce team.

SPECIFICALLY, and directly AT, the announce team!

Nick Stuart: Oh my GOD. Richard, you don’t think–

Richard Parker: –no way, it’s too f-

With as much speed as he can, Ivan runs at them… and before Richard can even finish his sentence…

… IVAN RELEASES TSONDA WITH A JACKKNIFE POWERBOMB THAT SENDS THE VIET VIPER ALL THE WAY TO, AND THROUGH, THE ANNOUNCE TABLE!

“HOLY SHIT!”

“HOLY SHIT!”

“HOLY SHIT!”

“HOLY SHIT!”

Richard and Nick did not get out of the way in time, and have been taken out of their chairs and their headsets seemingly broken as the table is in ruins.

Nick Stuart: (voice is crackled from the impaired headset) Cha (white noise) onda (white noise) dead!!!

Richard Parker: (tapping the headset’s microphone) I don’t know if you can hear me, Nick, but Tsonda needs some help out here!

Nick Stuart: (also tapping the headset’s microphone) Sorry about that ladies and gents! We didn’t quite get out of the way from that unbelievable lawn dart-esque jackknife powerbomb. I mean sweet JESUS that was freakin’ SICK! Somebody get PRIMEmed out here! STAT!

Ivan leaves the ring by stepping over the top rope and looks on at all of the fans who are booing him relentlessly over the destruction of Chandler Tsonda.

In the ring, however, Nate Colton is bound to the ropes by a pair of fluffy PRETTY PINK© handcuffs that have probably been used in the bedroom at some point between Mr. and Mrs. Hall.

Nick Stuart: Wait a second, what the hell just happened?

Richard Parker: Look! PRIMEview!

With Barlow quickly losing control of this one, the replay shows JCH dropkicking Colton over the top rope to the outside. But in a premeditated act, Vickie reveals the pair of fluffy PRETTY PINK© handcuffs. Alexei took them and handcuffed Colton’s arm to the bottom turnbuckle’s steel rod. The fans have become panicked as they realize Chandler and Nate are in quite the predicament.

Nick Stuart: No! This can’t end this way!

Richard Parker: And yet, it looks like that’s exactly how it’s going to.

The back of Tsonda’s head is cut WIDE open from landing on the corner of one of the monitors that had not been cleared from the table. Dripping to the table, the back of Tsonda’s head is a crimson MESS. Ivan swipes the blood from Tsonda and palms it across his face with an iron claw. Lifting him up, Ivan adds an unnecessary level of destruction to Tsonda by fully outstretching his arm up into the air… and facepalm chokeslams him down onto the edge of the apron!

Nick Stuart: OH MY GOOD GOD!! CHANDLER COULD BE SEVERELY HURT!

Richard Parker: I don’t even know what you call that?! The Iron… Sickle?!

Tsonda’s body has gone limp. Ivan looks across the ring at Nate Colton, who is incensed that he cannot do a damn thing about Ivan and Chandler. Not even letting Tsonda fall to the mat, Ivan throws Tsonda’s unconscious, broken frame into the ring, spilling him awkwardly into the ring. Following him in like he has all match long by stepping over the ropes, Ivan rolls him once away from the ropes, and drops down with both of his bear-sized hands pressing down on Tsonda’s face and abdomen respectively.

ONE!

TWO!

…

And the entire state of Rhode Island is deflated as Ashley Barlow’s hand comes down for the third time.

DING DING DING 

Vince Howard: (With a concerned tone in his voice) The winners of the match… Jonathan Christopher-Hall… and Ivan… Stanislav.

Blood has begun to pool out from underneath Chandler’s head as Ivan stands back up, victorious for his team. Nate is still neutralized with the PRETTY PINK© fuzzy handcuffs on the bottom turnbuckle rod, and JCH, followed by his wife and Alexei Ruslan, get into the ring!

Surprisingly, and much to Jonathan’s discomfort, Vickie Hall leaps into Ivan’s arms and delivers a kiss to the cheek as a thank you for helping her husband win the match. JCH meanwhile, lowers his head, shaking it.

Nick Stuart: I’m at a loss for words here.

Richard Parker: Chandler could be in a bad way here, and with Culture Shock’s War Games match nearing, this could put Jared Sykes’ team in SERIOUS jeopardy!

The Pretty Pink Red Army of Chicanery has finally made their way backstage, Nate Colton’s been freed of his confines and, with the help of Astrid Fihlguud and PRIME Medical, Chandler Tsonda is able to leave ringside under his own power. The audience applauds the Model Citizen and the Next Diamond for their efforts tonight, even in defeat.

Nick Stuart: Looks like Chandler’s going to be alright, although I’m sure Astrid will be taking a much closer look once they get backstage.

Richard Parker: Never like to see someone get severely hurt, Nick. Unless it’s Cancer Jiles, because fuck him.

Nick Stuart: I’m getting word that Lindsay Troy is on her way to check on Tsonda, but she’s asked us to stay on air for a bit longer.

Richard Parker: Nice, overtime pay!

Nick Stuart: I don’t think that’s in our contracts, partner.

Richard Parker: Why the hell not?!

Out from the back and down the ramp walks the man only known as Ghost. He’s still in his white t-shirt, jeans, and his plain white mask looks extra weathered beneath these new lights. Old blood that hasn’t quite washed out. Sweat.

Richard Parker: Geeze, they pull this guy out of the Providence River too?

Nick Stuart: Richard!

Richard Parker: What!?

Nick Stuart: This is the newcomer we saw earlier in Lindsay Troy’s office. I think he goes by Ghost?

Richard Parker: Stop it.

Nick Stuart: That’s what I’m being told.

Richard Parker: What a stupid name.

Now, Ghost is in the ring. Slides in like he’s done it a million times. Pops up to his feet. He touches the ropes. The turnbuckles.

Richard Parker: And you know what else is stupid? Not getting paid overtime. I’m calling my agent. Where’s the mute button on this thing?

The crowd, which has already risen by and large, to exit the arena, has just now begun to take notice of the masked man in the ring. You can feel the confusion in the air. They have no idea if this is part of the show.

Richard Parker: Seriously, first we nearly died because Ivan decided to use Tsonda as a lawn dart, which should be hazard pay if I’m being honest, and now this.

Nick Stuart: Out of all the times we’ve had a show run over or had someone come flying in our direction, now you’re going to fuss about it?

Richard Parker: Hey, we’re not getting any younger, Nick.

Ghost has a microphone in his hand. He’s walking in circles, looking out at the crowd. When he speaks, it’s unclear if he’s speaking to them, to the cameras, or to himself.

Ghost: I’ve been walking around all night. Trying to remember. I used to do this.

Richard Parker: I need to know who this idiot is and why he thinks he can keep us on the air late?

Nick Stuart: Folks, we aren’t sure what’s happening here, but I have to believe if we’ve been asked to run long, there’s a reason.

Ghost has paused in the ring as if he’s lost in some whole other world.

Ghost: I used to be good at this.

Another pause.

Richard Parker: This is getting awkward.

It is awkward. The audience, most of which is still standing, ready to leave the building, has begun to wonder, audibly, what is going on here. You can hear it in the tone of the chatter.

Ghost: I’ve seen a lot of familiar faces. Backstage. And right out here. I remember Ivan Stanislav. I can’t believe he’s still here. Chandler Tsonda. I had a big match with Tsonda, once upon a time. A long time ago.

Nick Stuart: How long ago are we talking here? Who is this guy?

Ghost is pacing again.

Ghost: Between backstage and over the past few weeks on television I saw Hessian. Tony Gamble. Wade Elliott. I remember these people. Two weeks ago? I saw–I saw Brandon Youngblood…

This pause is loaded.

Nick Stuart: Wait a minute…

Ghost: Earlier today I talked to Lindsay Troy. And she asked me about passion. She asked if I can still do this. And you know? The truth?

Many of the audience have sat back down now. And those who remain standing are now watching curiously. Nobody’s simply waiting to leave anymore.

Something is happening here. No one can say what, exactly, but they all know it’s something. You can feel it.

Ghost: The truth?

Now he finds a camera to look into.

Ghost: The truth… is I can still do this. The truth is, everyone back there? I could beat you fifteen years ago. I could beat you five years ago. And I can beat you today. And I don’t give a damn who you are.

His pace has picked up now, as has the intensity of his voice. Momentum like a train that has grinded its way to motion and now, we get the sense, it can’t be stopped.

Ghost: Because let me tell you something. In my eyes? Every God damn one of you. Every one. Stanislav, seven foot-whatever. Jonathan Christopher Hall with that bitch wife of his.

Nick Stuart: Whoa!

Richard Parker: How dare he say that about Vickie Hall! Who does he think he is?!

Ghost: You ain’t NOTHIN’! But a FUCKIN’ paycheque! To me.

The audience is murmuring now, confused. They aren’t sure if they’re witnessing a planned part of the show or a public mental breakdown. And Ghost is doing nothing to disprove the latter theory, pointing wildly now, like a madman.

Ghost: I beat everyone in this sport! I beat half this fuckin’ roster! And now I’ll beat the rest of this fuckin’ roster! Hayes Hanlon, TWO TIME Universal Champion. Like that’s somethin’s that’s gonna impress me. Cancer Jiles. Nate Colton. Whoever the fuck you are. I don’t care if you’re a good guy, I don’t care if you’re a bad guy. Hanlon: paycheque! Jiles: paycheque! Cotlon: fucking paycheque!

Nick Stuart: Did he just say he beat everyone in the sport? There aren’t many people who fit that description.

Richard Parker: I don’t believe him for a second. All he’s done is ramble like a lunatic and insult the woman who’s managed her shambles husband to the Universal Title Number One Contendership. This is a waste of our time, Nick.

Ghost is no longer pacing. Just standing there now. You can see his shoulders heaving with each breath, like a man in crisis.

Ghost: You think you’ve done something in this sport? Any of you. You think you’ve done somethin’? I am the pinnacle of this sport! I AM THE TOP OF THE MOUNTAIN! I am the fuckin’ mountain itself! Whatever you’ve done, whatever you think you’ve done, I’ve done more. If I haven’t done it, I beat the fuckin’ guy who’s done it. I’m the guy who beat the guy who beat the guy who beat the guy. All roads lead to me.

Pause to breathe.

Ghost: I’ve done everything there is to do in this organization, and I’ve done everything there is to do in this industry. Some of it more than once. Jared Sykes–

The crowd cheers at the mention of Sykes’s name but the raving man calling himself Ghost has ramped up again, and he doesn’t so much as slow down.

Ghost: –I don’t know who you are. I don’t know where you came from or what you’re about. I don’t even fuckin’ wanna know. In fact there’s only one thing, one thing, ONE THING, I know about you. And that’s this: You are walking around this motherfucker wearing MY! FUCKING! TITLE BELT!

Richard Parker: What did he just say…?

Nick Stuart: There is no way…

Ghost: A title I won! From Chandler Tsonda! A title I defended for FOUR HUNDRED AND SEVEN FUCKING DAYS!

Nick Stuart: There is NO way!

The crowd, too, is putting the pieces together. The noise in the arena is beginning to swell. And every word from Ghost now is guttural, visceral, spittle flying from his mask as his voice breaks hysterically.

Ghost: And a title I NEVER FUCKING LOST!

Nick Stuart: This can’t be happening!

The audience is losing their minds now, because, as much as this can’t be happening, it’s actually happening.

Ghost: And Sykes, I promise, I promise, I will get to you in good time. Or whoever has my title when I come to take it back. I will walk through everybody in this fucking organization if I have to. Again. Just like I did it before. Just like I am ALWAYS! GOING! TO DO IT! Lindsay Troy, you want to ask me about passion? PASSION!? I don’t need passion! Because I am this fucking sport! Fun time, children, IS OVER!

Richard Parker: I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it until he takes that mask off.

Ghost: From this point forward? From this point forward. From this. Point. FOR-WARD!

Screeching.

And now Ghost removes the mask, throws it into the front row, and the entire building erupts. Sometimes you can’t fully believe it until you see it.

Nick Stuart: I can’t believe this! No! No!

Richard Parker: He’s supposed to be dead!

Ghost: You’re all just fighting to be second best. Again.

And now he throws the microphone into the center of the ring with such force that it blows apart on impact, cap and stem, with its guts spilling out onto the canvas. One last deafening thud through the sound system before the noise gives way to the overwhelming static of a crowd losing its collective shit.

Nick Stuart: It’s him! That’s–

Richard Parker: That’s–

Jason Snow.

FADE.

TO.

WHITE.