ReVival 46

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Now is the time on PRIME where we ReVival 46!

Cue the pyrotechnics!

BOOM!

Cue the signs!

KAELS: THE DIAMOND STORE
SAGE PONTIFF IS NATE COLTON’S BRAIN ON DRUGS
DAWKINS VS. RAY? MORE LIKE HAWAIIAN PUNCH.
I USED BING AI TO PLOT STRONKS MOVEMENTS AND NOW IT WON’T STOP GENERATING PROMOS
S IS FOR SEXY. T IS FOR TANTALIZING. R IS FOR RICH. N IS FOR NUMMY-YUMMY. K IS FOR KISS ME RIGHT ON THE MOUTH STRONK DADDY
NATE COLTON IS THE BIIIIIIIIIITCH, BRUV
FRED DICK OWES ME MONEY FOR A ZJ
I’M PERFECTLY CONTINENT
WHOSOEVER PULLS CORAL AVALON’S FOREHEAD FROM THE STONE SHALL BE OUR NEW KING
IF DAYTONA DIAMONDS WINS, DOES THAT MEAN WE LOST THE WAR ON DRUGS?
STRONK IF YOU’RE HORNY

Nick Stuart: Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to London! Welcome to ReVival 46! I’m Nick Stuart, and joining me as always is my colleague, Richard Parker!

Richard Parker: Yo.

Nick Stuart: We have a big show for you tonight, with a main event clash for the Intense Championship between Max Kael and Daytona Diamonds later in the evening! But for now… let’s get things started tonight!

And you know what the best way to start ReVival 46 is? With a little chese.

“We built this city!”

BOOOOOOOOOO!!!

The boos happen before the first lyric even has a chance to finish. Something something rock and roll, something something city, something something roooooooock and rooooooll.

Fred Dick emerges from the back without a care in the world about the fact that no one in London likes him, slap boxing the air like the air owes him money. He’s already a little winded after doing this, but he won’t let that stop him.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, your opening contest for the evening! Making his way to the ring! Representing… the Bloods? Huh. Fighting out of Chicken City, Georgia! Weighing in at three hundred and five pounds! THE KING OF WRONG STYLE! FREEEEEEEEEDDDDDD DIIIIIIIIIIICCCCCKKKKK!!!

Fred Dick reaches the ring, and shadow slapboxes at the turnbuckles once he rolls under the bottom rope and into the ring. He soaks in the boos from the crowd as he concludes taking more damage from the turnbuckles than he will ever admit to anyone, and waits for his opponent.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

We get darkness, save for the backlights at the entryway. Volbeat’s “A Warrior’s Call” hits, and…

LET’S GET READY TO RUMBLE!

A man rushes out from the tunnel and raises his arms into the air, as though shouting “Yeah! Rumble away!” An epileptic show of flashing white and red strobe lights heralds the arrival of Crash Jackson. Jackson heads straight to the ring, Vince Howard barely able to announce his arrival.

Vince Howard: His opponent! From Buffalo, New York! Weighing in at two hundred and thirty-eight pounds! CRAAAAAAA—

He doesn’t get to finish.

Fred Dick will not allow it.

He is a man who wants to make short work out of all of his foes, and the moment Crash Jackson enters the ring, he charges in on him with the reckless abandon of a man less interested in adhering to any kind of bullshit like “rules” and “protocols” and “regulations”, and more with the intent of kicking the shid out of this assho. Before Vince Howard can even finish introductions or referee Elvis Nixon can get the bell rung to start the match, and even before Crash Jackson is fully inside of the ring, Fred Dick is on him like his feet in some used Jordans.

DING DING.

Nick Stuart: And Fred Dick isn’t waiting around!

Richard Parker: Cool. Great. Wrong Style at it again!

Fred pounds away on Crash with his hard palm strikes. Crash manages to enter the ring, and is maneuvered into the corner where Fred continues to smack him around like a Dick. Elvis Nixon performs a five count to try and get Fred to stop being a Dick, but let’s be real – the only reason Fred breaks away before the count of five isn’t because he’s afraid of a disqualification, but because he knows he runs the risk of tiring himself out.

When Fred takes a moment to catch his breath and takes aim with a big slap, he’s punched in the fucking mouth by Crash. Fred staggers back enough that Crash is able to jump up onto the second ropes and come flying back at the big man with a spinning heel kick that sends him off of his feet.

Immediately, Fred does the sensible thing in the face of a smaller, lighter opponent that’s already fighting back.

He bails.

If you heard him make Jabberjaw noises on his way out, you didn’t. That’s clearly insidious propaganda from the Citizens Against Fred Dick, and you just made an enemy for life if you believe it!

Crash slides underneath the bottom rope and taps Fred on the back. When Fred turns, he takes another punch to the face. This one punch triggers Fred’s flight or fight response, and the King of Wrong Style decides that flight sounds pretty good right about now. He turns and starts fleeing from Crash. A full on sprint. Crash starts to jog after him, and we have ourselves a full-on chase.

Nick Stuart: Not a lot of chases like this in PRIME.

Richard Parker: Feels like we should have the Yackedy Sax playing right about now.

After one half-lap around the ring, three things happen. The first is that Fred Dick slows down, already clearly gassed from his attempt to flee. The second is that Fred Dick recognizes this, so he turns around to slap the shid out of the man chasing him. The third is that he slaps empty air, and that really confuses Fred Dick because it’s not like this assho can fuckin’ disappear.

Well, that’s when the fourth thing manifests itself. Himself. I can do math.

After Fred had run around the first corner, Crash had gotten the bright idea to simply turn and run the opposite way. So when Fred turns to slap air, he fails to notice that Crash is actually coming around the corner behind him. Fred feels him coming, because he has some sort of assho radar, but by the time he turns around to face Crash…

BOOM.

Crash hits him with a flying knee.

Nick Stuart: OOH! What a knee from Crash!

Fred goes down like he’s been hit with a battering ram, and Crash quickly rolls into the ring to break the count. Or, more accurately, he’s gone back into the ring so that he can run into the ropes on the opposite side. By the time he comes back, Fred’s back on his feet and looking bewildered. All the more vulnerable when Crash flies through the ropes like a bullet and… well, crashes into Fred Dick with a tope suicida!

Nick Stuart: And a tope! Crash Jackson is cooking out here in London!

Jackson pumps his fists in the air and shouts “LET’S GO!” before he grabs Fred by the head and guides him back into the ring.

Richard Parker: This Dick has no idea what’s going on right now.

Indeed, Fred Dick is so disoriented after Crash’s flurry of offense that he swings wildly at air from his knees with another of his slaps before he then falls over. Crash hops up on the top turnbuckle with great ease, a movement not unlike a majestic mountain goat. When Fred finally turns, he catches Crash’s full body weight from a flying cross body and gets knocked down into a pinning predicament!

ONE.

TWO.

NO.

Nick Stuart: Almost a three, but Fred Dick manages to kick out!

Richard Parker: Gonna take more than that to make Fred Dick flaccid, Nick.

Nick Stuart: Stop that!

After a glance up at the referee, Crash stands and waits for Fred Dick to return to his feet. He does, in a daze. He staggers until Crash comes at him with the superkick called Wide Left. Unfortunately, he is indeed Wide Left on this one, as Fred Dick sidesteps him and…

SMACK.

Slaps him so hard that his soul could’ve flown out.

Crash collapses in a heap from the blow, and Fred Dick is quick to pounce on him, ramming the back of his head into the canvas many, many times while Elvis Nixon admonishes him and starts a five count to get him to top. Fred Dick, we’ll remind you, has little respect for all of the dumb bullshit like “rules”. We’re not even sure he can count to five, but when Nixon gets to four, Fred Dick stands up and mouths off to the head referee.

Nick Stuart: Not wise to be arguing with an official out there.

Richard Parker: No, he definitely doesn’t need to get one of those zebras to join the Citizens Against Fred Dick. I’m sure Fred has enough problems.

As Fred argues with Elvis, Crash slowly gets to his feet. Fred sees him and hits him with a headbutt, sending the hot dog-loving high flyer staggering into the corner. Fred sees this, and decides to charge in on him to crush him under three hundred pounds of Blood-approved winner shit.

Fred’s a bit slow at this stage of the match, though. So Crash sees him coming and slips through the top and middle ropes, landing on the apron. Two things hit Fred Dick, the first that he hits the turnbuckles when he runs into them and the second being the big gamengiri that hits him immediately thereafter. Fred staggers out of the corner, turns, takes a big swing at nothing, and then falls to the canvas.

Crash sees him fall in a perfect spot… underneath the turnbuckles, in the path of his Crash Dot Com corkscrew shooting star press.

Nick Stuart: Uh oh, Fred Dick’s in big trouble here!

Richard Parker: That’s not a good place to be when you’re in there with Crash Jackson!

Crash gets to the top rope, and sets his feet. Then he flies for Crash Dot Com!

There’s some good news and some bad news with this move. The bad news is that Fred Dick rolls out of the way just as Crash leaps. The good news, though, is that Crash notices in the nick of time and as he flies, he adjusts himself so that he lands on his feet in a backwards roll. Fred Dick gets to his feet, and makes a battle cry.

Fred Dick: BLOODMOOOOOOOODE!!!

He charges on Crash with every intention of hitting him with a lariat-like slap that would’ve probably killed him dead… if it’d hit. It doesn’t. Crash ducks under Fred’s arm and then catches Fred with the superkick!

Nick Stuart: WIDE LEFT!

Fred hits the ground in the drop zone again, seemingly unconscious, and Crash immediately goes up to the top rope to try for his big corkscrew shooting star press again.

It’s then that a waft of something rotten out of Denmark hits the arena.

A masked man suddenly jumps on the apron. His luchador mask has a design like a skull on it, and the man (or very tall woman, we’re not sure with all of the layers) immediately gets the attention of both Elvis Nixon and Crash Jackson. Elvis turns away from the action to order the man to get off of the apron.

Nick Stuart: Who is that?

Richard Parker: I don’t know, the Anglo Luchador’s third cousin twice removed? Maybe he’s the Saxon Luchador.

Crash stands on the top turnbuckles, shrugs his shoulders, and goes to leap off for the Crash Dot Com. Only, he can’t.

A second luchador in a skull mask jumped up onto the apron and grabbed Crash by the ankle. With a quick pull, Crash loses his footing and lands groin-first into the turnbuckles.

OHHHHHH!!!

That sympathy pain can be heard by just about every male member of the crowd, including Richard Parker.

Richard Parker: OOGH! Not the hot dog!

Nick Stuart: Who are these people!? What is going on!?

Once Crash has been crotched, both masked men immediately leave. They jump the rails on opposite sides, leaving before Elvis Nixon has any clue what’s going on. He turns to see a weary Fred Dick yanking Crash down to the canvas and taking his spot on the top rope. Crash gingerly gets to his feet, unsure of his bearings, and unaware that he’s about to have his chest caved in by a three hundred pound King of Wrong Style.

SMACK!

Nick Stuart: A Slap Box With God from Fred Dick! Not like this!

Fred Dick barely covers Crash, and Elvis Nixon makes the count.

ONE.

TWO.

THREE.

DING DING DING.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Fred Dick barely rolls off of Crash, but he has his arms raised in the air as he does. Winner shit, like he says.

Nobody other than Fred Dick is happy about this turn of events, and as Dick rolls out of the ring and tries to catch his breath, Vince Howard makes the announcement no one wants him to make.

Vince Howard: The winner of this match…… FREEEEDDDDD DIIIIIIIIICK!!!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Nick Stuart: It took a lot of interference by some unidentified masked men, but Fred Dick has won this opening contest!

Richard Parker: Who were those guys? I hope it wasn’t Jason Kelce and Lane Johnson, that would be weird.

Nick Stuart: Why those two specifically?

Richard Parker: I don’t know. The first two names that came to my head, I swear.

With a parting image of Fred Dick raising his arms in the air, which just so happens to lift his Bulls jersey so that it’s exposing his copious midriff, ReVival 46 moves on.

I’d talk about what happened in the cold open but truth be told, I didn’t read it.

Why?

Because it’s yet another cold open without number one ranked Max Kael. Fourteen shows and not one cold open! (Also, we didn’t have a cold open. Alas.)

The disrespect.

We know why. Spa days and Gossip Room sessions with Cecilworth Farthington.

We see you, Lindsay Troy.

We only have to get lucky once.

Ami has to be lucky every time.

ON TO THE NEWS!

ONE ACTION NEWS TEAM, GO!

We get a new variation on the up tempo news music. This time the sexy sax is replaced with a jaunty little trumpet. It’s the kind of music you’d expect from a game show, a real ear worm. Trying to describe it would do this tune appropriate justice so just imagine it’s the News version of the Baby Shark song. Godspeed.

The Herald, Undercover Investigator 

We get a shot of the Herald in his usual Herald tunic, bells and hat. He’s doing a little Herald dance, an excited, broad smile on his face. He then begins to spin in a circle, his arms held out at his side as he does so. In the first rotation his hat flies off. On the second rotation his hair flies free but it’s not very long so it doesn’t look nearly as impressive as when Lynda Carter does it. Finally his spinning increases into a blur. When he finishes spinning he is wearing a cowboy outfit, chaps, vest, cowboy hat and handlebar mustache. But it’s just layered over his Herald. Oh well, can’t win them all.

Violent Purple, Sports

It’s just a mop with the hair dyed red and a picture of Violent Purple’s face taped to it.

#1 Ranked INTENSE Champion Maximillian Wilhelm Kael, Number One PRIME News Source and Lead Anchor

It’s Max Kael wearing a #1 Ranked shirt with the INTENSE title wrapped around his waist. He has a black ball cap with #1 emblazoned on it in PRIME blue, a “We’re #1” foam finger on both of his hands and pair of aviator sunglasses with #1 on both lenses. He appears to be air humping while he waves his foam fingers around. There are several fireworks going off on the green screened background that also cuts to crowds of people at Barack Obama’s inauguration cheering.

WON ACTION NEWS TEAM

Sponsored by the Winter’s Port Office for Tourism and Contemplative Charity for his Love and Light. Come for a night, stay forever!

We cut to our lead anchor, Maximilian Wilhelm Kael, seated behind his News Desk wearing his usual black three piece suit. The INTENSE Title hangs on the wall behind him, pristine, polished to a mirror finish. Our hero has a snarling smile showing just the faintest hint of pearly whites as he stares into the camera with those cold, malicious brown eyes.

Max Kael!: Did you know that worms are hermaphrodites?! Man, think of the word economy when you don’t have to worry about gendering? You’re all fucking worms now. Welcome to the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM, worms! Our first story tonight?

Turning to his side we get a Camera 3 shot as a small graphic of Steven Harrison. Yes, we realize that there is a Stephen Hariston but this is Steven Harrison. The fucking Milk Man.

Max Kael!: My the Herald let me know that he received an envelope full of money. It was part of my cut of the Max Kael memorial merchandise or whatever the fuck you parasites did with my name and likeness after I started hanging out with the Lindbergh. Thanks, buddy! I appreciate that! I guess that means I can take you off the list now..

Reaching into his pocket, Max Kael retrieves a folded piece of paper and a pen. He presumably crosses Steven Harrison’s name off the list.

Max Kael!: Okay, that just leaves Hayes Hanlon, Cancer Jiles, Hessian, Daytona Diamonds and..

The INTENSE Champion pauses for a moment, his eyes stare off into the distance while his lip twitches, his smile faltering into a sneer. A little drool seems to leak from the corner of his mouth as there is a moment he’s pulling a Ron Paul liquidation.

Max Kael!: ..Cecilworth Farthington..

He blinks and snaps back into the here and now, his smile smothering the sneer.

Max Kael!: Now, to sports!

We cut to the Violent Purple mop. It falls over. We cut back to Max.

Max Kael!: Fascinating! Well as you might have noticed our lovable scamp, the Herald, is not in the studio right now. No, I’ve sent him on a very special, very secret mission. You see I’ve sent our undercover operative, the Herald, to the most wretched hive of scum and villainy here in PRIME. That’s right, I’ve sent young Bentley into the heart of the enemy.. The Diamond Mine.. Let’s catch up with him..

The video feed cuts to somewhere, deep in the 02 Arena. The Herald can be seen in his cowboy outfit moseying on down the hall toward a pair of swinging doors. Above said doors hangs a sign that looks to have seen better days which reads The Diamond Mine. The Herald turns toward the camera and winks.

The Herald: It’s me, sub-marquis Bentley Tennyson Primrose-Farthington the Herald of Maximillian Wilhelm Kael! You probably couldn’t recognize me due to my obfuscation using this cowboy costume! I’m going incognito in order to gather important intel on that dastardly cowman, Daytona Diamonds. I’ll be using my cowboy name from this point forward, so nobody call me the Herald, okay? Okay! My cowboy name is..

The Herald suddenly stops, either having forgotten what his cowboy name is or having never had the forethought to think of one. After a few awkward seconds the Herald snaps his fingers.

The Herald: ..Uber-Colonel Harold Benthington.. Yeeaaah..

He’s really into his new name as he turns and pushes his way into the Diamond Mine. BAM! Strobe lights! KABOOM! An air raid siren! HOOTENANNY! A voice with a thick accent screaming from behind a makeshift bar!

The Voice With a Thick Accent: Stop right there, you knuckle suckin’ sonuvabitch! Don’t make another goddang move or I’ll blow yer fuckin’ head off with my six shooter, y’get me?!

The sirens stop. So do the lights, thank god. That’s a quick trip to epilepsy city and nobody wants that. A cowboy hat, bedazzled as one might expect, pops up from behind the bar followed by two narrowed eyes. Ladies and gentlemen, The Rhinestone Cowboy.

Daytona Diamonds: …who the fuck are ya and what the fuck do ya want? Kael send you? Gonna throw sand in my eyes? Tell the goddang truth!

The Herald freezes as the world goes wild around him. You can see it in his eyes. Panic? No, it’s not panic. The desire to dance. It’s terrible and it’s eating away at the Herald..sorry, eating away at Uber-Colonel Harold Benthington’s willpower. He blinks through it, taking a deep, overly ornate bow.

Uber-Colonel Harold Benthington (The Herald): Oh! Why my name is Sub-Ma-er.. Uber-Colonel Harold Benthington of.. Of.. Oh-hi-ho! A pleasure to meet you! I am not here to throw sand in anyone’s eyes but instead to partake of your vittles and delights here, down in the Diamond Mine!

He peers up at Daytona waiting to see if his elaborate lie has worked.

Daytona Diamonds: …vittles and delights, huh? That right?

A sneer. Those narrowed eyes get even narrower as Daytona stands up fully, both hands on the bar. He leans forward, giving The Hera– Uber-Colonel Harold Benthington a once over. With a nod and a quick spit off to the side (sans spitoon, unfortunately), a wide, toothy grin replaces Daytona’s seeming distrust.

Daytona Diamonds: Well, hellfire, Harold! Why didn’tja say so?! Pony up to this bar and let ol’ Daytona fix you a drink!

Four stools sat in front of the bar, each one a little more broken than the last. Cushionless, full of nails. The type of stool that might kill a man if he looked at it funny. That grin never leaves Daytona’s face and his hands never leave the bar.

Daytona Diamonds: I ain’t even really got a gun back here, pardner! I was just messin’! Say, what brings you to town, ol’ boy?

The Uber-Colonel perks up, his acting clearly having saved him from a fate worse than.. Well actually he can’t think of a fate worse than death, he doesn’t have a great imagination. He peers at the barstool and he thinks he saw it brandishing a nail at him in a threatening manner.

Uber-Colonel Harold Benthington (The Herald): Oh I came to London because I like to hunt! And they say there is no better hunting ground than London! And then I wandered by this fine establishment and I said to myself Herald!..er.. Harold! That place looks like the kind of place for you!

Benthington attempts to sit on one of the bar stools but it growls and nearly bites him and so he simply leans against the bar as far away from the barstool as he can.

Uber-Colonel Harold Benthington (The Herald): Saaaay, you look like a wrestler? Do you have match later tonight at this whole.. Rasslefight thing? PRIME Reviled 46 or something? You look like the kind of wrestling cowman who would have a title match! An intense title match of some sort! What kind of strategy would you have for such a fight?

Behind the bar, Daytona’s already working on that promised drink. A glass from beneath the bar (remarkably clean; The Diamond Mine has standards, after all), exactly twelve different bottles of liquor of every color and variation lined up in a neat little row, and not a single jigger to be seen. Where we’re going, we don’t need measured pours.

Daytona Diamonds: A wrassler?! Oh no, no, no Uber-Colonel! You done got the wrong idea! I’m just an ol’ cowpoke who came overseas lookin’ for some cows to poke. Any port in a storm, y’know what I’m sayin’? ‘Course you do, ‘course you do.

One by one, pour after pour. Whiskey from Tennessee and vodka from Moscow, absinthe for the flavor and tequila for the feeling. We’re talking watermelon liqueur and moonshine made in the backwoods and even a drop of turpentine because every good cowboy has turpentine laying around. Last but not least, a dollop of alcohol-infused whip cream and a cherry on top.

Daytona Diamonds: But, y’know, if I was a wrassler and I did have a title match tonight and I was gonna come up with a strategy, I reckon it’d be pretty fuckin’ simple, huh…?

A pause. Daytona slides the drink across the bar.

Daytona Diamonds: …I’d get in that ring and I’d rip that motherfucker’s throat out with my teeth.

The not Herald looks down at the drink, back up at Daytona and then back down at the drink. He sniffs it and wretches. It smells like sugar plum butt hole and gasoline. He picks up the drink and examines the contents more closely. He can fill his liver screaming, begging, pleading not to be exposed to whatever this elixir conjured up by Diamonds.

Uber-Colonel Harold Benthington (The Herald): ..To throw rippin’!

He pitches his nose and tosses back the drink.

~ One Hour Later ~ 

Every once in a while, a man will walk into a bar and that man won’t walk out the same way he walked in. Something within him will change on a fundamental, cellular level. The very order of the soul will be overturned. Leaning back against the bar, watching Uber-Colonel Harold Benthington and not The Herald, obviously that would be preposterous, try to handle his fifth drink, Daytona knew this was one of those every once in a whiles.

Daytona Diamonds: So, anyway, I says to him, I says, “Donny! You no good sonuvabitch! This is my jet ski! You don’t sit on it! I catch you sittin’ on it again and I’ll stick a cactus up your dickhole!” You believe that, Harold?! You belive that shit?!

The Uber-Colonel’s hands are shaking as he gently sips at the liquid contained within the trembling glass vessel. He looks up from the drink, his eyes watery, his face flushed red.

Uber-Colonel Harold Benthington (The Herald): ..frickn’ Donnye.. If … anyone TRIED.. Sittin’ on my..

The absolutely sloshed Benthington (Not the Herald) releases a mighty belch that nearly causes him to fall backwards away from the bar. He steadies himself before his eyes wander to the horrible, nail riddled bench next to him.

Uber-Colonel Harold Benthington (The Herald): ..MAH bar stool..

He slaps the barstool as a nail gets driven through his hand. He yanks it free, staring at the hole left behind, relatively surprised by the lack of pain he is feeling.

Uber-Colonel Harold Benthington (The Herald): ..MAH hand…

Harold turns and picks up his drink with his good hand, downing the rest of it. He slams the glass back down on the counter top.

Uber-Colonel Harold Benthington (The Herald): ..MAH drink..

Daytona sighs and shakes his head. He’s seen this before. Tsking all the way around the bar, The Rhinestone Cowboy saddles up next to a now bleeding Harold Benthington. Wrapping one of Not The Herald’s arms around his neck, Daytona carries this mysterious, drunken stranger towards the door.

Daytona Diamonds: Think you’ve had just ‘bout enough, pardner. C’mon, c’mon. Let’s get you outta here. You good to drive? You need me to call you a cab or somethin’?

Old Harold Benthington looks longingly at the empty glass but he does not resist being carried toward the door, his little bells jingling beneath his cowboy outfit.

Uber-Colonel Harold Benthington (The Herald): ..nooo.. I still got.. This.. gig later.. Gotta.. Uughh.. Gotta do that.. Then.. maybe.. Maybe sleepin’ ..yeaaaah.. HAROLD AWAY!

Seeing the double doors Harold launches himself out of Daytona’s arms and through the doors. As the doors swing closed, Daytona turns to the camera, taking his hat off his head even as it shakes back and forth.

Daytona Diamonds: Well, folks, I reckon that’s just the way it goes, huh? Sometimes you eat the bear and sometimes the bear eats you. Ol’ Harold Benthington got drunker ‘an a skunk in a barrel full-a whiskey and, I’ll be damned, he would-a drank the whole dang bar if’n I didn’t get him outta here! I guess it just goes to show some people ain’t got a drinkin’ problem, they’ve got a drinkin’ solution. Don’t you worry though, pilgrims! The Uber-Colonel’s gonna be just fine! Even right now, he’s out there somewhere howlin’ at the moon and takin’ pot shots at God almighty! Too weird to live, too rare to die!

A concerned look crosses Daytona’s face and he looks down at the ground, eyebrows furrowing and upper lip stiffening before he looks back to the camera.

Daytona Diamonds: But, y’know, I got a sneakin’ suspicion he might not’ve been who he said he was. You get that feelin’ too? Call me crazy, but I’m thinkin’ he might’ve been wearin’ a goddang disguise. Harold, Harold, Harold… This cowboy weren’t born yesterday, pardner. If you’re out there listenin’, just know there ain’t no harm and there ain’t no foul. I forgive you. Just do me a favor and tell ol’ Max Kael I’m gonna whittle him into fuckin’ kindlin’ tonight, won’tcha? Thank y’all for joinin’ us tonight for yet another episode of The Diamond Mine Storytime Theatre. We’ll be seein’ you on that lone prairie, pardners. Yeehaw!

The feed cuts out as we are returned back to a bewildered Max Kael, his eyes wide as he stares toward the camera with a slack jaw. When he realizes that the camera is back on him he blinks a few times, shaking the dumbstruck look off his face as he tries to smile through grit teeth.

Max Kael!: ..well wasn’t that nice.

His hands slowly crumple up the papers covered in his notes, a vein appearing on his reddening forehead.

Max Kael!: Tear my throat out with his teeth? Whittle me down like I was firewood?! HA! You delusional dimwit, who do you think you’re talking to? I’m not RIA or Rose, I’m Maxillian Wilhelm Kael, your INTENSE Champion! You’ll put more RESPECT on my name after I’m done with you tonight, you calamitous klutz!

Standing from the desk Max throws the papers away while snarling.

Max Kael!: I’ve cut my way through this detestable roster and I won’t be bested by some sarsparilla suckin’ simp like you, Daytona Diamonds. See I’ve been thinking about it and it’s about time I’ve been a more present INTENSE Champion. As everybody knows one of the duties of the INTENSITY is to make INTENSE Edicts and for my first ever INTENSE Edict I proclaim the following..

Reaching beneath the desk, Max pulls up a noose and rope raising it above his head as a cruel smile spreads across his lips like a bad case of herpes. He then slams the noose down on the news desk with a loud bang.

Max Kael!: You want to live like a cowboy, Daytona?! Then you’ll DIE like a cowboy, out in that ring. As your INTENSE Champion I HANG you like the delinquent dog you are for all to see! I’m going to watch you wriggle and struggle at the end of this rope and when your body stops moving, I’ll take MY INTENSE Championship and hold it over your room temperature corpse! Do you understand me, Daytona?! This isn’t a GAME, you villainous vanity driven vagrant!

Taking in a deep breath, Max smooths out his suit. After composing himself that fake, far to toothy smile is plastered back up.

Max Kael!: Thank you, worms! Thaaaat’s the..

He pauses, thoughtful as the hamsters in his skull are working hard on their little wheels. An unnerving expression of sadistic pleasure washes over Max while his eyes lock directly onto the camera. He slowly lifts the rope, mimicking hanging Daytona Diamonds.

Max Kael!:..And that’s the Noose..

The screen falls into darkness save for Max’s two eyes and his Cheshire smile glowing in the dark. A choking giggle punctuates the darkness as the eyes and smile finally fade.

We cut to ringside.

We move back to ringside as “Caramelldansen” by the Caramella Girls sounds off over the PA system as Kennade Starr moves out from the curtain, followed by the imposing Mr. Bubbles. No prancing. No shining. Just business.

Vince Howard: This match is scheduled for ONE FALL! On her way to the ring! Accompaning… Accompanied by… Uh… KENNADE STAAAAAAAAARR!

Nick Stuart: Still a struggle for Vince.

Richard Parker: Smooth, moron.

Nick Stuart: Coworker slander aside, these two have a cagey veteran on their hands in the form of Tony Gamble.

Richard Parker: How big you think the intersection of #StarrShines and Tony Gamble fans is?

Nick Stuart: Non-existent, I’d imagine.

Mr. Bubbles slides into the ring while Kennade makes her way towards the corner on the floor. She glances out to the crowd before her gaze moves back to her stand.

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

Johnnie Newsman: HELLLOOOOOOO EVERYYYYBOOOOODYYYY!!! THEEEEE LAST MAN LAUGHING IN PRIME IS HEEEEEERRRRE!!!!

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.

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 stands on the apron looking out into the crowd for a moment — not bothering to wipe his feet.

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, lowering his head as Johnnie continues.

Johnnie Newsman: GAAAAAAAAMMBLLLLLLEEEEE!!

All I wanna be, yeah

He stretches his arms out once more, then throws back his head to stare up at his hands with one finger on each hand pointed up to the rafters.

Yeah, I was born for this

Nick Stuart: The Egg Bandits have to be frustrated after not getting the win at War Games. You have to figure Tony will be looking to get things moving in the right direction here with a victory over Kennade Starr.

Richard Parker: Gotta love it when bad things happen to bad people, Nick. That’s karma!

DING DING!

The match starts, Mr. Bubbles staring down a smirking ring Tony Gamble. He beckons his larger opponent to go ahead and make a move. Bubbles lumbers forward, throwing his meaty limbs ahead. Unfortunately for him, they only catch turnbuckle and ropes as Gamble shoots down and around him.

The Grin throws his arms in the air in celebration as he lightly jogs across the ring, the gesture greeted with jeers. Bubbles slowly turns around while at ring side, Kennade Starr frantically tries to course correct her stand. Again, Gamble taunts at the monstrous man. When Bubbles draws close, history repeats.

Nick Stuart: Tony Gamble seems to be in no hurry to engage with Mr. Bubbles.

Richard Parker: Gamble knows what he’s doing. This is mine games, Nick! Tony’s a pro at it!… Even if he is a part of those egg sucking Bandit jerks.

Kennade impatiently demands Bubbles pick up the pace. As he moves forward far quicker than a man his size should, Gamble is quick to duck out of the ring. Not a moment after, he begins jawing with the young lady at ringside. The two take turns exchanging verbal barbs; Kennade getting heated while Tony practically laughs in her face.

Bubbles has made his way outside by this point. After one last snide remark Kennade’s way that the cameras didn’t quite pick up, Tony Gamble turns around just in time to see a charging bull coming his way! Only problem? The Grin moves, leading Bubbles to have to slam on the brakes so as not to run over the ducking for her life KStarr.

Richard Parker: Mr. Bubbles about turned Kennade Starr into the cutest crime scene ever!

Nick Stuart: It’s a good thing he stopped in t-OOOH!

Tony Gamble is many things. An Egg Bandit. Almost as short as the streaming girl. Terrifying to all headshot photographers. But he’s also opportunistic. That exclamation from Nick comes from Gamble shoving his large foe into the ring post. Though he’s still on his feet, the big guy is definitely dazed.

Using all the might his questionably sized frame can manage, the Permascar Superstar pushes Bubbles back into the ring. He slides back in and the moment Bubbles gets to a knee, Gamble puts him right back down with a DDT! Cover!

ONE!

TWO!

KICK OUT!

Nick Stuart: There was some power in that kick out, but Tony Gamble has the upper hand now!

Richard Parker: Can’t trust a Bandit. Never should’ve chased him to the outside.

Nick Stuart: Don’t you like Tony?

Richard Parker: I’m processing a lot of emotions right now, Nick. This is a tough time for me!

Indeed, Gamble keeps the attack going, locking in a Boston Crab. Bubbles almost powers out immediately, but his tenacious opposition keeps his footing and wrenches back. Another attempt at forcing out, blocked again by excellent positioning. Tony Gamble is a veteran, one used to fighting from the bottom. It’ll take more than raw strength to escape this hold.

Kennade starts pounding the mat, trying to will Bubbles to find some manner of reprieve. The beastly individual starts dragging both himself and Gamble towards the ropes. Even high level eggecution can’t help The Grin here as Bubbles inches closer and closer. Tony makes an attempt to drag his enemy away from the sanctuary the cables will offer, but it’s in vain. Jimmy Turnbull demands a break of the hold!

Nick Stuart: Gamble’s not letting go!

Richard Parker: He has till five!… And he’ll take every fraction he can, the little no good son of a b-

Nick Stuart: C’mon! Get in there, Jimmy!

By this point, Jon Rhine’s Favorite Wrestler (just ask the guy himself, he’ll tell ya!) has exhausted the count and Turnbull is threatening disqualification. Tony nonchalantly raises his arms, letting Bubbles beefy legs smack down to the mat. Knowing he’s in the driver’s seat, Tony Two Books opts for twisting the knife on Kennade Starr a bit more, rather than press his advantage.

Bubbles slowly gets vertical, soon stalking behind Gamble as he spits verbal abuse KStarr’s way. You know a good way to shut someone up? Choke them. Just ask Tony, who’s now in a goozle from his larger adversary.

Nick Stuart: The Grin may have run his mouth one too many times!

Richard Parker: Literally no such thing.

Nick Stuart: And this is why I stay away from you in public.

Richard Parker: Hey, that wasn’t my fault! Guy had an ugly wife, I didn’t think I was revealing anything shocking there!

Tony Gamble should be in trouble. Remember what was said earlier, though: opportunist. Scarface frantically reaches up, somehow without the help of phone books, and rakes the eyes of Mr. Bubbles! The big man stumbles back, swinging wildly while trying to get his vision back.

KStarr scurries onto the apron, having had just about enough of Gamble’s shenanigans. Jimmy Turnbull rushes over, demanding the girl return to ringside. Tony sees this. He also sees Bubbles in a fairly compromising position. It shouldn’t take long for one to guess what happens next.

Nick Stuart: Low blow! What a disgusting move from Tony Gamble!

Richard Parker: That kick might get him a contract from Manchester United! Not like they can suck any worse than they already do.

Nick Stuart: I understand Kennade’s frustration, but this has gone from bad to worse for Mr. Bubbles.

Gamble swiftly moves behind Bubbles, planting him with his Front Russian Leg Sweep, No Laughing Matter! He looks like he’s about to flip his opponent over for a pin, but Tony shakes his head. A genuine smile on his face, Happy Heelmore pulls Bubbles arms into the Rings of Saturn before pulling at his mouth. Smile for me has been locked in.

Having returned to the floor just after No Laughing Matter, KStarr again tries smashing the mat to will Bubbles out of the hold. The avatar is barely moving. Brute force isn’t an option. He’s in the center of the ring. No escape. Gamble sends one last glare her way before really wrenching back! She can’t take any more.

Nick Stuart: Kennade Starr is calling it! She doesn’t want to see Mr. Bubbles in any more pain!

Richard Parker: Nick, please! I had a filling dinner, don’t make me puke!

DING DING DING!

Vince Howard: The winner of this match, by submission, TONY GAAAAAAAAMBLE!

Nick Stuart: It seems like Mr. Bubbles never really got out of first gear, Rich.

Richard Parker: Nope. Maybe the little girl and her big toy need to get their crap together.

Nick Stuart: Don’t you have a six month subscription to her streams?

Richard Parker: Oh hey, it’s time to cut to commercial!

We cut to commercial.

The commercial fades into PRIME Five Star Champion “The Revelator” Don Winters standing at the pulpit, a massive stained glass window of the Virgin Mary recently installed within the FOOTPRINTS Mega Church is set at his back, filtering sunlight through a myriad of colors. Father Don is dressed in his Sunday best, a white suit, and a crimson dress shirt, a Roman collar tight around his neck. The Five Star title is on a small table next to the pulpit, and sitting next to that is a bible. The Revelator smiles at the camera and begins speaking.

Don Winters: Greetings and salutations friends! I’m PRIME Five Star Champion Father Don Winters, and as proud as I am to be your Five Star Champion, I’m even more proud of the work I’ve done with His Word and Light both here in Winter’s Port and stateside with the Mobile Ministry.

The feed cuts to camera two, which is from Don’s profile view. Instead of turning his head to the camera, he side-eyes it and continues smiling.

Don Winters: And through that work, I’m so pleased to present to you all today with Father Don’s Five Star Bible. This bible is the King James version, and if you open up the nice leather hardbound cover, this gorgeous bible has a sleeve inside for various other documents we’re excited to provide to you at no extra charge.

Father Don picks Father Don’s Five Star Bible up from the table and carefully opens the front cover.

Don Winters: So when we take a little peek inside here, we’ve got all sorts of great things waiting for you. Brochures and information about FOOTPRINTS, because I just know you’re gonna want to come down to sunny Winter’s Port and pay us a visit once you’ve gotten yourself and the family a Father Don’s Five Star Bible.

The feed finally cuts back to camera one, looking straight on at Don. The smile is becoming a little unnatural at this point, because it is unceasing, unbroken, undaunted.

Don Winters: Not only that, there are vouchers to His Word and Light’s gift shop where you can get a discount on all sorts of things from chocolate covered Father Dons, or a Pious Penguin plushie, or the new “REVELATOR” crimson and white satin jacket, with new incredible items being added every day!

There’s a glimmer in his eye as he continues.

Don Winters: Last, but certainly not least we have a fun PRIME Five Star Champion history bookmark. Yours truly is at the top and every former champion of both the ReVival and ReVolution era are listed. An absolute treat to open your Father Don’s Five Star Bible and get a little Five Star history lesson every time you do.

Somehow his smile widens, cheeks stretched taut across the bone.

Don Winters: However, the most important thing here is Father Don’s Five Star Bible. Too many folks in the world have grown lost or disenchanted with religion and I’m throwing out my fishing line to reel them back in! I’m going to pull them up on deck and let them know that this is something I want them to have, I want everybody to have. You have to have it for your heart, for your soul, for peace of mind!

Father Don is absolutely beaming. What shade of white do you think those teeth are? Aria, Mountain Mist, Natural or Crisp Linen? Probably can’t go wrong with any of those choices. We cut back to camera two, where a twinkling blue eye once again side-eyes the camera.

Don Winters: There’s a lot of uncertainty in the world these days, and I truly believe that Father Don’s Five Star Bible can help ease some of those feelings and turn folks from hopeless to hopeful. Especially since that uncertainty goes beyond the world and sinks into our little corner of the PRIME universe from time to time.

Please stop smiling Don, you’re scaring the children.

Don Winters: You’ve got those evil Russians acting like it’s 1985 and the world is still cold. Threatening to bully anybody who doesn’t align with their way of life. You’ve got an entire movement of people trying to get Fred Dick removed from civilization, though I believe he can be saved, theirs is a very noble pursuit. Then of course there’s that dastardly Daytona Diamonds and you dang well know the less said the better.

Back to camera one and straight on to that unceasing cheshire grin.

Don Winters: Now, I’m here to protect you from those particular threats. You can rest easy at night knowing that Father Don is PRIME’s Five Star Champion and fighting the good fight every other week. But if you want to fight the good fight, you need to call 1-800-CALL-DON right now and order your very own Father Don’s Five Star Bible. Don’t forget about the vouchers for FOOTPRINTS, the gift shop vouchers, and of course the PRIME Five Star Bookmark, where my visage will pop out the top of your Father Don’s Five Star Bible ready to greet you for another scintillating reading of Father Don’s Five Star Bible.

Don smiles wider, one last time.

Don Winters: Once again, that’s 1-800-CALL-DON and for just $24.95 and a small shipping & handling fee, we will send you two copies of Father Don’s Five Star Bible! You cannot get this deal anywhere else on planet earth and if you’re in Greenland or Russia, you can’t get it at all! Jump on this deal before it’s too late and become one of Father Don’s Five Star Acolytes today! Remember folks, I want this for your heart, I want this for your soul. There’s nothing like the Good Book and there’s nothing quite like His Word and Light. Won’t you join your Five Star Champion today?

The camera cuts to a still image promoting Father Don’s Five Star Bible as a voiceover very quickly reads through terms and conditions. The commercial then fades to black.

Off the break the lights dim.

BOOM!

One strong, LOUD shot of pyro explodes at the top of the rampway as “Boomshakalaka” by Apache Indian plays over the PA. It doesn’t take long for the fans to boo as the video screen welcomes the words “REED YOUNG” across it.

Richard Parker: Yes! What a treat! I can’t believe we’re going to see more of this man!

Nick Stuart: I can. Guy is an ego maniac.

Richard Parker: Not a fan? Reed is a pioneer of wrestling, you know!

Nick Stuart: Okay.

As the theme plays, two female and two male belly dancers strut out. After they do exactly what the theme song tells them, they part like the sea as Reed Young, former Action! Wrestling owner from years ago, and a man clearly in a late forties crisis, wearing a neon yellow and blue spandex Adidas tracksuit (a few sizes too small for his muscular build) bursts onto the scene. He holds the Universal Championship in the air with one hand and points his index finger up high in the air with the other. He stops at the belly dancers, looks at them and laughs. He places his index finger into a fist and runs down the rampway with the title still above his head shouting something along the lines of “WHAT DO YOU GUYS WANNA TALK ABOUT!?!?”

Nick Stuart: One match, one promo and right now, that’s all I have to base my Reed Young experience off of. And let me tell you, I am already exhausted. Reed is way too much, in a very different way than his daughter.

Richard Parker: Are you kidding me? Heaven forbid we have someone who ENJOYS being here. He’s much better than that melodramatic, narcissistic Jared Sykes.

Nick Stuart: Not you, too.

Richard Parker: Besides, I saw Reed crush two Monsters a half an hour ago. So there’s your answer.

Nick Stuart: Two of them?

Richard Parker: In three minutes. He also told me he had two for breakfast.

Nick Stuart: I…

Reed runs around the outside of the ring, doing laps with the title belt high and the former Dumb and Dumber soundtrack, which is likely fitting, playing him on. The odd time Reed sticks out his right hand for a high five and receives one, but everytime he makes a connection he leaves that fan rubbing their hand out in pain afterwards.

Young finally rolls into the ring and starts doing laps with the title inside the squared circle. Tristan-Crispin Gladhappy emerges from the back next, although he’s just coming down for a leisurely stroll with a smile on his face and a mic in hand. Once he reaches the bottom of the rampway, yes, Reed hasn’t quit running laps inside the ring, hooting and hollering with a “yee-ha”!

TCG slides into the ring as the theme song closes and the crowd boos. With Young STILL doing laps, Gladhappy pulls the mic to his face.

Tristan-Crispin Gladhappy: It’s YA boy!

This actually elicits a massive cheer from the crowd.

Tristan-Crispin Gladhappy: But I’m not here to sing a song for you today, oh no.

In reign the boos. Rapping is the only thing the fans liked about the guy.

Tristan-Crispin Gladhappy: I’m here to introduce to you… OUR NEW UNIVERSAL CHAMPION… ladies and gentlemen, gentlemen and fine fine women in the house… he did it. HE FINISHED IT ALL. Storybook endings happen in a Lindsay Troy organization, how about that. STORY is important, not the same trash panda promo every other week. So please, people…

Reed Young finally stops running around. Seemingly not out of breath, he stands beside TCG with a joyous complexion and his full attention towards the entranceway, although he continues to hold the belt in the air. The title is on clear view now. ‘HALL’ is the name etched across the nameplate and the side panels consist of ‘I [HEART] VICKIE’.

Tristan-Crispin Gladhappy: Give a warm welcome…

Young starts nodding his head.

Tristan-Crispin Gladhappy: To YA new boy…

Young begins screaming like a rabid fan.

Tristan-Crispin Gladhappy: Jonathan.

Pause.

Tristan-Crispin Gladhappy: Christopher.

Long pause. Head up. Shout into the rafters.

Tristan-Crispin Gladhappy: HALL!

BOOM!

PRETTY PINK© pyro explodes on the top of the rampway as that same branded confetti falls from the rafters.

And then, their OG song kicks in…

Revealed by a live band off to the right hand side of the stage, the very same Fall Out Boy tribute band now looking much more like a really, REALLY awful looking Aerosmith tribute band.

“I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” by Aerosmith.

Richard Parker: Spare no expense, I say!

Nick Stuart: This all came out of Reed’s pockets, I’m sure. Besides, with the way these guys are playing, I doubt it cost much.

Richard Parker: So? Reed is the man of the people. Good show, bad show. He’ll pony up the money. Glad to see someone isn’t a narcissist around here. He’s very giving.

Nick Stuart: Stop. Immediately. Please stop. This can’t be a thing you say and do now. Do you know how hard narcissism is to diagnose? Maybe people are just selfish and rude.

Richard Parker: Easy, partner.

It takes a while, but a figure emerges from the back. Just one. He’s a young, babyface of a man, with boyish looks that make you wonder if he’s still in high school. Head down and eyes low, the man gingerly walks out sporting a PRETTY PINK© robe with gold lacing. However, the robe has been “vandalized” with white ink and spray paint, saying phrases like “VICKIE I WANT YOU”, “TAKE ME BACK VICKIE”, “I CAN CHANGE”, and so on.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall reaches the bellydancer, who somehow remain on the stage. They try belly dancing to the slow love song but they’re failing miserably.

Nick Stuart: Hall looks so, so sad. How is this possible? He won the biggest prize in WRESTLING!

Richard Parker: If I have to tell you…

Nick Stuart: It was rhetoric; I’m aware. This kid has A LOT to offer, throughout the nonsense we see before our eyes right now, and the specific nonsense not walking out with him right now, thank god.

Richard Parker: You MONSTER.

Nick Stuart: We all know it- well, jury’s out on you. I don’t even think she’s HERE tonight.

Richard Parker: MONSTER.

At the top of the rampway, Hall rubs his nose a little, suggesting he had an emotional episode only moments before this entrance. Meanwhile, Reed leans into TCG’s microphone.

Reed Young: Raise your hands, son! RAISE ‘EM HIGH AND STRONG, MY BOY!

Jonathan-Christopher Hall weakly raises his arms to a couple of cheers from the crowd, however, most of them simply watch as JCH slowly descends the rampway. Reed takes the mic from Gladhappy, thanking him in the process by giving him a swift smack on the behind that whips Tristan-Crispin into his tickle prance around the ring.

It takes a while. It takes probably too long so skipping ahead, Jonathan-Christopher Hall reaches ringside and is welcomed in by Reed Young, who holds the ropes open for him while still holding onto the title.

Nick Stuart: Has Jonathan-Christopher even touched the belt?

Richard Parker: I’ve only seen Reed with it.

The theme song dies down as Young drapes the title across his own shoulder. He puts one arm around Jonathan-Christopher and walks him to the center of the ring.

Reed Young: What a HALLmark Journey, huh!?

The fans boo.

Reed Young: And what a job I’ve done, my first official night back into the majestic world of WRESTLING! I sharpened this flower’s edges and HE WINS THE BIGGEST PRIZE OF ALL.

Reed drops his arm across Jonathan-Christopher’s shoulder. He takes this free arm and hoists the title belt in the air again as Hall drops his head and whimpers a little.

Reed Young: Booyakasha!

Young looks over to his son-in-law, his eyes glisten with sheer admiration.

Reed Young: Son, I know you’re hurting… (bringing his attention to the fans) but everyone needs to be aware that my precious little daughter whom you all love and respect so much…

BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

Reed Young: She LOVES this man! She couldn’t be happier with how this story unfolded!

Jonathan-Christopher raises his head with hope in his eyes. He mumbles “she does?” before Young puts the title back across his shoulder and starts rubbing Hall’s back, perhaps insinuating that isn’t true since the man is trying to comfort JCH further.

Reed Young: People, I’ve been in wrestling a long time and when you’re a full blown success like I am, you know a story’s end is only its beginning… in book number two.

Young LEAPS in the air and slams his feet against the mat, startling Jonathan-Christopher into another couple of sobs and ramping up some mojo in Tristan-Crispin Gladhappy who tickle dances in the back right corner of the ring.

Reed Young: The sequel is BETTER than the original! Exorcist 2, Grease 2, Son of The Mask and maybe the champagne of sequels, Batman & Robin, some of Hollywood’s finest work.

Nick Stuart: Who is he kidding?

Richard Parker: I think he’s serious. Those are decent movies, too.

Nick Stuart sighs like Craig would. Who’s Craig?

Probably a poor sequel to Brock.

ANYWAY…

Reed Young: Jonathan-Christopher, my daughter Vickie and ME, Reed Young, the godliest promoter in the land are going to give YOU the greatest stuff you’ll ever see on TV.

Young takes in JCH’s “aura” by breathing him in.

And offering him a mic.

Reed Young: (to JCH) Go ahead, kiddo. Give ‘em hell.

Seeing Jonathan-Christopher without Vickie… well, it makes a part of the crowd want to cheer him. Hall surveys the arena in London, hoping he can see clearly even though he’s been crying. He takes the mic from his father-in-law…

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Jared, I hope there are no hard feelings, I did what I had to do.

The new Universal Champion is tentative as he speaks, trying to work through the sniffles.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: It was the battle of my life but I was fueled like never before.

Hall motions to Reed Young with body language suggesting he’s thankful.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Now I’m in this new space, something I never thought was possible.

He looks down at his hands, they shake in balls of fists. And even though JCH still looks nervous, his voice is steadying out. He’s developing a little more confidence.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I’ve been here a while now. I’ve hit major lows and bounced back.

He looks over to the title resting on Reed’s shoulder. As Hall’s confidence continues to build, Reed is getting all hot and bothered and hyped the fuck up.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I’m the Universal Champion. I put my heart and mind together and I-

Reed takes the mic for him, while snacking Hall on the bottom.

Reed Young: (Finishing JCH’s sentence) You crushed it! Hell yeah! With my help, of course! I was like ‘is that my son in the ring or is that a vicious killer’!? Ladies and gents, nothing is going to stop us now. Booyaka-

Lights out.

Lights on.

Red lights on.

Army lights on.

Nick Stuart: I think we’re being interrupted!

Richard Parker: Think? I have deja vu… feel like this was the other way around at one point in time…

Reed looks confused.

Reed Young: Booyaka…sha?

The lights remain crimson in the O2 Arena as something eerily similar to ReVival 41, when The Red Army was unexpectedly interrupted by The Love Convoy, and yet it is different. There are no gaudily dressed dancers. No PRETTY PINK© streamers and long-winded, lovey-dovey power ballads. No, there’s a skull shattering explosion and a fireball that erupts around the entryway platform, and the entrance is wreathed in smoke.

Then, the music.

A proud, glorious Russian men’s choir the likes of which we’ve all heard before, and knew eventually we would hear again. The hulking silhouette of Ivan Stanislav lumbers from backstage, piercing the smoke as it wafts aggressively around him and makes a hole for two smaller individuals. Surprisingly, there’s no Alexei Ruslan to be seen.

Nick Stuart: Looks like the rumors were true. No Alexei Ruslan.

Richard Parker: Damn. He’s such a loveable guy!

Instead, Cuban communist referee and longtime Red Army member Speedy Riggs, wearing his hammer and sickle tropical shirt, along with meek Arina Timofeyevna, who wears an ill-fitting white military uniform, walk out behind their enormous superior. As the Soviet National Anthem assaults the Londoner’s ears, The Russian Bear pounds down the entryway.

He’s not dressed for a match, though he appears ready for combat. In a brilliant crimson uniform, adorned with gleaming golden buttons and his array of medals along his breast, his combat boots threaten to dent the ramp as he makes a ponderous, yet purposeful, bee-line for the ring.

He grips the top rope, easily steps up onto the apron, and fluidly glides over the top rope, stepping over at as easily as a child stepping over a toy block. Riggs jogs up the ring steps while Arina follows, and the Cuban lifts the middle rope for the female as they both enter behind Stanislav. Riggs grins wide and spreads his arms, while Arina remains as far away from everything as possible, nibbling her lip.

Richard Parker: I guess turnabout is fair play…

Nick Stuart: Dabney Doubleday isn’t here, Richard.

Richard Parker: You know what I mean! And Stanislav doesn’t look very happy.

Nick Stuart: Does he ever?

A microphone flies into the ring and Stanislav catches it in his paw of a hand. The ring is essentially cut in half. Three Communists and The Love Convoy. The Russian Bear snarls loud enough that it picks up on the mic as he brings it up to his grizzled, massive maw, and he points a huge finger at Reed Young.

Ivan Stanislav: Enough of your noise!

Oddly enough, there’s a very slight (and we mean very slight) pop for Ivan. He glares at Reed, before turning his attention to Jonathan Christopher-Hall.

Ivan Stanislav: This time is not for your father-in-law to crow like some buzzard. Jonathan-Christopher. This is time for you to celebrate your victory. Your. Victory. For you have not only won Almasy Tournament. You not only defeated Jared Sykes. But yes, you finished your story.

A slightly stronger pop?

Ivan Stanislav: It was not your father-in-law who enabled you to win against Jared Sykes. Say what you will, Reed Young, but your one night at his side had nothing to do with his victory. Jonathan-Christopher Hall himself earned that victory.

Ivan levels his eyes at JCH which seem to glow hotter than burning napalm.

Ivan Stanislav: After all, Jonathan-Christopher, who was so patient and worked with you to make you a better wrestler? Who, despite all of your misgivings, remained steadfast in your education? Did we not wrestle, together, as a team for months? Were we not in WarGames together all this time? It was ME!

The pop, tiny as it was, dies. We hardly new you. Stanislav waves a huge arm broadly towards the audience.

Ivan Stanislav: And in that time, you have shown great growth. You did as you said you would. True to your word. You defended me during War Games. You made sacrifices. You stopped being, to a degree, the narcissist that you might have become otherwise. You worked hard. And us communists appreciate a hard worker…

Stanislav turns his attention back to Reed Young, who for the record, was loving everything Ivan was saying.

Ivan Stanislav: Not some yapping flash-in-the-pan who scrambles to take credit where none has been earned!

Still, as Ivan looks back at JCH, his expression turns somber. Meanwhile, Reed’s demeanor suggests the Russian’s comments either went right over his head or he’s straight up jacked at the thought of tension between everyone in the ring. After all, tension equals money. Right?

Ivan Stanislav: I wish Vickie was here. I am sorry you are going through such a difficult time. But, you have been victorious, son. You finished your story. And now?

Ivan’s face twists into a grin.

Ivan Stanislav: You promised to finish mine.

He points his huge finger at the belt, firmly in Reed’s hands.

Ivan Stanislav: That belt should have never left my waist. You know it. I know it. Vickie knows it. She swore to return it to me. To finish MY story, Jonathan-Christoper Hall. To finish OUR story. Russia’s story. Like you promised. Like your wife wants. After all…

Stanislav digs into a pocket inside his uniform, between his buttons, and pulls out a folder and waves it for the crowd.

Ivan Stanislav: We have a contract, don’t we? A contract that YOU insisted on giving me. To make all of this right. Because despite all his prattle, your father-in-law did say one thing that was accurate: The sequel to your story is far better than the original. Because it is MINE.

Reed hops up and down like a mark, clapping his hands for Ivan. Clearly, the former champion is not amused.

Fearlessly, Young walks up to Stanislav and inadvertently moves JCH to the side.

Reed Young: God damn you a big man. And a legend. Plus you’re well spoken.

Young looks at the contract in Ivan’s left hand.

Reed Young: That’s my money we’re paying you but I’m happy to be on the hook for it.

Young takes a moment to take in Stanislav’s aura. Then Hall’s once more. He closes his eyes, as if he’s deciding something on the spot.

Reed Young: The match maker in me loves this. Let’s book the match! It’s official!

Nick Stuart: There’s no way Reed has this kind of power.

Richard Parker: Hall vs. Stanislav, yes!

Nick Stuart: Did you not hear what I just said? There are other, more deserving wrestlers next in line right now. Such as, oh I don’t know, the Glue? FLAMBERGE who won WarGames for his team. Ivan is a fantastic wrestler and he’s at the top, too, but he’s not NEXT.

Richard Parker: Then why did Reed make the match right now?

Nick Stuart: He didn’t!

Richard Parker: Pretty sure he said so.

While Stuart considers resigning on the spot, Reed Young risks his life by reaching up and placing his free arm across Ivan’s left shoulder.

Reed Young: My daughter speaks highly of you. You and my son-in-law have built something incredible together. I don’t want this ruined. I’m here to help you, too. Let’s go get some signatures on that match.

The glowering Russian Bear bristles as Reed brazenly makes any kind of physical contact with him. He grinds his teeth and nods, slowly.

Nick Stuart: There’s no way this title match happens.

Richard Parker: We’ll I guess we’re going to see what power Reed Young really has around here.

Nick Stuart: Yeah, none.

The scene fades as Young and Stanislav lead the way to the back while the former wrestling promoter onto the title belt. As the parties walk up the rampway, the trailing man is Jonathan-Christopher Hall. Titlesless, womanless, trying to stick it out with a brave, albeit sobbing face. In just a moment, Arina stops halfway up the ramp, turns to see Hall, and waits for him. She walks by his side and offers a slight smile.

We cut to ringside.

Next to All Bar One right near the Main Entrance of the O2 Arena is where a Merchandise Area has been designated and being the early bird that he is Stefan Hariston has procured this area before anyone from PRIME had even gotten to the arena. Being without the amazingly productive Clarice while in Europe has put more pressure on our Vendor Hero: Stefan Hariston. When he hasn’t been coming up with mind blowing ideas, he has been coming up with hall of fame ideas.

The beginning of the show has been profitable, but Jake Farley has been working the table by himself. Finally, Stefan Hariston in all of his amazing hair and glasses glory comes storming into the Arena with a worried look on his face.

Jake Farley: BOSS!

Stefan nods and walks to the cash register. Jake gulps and begins rubbing his hands together.

Jake Farley: Um…hey, what’s wrong?

Stefan closes the register and turns so fast that his hair flows as sexy as Zeus’s did or does at Mount Olympus that it could hypnotize you into twerking towards your TV.

Stefan Hariston: Montreal says the check bounced, Jake. The Cecilworth shirts profit hasn’t cleared the account yet but even with that we are down a lot of money. So, I sent Clarice to buy us some more time.

Stefan looks at what they have left to sell and nods to himself.

Stefan Hariston: It is my belief that everything disappeared after the Max Jail presales and that was Clarice’s first day with us…

Jake Farley: You think she stole the money?

Stefan Hariston: She agreed to go to Montreal. That can mean a few different things, but I would like to think our new employee is an upstanding citizen like all IHOPs employees.

Jake nods slowly as he now begins to wipe his hands on his jeans as his nerves continue to get the best of him.

Jake Farley: I am sure it will all work out, but more importantly we are almost all out of the Dayton Diamonds cowboy hats. Hopefully we will make all the money we need.

Stefan Hariston: They had enough glitter, right?

Jake Farley: Each hat looked like it had several dances in the champagne room.

Stefan puts his hand up to ask a question but Jake, feeling himself, does not let Stefan begin.

Jake Farley: Yes, boss, with several dancers you know we don’t go light with the glitter!

Stefan’s mouth slowly turns into another one of his creepy grins and rubs his slick not fake hair back with his beautifully manicured fingernails.

Stefan Hariston: I suppose with our hero of the UKs shirts selling out the UK public have decided they will back anyone who is facing Max Kael.

Jake Farley: Some people just don’t understand the brilliance of Mr. Kael.

Hariston’s right eyebrow raises towards Jake in surprise for what was just said.

Stefan Hariston: Uh…that sounds like something The Herald would tell someone to say.

Jake grabs a box from under the Merch Table and carefully puts it on the table and points at it as he quickly changes the subject.

Jake Farley: Look what I have been working on for the past few days.

Hariston opens the box and stares at the contents. Staring back at him is:

Hariston begins to laugh as he picks one up from the box of ten in front of him.

Stefan Hariston: Jason Snow–Globe, excellent. Where did you get the snow?

Stefan wipes his hands on his jeans as the Globe he is holding has some snow on the outside of it, probably because Jake didn’t lighten it enough.

Jake Farley: Fred Dick.

Pause.

Um.

About that.

Stefan sighs and then slowly removes the top of the Jason Snow Globe and delicately puts a tiny bit of snow on his finger.

Stefan Hariston: Let’s give this a little testy test, we need to make sure of the pureness of our Snow Globes, right?

He rubs it against his gums and his eyes suddenly dilate and he begins nodding to himself.

Stefan Hariston: OH!

Stefan grabs one of the last remaining Daytona Cowboy Hats and puts it on and gives Jake a thumbs up. The literal cocaine cowboy here. All bow down and show respect to the vendor god.

Jake Farley: I did good?

Hariston’s eyes bulge more, and he stares back down at the Snow Globe.

Stefan Hariston: THISISSOMEGOODSTUFFWEPROBABLYSHOULDNTSELLITATTHETABLEBUTSELLITTOTHOSEWHOKNOWWHATTHEYAREBUYING.

Jake Farley: It has a lego man wrestler too.

Stefan nods fast like a flies wings when it sees a new poop it is headed towards. He grabs the box of Jason Snow Globes and puts it back under the table.

Stefan Hariston: LETSKEEPTHISHEREUNTILWEFINDSOMEREALBUYERSFORTHISMARVELOUSIHOPSCREATION!

Jake Farley: How much do you think we can get?

Stefan starts counting on his fingers and mumbling to himself.

Stefan Hariston: TENGLOBESATABOUTONEGRAMPERATONEHUNDREDTWENTYPERGRAM…

Jake Farley: Don’t forget the lego man!

The Vendor King of PRIME completely ignores Jake and continues his rambling.

Stefan Hariston: PROBABLYCANSELLEACHOFTHESEFORONEHUNDREDTWENTYFIVEDOLLARSWHICHWOULDGETUSANEXTRATWELVEHUNDREDFIFTYSMACKAROOS!

Jake Farley: Wait—are you saying that only the snow is worth anything from the Jason Snow Globes I put together?

Hariston fixes the cowboy hat and nods again and again and again and again. He pulls his cell phone out and starts frantically scrolling through his contacts. He walks from behind the table and looks at Jake.

Jake Farley: Where are you going?

Stefan Hariston: IAMGOINGTOGOFINDSOMECUSTOMERSANDMAYBEBUTPROBABLYAMGOINGTOGOBREAKBOTTLESINANALLEYWAYANDTHENSTEALDAYTONASJETSKIYEHAAAAAAAA!

Stefan walks away and Jake looks on bewildered. He lets out a big sigh and shrugs as he looks back down at the box of Coke Globes.

Jake Farley: Can I take the lego wrestlers then?

Several fans begin to walk over to the IHOPs Table and Jake clams himself as the scene cuts to get ready for the next match between two walls that must not be broken.

We’re back to ringside with both of our competitors already in the ring, a few notes of Solid Space’s “A Darkness In My Soul” facing as Vince Howard makes the introductions.

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

Guess what the crowd says here.

Go on, guess. I dare you.

Vince Howard: Already in the ring to my right, hailing from Houston, Texas, and weighing in tonight at three-hundred sixty-nine pounds…

Richard Parker: Ha! He said the sex number!

Nick Stuart: Oh, so this is going to be one of those nights. Got it.

Vince Howard: He represents the eGG Bandits… Beautiful… Bobby… DEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAN!!!

A pause while the crowd does their thing.

Vince Howard: And his opponent, fighting out of Mount Perdition, Gallifrey and weighing at one-hundred thirty-five pounds. She is the former Intense Champion… Annaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa DAN-ielllllllllllllllllllllllss!!!

The crowd doesn’t get long to react before the bell interjects itself. Pretty rude, bell. Pretty rude.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: That’s our opening bell, and GOOD LORD!

Oh, I’m sorry. Did you think we were wasting time with circling, or lock-ups? Maybe some light grappling to feel each other out, eh? Nope. On one side of the ring we have size. Bobby Dean, a man who outweighs his opponent by an order of magnitude. On the other, Anna Daniels and that crazy Time Lord speed. So as soon as that bell rings it’s off to the goddamn races, as Daniels charges the length of the ring and plants the sole of her foot square in Bobby’s mush.

For the record, that means his face. Felt the need to clarify there because a lot of Bobby is technically mush. 80% mush by volume, which is still less mush than me. Hashtag mushybois.

Nick Stuart: Yakuza kick from Anna Daniels connects, and Bobby is in trouble early on!

Richard Parker: And so are the rest of us. If he falls out of the ring, it’s going to cause an earthquake and – op’! There he goes.

Bobby staggers back, loses his balance, and falls between the ropes. He lands on the ring apron, and slowly rolls to the arena floor. There is no earthquake, just a soft thump.

Nick Stuart: Daniels looking to join Bobby outside the ring.

Richard Parker: Which is dumb. She’s already kicked him right in the brains. The best thing to do would be to stay inside and let the referee practice her math.

Nick Stuart: The Muse out on the ring floor, and… Wait, what about brains?

Richard Parker: It’s like that old saying, Nick – the fastest way to a man’s brains is through his face.

Nick Stuart: I have literally never heard this before in my life.

Richard Parker: What can I say. I’m a cultured man of letters. I have ones from my mom, my grandmother, and then a whole box of weirdo fanfiction I got from strangers.

Nick Stuart: That’s not what that m… You know what, sure. Fine.

Some things happened while that brief exchange was taking place, which will now be recapped. First, Ashley Barlow started her count, but didn’t get very far before Anna Daniels moved past her to join the Beautiful Man from Honalee on the outside. By the time both of her feet touched the floor, Bobby was already standing and had a look of white hot murder in his eyes that usually comes with driving an extra ten minutes to go to the good Wendy’s, only to learn that their Frosty machine is broken. Again.

Because despite the fact that he’s often seen as kind of a lovable goof, a guy who leans into the jokes about his weight, and may be a bit of a hornball, he promised pain. He promised Anna Daniels that he was going to hurt her.

All this is to say that while Nick was trying to figure out why on earth Richard thought “a man of letters” meant “guy who still writes with a pen,” Bobby picked up Daniels around the waist and rammed her into the ring post. Then he turned around, ran the length of the ring, and rammed her into the other post.

Okay, we are now up to speed.

Nick Stuart: Anna Daniels struck first, but Bobby Dean has been exerting his will outside the ring ever since! He’s moving like a man with a mission.

Richard Parker: Great band, but there’s five members, and he’s just one guy.

Nick Stuart: What?

Richard Parker: Man With A Mission. You’ve never heard of them?

Bobby, still with a now-limp Anna Daniels in a waistlock, sets her on the ring apron and rolls her under the bottom rope. Ashley Barlow has given up counting, and is now just yelling at Bobby to get back in the ring.

Nick Stuart: …WHAT?

Richard Parker: “Raise Your Flag”? No? Nothing? Bah!

Nick Stuart: I can’t with you tonight.

Richard Parker: Feel like you say that every week, tee-bee-haitch.

Beautiful Bobby rolls into the ring, lines up his shot, and delivers an elbow drop across the sternum. He makes the cover.

ONE

TWO

Nick Stuart: Anna Daniels with the shoulder up!

Bobby looks down at his opponent, and then heads for the ropes to build up some momentum. He charges across the ring and attempts a seated senton.

Nick Stuart: Bobby looking to put his size advantage to work, but Anna Daniels got both knees up!

Richard Parker: I hope they have a bag of frozen peas on stand-by on the Octane. I think Bob’s going to need it after that.

Bobby doesn’t fall, and instead starts moving around the ring on the wobbly legs. You know, the way a man does when he’s just dropped all of his body weight dick-first on someone’s knees. This gives Anna time to get back to her feet and lay into the biggest Bandit with a series of forearms. Bobby staggers towards the corner, trying to get some breathing room and allow his freshly-bruised groin the chance to recover, but Daniels won’t allow it. She sprints in, bounds up to the second turnbuckle, and lands a Return Crush-style kick to her opponent.

Nick Stuart: Some of that speed back on display! The Time Lord doing her best to smother Bobby Dean.

Richard Parker: Oh, I’m sure that word choice isn’t going to generate some unfortunate art.

Nick Stuart: What’d I say?

Richard Parker: There’s a whole section of the internet dedicated to smothering, Nick. Not that I would know. My search history is as pristine as the driven snow. Why are we driving the snow? Where are we driving it to? No idea, but goddammit it’s clean.

Again, Bobby doesn’t fall. One of the advantages his size offers is that his center of gravity prevents him from toppling over. Knowing she’s not going to be able to leverage much in the way of grapple-based offense against a man three times her size, she continues to unload a volley of strikes.

Nick Stuart: Tremendous resilience by the eGG Bandit on display here, as Bobby Dean will not go down!

Richard Parker: Well I just feel bad for his partner, then.

A little decorum, Richard, if you don’t mind.

Richard Parker: Unrelated question, but if you were to ship these two…

Nick Stuart: Oh, good god, Richard.

Richard Parker: Like, what would you name them? Bonana? Deaniels? Oh! I’ve got it! Egg Timer!

Anna measures Bobby, who’s trying to brush the cobwebs away. She charges and lands a running high knee. This staggers Bob, who doesn’t get his defenses up in time to block a bicycle knee follow-up.

Nick Stuart: Can’t we just call this match? Please? Is that a thing we can do?

Richard Parker: Yeah yeah, sure. But before we do that…

Nick Stuart: (sigh) You’re going to say it regardless, aren’t you?

The second knee finally takes Bobby to the ground, and Daniels connects with a springboard shooting star knee drop. This is where Nick would announce it as the Retrograde Am-knee-sia, but that can only happen if Richard would shut his damn mouth for a minute.

Richard Parker: Would you believe me if I told you I just learned what ‘ship’ meant? It’s short for ‘relationship’. Was news to me!

Nick Stuart: What did you think it meant?

Richard Parker: Boat.

The sigh that comes off of the announce desk could power a wind farm.

Nick Stuart: Daniels with a cover. Could this be the end?

ONE!

Well you’ve just gone and cursed it, Nick. Because now everyone knows this isn’t the end!

TWO!

See? Bobby just kicked out. Way to jinx it, my guy.

Bobby uses the ropes to pull himself up, but Daniels is determined to capitalize on his still-weakened state. Perhaps a judicious application of physics is in order. She grabs one arm from behind, and leaps to throw her legs around the other in an attempt to do a little extra damage with a crucifix driver, but Bobby is just too heavy to take over. Instead, he leaps and throws his legs out, turning the move into a version of the Samoan drop, and crushing the smaller Daniels beneath him.

There’s no pinfall attempt, as Bobby is still a bit dazed from the barrage of knees. Anna is slowly moving towards the ropes as she tries to catch her breath. She pulls herself up just in time to see a freight train barreling down on her.

Richard Parker: Buckle-up, Nick, we’re about to watch a disaster unfold!

Bobby lunges with a clothesline, and Anna turns just in time to see it coming but fast enough to do anything about it. The momentum takes both competitors over the top rope and to the arena floor.

Ashley Barlow runs over to the ropes to make sure that both Daniels and Dean are okay, and once she’s satisfied with her check there is only one option available to her.

ONE

TWO

Richard Parker: Can we get the truck to show that again? Preferably in slow-motion?

The fans watching on the ACE Network will see a picture-in-picture display, complete with a slow motion replay as requested.

THREE

Richard Parker: Cool. Now do it again and play Chariots Of Fire.

This does not happen.

FOUR

Nick Stuart: Both Bobby Dean and Anna Daniels are still down on the arena floor. I’m not sure which of them took the worst of that fall.

Richard Parker: Well one of them is naturally padded, so I think we can just ask our dear friend Doctor Science the answer to that one.

Nick Stuart: That is not a person.

FIVE

There is finally some stirring outside the ring. Bobby rolls onto his chest and tries to get his hands underneath him. Anna Daniels has scooted back against the guardrail and is using it try and push herself up.

SIX

There’s a wicked grin on her face as she realizes that Bobby Dean has just put himself in prime punting position.

SEVEN

Richard Parker: Oh! Oh! Nick! Look! I think we’re about to see another disaster!

Nick Stuart: Anna Daniels on her feet first. Anna charging in…

EIGHT

A thing about Bobby Dean is that for a man his size he has some remarkable agility. He bounds to his feet just as Daniels is drawing her leg back to punt, takes a big step forward of his own, and lands a Vader-style body block on his opponent that puts both of them back to the floor.

NINE

Nick Stuart: Countered!! Bobby Dean saw the punt coming and pulled out a last minute counter! Ashley Barlow… there’s the bell!

TEN!

DING DING DING

Nick Stuart: This one is over, folks.

Vince Howard: The result of this match is… a double-countout!

Behold! The crowd is here to voice their displeasure at the outcome.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: Fans, it looks like we’re not crowning a winner here tonight, but I wouldn’t be surprised to see this one run back sometime in the future.

We then cut backstage.

We cut to the back after the Bobby Dean-Anna Daniels matchup. Where are we? A mostly empty locker room; empty save for everyone’s favorite wrestler from Pittsburgh named RIA… RIA. She’s stretching prior to her match with “PRIME’s Worst Nightmare” Arthur Pleasant. While sitting on the ground, working out her groin muscles, RIA notices she’s not alone.

“Ahem…”

Standing not far off, clad in a black, green, and silver tracksuit, is “the Emerald Apex” Kerry Kuroyama. She knows he’s there. She glanced at him. That doesn’t mean she’ll fully acknowledge him, though.

RIA: Yes?

Kerry Kuroyama: So look, they’re expecting me over in the Argyle right now, which is to say I don’t have a lot of time. But for what it’s worth…

He bites his lip, mustering up all of his will to push out the following words.

Kerry Kuroyama: …I wanted to apologize. For my behavior on Jabber. I was drying out, in a rough place, and lashed out. Nothing more.

Climbing to her feet, RIA then makes her way over to the well build man, a fact even the tracksuit can’t hide. She tilts her head, her gaze focused on his face.

RIA: I mean, it’s cool and all, but… Being pissy towards me ain’t gonna help. Like, you wanna talk, vent or whatever? I’m your chick. You wanna displace your pain and anger? Find a wall. Miss me with that shit.

Kuroyama narrows his eyes.

Kerry Kuroyama: Like I said, I was in a rough place. And while I appreciate the support, I didn’t ask for your advice. But please don’t mistake that for “displacing” anything. If I was angry at you, then you’d know it. Be as it may, I have a fight to get to. Come to think of it, don’t you also?

RIA: Yep, got ol’ monster mouth himself, Arty Pleasant.

Kerry Kuroyama: Right… and how many times have you and the wolfman fought now?

RIA: This’ll be our second time.

Kerry Kuroyama: And how many times have you actually beaten him?

RIA: I haven’t. Yet. Just wait, big boy, you’ll see.

Kerry nods.

Kerry Kuroyama: I guess we will. Although, word of advice: maybe before you set your sights on the apex, you should find a way to shake that monkey off your back.

RIA rolls her eyes before spitting on the floor, off to the side.

RIA: Ya know, gettin’ kinda tired of being constantly disrespected. Gamble. Rose. Kael. Dick. Now you. Maybe I ain’t looking to hit an apex? Maybe… Imma bring you down to my level?

A smirk of arrogance spreads across the face of Seattle’s BEAST. He’s hardly intimidated.

Kerry Kuroyama: I’m not above stepping down to any level, Cotton Candy. So long as it’s worth the fight. But if you aren’t looking to climb, then you clearly aren’t worth my time.

He begins to walk away…

RIA: Bitch, don’t question my effort! When I say I’ll drag you down, I’ll be happy to have you kicking and screaming in the process. I got no problems meeting your jacked ass halfway!

The comment causes pause in Kuroyama. RIA steps forward, looking up at her larger company.

RIA: You might find out that ‘Cotton Candy’ here ain’t that fuckin’ soft!

Kerry ponders for a moment… before shaking his head and letting out a sigh.

Kerry Kuroyama: Trifling…

He pushes by the Psychoberry and exits the locker room, likely headed for the ring.

RIA: That dude needs to get laid…

We cut elsewhere backstage.

And we cut backstage in O2 Arena, more specifically craft services.  Standing in front of the table of ethnic delicacies such as Scotch eggs, marmite pastries, sausage rolls, bangers and mash, mushy peas — yes, mushy peas….why??? — sporting a magenta pinstripe double breasted suit with a teal dress shirt, and a very, very familiar black and teal mask is the man formerly known as Mortimer Kjedelig.

Morty:  Catering.  My archenemy.

Mortimer’s reflection on past moments, none of which are good, that occurred at craft services is interrupted by the familiar voice of Tony Gamble associate Johnnie Newsman.

Johnnie Newsman: My eyes must be lying to my face! Mortimer!

Morty: Heeeeeere’s Johnny!

Johnnie Newsman: Super excited to see you again! What have you been up to?

Morty: Johnnie. I ain’t gonna lie. I was on a journey of self-discovery. I was mixed up before. All fucked up in the head. So I used that time away to transmorphosize into the Magenta Megastar you see today.

Johnnie Newsman: That is awesome nickname.

Morty: I don’t even need this mask no more.

Morty proceeds to remove his mask revealing his true face to the amazement of Johnnie Newsman.

Morty: This fuckin’ thing was just me, hidin’ who I was…who I was tryin’ to avoid…what I was runnin’ from….I was tryin’ to be somethin’ I wasn’t. And did you know that wearin’ this mask, I was inadvertently perpetratin’ the mispronunciation of an entire culture of luchadores? That was shockin’ to me. I didn’t wanna be some fugazi Luchadore like the Anglo Luchadore….and he’s as fugazi as they come….that fuckin’ prick. If you knew what I knew about him, you’d shit yourself.

Johnnie Newsman: Don’t tell me then. These are new pants. I bought from Burberry store.

Morty: I’m a new man, Johnnie!

Johnnie Newsman: So is it Mortimer…. Knightingale…. Mortgomery Byrnes…..?

Morty: Fuck that new name shit. I can’t escape the Morty pseudoname, I get that.  People are gonna call me that no matter what.  But I am Zapp, short for Zappo, Zappo Rowan Scatino. My true name.

Johnnie Newsman: Okay….

Morty: Now, I want you to go tell Tony I wanna have a sit down. Him an’ me. Got that? I have a score to settle with this caterin’ table.

Johnnie Newsman: Are you going to have the spotted dick?

Morty: Fuckin’ pervy named food. I ain’t eatin’ anything that sounds like it was named after Hayes Hanlon’s cock.

Johnnie Newsman: Have so you seen—

Morty: Here….

Zapp “Morty” Scatino pulls out a wad of cash, slips a few bills in Johnnie’s shirt pocket and dismissively waves him off and places his mask in his pocket.

Morty: …now go, get outta here.

Johnnie looks at the cash, smiles wide, and hurries off.  Before the Magenta Megastar can continue his catering nostalgia, he sees a familiar face approach.

Morty: There he is….The Great Coral Queef!

Coral Avalon had been minding his own business in catering, but he hears “Morty”’s voice and looks around confused. Evidently, he recognizes his voice, but can’t seem to find the guy wearing the mask that he’d been accustomed to seeing over the past two years. So it takes him a few moments to process who’d just called him “the Great Coral Queef”.

Coral Avalon: Oh. It’s you, Mort.

The Alias champion approaches “Morty” with a sandwich on a plate in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, keeping a cautious distance from him. After all, the last time they met had ended with Coral being left lying.

Coral Avalon: I almost didn’t recognize you without the mask. So, hey, of all the people you could jump to make your grand return, you picked me! And I’d be over here asking “why”, but… I’ve got about ten pounds of gold that used to belong to you about this time last year, and I’m thinking that’s at least a start.

He gestures towards “Morty” with the sandwich hand.

Coral Avalon: Am I right?

Morty: Well, ain’t you a cocky little prick.  Yeah, one could make that leap since I was the inaugurable ALIAS Champion that I would intersect myself into your match with, uh, who gives a fuck. And maybe, just maybe there’s a kernel of truth to that. And maybe I just don’t like the cut of your jig.

Zapp “Morty” Scatino pauses for a moment, places one hand into this pocket, and sneers slightly.

Morty: Or maybe, it ain’t about you at all. Maybe what I did, drivin’ that crownless fuckin’ noggin of yours into the ground, was just a message for a certain dipshit wearin’ a mask.

Coral Avalon: Oh. Which one? There’s thre– sorry, two of those running around right now.

Avalon smiles.

Coral Avalon: Quite frankly, Mort, I don’t really care why you attacked me or who you’re sending a message to, just that you’re trying to use me as some carrier pigeon. I’m no one’s pigeon.

There is an awkward pause.

Coral Avalon: …Okay, I admit that sounded better in my head than when I said it.

Coral gestures with his sandwich, for the lack of a hand free to start pointing fingers.

Coral Avalon: So, let me make a proposal to you, then, uh… Rowan. Paris. Me. You. Alias Championship. Usual rules. If you want to send a message, that’s the place to do it. Just don’t be surprised if I make you send a very different message by the end of it.

Zapp “Morty” Scatino drops his head and begins shaking it.

Morty: This fuckin’ guy.

Morty proceeds to burst out laughing.

Morty: THIS FUCKIN’ GUY!!!

Morty proceeds to ruffle Coral’s hair with his free hand before lightly, and one could almost say affectionately, slaps Coral’s cheek.

Morty: You got balls, I’ll give ya that. In fact, after I beat you for the ALIAS Championship maybe we can do a little business in the future. And ya know what?  The night before you defend your ALIAS Championship, go out, take that hot piece of ass you call a wife and have a good time, on me.

Morty pulls out his wad of cash and places a stack of fifties in Coral’s hand.

Coral just shrugs and places cash in his pocket non-chalantly, without breaking eye contact with Mort.

Coral Avalon: Huh. That’s new. Never gotten a down payment from my opponent before beating all of the blood out of their body in fifteen minutes or less before. Pretty confident of you, I gotta say.

Coral gives Mort a friendly tap on the shoulder.

Coral Avalon: Well, you know what? I’ll actually take your advice, thanks. Annie deserves a nice time in Paris after all of the mess with the Octane, anyway. And then in two weeks, I can walk into that ring with a clear conscience and beat your ass through the Arc de Triomphe.

He winks at Mort, and taps his wrist as he backs out of the shot.

Coral Avalon: Tick tock. See you in Paris.

Zapp/Morty continues to smile as Coral exits the frame, pulling out his mask. The smile fades and he looks on, expressionless, squeezing the Morty mask in his hand. He speaks to one in particular.

Morty:  Fuckin’ guy.

We cut elsewhere.

Scott Hunter is standing in front of a bank of lockers. He is in black and white, as in the old timey movies of yore. That is Scott’s favorite time period. Yore. It is also what he screams out when he is cosplaying a Viking at the Renaissance Festival.

Scott is defiant today. He is defiant and serious. He is defiant, serious and obstinate. He is defiant, serious, obstinate and many other words that mean roughly the same thing.

Scott Hunter: LISTEN HERE!!

Scott points a finger at you threateningly.

Scott Hunter: I am here for one reason and one reason only, and that is to defend the honor of my very best friend, the undefeated Mayor of Emerald City, the Specific Pacific, the Tsultan of Tsunamis, Kerry Edward Norman Kuroyama! I was not supposed to tell you his middle name but that ship has sailed.

Scott’s eyes wander as he thinks about how he will be able to explain this to his friend. BUT THEN…

He straightens up and points at you again, very seriously, defiantly and obstinately.

Scott Hunter: Now I have heard some very disturbing rumors lately. There are some people who are claiming that Kerry Kuroyama has lost some matches recently when that could not be further from the truth. He is the Pacific Rim’s most dangerous warrior! He always gets the job done. Do you hear me??? No one does a Pacific Rim job like Kerry Kuroyama. He is not a loser, because I am legally not allowed to hang out with losers. That is proof that is easily submitted as evidence in a civil lawsuit, so I accept your apology. BUT I DO NOT FORGIVE!!

Scott’s finger shakes in fury.

Scott Hunter: This week he will be taking on the very overrated Harley Walker. This person is very dumb because if you have a Harley you should not be walking. You should be riding it while wearing leather and probably have a hot babe on the seat behind you. Does this Harley Walker character have any hot babes?? I haven’t seen a single one! So that proves my point and you can look that up.

Scott nods, satisfied.

Scott Hunter: Good. Now that we have established that Kerry Kuroyama is a winner and is the best wrestler in the world forever, I would like to discuss some other issues I have been hearing backstage at the shows lately. These things were overheard just walking around and not by me placing a glass up to various dressing room doors and listening for any gossip. That would be wrong.

Scott abruptly walks off screen. After a moment, he returns with a plush doll. It looks like a wrestler but it is mangled beyond recognition.

Scott Hunter: This is what happens to anyone who threatens any of my Vae Victis brothers and sister. This includes Oscar Burns who has occasionally threatened us even though we are on the same team. But this especially and particularly refers to Harley Walker, the wrestler with a stupid face who will lose to Kerry Kuroyama this week, and who also played The Fonz on Happy Days. Eyyyyyyyy, pal. You may think you’re gonna win this week, but you are incorrectamundo, Mr. Kot-ter! That is from a different show. That is all I have to say tonight, and I will keep this short and sweet, but mostly short. By the holy name of Ron Howard, be ye forewarned, matey. Kerry Kuroyama will kill you.

Scott smiles and nods…

Scott Hunter: Happy National Hanging Out Day. So long.

…and leaves. And so do we. To the ring.

Nick Stuart: This next match should be a fun one, partner. Two extremely dynamic competitors with something to prove coming out of Culture Shock!

Richard Parker: Harley Walker failed to capture the Alias title from Coral Avalon, and Kerry Kuroyama’s team was eliminated second at War Games…needless to say, they’re both itching to make a statement tonight and build back some momentum!

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

ONE FALL!

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.

Vince Howard: Introducing first… scooting his way to the ring at this time, he is the self proclaimed Lightning Boy, weighing in tonight at two hundred and thirteen pounds… HARLEY… WALKERRRRRRRRR!

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. 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.

Vince Howard: Now entering the ring his opponent… 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. Kuroyama’s fist pierces the air.

Nick Stuart: Lightning Boy versus The Pacific Blitzkrieg – let’s get it on!

Referee Jimmy Turnbull signals for the bell!

DING DING

Kuroyama and Walker circle around the edge of the ring for a moment – Harley looking to swiftly duck in, Kerry deftly playing defense, picking his spot. Harley pushes the pace a bit more and a bit more, trying to force the issue – finally, they lock up! It’s aggressive, but clean, and while Harley looks to continue to press, Kerry is able to counter transition into a side headlock.

Kuroyama throws a short kick into Walker’s near leg, and then another, which drops Walker to a knee. Kuroyama cinches in the side headlock tightly and then presses on Walker’s calf with his knee. He looks to quickly transition the headlock into something like a Dragon Sleeper, but before he can lock it in, Harley slips out, reaches, and hip tosses Kerry towards the middle of the ring.

Kerry’s quick to his feet and he re-engages Harley in a collar-and-elbow, using his size advantage to push his opponent into a corner. He delivers an open-palm slap to Harley, which rattles the Lightning Boy! Walker throws a haymaker in retaliation – Kerry catches it – Japanese armdrag! Walker pops back to his feet – another Japanese armdrag from the Emerald Apex! He goes for a third – Walker blocks it, and with a heave, hoists Kuroyama onto his shoulders in a Fireman’s Carry!

Kuroyama wriggles and throws elbows into the side of Walker’s head to free himself before locking his fingers in a Full Nelson – Snap Dragon Suplex! He goes for a cover!

ONE!

Walker reverses into a pinfall attempt of his own!

ONE!

Kerry transitions into a crucifix pin!

ONE!

TWO!

Walker kicks out, using his momentum to roll to his feet! Double stomp to Kerry’s lower back! Walker runs to the ropes and uses the middle rope as a springboard – he flies across the ring – KERRY COUNTERS WITH A MIDAIR SQUALL LINE LARIAT! Walker is down and Kuroyama goes for the cover!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

The competitors separate from each other as Jimmy Turnbull confirms with an annoyed Kerry, yes, that was just a two. The London crowd sounds their approval for the action so far as Harley rolls away to gain even more space.

Nick Stuart: What an intense back-and-forth we’re seeing in the early goings, partner!

Richard Parker: Early goings? The way I see it, Seattle’s Best is almost finished tying a bow on this thing!

As if on cue, Lightning Boy charges at Kuroyama and drills him with a running spear!

Richard Parker: NO!

Nick Stuart: Airbag Not Included!

Walker follows it up with some stiff elbow shots targeting Kuroyama’s left shoulder, and after the fifth or sixth strike, he wrenches at his left wrist in a cross armbreaker attempt. Kuroyama, ever the tactician, locks his fingers together to prevent his left arm from fully extending (or worse, hyperextending). It’s a struggle on the mat for control for a bit as the two roll around, Harley looking for the armbreaker and Kerry resisting, until Kerry deftly turns his hips, plants one foot and then the other, STANDS, LIFTS!

One arm powerbomb to Harley Walker!

KK staggers back, recalibrating his strategy and catching his breath for a small moment before marching back in. He grabs each arm of the downed stuntman and locks in the double underhooks.

Nick Stuart: Kuroyama may be looking for the Black Tahoma Breaker here!

Kerry goes for the lift – but Walker uses his feet to tangle with Kuroyama’s, blocking the attempt! Kerry goes for it again – another block! Walker frees his arms and sends Kuroyama airborn with a HUGE back body drop! Kuroyama scrambles to his feet but is met with a knife edge chop, and another!

Hip toss from Walker! Another hip toss!

He’s got the Fireman’s Carry now, and Kerry is unable to break free! Walker sets his feet, pushes up, and as Kerry’s momentum returns to earth – SHOULDER JAWBREAKER TO KUROYAMA! He’s somehow still on his feet, but completely dazed!

Walker sees his opening. He grabs Kerry by the head and brings him to the corner. Maintaining head control, he sprints across the ring…

POWWWWW

WALKER SPLATS KUROYAMA TO THE MAT WITH THE “CANONBALL RUN” BULLDOG!

He’s fired up now and pumps up the London crowd, who love to see the enthusiasm.

Richard Parker: Get up, Kerry, get UP!

Nick Stuart: All the momentum on Harley Walker’s side now!

Lightning Boy climbs to the top turnbuckle, measures, and flies…

THE GUINESS RECORD BREAKER…

…

NO! Kuroyama rolls out of the way in time! Walker somehow lands on his feet! Kuroyama goes for a sweepling leg kick, but Walker jumps over it! Walker goes for a standing moonsault – Kuroyama rolls out of the way again, but this time Walker lands belly-first onto the mat!

Kuroyama knows he needs to stop this bullet train NOW before he’s completely run over, and as if on instinct, he goes for a stepover toehold sleeper…and it’s locked in! Walker’s eyes bug out as Jimmy Turnbull checks for the submission!

Nick Stuart: The Cascadian Clutch is locked in! What a slick transition, and the flying stuntman is officially grounded!

Richard Parker: Good. Now PUT HIM TO SLEEP, KER-BEAR!

Nick Stuart: …Ker-Bear?

Richard Parker: If you had friends, you would understand!

Walker shakes his finger at Turnbull when he’s asked if he wants to submit, but it’s clear that he’s in a bad spot. He looks in whatever limited directions his eyes can access while he’s trapped in this submission hold, and he realizes several bits of bad news.

One bad bit is that he’s in the dead center of the ring. Another is that he’s outweighed by about 40 pounds.

Another another, is that Kerry Kuroyama is a damn fine technician, and so the clock is ticking for him to come up with some escape plan before the sleeper hold does its job and he loses the conscious ability to answer Jimmy Turnbull’s call.

Walker lifts an arm up and he’s able to drag the 460+ combined pounds of fighter a bit closer to the ring ropes. Another lift, and now they’re making some progress.

“This simply will not do”, one imagines Kerry to be thinking. “This simply will not do at all.”

Kerry releases he Cascadian Clutch and drags Harley by the foot back to the middle of the ring. He stomps him in the gut once – but Harley catches the boot! He twists, and twists again! He’s trying to turn this into an ankle lock!

Kerry hops on his free leg and tries to avoid being taken down as Harley gets to his feet. Seeing no alternative, Kerry leaps high in the air for an enzuigiri – Harley ducks it! Kuroyama stumbles a bit from the miss, and Walker uses the opening to shoot behind, grab the waist, and SLAM Kuroyama to the mat with a German Suplex!

He bridges for the pin!

ONE!

TWO!

…

KICKOUT!

Both men groggily get to their feet. In a flash, Kuroyama leaps once again, this time connecting with an ear-ringing enzuigiri that sends Walker back a few paces! Harley shakes out the cobwebs and charges – AND CONNECTS WITH THE KEATON KICK! Both men crumple to the mat and the crowd is on their feet!

Nick Stuart: Both men are down! That was some desperate maneuvering by Harley Walker there, it looked like he was completely trapped until he found a way to break free and turn the tables!

Richard Parker: You call the tables turned, I say that KK is just getting started!

Nick Stuart: Both men have hit some heavy duty offense in this one and we can see the physical toll it’s starting to take – referee Jimmy Turnbull has already his ten count!

Richard Parker: How far is he?

Jimmy Turnbull: FOUR……..FIVE……..

Richard Parker: GET UP, KERRY!

Both men stir as the London crowd claps in unison, rallying these competitors back into the match.

Kerry’s just a hair quicker to his feet.

Sometimes, that’s all it takes.

He rushes over to the groggy Walker and hoists him up into an inverted powerbomb position. Walker’s eyes go wide for a moment, and he struggles to break out –

CRASHHHHHH

– but fails to do so, as Kuroyama connects with the Judgment Bolt Bomb!

He looks out into the sea of Londoners. “If I’m going to live with these people for the next few months,” one imagines him thinking, “I better show them I’m serious.”

Kerry is still feeling some effects of the earlier Keaton Kick, but he’s able to steady himself enough to go for the pumphandle…

Emerald…

Flowsion.

CRASHHHHHHHH!!

Nick Stuart: Kerry connects with the Kuroyama Driver I! This could be it here!

Kerry hooks both legs deeply!

ONE!

TWO!

…

…

Where’s the three?

Richard Parker: WHERE’S THE THREE???

Jimmy Turnbull has called off the pin count and points. Kerry’s heart sinks as he realizes what’s happened.

In his daze, he didn’t position himself perfectly. He’s not in the middle of the ring.

And when he pulled those legs extra tightly for the pinfall attempt, Harley Walker’s feet crossed the threshold of the ropes.

Turnbull begins the five count for Kerry to separate. The fans are thrilled that the match isn’t over, even if Kerry is upset with himself in the moment.

Harley Walker, out of desperation, rolls up Kerry!

It’s a Mousetrap pin, and it’s DEEP!

ONE!

TWO!

Richard Parker: NO!!!

…

…

THRE-KICKOUT BY KUROYAMA!!

Whatever hesitation there was a moment ago, whatever feelings of being sorry for himself that the positioning of the Kuroyama Driver I, they’ve been completely wiped away.

A moment of inspiration comes to him. He dives into Harley Walker, and locks in a nasty Triangle Choke.

Nick Stuart: Triangle Choke by Kerry Kuroyama – this one’s new!

Richard Parker: YEAH BABY! THAT TRAINING IN THE BATTLEARTS PIT IS COMING THROUGH!

Nick Stuart: He’s got it locked in on Harley in the center of the ring! He has nowhere to go!

Harley frantically flails for a moment, trying anything and everything to break free – but it’s no use. He’s trapped.

Jimmy Turnbull checks on Harley – he’s very close to calling this thing.

And that’s when something unexpected happens.

Two masked men hop the barricade in a hurry, slide beneath the bottom ropes, and bull rush the pair of wrestlers, throwing stomps and kicks into Kerry’s head and torso.

The England fanbase is disgusted, and Jimmy Turnbull’s role has very quickly changed from officiating a match to managing an emergency.

He first signals for the timekeeper.

DING DING DING

Boos rain down from the crowd as the two masked men continue laying the boots to Kuroyama. Harley Walker is coughing and gagging, grabbing at his throat and attempting to regain his breath. Jimmy Turnbull shouts instructions to Vince Howard and the timekeeper.

DING DING DING DING DING DING DING DING DING DING DING

Vince Howard: The winner of this match, as a result of a disqualification…”The Emerald Apex”! KERRYYYYYYY KUROYAMAAAAAAAA!

Nick Stuart: We need some help out here!

BOOOOOOOOORAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Richard Parker: What’s happening?

We switch to the entrance ramp to see why the crowd’s hate has turned to cheers. A man is sprinting down to the ring.

Nick Stuart: It’s Scott Hunter!

Indeed, the “inventor” of the Figure Four Leglock is hustling in a way we rarely see from him as he busts ass to get to the ring and save his friend. As Hunter slides into the ring beneath the bottom rope, the masked men bail. Harley, for his part, is still holding his throat and is now talking to Jimmy Turnbull.

As the chaos settles, “Blouses Blue” BY Konrad Oldmoney blasts through the arena speakers.

Nick Stuart: Kerry Kuroyama had this match won, but I don’t understand – who were those masked men? Why did they attack Kerry?

Richard Parker: I always knew that Harley Walker was a snake! I called it from the very beginning!

Nick Stuart: We’ll have to check the footage to confirm that one, but it looks like the dust has settled on this match. Kerry Kuroyama, victorious tonight at ReVival!

Richard Parker: I wish he would have choked the life out of Harley Walker instead of winning on a disqualification!

Nick Stuart: I imagine the Emerald Apex feels the same. We’re heading to commercial now, and then when we come back, to my understanding, we’re about to bear witness to…oh no. Is it really called the “Gluebration”?

Richard Parker: I bet they workshopped the hell out of that name.

We cut to commercial.

Coming back from the commercial, we’re in the ring. It’s a nice ring, PRIME standard. Very nice, very blue. The ring has been decorated since the end of the match between Harley Walker and Kerry Kuroyama. A gaudy red carpet has been unleashed upon the canvas. The corners had been decorated with large bushels of beautiful flowers, straight from the Farthington hedge maze (between burnings, of course). A podium in the shape of a glue bottle stood in the center of the ring. A banner hanging down reads, simply, “GLUEBRATION!!!!!”

Yes, with that exact number of exclamation points.

Nick Stuart: …Oh no.

Richard Parker: Oh, YES!

At ringside is a long table full of fine wine and fine highballs, because all of that is definitely encouraged here.

Standing behind that podium is the Master of Ceremonies for this most glorious and definitely not super-indulgent event, and that ceremonial master is none other than Joe Fontaine.

Standing there in his most bedazzled Friday best, such that the man is outright shimmering in the lights, the man helpfully nicknamed “Dick Puncher the Invincible” stands at the podium soaking in the adulation from the crowd. The fact that said adulation comes accompanied with boos goes unnoticed by Mr. the Invincible.

Joe Fontaine: LAAAAAAAAADIIIIIIESSSSS… and gentlemen.

He somehow generates even more boos for this, maybe it’s just the sound of his voice or the huge, goofy grin of a man very proud of what he’s accomplished despite the fact that he’s not actually the reason that the Glueboiz have accomplished anything.

Joe Fontaine: Welcome… to the GLUEBRATION!

The moment he says this word, he stretches out both of his arms and a burst of pyrotechnic fire comes out from all four corners. Oh yes, he’s being that kind of extra tonight.

Joe Fontaine: Folks! We’ve got a lot of great times lined up for you! Great glue times! I am your host and your Master of Ceremonies and your smooth and cool guy, Joe Fontaine! And tonight, I am here as a humble member of the Glueminati – winners of the most important WarGames match to have ever happened – to welcome YOUR Glueminati 2024!

He pumps his fist into the air, and soaks in the questionable reactions from the crowd. Questionable because there are some chants going on and not all of them are great for ya boi. Joe smiles obliviously as though he doesn’t understand any of them.

Joe Fontaine: First of all! Allow me to thank you all for your unending support for all things Glue! We could not prove that we’re the bestest and coolest and stickiest thing in all of pro wrestling without that support! Glue friends stick together, everyone!

He smiles, and reaches into the inside of his bedazzled jacket to produce some pieces of paper. The man’s got some introductions to get to, after all.

Joe Fontaine: Ladies and gentlemen! This man almost needs no introduction, but his sweet mustache will do a lot of introducing for him! He’s the first two-time Universal champion of the ReVival era! He’s the first 5-Star champion of the ReVival era! He is undefeated at Colossus! He is undefeated at life! He is undefeated in Mario Kart – believe me, I’ve tried! And for FOUR years running in the esteemed Commercial Gluepeal newsletter, he was voted PRIME’s Best Mustache! He is THE THRESHER OF HOOVES! THE EVENT HORIZON! FLAMING HOT, STRAIGHT OUT OF WEST LINN! GIVE IT UP! FOOOOORRRR!!! HAAAYYYYESSSS! HAAAAANLOOOOOOONNNNN!!!

“WHEN MY BACK’S TO THE WAAALLLL!!!”

I!!!

WILL!!!

CON!!!

QUER!!!

You know it, I know it. We all know “Daggers” by We Came As Romans.

We cut to the entry ramp, where Hayes Hanlon walks out in his business best. He is a man that is all business. He is also surrounded by two rows of six cheerleaders wearing white cheerleading outfits and hats that look like the orange caps you put on glue bottles. Meet the official “Glue Factory Cheer Squad”, by the way. They’re here now. They don’t have names because Cecilworth does not pay for them to have names.

Hanlon offers a lifted eyebrow at the sight of the cheer squad, but maintains a straight face as he strolls to the ring. His demeanor remains pretty flat as he steps through the ropes, and allows Joe Fontaine to continue his introductions.

Oh, and there’s a vending machine in the ring.

Richard Parker: How did that get there?

Would you believe that VENDBERGE rappelled down to the ring like a member of a SEAL Team? Because that’s what happened. Many witnesses hoped that it would land on Joe Fontaine, but no dice.

Joe continues, unfettered by vending machines or Hayes’ saunter around the ring.

Joe Fontaine: Next! You all know him! You all love him! He is none other than THE NECK COLLECTOR! …And not dicks, which was my bad and that was a year ago honestly, we all made a lot of mistakes around this time last year that we’ve since corrected! Anyhoodle! He is the man who conquered Ivan Stanislav at Colossus! The only man in the ReVival era to hold the Universal, 5-Star, and Intense championships! The French lizard assassin with the single-longest winning streak in PRIME history! Your French Phenom! YOUR PROTAGONIST! THE STRASBOURG STRANGLER! FLAAAAAAMBEERRRRRGGGGEEEEE!!!

oh, shit…

OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI
OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI
OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI
OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI

“ooh la la” by Run the Jewels feat. Greg Nice and DJ Premier hits the PA system, and the crowd goes… wild? They go wild. Wildness is happening. They be wilding in London, bro. The camera cuts to the entryway as the Glueerleaders eagerly await his arrival so that he can properly be greeted.

FLAMBERGE appears.

And by that, I mean he just kicks open VENDBERGE from the inside and walks out as cool and as calculated as though he’d planned this the whole time. Yes, including rappelling down to the ring while inside of a giant box filled with despair and angst and Bret’s.

Even Joe Fontaine is taken aback by this.

Joe Fontaine: Dude.

FLAMBERGE shrugs, and he goes over to one corner and reclines against the top rope. Do not disturb him. Not yet.

Joe Fontaine watches FLAMBERGE for a few moments. Hayes has taken to staring at VENDBERGE, as though wondering what it was doing there. We already went over this, Hayes, come on!

Joe turns his attention back to his work. He looks like he’s gearing up for the next big introduction. He has to read his card very carefully, not wanting to get this wrong. He turns to look at the camera. He’s ready.

Joe Fontaine: Introducing… SID!

The introduction is so quick that Sid Phillips is almost pushed out from the back against his will. If you’ve never heard “Dead Man’s Party” being played slightly off-key, congratulations! You’re now experiencing that. Sid walks through the crowd of Glue Factory cheerleaders who aren’t really doing a lot to cheer him on.

He’s very weirded out by this, but he walks down to the ring nevertheless to some cheers from the crowd who definitely like him better than the dipshit behind the podium.

Sid is almost to the ring before we cut back to Joe who goes right to the next introduction

Joe Fontaine: Next up! The Glueminati’s premiere welcoming committee into the Space Jam! The man who has clocked in so many hours of pool time! He can turn a man’s head into smoke in a flash if you step to him! You can find him in the Glue Factory and you can find him giving time to charity! HE IS… SILENT BUT DEADLY! HE IS… THE QUIET JUGGERNAUT! HE IS… HAAAAAAAANKKKKKK!!!

Nick Stuart: Hank is getting an introduction!?

Richard Parker: Hank is getting an introduction!

Hank emerges from the back, a rare smile on his face. He’s maybe never heard a crowd so excited to see him in his life. He walks past the cheerleaders that are cheering him more exuberantly than they ever did Sid, and makes his way into the ring to join FLAMBERGE, Hanlon, and Sid.

Joe flippantly shrugs behind the podium, not even giving half of an effort for the next introduction.

Joe Fontaine: Uh, Fabby, I guess?

The Fabulous Gold Mask doesn’t even get the courtesy of dignified entrance music. He gets shitty horns, like he’s coming out from a basement in the Director’s Cut of Resident Evil 1. A man in a golden mask and a cheap ash gray suit walks out to his new entrance music with the body language of a man who doesn’t want to be there for any of this.

Nick Stuart: What in the hell is this music?

Richard Parker: I don’t know, but turn it off!

They do not turn it off.

The cheerleaders all walk away from Fabby like he’s not even worth cheering for. A weak pyrotechnic goes off to his side and a small projectile flies up into the air and bounces off of the top of his head. Fabby almost turns to walk back the other way, but the cheerleaders insist on him completing his trek to the ring.

He’s not even all the way past the disgusted cheerleaders before Joe is on to the next introduction.

Joe Fontaine: Finally! The one you’ve ALLLLLLL been waiting for! The man who has made all that is Glue tick! The man who is INSURMOUNTABLE! SPECTACULAR! UNDEFEATABLE! If you’ve seen him taste defeat, it was probably a lie perpetrated by a long-running conspiracy of defeat-tasters trying to push their terrible defeat agenda! The greatest 5-Star Champion in history! HE IS… MR. FINISH LINE! HE IS… THE SUBMISSION TACTICIAN! Also, the Submission Beautician, Submission Mortician, and the Submission Aesthetican, but he rejected all of those… ANYWAY! HE IS… THE LEADER OF THE GLUEMINATI! HE! IS! CECILWOOOOOOOORTH! FAAAAARTHINGTON!!!!

Somehow, the cheerleaders have multiplied. There’s now dozens of them, forming two lines at the entrance ramp. And when Cecilworth walks out to I DON’T KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME’s “Choke”, the reaction of the crowd is cacophonous. It’s a wall of sound, and you’d better be a goddamn bulwark to withstand it.

Pyrotechnics blast off at the entryway as Cecilworth walks to the ring as casually as though he were just going to get a cup of coffee. If he was at all bothered by all of the noise, don’t worry, he’s fine. There’s a slight hint in Cecilworth’s eye that this level of home nation welcome has even caught him off guard but he would probably try and choke you out or break your arm if you dared to try and ask him about such matters.

As Cecilworth enters the ring, he gives a respectful nod to Hanlon, a smile to a chillin’ BERGE… he almost forgets Sid and Fabby, which is surprisingly difficult to do when one is wearing a bright gold mask, and the other is just… smouldering. Thankfully, a cheerful Hank guides Cecilworth to the two men, and Cecilworth acts like a visiting member of the royal family, giving them polite small talk and discussing the weather today. On his way to the podium, Cecilworth gives Joe a hearty pack on the back and I’m sure we’ll be hearing about that one for months.

Cecilworth steps up to the microphone but is stalled by the crowd’s roar of approval.

Richard Parker: This may be the happiest day of my life.

Nick Stuart: I feel so bad for your family right now.

Every time Cecilworth tries to lean in and start talking, the London Wall of Noise picks up. Is it cheers? Is it a bee invasion? It’s really impossible to work out at this point. As the crowd support their national hero, the rest of the Glue squad can’t help but crack smiles, or whatever the French equivalent of a smile is (“un sourire”, for the record). No one is entirely sure why Joe did this, but it beats being in a time loop, so might as well go along with it.

Farthington drops down and lifts a trophy atop the podium, which has been hastily inscribed to say “Best War Games Winners” on it, please ignore the small man bowling at the top of it, this is definitely an official PRIME trophy. The former 5 Star Champion wipes a very real tear from his eye as the crowd finally settles down enough to allow him to say some words.

Cecilworth Farthington: Wow, I just didn’t expect this at all. I don’t even have a speech ready. Best War Games Winner, wow, wow, wow, I’m just hearing about this for the first time.

He is definitely not only hearing about this for the first time.

Cecilworth Farthington: War Games is a team event I suppose, so we wouldn’t be out here tonight without the support of our friends, new and old. We have to of course give special recognition to FLAMBERGE, who choked out a confused child who had stumbled into another team and provided us with the BIG DUB.

It’s Britain, don’t question when they just broke into a “BIG DUB” chant for FLAMBERGE, just go for it.

Cecilworth Farthington: If it wasn’t for Anna Daniels providing some sort of scarf cocoon for FLAMBERGE, perhaps he would not have had the energy to defeat the large adult child, so, I say with all confidence, the scarf was clutch.

Yes, they are chanting that now.

Cecilworth Farthington: When you look back, it all seems clear, the result was already written before the bell rang. While our competition spent weeks upon weeks trying to get on the same page, while they tried to convince both themselves and the audience that they were dealing from strength… they missed what was happening right under their noses. A team of people labeled odd, outcasts, weirdos, miscreants, cripplers and Irish… bonding together like the banner of glue that they fought under. This win doesn’t happen without a team aligned, this doesn’t happen without Crunching and Punching, this doesn’t happen without hooves getting threshed… I liked when O’Neill punched Tsonda in the face because his face is too nice.

Joe feels the need to chime in here.

Joe Fontaine: His face being too nice means we couldn’t use glue to put it back together without O’Neill punching it for us, so it’s great that he provided a service.

Thank you, Joe.

Viewers are not sure how he got there (not to be confused with I Don’t Know How But They Found Me) – but FLAMBERGE is directly behind Cecilworth, his head practically perched upon the Financier’s shoulder. With a deft hand and a swaggy slither, the Frenchman displaces his English counterpart and steps in front of the microphone. This type of social interjection may throw off a well-balanced person, but seems perfectly acceptable for the Dangerous Weirdos.

FLAMBO clears his throat.

It’s a fresh hell of unexpected cheers.

…cheers? Him too? Huh. Guess Brexit only half-worked, because there’s broad Euro love across the board in PRIME’s UK fanbase.

The Frenchman does not wait for cheers to subside before leaning in and speaking in lush deep accented tones.

FLAMBERGE: Oooooooh la laaaaaaaaa….

It’s never been done before, but this is London. London is where chants are born.

AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI!

FLAMBO cracks a smile at this response. Pretty dope, tee bee aitch.

FLAMBERGE: Ahhh, c’est bon, oui London…what a time to Gluebrate!

What a dumb time to cheer, but the crowd sure does. Look at this shit.

FLAMBERGE: I am the thrilled at the result of the War Games match – it is the true testament to the majesty and to the mission of the Glueminati And Friends, our permanent mark on the roster that THIS faction represents the very pinnacle of the ReVival Era! But there is the problem.

The former “L’Uni” looks down at his belly, and then at Cecilworth’s. He throws a glance at Hayes’s for good measure. Weirdly, he chooses not to look at Joe or Sid or Fabby, but that’s probably nothing.

FLAMBERGE: We are not just missing the shiny prizes. I am missing necks. Critical necks. Necks that are the requirement for the larger, darker, and heavier permanent mark on this era of PRIME. I REQUIRE THESE NECKS. And bon, alors, I have the incredible news to share with you all. Joe, are you the prepared?

…”holy shit he called me Joe, don’t freak out, don’t freak out, exhale, don’t freak out”, one imagines running through the hamster wheel (or the factory of identical Joe clones) that occupies Joe Fontaine’s skull.

JOE! JOE! JOE! JOE! JOE! JOE! JOE! JOE!

…that isn’t helping Fontaine, and he doesn’t want that help anymore. He’s beaming at this.

The Lizard King leans in. It would be a whisper if there weren’t a microphone mere millimeters from his lips, but since there is, it’s a terrifying breathy rattle.

FLAMBERGE: …I’ve got one in mind.

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

FLAMBERGE: …the blondie bitch with the little piggy on his shoulder, or should I say the big pig who has the little Oinkers pig…the man who-

He would continue, he really would, but one fan has started a soccer chant that’s getting picked up on a hot mic.

HE’S BLOND! HE’S BIG! HE’S GOT A FUCKING PIG! NATE COLTOOOOOOON NATE COLTOOOOOOON

The fans around him laugh, and one or two of his buddies pick it up.

…and it’s picking up steam.

HE’S BLOND! HE’S BIG! HE’S GOT A FUCKING PIG! NATE COLTOOOOOOON NATE COLTOOOOOOON

Visible confusion from the Frenchman. But he’s not stopping anyone.

HE’S BLOND! HE’S BIG! HE’S GOT A FUCKING PIG! NATE COLTOOOOOOON NATE COLTOOOOOOON

FLAMBERGE: nnnnnNNNNNNNNATE COLTON!

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

FLAMBERGE: MY ONE REGRET FROM WAR GAMES, MY ONLY REGRET, IS THAT I HAD TO COLLECT THE NECK OF THIS CHILD MAN DABNEY DOUBLEDAY INSTEAD OF THE NECK OF THE MAN I HATE THE VERY MOST IN THIS WORRRRRRRRRLD! THE FACT THAT YOU ARE MY LAST LOSS BEFORE MY RECORD-SETTING REIGN OF TERROR EATS AT ME EACH DAY, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?? I HATE YOU, NATE COLTON! I HATE YOU DOWN TO YOUR GUTSSSSSSSSS!

HE’S BLOND! HE’S BIG! HE’S GOT A FUCKING PIG! NATE COLTOOOOOOON NATE COLTOOOOOOON

HE’S BLOND! HE’S BIG! HE’S GOT A FUCKING PIG! NATE COLTOOOOOOON NATE COLTOOOOOOON

FLAMBO’s getting visibly annoyed at this chant. For all the bizarre newfound love he’s receiving, he was not prepared for the UK PRIMEates to also enjoy the stylings of The New Diamond.

FLAMBERGE: I AM THE ACE OF PRIME, NATE COLTON! I AM THE ACE OF PRIME, AND LO AND BEHOLD, LOOK AT THE NUMBER TWO IN THE RANKS! I am so very sick of this fact, I am so very sick at the idea that you are held in nearly the same level of the esteem as the Lizard King! I DEMAND THE SATISFACTION, COLTON! I DEMAND IT! YOU AND ME, NATE COLTON! I’M COLLECTING THE DAMN NECK OF THE BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITCH!

He’s frothing at this point, and now pockets of fans are back at the AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! chant. The Gluebration has fully devolved. Joe puts an arm around his best friend in the whole wide world and gives him some encouraging pats on the chest as the Bearded Dragon stares widely into some void or another.

FLAMBERGE: OOH LA LA???

AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI! AH OUI OUI!

Cecilworth is at the podium again, so there’s now that happening.

Cecilworth Farthington: Thank you, my good, close, personal friend FLAMBERGE, proving that these fine folks of London do approve of a certain percentage of French. I think if there’s one thing that both of us fine nations can agree on is that from a scientific standpoint, researchers have proven that Nate Colton is THE MOST bitch and I hope that you get that big juicy neck to pay tribute to your precious neck god.

OOOOOOH WORSHIP THE NECK GOD.

OOOOOOH WORSHIP THE NECK GOD.

It is at this exact moment that Cecilworth notices the delicious highballs and wanders off the podium and towards the tasty and refreshing beverage. While Joe takes his position as Master of CereMONÉS once more, Farthington raises a glass to his sticky friends Hanlon and The BERGE.

Joe Fontaine is positively beaming, and he turns to Hayes Hanlon.

Joe Fontaine: Hayes, my man! Say a few words!

Hanlon replies with a half-assed salute to the arena, and steps through the rope and hops off the apron, landing on the floor and following Cecilworth to swipe a highball of his own before returning to the apron, hopping to take a seat on the edge. He lifts the drink to the crowd, just as half-assedly, before filtering a big swing through his mustache.

Joe Fontaine: Okay.

Cecilworth is now outside of the ring with his highball, Hank to his back, with the start of a Conga Line formation. Hank and Cecilworth have a jolly jaunt around the ringside area, encouraging fans at ringside to leap the barrier and join in. Joe Fontaine watches him do this, and announces to the fans.

Joe Fontaine: Okay, guys! Keep singing, and let’s dance all night!

With that, Joe exits the ring and joins the conga line. It looks like Fabby’s about to join him, but Joe turns and sharply tells him not to, and the conga line moves on without the man in the gold mask. The BERGE joins the line, but while his hips sway and his feet step to the beat, his face is locked in a scowl and he continues yelling into the ether, adding more and more I’s to Nate Colton’s bitch level. Hayes remains on the apron, polishing off his drink as the conga line dances.

With that, ReVival 46 moves on. Hopefully, someone will clean up this mess, because we can’t actually let these sticky lads dance all night.

We cut backstage, where a monitor reveals a slightly grainier version of what we just witnessed of the War Games winners…and a very angry Kenny Freeman reaching over to shut the monitor off with a grunt.

Kenny Freeman: Spare me.

We can see Randall Schwartz standing by, about to offer a hand of consolation on Kenny’s shoulder as he turns his attention to us before pressing on.

Kenny Freeman: I’ve had an awful lot of time to process what went down at Culture Shock. All that hard work and training for War Games, only for a beefy boi to come wandering in from the ocean and attack my Starshy Praporshchik?

Kenny lingers on that question, but not for long before continuing.

Kenny Freeman: I’m well, well aware of what STRONK is capable of…but I won’t stand for what he pulled. Coming after the leader of the Red Army means you’re coming after all of the Red Army…and the only way I can make up for the beating I took at War Games is to be the first line of defense. If I gotta put the Beast back into the Deep from whence he came, so be it!

Any sort of rant in which KENNY FREEMAN ADDRESSES HIS ENEMIES appears to be cut off by a knock at the locker room door, with Speedy Riggs peeking his head in.

Speedy Riggs: Fellas, you’re needed for something right away.

Randall and Kenny give a nod of acknowledgement as Speedy dips out of the scene. Randall makes his leave from the locker room, but Kenny turns his attention back to us first.

Kenny Freeman: Oh, and Jared ol’ pal? Don’t think I’m finished with you just yet. Being first eliminated meant I never got my sweet revenge, and I’m nothing if not a man of my word. I’ve got my eye on you and STRONK now, after what went down in War Games. Whether it’s physical size or ego, the bigger they are…the harder they fall.

With a sly wink, Kenny takes his leave as we cut away.

Somewhere deep in the backstage area, we find Jason Snow, seated, alone in street clothes, watching a monitor he has set up for himself on a chair. Presumably seeing himself on the screen, he leans back and looks around until he finds the approaching camera.

Voice: ‘Sup, and welcome back.

Turns out he wasn’t alone at all. Snow turns in sync with the widening shot to find The Anglo Luchador leaning up against the wall behind him. He’s clad in the red and blue lucha mask he wore at RAPIER, a logo t-shirt of said promotion, and a pair of jeans.

TAL: So, how does it feel to be pulled back out of the void and back into the game?

Snow gestures with his chin, presumably at TAL’s mask.

Jason Snow: I tried that look out. It didn’t take.

The Luchador laughs, probably dismissively, but he’ll never let on.

TAL: Yeah, it’s not for everyone, Ghost. But I mean, if it is for you, well, it might as well be grafted onto your face.

The Luchador strolls over to where the Original Villain is seated without taking one for himself.

TAL: Anyway, after my first match back after 15 years at ReVival 1, it felt like a car hit me. How’s life back on the road treating you?

Snow shrugs, eyeing TAL suspiciously.

Jason Snow: Schedule’s lighter than it used to be. There something you need from me?

The Luchador laughs again, this time more deeply.

TAL: Small talk not your thing? Of course it isn’t. Original Villain, always making plans. Which is why I think you’d be down if I had some plans for you for when we get to Portugal.

Snow leans back in his chair and waits.

TAL: I mean, Fred Dick is a mean nasty asshole, and he’d be a roadblock for anyone if his heart was in it, but I mean, I saw the match at Culture Shock. He was begging for a reason not to fight you. You didn’t come back here to take on guys who run from the grind. So, why not take on someone who runs towards it like it’s his job?

Jason Snow: And I suppose that someone is you? Running toward me?

TAL: But of course. I mean, I don’t know how much of this place you’ve binged in the ReVival era. Place has changed since the ReVolution days, some for the better, some for the worse. It’s not the same potter’s field you’re used to. Just look at what Max did to Big Hess a few weeks back.

Snow smiles a little bit.

Jason Snow: People don’t normally run toward me. There’s a reason for that.

TAL: I’m not like most people, and, believe me, I’m not dissing the ReVolution, far from it. Youngblood’s at the vanguard here. I respect tradition and history. And that’s why I’m gonna stop letting my battles come to me because someone else has an ax to grind and start chasing my own game. And that game is to step to perhaps the crown jewel of the Revolution.

The Luchador moves in closer to Snow. Snow seems to start to get up, but then simply crosses one leg over the other.

TAL: The Anglo Luchador, first Intense Champion of the ReVival. Jason Snow, the Universal Champion with the most successful defenses ever. Main event in Portugal, in the States, in Japan, anywhere. What do you say?

Jason Snow: You want a match?

The Lucahdor smirks.

TAL: Does a bear shit in the woods?

Jason Snow: This isn’t just any woods we’re talking about. This bear’s got a deathwish.

TAL: C’mon, man. I walked away from the closest wrestler in history to being a literal bear with minor scratches, having made him wrestle my match. Don’t patronize me, Ghost.

The Luchador’s demeanor starts to turn sour, but he composes himself, remembering he’s the one who wanted this.

TAL: You know what, how silly. I’m the one who came up on you. But I also don’t take you for the kind of guy who gives a shit about decorum so…

The Luchador trails off, expecting Snow to chime in. Snow just waits.

TAL: You know what, I get it. You got a lot on your mind, having just gotten back. The only people you know are your best frenemy, the boss, and Hess. I’ll give you as much time as…

Jason Snow: You need to realize something.

TAL waits.

Jason Snow: I’m here for three reasons. First and foremost, money. Secondly, titles. Last I checked, I’m currently on the about a sixteen year undefeated streak. And third, I may or may not be at the onset of a midlife crisis, and just in the mood to hurt some people again. I’m not sure where you fit into all this. But…

Snow pauses to finally stand up from his chair.

Jason Snow: I’m going to take down everyone PRIME puts in front of me. ReVolution, ReVival? Doesn’t matter to me. You put yourself on that list, and I’ll take you down too. Otherwise? Sorry. It’s just not worth my time.

The Luchador chuckles as he bows his head slightly to his right.

TAL: The ONE time you decide to monologue and it’s just to pour a ton of bullshit over the word “no.” Sorry I wasted my time.

This is where one might think the Luchador would leave, but he doesn’t. He stands there, looking at Jason Snow like he just ran over his mailbox.

Jason Snow: Yeah. You did. Nice mask though.

The Luchador shakes his head and walks off, muttering inaudibly under his breath. Snow sits back down, looks at the monitor, and then gestures for the camera man to move along. The camera cuts back to the ring to see if RIA can avoid catching rabies from Arthur Pleasant.

We return to the ring where Vince Howard is standing by.

Nick Stuart: Up next we have the Red Army’s own Arthur Pleasant up against RIA who found success against Rose at Culture Shock night one.

Richard Parker: Are you insinuating that Arthur Pleasant wasn’t successful?

Nick Stuart: Well, his team didn’t win.

Richard Parker: Yeah but HE didn’t get pinned did he, Stuart?

Nick Stuart: No, he didn’t but again, his team didn’t win.

Richard Parker: Sure, I guess if you want to look at it like that. You’re a real glass is half empty kind of guy, Stuart.

“Slum Planet” by 3Teeth and Mick Gordon charges over the crowd gathered at the 02 Arena. The lights dim as Arthur Pleasant makes his way out onto the stage. He is welcomed by a loud chorus of boos, the London crowd showering PRIME’s worst nightmare with hate.

Vince Howard: The following match is for one fall.. Introducing first..

Pleasant poses on the stage for a few moments before he makes his way to the ring. Surprisingly the Red Army soldier is unaccompanied to the ring by any of the Red Army.

Vince Howard: Standing at six foot, three inches and weighing two hundred and twenty five pounds… he is the WORST NIGHTMARE of PRIME!… AAAAAARTHUUUURRR PLEEAAAAAASANT!

Arthur reaches the ring and snakes his way beneath the bottom rope. Rising to his feet he moves toward the corner, climbing the ropes to pose with his fists in the air, an arrogant, toothy smile stretched across his face.

Nick Stuart: Surprisingly Arthur Pleasant finds himself out here alone, without any members of the Red Army present.

Richard Parker: My sources tell me that Alexei and Ivan want Pleasant to go out here and prove his value without help. Personally, I think Arthur has this in the bag.

“Slum Planet” fades out as Pleasant moves to his corner, referee Elvis Nixon checking him over for weapons.

The timeless classic “Time Warp” of Rocky Horror Picture Show fame quickly replaces Arthur’s entrance music as the entire arena comes alive. The words appear on the PRIME-view as the crowd sings along!

“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 tempo of the music picks up the lyrics disappear as the remaining highlighted letters spell out RIA further whipping the crowd into an excited fervor. Their antici…

…pation pays off as RIA appears on the stage wearing her usual outlandish outfit complete with crowd, glasses and leather jacket. Walking to the end of the ramp she almost looks surprised by the presence of the crowd. Pausing, she waves to everyone eliciting the crowd to wave back and cheer.

“LET’S DO THE TIME WARP AGAIN!”
“LET’S DO THE TIME WARP AGAIN!”

Doing a little spin in the middle of the ramp as the crowd sings along. In the ring Arthur Pleasant can be seen getting more and more impatient with how long the entrance seems to be taking.

“LET’S DO THE TIME WARP AGAIN!”
“LET’S DO THE TIME WARP AGAIN!”

As RIA nears the ring she quickly pauses, engaging in the TIME WARP dance as instructed by the musical number. Once completed she climbs up onto the apron, hands on her hips and proceeds with the shimmying.

Only to be blind sided by Arthur Pleasant!

Nick Stuart: Pleasant attacking RIA before she can even get into the ring!

Richard Parker: The bell hasn’t rung yet, Stuart, anything goes! RIA should have been paying more attention to her opponent than her dance moves!

The Psychoberry is knocked hard to the floor, crashing down onto the thin padding. The crowd immediately returns to it’s vitriolic response to Pleasant and his attack. “Time Warp” fades away as referee Elvis Nixon admonishes Arthur.

Ignoring the referee, Pleasant slips out of the ring and continues his attack on RIA, hammering her with punches and kicks. Yanking her up by her hair he sends her into the ring pole, smashing her back up against the solid steel. Roaring with a wicked clothesline.

CRACK!

Unfortunately for Pleasant, RIA moves out of the way at the last moment causing the Nightmare of PRIME to connect full force with the pole. Arthur screams in surprise and anger as he recoils, cradling his left arm that had struck the metal.

Nick Stuart: RIA was ready for Arthur there and I think he might have seriously hurt that arm.

Richard Parker: Not his proudest moment, perhaps, but Pleasant has been through a whole lot worse! The match hasn’t even started yet, so settle down!

RIA, having recovered, immediately takes advantage, returning the earlier gesture by grabbing Arthur’s hair and rolling him into the ring. She follows in behind him..

DING DING!

The match starts as Arthur slowly climbs back up to his feet, his left arm clutched against his waist, his face awash in a pained expression. The Psychoberry wastes no time as she charges forward and smashes Arthur in the back of the head with a double axe handle smash knocking him down to the mat.

Nick Stuart: Though Pleasant tried to get the drop on RIA before the start of the match, it looks like his miscalculation has been the Psychoberry’s gain.

Richard Parker: Come on, Arthur! You know Alexei and Ivan are watching! Don’t let them down!

She continues the attack as she drops an elbow across Arthur’s chest followed up by a lightning fast standing leg drop before she hooks the leg!

One!

Richard Parker: Yes! You see that? A one count, that’s the power of the Red Army!

Nick Stuart: Impressive kick out by Pleasant.

Kickout with authority from Pleasant however he immediately lets out another yell, clutching at his arm. RIA doesn’t let this slow her down, yanking Arthur to his feet before whipping him into the corner hard. She follows him with a running knee strike that catches Pleasant right beneath the knee, stunning him. She drags him out of the corner with a running bulldog, driving his head into the mat!

Richard Parker: This isn’t looking good for Pleasant, Stuart.

Nick Stuart: It’s looking very good for RIA right now!

Richard Parker: Such blatant favoritism!

Another quick cover by RIA!

One!

Two!

Kickout!

Nick Stuart: Pleasant with another kickout, this time a two.

Richard Parker: But still a kick out, come on, Arthur, do something!

Pleasant sneers as he pushes RIA off him, clamoring up to his feet. RIA charges back at Pleasant only to catch a finger to the eye, partially blinding her as she stumbles away.

Richard Parker: There, look, he listened to me, Nick!

Nick Stuart: He just cheated is what he did, Richard.

Richard Parker: The eye jab is a legitimate fighting technique, Stuart, taught on the mean streets of life.

Arthur connects with a stiff forearm to RIA’s jaw following it up with a stiff lariat against the ropes sending both himself and his opponent toppling over the top and to the ground! With a smug look on his face Arthur takes control of the match, using RIA’s hair to drag her up to her feet before whipping the smaller woman into the barricade. The Nightmare paint brushes RIA with a slap before rolling her back into the ring, taking his time now that he has the upper hand.

CRACK!

A mysterious figure flies over the barricade and, in a moment that would make Tonya Harding swoon, strikes Arthur in the knee with a metal pipe! Elvis Nixon is too busy checking on RIA to notice that Pleasant has been attacked!

Richard Parker: Sabotage! What the hell! Someone just attacked poor, innocent Arthur Pleasant and look! Referee Elvis Nixon is nowhere to be seen!

Nick Stuart: He’s attending to RIA who is still suffering the effects of Arthurs illegal tactics!

Richard Parker: Conspiracy, Stuart, CONSPIRACY!

It is revealed that Rose is the assailant who attacked Arthur! Pleasant clutches at his knee, glaring with hateful, murderous intent at Rose.

Richard Parker: Rose!? This is outrageous! She has no business being out here!

Nick Stuart: What are you talking about!? Arthur Pleasant has made Rose’s life miserable for the past few weeks and now Pleasant is getting his!

CRACK!

Rose follows up with a shot across Arthur’s head, snapping Pleasant’s head to the side at a sickening angle. Pleasant’s body crumbles limp as a bone fish. His assailant snatches him up, rolling him into the ring before ducking out of sight with neither RIA nor Elvis Nixon any the wiser.

Immediately seeing Arthur in the ring the Psychoberry charges forward, leaping into her combo knee attack!

Nick Stuart: Best Wine Ever!

Richard Parker: No! NO!

RIA hooks Pleasant’s leg!

One!

Two!

Three!

DING DING DING!

Vince Howard: Your winner.. The Technicolor Comforter of Wrestling.. RRRRIIIAAAAAAAA!

Inside the ring RIA celebrates, her hand held high!

Rose, her back pressed against the ringside barricade, gazes into the ring as Elvis Nixon triumphantly raises RIA’s arm. A faint smile tugs at her lips, a feeble attempt to conceal the searing pain from her broken nose, a souvenir from Culture Shock. Her eyes are covered by a pair of dark sunglasses. In her right hand, she clutches the cold, unforgiving steel pipe, symbolizing her unwavering determination to take Pleasant down, her resolve unshaken by the cost or the pain.

RIA, having won yet another match on her return, looks over at Rose. Rose tries to make sense of the look she is giving her, one mixed with frustration and joy. RIA’s victory was marred by unwanted outside interference, a move that Rose knows was not part of RIA’s original plan. Rose, despite her broken nose, feels a surge of empathy for RIA’s situation.

RIA lingers momentarily, looking at the daughter of the PRIME Hall of Famer before vacating the ring and making her way up the ramp. As she does, Pleasant starts to come to. Elvis also leaves the ring and is unaware that Arthur has made eye contact with Rose. An evil grin appears on his face, and Rose braces herself, her every muscle tense, for the imminent threat.

She holds the steel pipe out towards Pleasant and flicks it towards her, beckoning the monster to try if he dares. Arthur is more than game and begins slithering towards her, ignoring the throbbing pain radiating from his knee. As his hands touch the ropes, though, he is interrupted.

By the music of the Red Army.

“The Soviet National Anthem” blares as Ivan Stanislav, Kenny Freeman, Randall Schwartz, and Speedy Riggs pour out from the backstage area. Though she had joined them earlier, Arina Timofeyevna is nowhere to be seen. The stomping Red Army members ignore RIA as they trudge past her, Stanislav nearly blasting gouts of smoke from his flared nostrils.

By the time the rest of The Red Army are in the ring, Pleasant and Rose are dangerously close to yet another confrontation. Arthur is flanked by the Army, and Stanislav clasps his huge hand on Pleasant’s shoulder for him to stand down. Rose, on the outside of the ring, looks at the group gathered and can feel her threat level rising with each passing second. Freeman and Schwartz hang back, looking to signal to Rose there’s no intent there. Riggs tosses a microphone to Stanislav.

Ivan Stanislav: That is enough, Arthur.

Whatever sort of carnage Arthur thought would happen to Rose… doesn’t happen. Ivan looks down at the fiery leader of KING and simply nods his head. While tensions have increased between the two, Ivan tells her that she’s in no danger. Rose cautiously leaps over the barricade with the Londoners surrounding her and disappears from view. Meanwhile, with The Red Army alone in the ring, Stanislav keeps his hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

Ivan Stanislav: I was so busy dealing with Jonathan-Christopher Hall earlier, that I did not have chance to formally address War Games, Arthur, and with the rest of The Red Army. The thing is, War Games was a failure.

Ivan shakes his head.

Ivan Stanislav: We tried. Despite the team we had. Yes, we had outsiders like Rob Williams, Max Kael, Kerry Kuroyama, and Jonathan-Christopher Hall. But The Red Army was core of the team. The hammer to the anvil, if you will.

Ivan grunts.

Ivan Stanislav: The Red Army succeeds and fails together. And yes, we failed. We cannot accept the failure from the outsiders. They do not understand. We can only work with them as well as we can.

Arthur stares at Ivan with confusion, as The Russian Bear continues to speak, releasing his shoulder.

Ivan Stanislav: Truth is, I feel we have forged a fine relationship with Williams, maybe even Kael. Kuroyama will never extract himself from Lindsay Troy, I fear. And Jonathan-Christopher Hall? The Pretty Pink Red Army will always live in our hearts. But so, we have to ask ourselves question: Who failed within The Red Army?

The other members look around at each other, save for Stanislav and Riggs.

Ivan Stanislav: It certainly was not me. And comrade Kenny sacrificed himself many times to help the team, like a good collective member. Why, even Jonathan-Christopher did so, and he was ancillary member!

Ivan sighs.

Ivan Stanislav: But you, Arthur? Where were you? You were fighting as an individual. You were not helping the Army. You were not protecting the core of the Army. We all know that the only way War Games would be won is if I was present and fighting. You slipped up, Arthur.

Pleasant looks gobsmacked and he grabs at the microphone, pulling it from Ivan.

Arthur Pleasant: What’re you talking about, Ivan??

Stanislav snatches the mic back.

Ivan Stanislav: You failed us for the last time, Arthur. You have grown sloppy. Starting fights with those who we have no quarrel with, like Rose and Noble. Losing matches that should not be lost. And then, costing us the War Games match?

Pleasant leans in and yells with frustration.

Arthur Pleasant: I have been loyal to you, Ivan! War Games was chaos. I’d die for you, Ivan!! You’re my only friend in this entire.. ACK!!!

The chop block from Kenny Freeman takes Arthur down immediately. He howls in pain as his knee twists sickeningly and he collapses to his other knee. Ivan picks up the mic from the mat and bends down.

Ivan Stanislav: You are a friend no longer, Arthur…

Arthur does his best though, surging up as best he can to grab Stanislav’s double breasted crimson uniform. He tears it open, golden buttons flying this way and that as he tries to drag himself up to his feet. Beneath, Stanislav wears his wrestling gear. Arthur yells into the microphone. It’s not a yell of rage, but of pain and frustration.

Arthur Pleasant: I’m sorry Ivan, okay? If you think I deserve it, fine, I’ll do better next time.

Nick Stuart: There’s no love lost for Arthur Pleasant, folks, but still, it’s unfair to put the entire situation with War Games on one person.

Richard Parker: I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

Stanislav grabs Arthur by the throat and lifts him more onto his feet and snarls.

Ivan Stanislav: There are no ‘next times’ with The Red Army, Arthur.

The Stanislav forearm blasts him backwards into Kenny and Randall, who both snatch him up and hold his arms. Defenseless, Arthur kicks his legs and roars while Stanislav loads up his fist and swings for the fences. Unable to defend himself, Pleasant takes a thunderous fist the size of his head.

It rains blood as he falls out of the Masters’ hands and onto his back. He rolls over, wrapping his head in his arms while Stanislav points at Kenny and Randall.

Ivan Stanislav: Have at him!

And the boots begin to rain down on Arthur, who curls into a fetal position. Randall and Kenny show no remorse as they pummel Arthur over and over again and Stanislav, with his hands on his hips, simply watches.

Nick Stuart: SOMEONE has to come out here and help him!

Richard Parker: This is getting a bit much, I mean, it’s three on one here, and one is Ivan Stanislav!

But there’s no one to help Arthur Pleasant. Who would? And the only friends who he once had turned their backs on him just a minute ago. Stanislav orders the Masters to stop, and Arthur, bloodied and battered, crawls over to Ivan’s pant leg and drags himself up slowly. He’s bleeding profusely from the nose and mouth, his eyes swollen, his body bruised and welting. Still, he spits out his own darker blood against Stanislav’s red pantleg, and Ivan kneels slightly, pets the top of his head, and then grabs the back of his head with his huge hand and stomps, bashing Arthur’s head against his knee as he delivers the Communist Crunch.

As Kenny and Randall haul him back up, Ivan bellows.

Ivan Stanislav: Every now and then, a purge makes the collective stronger. So be thankful, Arthur, you still prove yourself to be useful!!

Helpless and at his mercy, Stanislav pounds Arthur again with a huge fist, then, he hefts him up and Iron Curtain’s him across the ring. Pleasant flops into a pool of his own blood, unmoving, while Ivan casually walks over to his fallen form. He stares, coldly, and spits on his body, before bending down and gripping his ankle. He lifts Pleasant up like a felled bird and dangles him in the air, before tossing him over the side of the ring and letting him land on his head and shoulders on the floor.

The crowd begins to boo, finally having had enough of whatever Arthur Pleasant may have deserved. Stanislav spreads his arms and takes it in, snarling.

Ivan Stanislav: Consider this a discharge without merit! DYAAHAAHAA!!

Nick Stuart: I cannot believe this. Pleasant even was willing to take the beating just to stay in The Red Army and Ivan still did this to him. And Kenny and Randall! These people are sick!

Richard Parker: Here comes some help!

No PRIME members come to his aid, but EMT’s do finally make their way down to the ring. Stanislav peers at them, and then smirks as he sees one of Arthur’s teeth next to his boot. He bends down, snatches it up, and pockets it. Then, the troops leave the ring, letting Ivan stand by himself. He turns, and stares down at the unconscious Pleasant.

Ivan Stanislav: Das vidanya, Arthur.

And then, as quickly as he came, The Russian Bear leaves the bloody ring and makes his way slowly up the ramp while the EMT’s tend to Pleasant. We make our way elsewhere.

Rose walks through the halls of the O2 Arena, her head lowered. She still holds the steel pipe she’s assaulted Arthur Pleasant with twice in her right hand, and with her left hand, she runs her hand through her dark brown hair. A piece of tape is placed onto her nose, helping alleviate a fraction of the pain she has been experiencing since Culture Shock. As she turns the corner, her eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, she bumps into a familiar person — someone that she continually bumps into.

RIA.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Okay, London. Chill it out. We get it, RIA is cool but Rose just helped her win her match and is still suffering from a broken nose that is causing endless headaches.

And surely, RIA is happy that she won her match tonight. Right?

Right?

Hm.

Rose looks the Psychoberry up and down, shaking her head as she does so.

Rose: Do you have a tracker on me? Did you put an AirTag in my right boot? How is it that you are there everywhere I turn? I’ve had lines of cocaine with less bumps than you.

RIA just… stares for a moment. The awkward pause ends up broken by a frustrated sigh.

RIA: You know, I did want to help you. But you know what? After cradling your half-conscious body in my arms and having this as what it led to? Having you get involved in a match that, quite fuckin’ frankly, mattered far more to me than you realize? I doubt you intended to help; that was all about this crap with Arthur.

Hands moving to her hips, RIA shakes her head.

RIA: You ain’t gonna listen. Your attitude is still as toxic as ever. You want me to leave you alone? Cool. Fine. I’m done. My bad for bothering to care.

RIA turns, about to walk away, pausing only because Rose sighs.

Rose: You don’t make this easy, you know?

She raises the sunglasses from her face, revealing bruising around her eyes and the bridge of her nose. Rose then places her hands on her hips.

Rose: I’m… sorry. Not for what I did to Pleasant, but for the fact that it had to happen during your match. You deserve to have that clean victory and I took that from you. I’m sorry.

RIA slowly turns back to Rose.

Rose: And… thank you. For showing up when you did. As much as I made fun of you just a moment ago about having a tracker on me — though, you finding me in a boiler room is kind of proving my point — you’re more authentic than I thought you were. Even after everything, after everything I said, the slap, the match, you still didn’t hesitate to help me. So, thank you.

RIA looks at Rose suspiciously before Rose extends her hand, sincere this time. RIA looks down at the limb, then back up to Rose’s battered face. Her hardened glare melts as she accepts the younger woman’s handshake. It doesn’t stop there, however. The Psychoberry gently pulls Rose close into an embrace.

RIA: I’m just sorry I didn’t get there soon.

Rose looks like she hasn’t been hugged in a long time and at first, appears repelled by it before melting into RIA, burying her head (gently) into her collarbone.

Sometimes, we just all need a hug.

As the two end the embrace, Rose slowly nods her head.

Rose: It’s okay. You showed up at the right time if you ask me. It could have been much worse with someone like that.

RIA’s hands find their way onto Rose’s shoulders, giving her a soft smile.

RIA: I still believe you can do great things. Please just try to be more careful going forward? I know I’m kinda pleading with a brick wall on that, and it’s probably slightly hypocritical coming from me. Take care of yourself, okay? Jokes about tracking aside, I’m not hard to find if you need anything.

Rose returns the smile and shakes her head in the process.

Rose: You see the best in me… when many people never have. Who knows, RIA, maybe one day you’ll be right. Maybe I just have to take the long way around. I just know I owe you, and when you need it, I’ll be there for you. Promise.

Rose then looks down at the lead pipe and then back at RIA.

Rose: I guess I don’t need this any longer.

She then hands it to RIA before stepping backward, grabbing her glasses off the top of her head.

When someone bumps into her, causing her to drop her glasses.

Rose: Son of a bitch!

She looks over and realizes it is none other than The Former Flyin’ Hawaiian himself, Bryan Dawkins — lost in thought as he’s preparing for his upcoming match against Paxton Ray. Rose glares at Dawkins, looking at him like he might be the stupidest person on the planet (it’s all the pineapple).

Rose: Do you mind?! Watch where you’re going!

Before the collision, Dawkins was pacing the corridor, AirPods blasting at a dangerously high level, oblivious to the world around him. Leaving the headphones in, he responds…loudly.

Bryan Dawkins: S’CUSE ME, BRUH. JUST TRYIN’ TO GET THE MIND RIGHT BEFORE MY MATCH. GOTTA GET OFF THE SCHNEID, YA KNOW?

Rose then bends down and grabs her glasses before putting them on her face. She shoots Dawkins one more glare (and possibly a middle finger and muttering under her breath about what a dipshit Dawkins is) before walking off. Dawkins, oblivious to the potential repercussions of this encounter, continues to mindlessly pace the hallway.

RIA just takes it all in, placing her hands on her hips.

RIA: … I want some cake.

She then walks off as we cut elsewhere.

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

NEW

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.

He pauses on the stage, gages the crowd, and holds his index finger aloft. Most of the crowd does the same in response and gives out a raucous cheer.

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: This contest is set for one fall with thirty minute time limit. Introducing first…hailing from Evansville Indiana…weighing in at two hundred and forty pounds…he is the NEW Diamond! He is…NAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATE! COOOOOOOOOOOOOOLTON!

Nick Stuart: The Next–sorry, the New Diamond is looking to make a statement tonight!

Richard Parker: I bet it’s going to be dull as dishwater. He can call himself New all he wants; it’s still the same old boring Colton.

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. They cheer again, but the cheer soon gives way to something we heard earlier in the night…only now, a lot more of the crowd has caught on.

“NATE COLTOOOOON! NATE COLTOOOOON! HE’S BLOND, HE’S BIG, HE’S GOT A FUCKING PIG! NATE COLTOOOOON NATE COLTOOOOON…”

He looks very confused at first, but quickly shakes his head and laughs. That smile fades once he faces his opponent, though.

Now, he’s all business.

‘Trying’ fades and is replaced by “Satori Part II” by the Flower Travellin’ Band. Sage Pontiff strolls out, his eyes deadlocked on Nate Colton inside the ring.

Vince Howard: And his opponent… from Joshua Tree, California… weighing two-hundred-one pounds… Sage Pontiff!

Pontiff reaches the apron. He looks over at Colton and slides into the ring.

Referee Ashley Barlow asks both participants if they’re ready. Colton nods. Sage Pontiff is quick on the offense as the bell sounds.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: And Pontiff not wasting any time–

Richard Parker: Taking the fight right to–

Pontiff is rip roaring to go, attacking right out of the gate, throwing his entire body with a leaping forearm strike. Colton, for his part, side sets and, before Pontiff hits the ropes, grabs hold of him with a back waistlock. Transitioning, he uses the momentum and pull Sage to the canvas, working with his grip and then pivoting, bridging up while pinning Pontiff’s shoulders to the canvas.

ONE

TWO

Nick Stuart: Pontiff AGGRESSIVELY trying to get out of this, and he’s back to his feet–

Richard Parker: Firing off–

A koppu kick. Or an attempt. Colton is a large target. That’s why it’s so surprising how deftly he is able to avoid with head movement, brushing away the leg after Sage lands, quickly smothering him from half guard.

Nick Stuart: Colton showing great awareness–

Richard Parker: Honestly, it’s very slick. And he’s in great position to really bang Pontiff’s head off the canvas. Could really ground and pound him to paste. Which The Bodhisattva of Transformative Experience might enjoy…in some form or fashion.

Nick Stuart: Sage Pontiff is, if nothing else, a very wild attacker in the ring. He played such a vital role for his team in War Games, helping them win. His burgeoning friendship with Paxton Ray–

Richard Parker: Team Crunch N’ Punch–

Nick Stuart: And, Pontiff is throwing shots with his hands, hitting the back of Colton’s head, but The New Diamond, he’s just scooting Sage across this canvas with his grip, with his body, wrestling him down, trying to–

Richard Parker: Barlow!

ONE

TWO

Nick Stuart: Colton is…his bigger body, his bigger frame–

Richard Parker: He could’ve just pounded Pontiff with elbows–

Sage, frustratedly, keeps taking aim from the bottom, trying to throw some starch with his knuckles, attacking at Colton’s head, his arms, whatever part of the body he can manage to touch. But Nate Colton is just dogged and determined, freestyle wrestling the mode of the day, pressing Pontiff against the canvas, smothering, using leverage. No strikes. A pressed forearm forces Sage’s head back to the canvas. Barlow has yet to even as much as rise from her position, her eyes focused on the space between Pontiff’s shoulder and the canvas.

Arms pushing down, Colton forces Pontiff back to the canvas with a cover.

ONE

TWO

THR–KICKOUT!

And a FURIOUS one at that. Pontiff tries to scramble away, tries to get out of this, tries to rub against Colton and create some space, but The New Diamond is having NONE OF IT!

Richard Parker: What the hell kind of strategy–

Nick Stuart: He’s wrestling Sage Pontiff. That’s the strategy.

Richard Parker: Okay, yeah. I get that. I’m not blind. The people at home, watching on the Ace Network, THEY aren’t blind. But this is PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING! And you can strike and suplex–

Nick Stuart: And you don’t need to if you execute a plan of wearing down your opponent by forcing them to defend pinfalls, in trying to escape their clutches. Nate Colton has tremendous size in this contest, and he has the acumen as well as the strength advantage.

Richard Parker: But it’s PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING–

Nick Stuart: Key word; WRESTLING. And COVER–

ONE

TWO

KICKOUT!

Pontiff smashes his hands in the canvas. There’s a steady amount of clapping from the audience, however. Surprising, perhaps? Some might consider what Colton to be doing to be laying and praying. PRIME fans, though, aren’t idiots. They don’t need to see eye stabbings and spikes used in crucifixion matches to know what REAL, honest to goodness WRESTLING, is. After all, PRIME isn’t a glorified death match promotion, unlike some others who have no identity outside of red. Nate Colton’s jockeying for position, his constant shifts and superior control to stop and potential Sage Pontiff escape from even having a chance of passing, the fact that he’s literally forcing The Bodhisattva of Transformative Experience to the center of the ring and away from the sanctity of the ropes, is brilliant. No matter what Richard Parker thinks, it is having the intended effect.

Pontiff is covered in sweat. Every breath drawn is having to come with a fight. Every movement has pressure applied. And Nate Colton maintains dominion.

Sage is PISSED.

It doesn’t matter.

His shoulders are back on the canvas.

ONE

TWO

THR–

Nick Stuart: And Colton maintaining–

Pontiff ROARS in unbridled frustration. Combat is life. It stirs the blood. Gives the mind the true chance to transcend the boundaries of the constructed human cage. It is love. It is purpose absolute. To feel his knuckles blister and break against the bone of another. To feel pain and to administer it. Stitches. Swelling. Every limp and every blister is like manna to the soul. And this…overgrown…cornbread…hillbilly…FUCK…was robbing him of SOUL ENRICHMENT with his BULLSHIT hug and hold!

His fingers reach and try to find softness. The eyes. Nate Colton MUST PAY! Dig the nail into the sclera! Pull that bitch out! FUCK THIS FUCKING HICK AND HIS BORING BULLSHIT ‘WRESTLING’! His arms aren’t long enough. The franticness draws even more energy from his tank. He leaves himself vulnerable.

ONE

TWO

THR–

Flopping. Like a fish. With everything he has. Like a petulant flower child. Cliff Booth is looking at Tex and telling he saw him riding a horsey. Everything he is about is SHIT. KILL. MAIM. CRUNCH! CRUNCH AND PUNCH TOO! GOOOOOOOOOOD GET OFF OF ME! He’s screaming. He’s feral. And the constant jostling movement is enough to afford him a chance to create space, to slip away. A mad scramble from Pontiff to his feet. Colton is slower on the rise. Before he can even fully get up, Pontiff is a miasma of hammerfists and punches, letting loose, pent up anger and rage from being blue balled for so long coming undone, and he is ferocious, FIERCE! Colton wilts under the bevy of assaulting strikes.

Richard Parker: I feel like Sage Pontiff is absolutely rabid. Good Hoyt–

Nick Stuart: Pontiff PUSHING forward with everything he has–

Richard Parker: And Barlow is trying to admonish him after all that?! He’s not using his knuckles THAT much?

Ashley is trying to use her authority with the rules. She doesn’t engage, but she threatens Pontiff. He pays her no mind. One count to two, then three, and four. Dangerously close to being disqualified. Instinctively, Pontiff pulls back. Colton has his fists up and is on a knee.

Nick Stuart: KOPPU KICK!

Richard Parker: And PONTIFF GOT HIM THERE!

Nick Stuart: Colton…Colton…COLTON…DAZED…he’s struggling to maintain equilibrium, staggering, grabbing his head–

Richard Parker: OOOOOOH!

Nick Stuart: RUNNING LEAPING FOREARM STRIKE!

There is no cover attempted, just Colton falling to the canvas face first. He tries to collect himself, but Pontiff is on his back, mounting up, throwing his head right in the back of The New Diamond’s neck, then to the back of his head. Forearms to the back of the neck.

Richard Parker: Let the tiger out, you get the fangs. Let the bull out, you get the horns. And for the Captain Crunch in Team Crunch N Punch, he’s just going to get all those berries out of that Indiana boy’s head!

Nick Stuart: Pontiff is letting loose, he’s in rare form with his aggression here–

Richard Parker: Like a stallion having to deal with being weighed down. A restrictor plate. And I don’t blame him for being so frustrated–

Pontiff rises up, measuring Colton, who is gingerly grabbing at his head and neck, feeling the effects of the assault plunged upon him. At his knees, Sage pumps forward.

Nick Stuart: NAMASTE–

Richard Parker: WAIT!

Nick Stuart: OH! COLTON CAUGHT THE ANKLE! AND HE’S PICKED IT!

Richard Parker: WAAAAAAAAAIT!

Nick Stuart: Colton jerking Pontiff and SINGLE LEG CRAB! OH HE’S SITTING DEEP ON THAT ONE!

Richard Parker: WOOOOOOOOW!

The grab and the pull, and the bow of the submission, has Pontiff in mad scramble mode. The constant movement and flailing of his arms means he ends up close to the ropes when Colton sits down, but there’s still the torque.

All the same, Pontiff hugs to the ropes. And Barlow calls for the break. The New Diamond lets go immediately. Such a Boy Scout. Rubbing his neck, he steps away from Sage Pontiff, who stays on the canvas, chest rising and falling. He looks up, commanding from guard for Colton to bring the fire.

Nate Colton just motions for him to stand up.

Punching the canvas, Pontiff gets up, slower than he’d like. Colton is in a wrestling stance. Sage spits off to the side, his dreadlocks flailing. He grits his teeth. He WILL drag a fight out of this man. He will. HE MUST!

He charges forward, throwing a forearm.

Nate Colton catches it, and with a jerk and pull, has Sage in a hammerlock.

Nick Stuart: And Nate Colton–

Is looking at Sage Pontiff and his need for violence and is saying, in the most Midwestern way possible, to go fuck himself.

Richard Parker: And the TORQUE–

Nick Stuart: WAIT!

Richard Parker: PONTIFF THREW HIS HEAD BACK!

Nick Stuart: OH MY! THE BACK OF PONTIFF’S HEAD COLLIDED BRUTALLY WITH COLTON’S NOSE–

Richard Parker: Oh it’s GOT to be broken–

Maybe they make noses better in Indiana. Or maybe The New Diamond is just lucky. No blood. That doesn’t mean the bridge of his nose doesn’t feel like it ASPLODED! But as the tears sting his eyes, an eye rake only makes it the worse.

And Ashley Barlow is FURIOUS.

Doesn’t matter. Spinning wheel kick. And Colton is down. Struggling. Trying to find his way. Pontiff pushes forward. Colton to his knees.

Nick Stuart: NAMASTE!

Richard Parker: OOOOOOOH! IN THE MUSH! IN THE CORNMOUTH!

Colton crumbles. Maybe it’s time for a pin. No. Pontiff drags the body of Nate Colton to the ropes, then nudges him onto the ring apron. The New Diamond’s body hangs periliously draped on the edge of the ring…at the hardest part of it. And The Bodhisattva of Transformative Experience…he’s going to make it ALL up for what he has had to deal with tonight. He gets to the top rope. He SMILES WIDE.

And jumps.

Nick Stuart: ELECTRIC FEEL–

A stardust press for the ages. So beautiful. So serene.

Richard Parker: OH MY HOOOOOOOOOOYT!

And Colton, seeing the incoming body, rolls to the outside of the ring.

Sage Pontiff’s body SMASHES into the ring apron, bouncing off it in disgusting fashion. A crumpled heap. The fans are all on their feet. Crash and burn, baby. Sage Pontiff is a corpse, made so by his own ethos. Nate Colton shakes the cobwebs out of his head. He rolls Sage back into the ring.

Colton Clutch.

At this point, it’s a mercy.

Ashley Barlow looks to call for the bell.

Pontiff sees her, and his body bursts with raw energy. Like a shambling corpse, his eyes wide, those limbs not moving well, but still moving.

Nick Stuart: Pontiff REFUSING to surrender!

Nate Colton, for his part, rolls to the center of the ring. His grip tightens. Sage Pontiff tries to fight, tries to break free, that hold so powerful. His fingers fumble. He tries to throw his head back but there’s very little communication within his nervous system right now. And Colton, he’s stone faced the entire time.

The fire starts to fade. So much energy sapped earlier. And this hold, now locked in with its full intensity, starts to rob him of precious blood and oxygen.

The world narrows.

The fire fades.

The fire disappears.

Even despite the will of the fighter to not.

DING DING DING

Colton instantly releases the hold. And, in his own way, gives credit to his opponent, giving him an affirming pat on the back.

Vince Howard: YOUR WINNER…BY SUBMISSION…NAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATE…COLTON!

Barlow raises his arm into the air, and, with a crack of his knee, and a pat of his nose, The New Diamond flashes a smile. He won, and he did it in a way that he felt proved a point.

And Sage Pontiff?

Well…let the Shaman dream of violence for now.

We cut to commercial.

The video screen fires up and shows the charged atmosphere of the Bluefield (West Virginia) Auditorium that crackles with anticipation as Adam Ellis strides through the concrete corridors backstage. His boots thud purposefully against the floor as he walks hand-in-hand with Ginny Van Lear, his red-haired firebrand of a wife, her belly curved with the promise of future generations. Dawn McGill, the statuesque blonde manager, flanks them.

“Mama Didn’t Raise No…” by Garrett Biggs erupts from the arena’s sound system, signaling Adam’s cue. With an air of quiet confidence, he steps through the curtain, emerging into the electrifying buzz of the expectant crowd.

Dawn follows. Her long legs were showcased a mini-skirt, she wore a black halter top, and high-heeled boots that elevated her already imposing height. Her hair, teased out into a cascade of waves, catches the glint of the spotlights as she strides to the ring.

Behind her, three cabana boys navigate the path with a luxurious leather couch. They place it at ringside with care, their attention immediately turning to McGill who lies down on the couch like a queen overseeing her domain while one of the cabana boys eases the tension from her shoulders with practiced hands, another presents a colorful mixed drink garnished with a flourish, and the third slowly removes one of her boots to attend to her foot, kneading away any trace of fatigue.

From the shadows, Ginny’s gaze never falters. She watches her husband ascend the turnbuckles to play to the crowd before stretching out in the ring.

The spotlight then shifts, heralding the arrival of Adam’s opponent- ‘Suburban Homeboy’ Gary Walker. As he barrels through the curtain to the floor, he brushes past Ginny with unnecessary force, his disrespect clear as day.

Ginny’s temper flares, a smoldering ember that threatens to blaze. But she holds back, her protective instincts for both husband and unborn child reigning in her wrath. She stands her ground, her eyes narrowed, emitting a silent challenge that speaks louder than words ever could.

He struts down the aisle, attitude in his step, rapping along to Sparks’ “Suburban Homeboy” with an obnoxious swagger.

Gary Walker (rapping): I am a suburban homeboy with a suburban ‘ho right by my side…

He grins and gestures to an imaginary girl beside him.

Gary Walker: I am a suburban homeboy and I say yo dog to my pool cleaning guy.

Walker revels in his own bravado, his eyes leer at McGill as she lounges in luxury, attended by her devoted trio.

Gary Walker: I hope I’m baggy enough for them,”

Gary pulls at his clothes to emphasize their looseness.

Gary Walker: I play my Shaggy enough for them.

McGill rolls her eyes, unfazed and unimpressed.  She sips her drink and enjoys her massages while Walker climbs the steel steps, stepping over the top rope into the ring.

The bell’s sharp clang slices through the tension in the air, and instantly, ‘Suburban Homeboy’ Gary Walker is in Adam Ellis’s face, his lips curled into a disdainful sneer. His taunts are a vicious symphony of mockery, each word landing like a slap, meant to provoke, to demean. But Adam, showing the stoic resolve of a seasoned combatant, lets the vitriol wash over him, his eyes locked onto Walker’s with an unspoken promise of retribution.

In a blur of motion, the two titans clash, bodies colliding with the force of thunder. The crowd roars. Each slam reverberates through the auditorium, each maneuver executed with precision honed by relentless training and raw talent. Adam moves with the fluidity while outside the ring,

Dawn lounges and her cabana boys hover attentively, kneading the tension from her shoulders,  presenting a colorful boat drink garnished with a slice of paradise, and tending to her feet with worshipful diligence. She watches the match unfold through lashes lowered over icy blue eyes.

In stark contrast, Ginny Van Lear stands at the back, a silent sentinel. Though six months pregnant, there’s steel in her posture, an intensity in her gaze as she follows Adam’s every move. Her fingers twitch, a subconscious echo of the crack shot she is known for (she was thoroughly patted down upon entrance to the arena and her bag was checked for contraband), but her focus remains laser-sharp on her husband’s battle.

As the minutes wear on, the energy in the auditorium crescendos. Adam’s momentum builds, a crescendo of determination pushing back against Walker’s brash confidence. And then, Adam locks in the elevated Boston Crab. Walker flails, his bravado unraveling into desperation as he taps out as the crowd erupts when Adam releases the hold and rises, every inch the victor.

He breathes heavily, sweat matting his hair, but his voice is clear and steady as he takes the microphone.

Adam Ellis: To get where you want to go… to become to what you want to be… you have to put the work in.  That’s why I’m here in Appalachian Mountain Championship Wrestling.  Because what I do here is going to make me a better wrestler… not just here at AMCW… but at PRIME as well.

From the overstuffed leather couch, Dawn raises her glass in salute, clapping with measured grace. She sips her boat drink, the taste as sweet as victory while Ginny remains pensive in the back, though a spark of pride flickers in her depths.  She mouths “I love you, Adam” as she watches him make his way towards the back and the video comes to an end.

STRONK sits opposite Lindsay Troy, maintaining impeccable posture. The persistent wheeze that followed him since his departure from the Big Wet has finally vanished. They sit in a drawn-out silence, nearly a full minute passing, while Troy scrutinizes her laptop screen.

Finally, she looks up, her eyes meeting STRONK’s.

Lindsay Troy: Well, I’ve got good and bad news, STRONK. The good news is you’ve been cleared to return to active competition.

STRONK: THAT MEANS STRONK CAN CRUSH FRAIL HUMANS AGAIN?

The Queen stares at him, frowning.

Lindsay Troy: There’s no need to boldly shout at me. But yes, that’s what it means.

She takes out a stack of papers from a bag and slides them over to STRONK on her desk

Lindsay Troy: The bad news is our lawyers have pointed out that you couldn’t have signed a contract the night of Culture Shock because you sustained… severe oxygen deprivation to your brain. Therefore, the agreement we signed that night is null and void. I’ve asked our general counsel to draw up a new contract for you, if you want to take a look and resign now.

STRONK Daddy looks down at the papers, more specifically the weird black markings on the papers, leafing through them oafishly.

O/S Voice: Boring old paperwork? Eeeee-yuck! Oh, allow me to take it from here, big guy.

STRONK and Troy turn their attention to the office door.

Lowell Dot Com stands in the doorway, looking positively skeletal and strung out (but also like he’s been trying earnestly to get quasi-clean over the past seventy two hours… and consistently failing every step of the way).

Lowell Dot Com: (flirtatiously) Lindsay Troy, I say you haven’t aged a day in twenty years.

He dabs the blood seeping out from his coke-ravaged nose with the sleeve of his dress shirt, moving across the room.

Lowell Dot Com: Amazing what clean livin’ and a stress-free life can do for a person. I mean, just look at us, baby gurl.

Lindsay Troy: Lowell?

Her eyes strain, attempting to recognize the last vestige of a person’s humanity standing across from her, a barely relevant ghost from the past, someone she met only a handful of times.

Lindsay Troy: You look…

Lowell Dot Com: Tenacious?

Lindsay Troy: Shitty. And like you hitched a ride on a scorpion out of the Ditch Fields. Are you in a lot of pain? It looks like it hurts you to… live.

Lowell Dot Com: (unfazed) In more ways than one, sistah. You don’t know the half of it.

Troy turns to STRONK, finished with the distraction / annoyance that is Lowell Dot Com.

Lindsay Troy: Should I have him removed? Please say yes.

Lowell Dot Com: Remove his manager before contract negotiations have even commenced?

Lindsay Troy: What? You’re his manager? When the hell did that happen?

Lowell Dot Com: It was a recent, fortuitous development. He needs someone that will look after his best interests, take care of certain financial matters, help him navigate life, get from city to city, show to show… and I need a job. Tenacity and good looks don’t put food on the dinner table alone. Funny how fate works, huh?

Lindsay Troy: …Is this true, STRONK?

STRONK hasn’t been paying attention to their conversation. It’s not like he was thinking about something more important, daydreaming about stepping back inside the squared circle, or wondering where Papa Best was hiding—his consciousness saw a window of opportunity and powered down.

STRONK: YES.

Troy heaves an exasperated sigh of disapproval, absolutely hating her life. She glances over at Lowell, who picks his teeth with a letter opener.

A letter opener he brought from home. A letter opener he ordinarily uses for self-defense: for when his fellow “unhoused” get a bit too “all up in his bidness.”

Lowell Dot Com: STRONK, why don’t you go grab a bite to eat and leave me and Miss Troy to iron out the finer details of your contract?

STRONK: OKAY.

STRONK rises from his seat, allowing his (apparently) new manager to slide in behind him. He walks toward the door.

Behind him he hears:

Lowell Dot Com: So what’s your sitch, LT? You seein’ anyone?

Lindsay Troy: Shut up and let’s get this over with.

STRONK walks out the door, exiting LT’s office… and comes face-to-face with a large human in what looks to be a skimpy red sleeveless dress.

It’s Fred Dick, his Bulls jersey riding low, just barely covering his crotchal region.

STRONK sizes him up—and immediately clocks him at north of three hundred pounds.

That is to say, a fellow BIG BODY.

Fred Dick: Hey, you’re new around here, right? STRONK, is it?

STRONK: YES.

Fred Dick: You meet any of the fellas yet?

STRONK: NO.

Fred checks over his shoulder, making sure no one’s listening into the convo.

Fred Dick: You know… I got these chicken breastages in my pocket, man.

STRONK: OKAY.

Fred Dick: (chuckling) Oh they supple, I ain’t gon’ lie to ya.

STRONK: DO THE BREASTAGES GRILL GOOD?

Fred Dick: M’man, c’mon neow, you really gon’ ask me that? Do they grill gudd? They grill the breast, man.

STRONK: THAT IS GOOD.

Fred Dick: In fact, they ain’t even in my pocket, I lied—I was lyin’ to ya the whole dang time: they on that George Foreman over there. Givin’ the hallway the nice savory smells you’re presently enjoyin’.

STRONK: THAT IS A SMART THING TO DO.

Fred Dick: You know… I really don’t hear that enough?

The outlet pumping electricity to the secondhand, hardly-ever-been-cleaned portable grill is dangerously overstuffed, with power strips growing from it like tumors. It lets out a POP~! of a spark, which garners no reaction from the two men.

Fred Dick: And I don’t even care if I burn this whole mother to the ground neither s’long it smell halfway decent while I’m doin’ it.

STRONK nods.

Fred Dick: Say bud, I got about… seventy six steaks in the back. I gotta drain the blood juice out of ’em. How about we break out the backup Foreman, I drain, and you eat? Will give me the chance to introduce you to a few of the boys.

STRONK: YES.

With that, Dick and STRONK turn and walk off down the hallway, as ReVival rolls on…

The feed returns to the arena, with the shot trained on the boys behind the commentary desk.

Nick Stuart: We’ve reached our penultimate contest of the evening, ladies and gentlemen! The BRUH himself, Bryan Dawkins, is set to face the former Intense Champion Paxton Ray

Richard Parker: It’s the former Flyin’ Hawaiian against the Scowly Haole himself!

Nick Stuart: While Ray was of course a pivotal part of Team Glue’s victory in the War Games, Bryan Dawkins missed out on his own Culture Shock moment. Tonight may be his chance at claiming some glory for himself, by earning his first victory since his return over one of PRIME’s most notorious figures of the ReVival Era!

“They say it’s good to start a story with a tragedy.”

The chunky guitar riff of “Fistfight” by The Ballroom Thieves kicks in as Paxton Ray walks out under the PRIMEView. Paxton sneers as the fans boo, then slowly holds his hand up in the air.

The day I finally met you like I knew I would
You raised me from the wreck of my doubts
You were smiling to yourself as if we both understood
The silent language of the anguish of a heart that sings but doesn’t make a sound

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall! Making his way to the ring, weighing in at two-hundred and forty-five pounds… the BAYOU BUTCHER… PAAAAAXTOOOOONNNN RAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYY!

Richard Parker: No Chet tonight, huh?

Nick Stuart: Evidently not. And based on the dark look on the face of the Lafayette Bruiser, I’m not sure I blame that crooked lawyer.

Richard Parker: Let’s be honest though, when has Paxton Ray ever looked like he wasn’t about to rip out someone’s mandible?

Paxton slowly walks towards the ring, looking around as the crowd rains hate down upon him. He steps up to the apron and steps over the ring ropes, then leans back against them and closes his eyes.

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.

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… hailing from Hilo, Hawaii, and weighing in at two-hundred and thirty-two pounds… BRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYAN DAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWKINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNS!!

“BRUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Nick Stuart: The recently crowned Light Heavyweight Champion of Bora Bora Championship Wrestling has arrived, and what an outstanding ovation for the longtime PRIME veteran!

Richard Parker: Heard he broke a guy’s arm out there!

Nick Stuart: Well, it’s known that Dawkins has invested heavily in his newfound jiu jitsu and grappling technique. Though it’s clearly paid off in his ventures out in the Pacific, we shall see how his skills fare tonight, halfway around the globe, against an opponent with a penchant for strikes and brawling.

Richard Parker: Everybody’s got a game plan… until Paxton Ray punches them in the face.

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.

Nick Stuart: Referee Jimmy Turnbull is at the ready, gives the signal to the timekeeper! Here we go!

DING DING

Dawkins and Ray come out of their corners and meet in the center of the ring. Bryan moves in for a collar-and-elbow, but is stunned by a sudden sharp kick to his midsection. As he doubles over, Paxton continues to unload on the back of his head and neck with clubbing overhead blows.

Nick Stuart: Paxton Ray opens things up with his characteristic brutality, going to town on the back of Dawkins’ head!

Richard Parker: Trying to get his coconut milk the hard way.

Ray pulls Dawkins into a front chancery in an attempt to put him into a choke hold. Bryan reacts quickly, dropping to a knee and reversing with a Kata Guruma that dumps Paxton over onto his back. Dawkins swiftly mounts his chest and pays him back with a barrage of forearms.

Nick Stuart: Here’s Bryan on top, showing Paxton that he can throw hands with the best of them!

Richard Parker: Gotta say, it’s a mighty bold move to try and scrap with the Lafayette Bruiser.

Paxton covers his head and weathers the storm. Bryan Dawkins switches things up by taking one of his opponent’s arms and shifting to the side, scissoring the joint with his legs into a firm cross-arm breaker.

Nick Stuart: Oh wait now, CROSS-ARM BREAKER attempt by the former Flyin’ Hawaiian! Ray could be in trouble here!

Richard Parker: This is one bind his lawyer CAN’T get him out of!

Instincts immediately kick in when Ray realizes he’s in trouble. He quickly forces himself up and interlocks his hands before Dawkins can cinch in the hold. They struggle against one another for a few moments until the former Intense Champion pivots and uses the free arm to clutch the nearby middle rope. In doing so, he allows Bryan to fully extend the armlock.

Nick Stuart: Ray makes it to the ropes, but had to give the arm to Bryan Dawkins to make it happen! And Dawkins is keeping it held on!

An expression of anguish crosses Paxton’s face as Dawkins holds on for as long as he can, until finally making the break when official Jimmy Turnbull reaches the count of four. The moment he sits up, however, Ray repays the delayed break with a sharp kick to the chest. Bryan rolls back to his feet, clutching his inked pecs while the two glare at each other for a moment.

Richard Parker: Oof… things are looking pretty tense in there.

Nick Stuart: Tempers are definitely beginning to flare between these two competitors, feeling each other out in the opening moments of this match.

Paxton breaks from the ropes, and both competitors begin circling the center of the ring once again. This time, it’s Dawkins attempting a straight kick to the gut… only for Ray to catch him by the boot. Before Bryan can react, Ray twirls him around into a rear waistlock and deadlifts him off his feet…

Nick Stuart: Paxton, going for a German Suplex–NO! Dawkins rolls to his feet, and counters with a BELLY-TO-BACK SUPLEX! Dawkins making the cover!

One!

Two–and Ray kicks out!

On their way back to their feet, Dawkins snags Paxton by the afflicted arm and wraps it up into a standing armbar, further torquing the shoulder. The Bayou Butcher bares his teeth and he fights through the pain, shaking his head when Turnbull asks if he’s giving in.

Nick Stuart: Bryan Dawkins continues to work the arm! He might be onto something here, negating the brawler Paxton Ray’s greatest asset with his improved submission game!

Richard Parker: Can’t go wrong with making Paxton Ray less punchy overall.

Ray pivots himself back to the ropes for the break, but Bryan cuts him off by the pass by slipping behind and forcing the arm up into a nelson.

Nick Stuart: Bryan Dawkins goes behind… HALF-NELSON SUPLEX flips Paxton Ray over onto his belly!

Richard Parker: Of course! The belly! The softest part of the gator’s thick hide! Dawkins clearly did his research… wait, Nick, do they have gators in Hawaii?

Nick Stuart: I’m not even going to dignify that with a response, partner. Open an encyclopedia sometime, huh?

Paxton is slow as he pushes himself back to his feet. He sees Dawkins coming and swings for the fences, but Bryan ducks, snags the arm, and rolls him to the canvas.

Nick Stuart: Haymaker by Ray is DUCKED by Bryan Dawkins–who counters with a GANNOSUKE CLUTCH!

One!

Two!

Kickout!

Both competitors break apart and roll in either direction. Dawkins bursts to his feet first, while Ray rises up with the help of the ropes. The Light Heavyweight Champion of Bora Bora Championship Wrestling charges… but doesn’t anticipate Paxton dropping back to the mat while pulling down on the top rope.

Nick Stuart: Paxton Ray pulls down on the ropes, sending Bryan Dawkins tumbling to the ringside floor!

Richard Parker: Say “Aloha”, BRUH!

Nick Stuart: And with that, the Bayou Butcher buys himself an invaluable moment of reprieve.

Ray cranks his afflicted arm a few times and slaps the feeling back into it, then dips out under the ropes just as Bryan Dawkins pulls himself off the floor. Paxton greets him with a knee lift into the breadbasket, and follows up by taking the former Flyin’ Hawaiian by the neck and throwing him into the steel steps.

BAM!

Nick Stuart: OOH! Bryan Dawkins goes into the steel steps shoulder-first with a sickening collision! And now Paxton Ray stomps him relentlessly on the ringside floor!

Richard Parker: Look at Paxton Ray, Nick. He’s like a shark with a taste for blood out there! Hey, do you think they have sharks in Louisiana?

Ray briefly slides in under the ropes to break the ten count as administered by Jimmy Turnbull, but stays on the outside to continue the punishment. Dawkins is attempting to push himself off the floor, but gets grabbed from behind by Paxton Ray and dropped backwards into the barricade with a side Russian legsweep!

Nick Stuart: Dawkins, sent into the barricade… now Paxton has him by the arm, and there’s a HARD whip that sends him crashing chest-first into the ring apron!

Richard Parker: Say what you will about the Lafayette Bruiser… he knows how to make use of his environment.

Nick Stuart: Bringing this fight to the outside has definitely worked toward his advantage. More rabbit punches across Bryan Dawkins’ head and back, and now Ray throws him in under the ropes to bring this fight back into the ring.

Once more taking a moment to crank his afflicted arm, Paxton slides in after Dawkins and wrenches his head into a bulldog choke, digging his forearm into the BBCW Light Heavyweight Champion’s throat. Dawkins fights the hold while the crowd begins to rally behind him…

“LET’S GO, BRUH!! LET’S GO, BRUH!! LET’S GO, BRUH!! LET’S GO, BRUH!!”

Feeling the support and mustering up his strength, Bryan Dawkins fights his way to his feet. Paxton turns and throws him across his hip to put him back to the canvas… but the former Flyin’ Hawaiian, undeterred, forces himself up once more.

Nick Stuart: Bryan Dawkins, trying to stay in this fight, refuses to be kept on the mat!

Richard Parker: Once a Flyin’ Hawaiian, now a Tryin’ Hawaiian!

Nick Stuart: Ray is using all of his strength… but there’s an ELBOW to his ribs by Dawkins! ANOTHER! Now Dawkins reaches in… a ROLL-THROUGH counter–and he gets THE ANKLE!

Bryan transitions fluidly through the yoko sumi gaeshi takedown into a standing ankle lock. Like a beast with its leg caught in a trap, Ray snarls in pain, reaching for ropes that are too far to reach. The sea of London fans are cheering wildly.

Nick Stuart: SUBMISSION ATTEMPT here by Bryan Dawkins, whose tenacity has kept him in this match and potentially moments away from a victory!

Richard Parker: That was an admittedly smooth move by Dawkins. He’s definitely no longer a Flyin’ Hawaiian. Now he’s more like a… Grapplin’… Pinapplin’?

Nick Stuart: It’s the effort that counts, Rich. Hang on, Paxton turns inside… and a KICK to the face of Bryan Dawkins breaks the ankle lock!

Dawkins recoils, clutching his jaw, while the Lafayette Bruiser rolls to a knee, favoring the ankle.

Bryan rushes in to retrieve him, but out of desperation, the former Intense Champion twists himself around on the one good leg and tags him with a Discus Elbow that leaves Dawkins sending spittle into the air.

Nick Stuart: DISCUS ELBOW… and it’s lights out for Bryan Dawkins, slumping to the mat! And Ray falls across the chest!

ONE!

TWO!

THR–KICKOUT!! Dawkins just barely got the shoulder up! He refuses to give in!

Richard Parker: It’s all those reserves of PINEAPPLE POWER!

Ray looks in disbelief to Jimmy Turnbull as he holds up two fingers. The murderous look that follows prompts the official to back away.

Richard Parker: Yeah, good thinking, Jimmy! I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side either.

Nick Stuart: Ray could be looking to finish things off here, as he pulls Dawkins to his feet and sends him to the ropes… looking for the Lafayette Lullaby–but Dawkins snags him by the arm!

With full wrist control, Bryan gives the arm a twist, turns himself underneath it, raises it briefly for the crowd to see, then pulls it down across his shoulder with a violent yank! Ray falls to the mat, clutching his arm while his legs kick the canvas in agony.

Nick Stuart: ARMBREAKER on that same arm he’s been targeting through the match! Paxton Ray is hurt, but Bryan stays on him… forcing him up, and putting that arm into a hammerlock–and lifts up for a BRAINBUSTER!! Dawkins STACKS HIM UP!!

ONE!

TWO!!

THREE–NO!! Paxton Ray kicks out at two-point-nine!

Richard Parker: Sheez… what does it take to keep the Murdergator down at this point?

Dawkins quickly wraps Paxton’s afflicted arm up into a side armbar as the resurgent Ray forces himself to his feet. Bryan extends the arm to land a heavy KNEE to the elbow, drawing a roar of pain and anger from the Bayou Butcher. Ray suddenly uses the free arm to pry away the Bruh’s grip.

Richard Parker: Uh oh! The Bayou Butcher’s got that crazy look in his eye…

Nick Stuart: Ray suddenly countering with a whip to create space… no, Dawkins REVERSES, and sends him right into the ropes…

…but Paxton Ray SWINGS THROUGH the middle and top ropes, and returns with a SPEAR!

Nick Stuart: RUNNING SHOULDER TACKLE nearly breaks Bryan Dawkins in HALF! Hooks the legs…

ONE!!

TWO!!

THR–DAWKINS ROLLS UP THE SHOULDER!!

Ray rolls off of Dawkins and stares into the lights in utter disbelief.

“LET’S GO, BRUH!! LET’S GO, BRUH!! LET’S GO, BRUH!! LET’S GO, BRUH!!”

Still rubbing his arm, the Lafayette Bruiser painstakingly peels Bryan Dawkins off the mat once more… but before he can fully get ahold of him, Dawkins slips underneath his arms and snakes the arm into yet another trap.

Nick Stuart: Wait… DAWKINS WITH A KIMURA! KIMURA RIGHT ON THAT ARM!!!

Richard Parker: Oh wow, the Pineapple Power IS real!

Their bodies shake amidst the struggle. Slowly and steadily, Dawkins lowers the arm further down Paxton’s back. Continuing to fight it, Ray roars in agony as the pain becomes more than he can bear…

…and in desperation, he plows himself forward, ramming Dawkins into the turnbuckles. Bryan loses the hold, but before he can get ahold of Paxton–

Nick Stuart: NO! HEADBUTT BY RAY!!

Dawkins reels, a hand covering his stricken temple as he stumbles against the ropes. As he rebounds back toward Paxton, the Bayou Butcher hoists him into the air.

Nick Stuart: Dawkins up… no, Paxton lands the LAFAYETTE LULLABY!

Richard Parker: Bogus, bruh!

Nick Stuart: Bryan is out like a light when he hits the mat! Ray rolls him over and hooks the leg!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!!

DING DING DING

The Bayou Butcher pushes the Bruh away from him and immediately tends to his arm. He shrugs off Jimmy Turnbull’s attempt to raise the other one in victory, and instead makes a quick exit from the ring and an expeditious trip back up the rampway. He continues to crank the arm, the pain left there seemingly feeding into his out of control rage.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, here is your winner, by pinfall… PAAAAXXTOOOOOON… RRRAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYY!!!

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”

Nick Stuart: A spirited effort by the former Flyin’ Hawaiian, Bryan Dawkins, but sadly not enough to withstand the dominant and unfettered Lafayette Bruiser, Paxton Ray.

Richard Parker: He tried to fight brutality with BRUH-tality tonight! And I’ll agree, he looked great in there tonight! But how can anyone out-brutal Paxton, Nick?

Nick Stuart: I couldn’t tell you, partner. Be as it may, Ray comes out tonight with a hard fought win after a competitive battle, potentially worse for wear. On the other hand, yet another heart-breaking defeat for the fan favorite, Dawkins… still on the road to finding that first win. But his progress tonight can’t be understated.

Continuing to rub his jaw, Bryan Dawkins is assisted off the mat by Turnbull. He shakes his disappointment, while the London PRIMEates supportively cheer his efforts.

“BRUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

And ReVival goes elsewhere…

With the ring cleared, and only Paxton Ray still remaining between the ropes and starting to head out himself, the PRIME fans believe it’s a time to run to the bathroom before the main event.

Well it’s hard to find your PRIVATE JIBLETS…

…WHEN THE LIGHTS GO OUT!

The O2 Arena descends into immediate darkness. The fans begin to cheer as red light suddenly fills the darkness.

Then, we hear it.

A familiar guitar lick.

Richard Parker: Oh god.

Nick Stuart: What?

Richard Parker: It’s ”Hot Blooded” by Foreigner.

WELL I’M

HOT BLOODED!

CHECK IT AND SEE!

I GOT A FEVUH

OF A HUNDRED ‘N THREE!

C’MON BAYBEH

DO YOU DO MORE THAN DANCE?

I’M HOT BLOODED! HOT BLOODED!!

Suddenly, the lights come on to reveal–

IT’S FRED DICK! HE’S STOOD BEHIND PAXTON RAY WITH A BUCKET FULL OF BLOOD!!!

Paxton Ray turns around!

AN ABSOLUTELY DEVASTATING kick to the balls from Fred!

Richard Parker: Fred! What are you doing man??

Nick Stuart: He’s signing his own death certificate.

Paxton staggers for a bit, grabs a hold of the ropes. We can bet, he was just kicked in the nads harder than we’ve ever been kicked in the nads. The shocked eyes, the chest incapable of breathing, the clutching of the nads themselves as Paxton falls to his knees.

It was a textbook kick to the groin, people.

One that Paxton won’t soon forget.

Fred Dick laughs.

Fred Dick: Who’s ugly now, y’ASS BLOOD!?!

Richard Parker: Don’t do it, Fred!

FRED DUMPS THE BUCKET OF BLOOD ON PAXTON RAY!

(To Paxtons’s credit, he wears it well.)

Fred rolls out of the ring. He runs up the ramp like a guy who never learned to run, more of a swift shuffling of the feet if you examine it closely.

Fred laughs and laughs and laughs his punk ass up the entrance ramp, until a booming voice stops him in his tracks.

Paxton Ray: Oh Freddie. You’re gonna regret that.

Richard Parker: Welp, Fred Dick is a dead man.

Fred Dick turns, flashes a toothy grin at Paxton.

Fred Dick: What ya gon’ do ‘bout it, Sunshine? PARALYZE ME!? BAHAHAHAHA!

Nick Stuart: Yes he will.

Richard Parker: He 100% absolutely will do that.

Fred Dick: ALEXA, HIT MY MUSIC!

“We Built This City” by Starship plays, bringing forth some of the (rightly so) loudest jeers of the night as Fred scampers towards the back. Paxton Ray stares at the ramp, snarling as he starts to wipe blood off of his face.

Nick Stuart: May wanna go ahead and book a funeral for Fred Dick at ReVival 47, Richard.

Richard Parker: I’ll pour a forty for him.

We cut to backstage where Angelica Brooks is standing by.

The camera cuts to the back in front of a makeshift stage setup, backdrop with the PRIME logo diagonally in pattern on top of a metallic white background. Standing in front are three people the fans at home know well. In the center, the firebrand ace reporter, Angelica Brooks with a microphone in hand. To her left and our right, the PRIME Five Star Champion, the Revelator himself, Don Winters is dressed in his white suit and shoes, crimson dress shirt, and the Five Star title strapped around his waist. And to her right, our left, the one and only Anglo Luchador, dressed as he was earlier in the evening, in a red-and-blue lucha mask, a departure from his normal purple and green, a RAPIER: Battle Arts T-shirt, and jeans.

Angelica Brooks: Before we get to the main event tonight, I got some time to talk to two men who will face off in a HUGE match when PRIME makes its way across the Channel in two weeks for the Five Star Champion. Don Winters, who won the title in a BRUTAL Crucifixion match at Culture Shock, will defend for the first time against a man who knows a little something about carnage, The Anglo Luchador. Gentlemen, let’s start with the challenger. Tom, what are your thoughts going into the next show?

TAL: Well Angie, at first, I was pissed that Don won that title over there. Furious.

The Revelator smiles slightly and straightens his posture.

Angelica Brooks: Why’s that?

TAL: The thing is, I selfishly wanted revenge against Rob Williams, to be the one who took that title off his waist. I still feel each boot he landed on me in Brooklyn. It wasn’t enough that his team was the first one out in WarGames. That was, well, not even my kill. Also, shouts to STRONK Godson, hope you don’t have any water in your ear after that journey.

The Luchador stands up straighter.

TAL: But then I realized there was a word in there that rendered that initial feeling entirely pointless.

The challenger turns to the camera.

TAL: “Selfishly.”

A beat.

TAL: See, in the grand scheme of things, Don, you were the one who was owed a bigger bounty in blood from that charlatan. And I’m glad, no, I’m fucking over the moon you got to extract it from his self-righteous ass. I’m ecstatic that an actual wrestler holds the title that signifies that you are the best in this company as a wrestler. And this opportunity, this battle without malice or revenge, is the perfect opportunity to show off what PRIME should look like in all facets. What PRIME, no, what all of wrestling should be.

The Luchador laughs.

TAL: Which is to say, I think all things considered, when I take that title and start proving that I eat, sleep, breathe, and shit this business? I’d rather I take it from you in a contest where the better man wins instead of one where there’s a whole lot of bullshit.

Angelica Brooks: Now Don, before you respond directly to Tom, I would like to get your thoughts on beating Rob Williams for that Five Star title at Culture Shock.

Don Winters: Of course, and first let me say, it’s a pleasure to be here with you both. I believe this is my first interview of any kind since I’ve been here and I’m excited for the opportunity.

The Revelator pauses to consider Angie’s actual question.

Don Winters: You know, this is a business I had disappeared from for a long time. In coming back to it, being given the opportunity by Miss Troy to compete again, I wanted to do it in a way that didn’t turn things personal. (Don laughs.) Unfortunately, both Tona Diamonds and Rob Williams haven’t let that be the case. What happened between Rob and I was something the entire world got to see. I don’t think I need to hash that out too much more.

Don turns to the camera.

Don Winters: Of course, I have to thank God because without Him, I would have never won that crucifixion match. Winning this Five Star championship (Don pats the belt in his lap) meant more than you can imagine to me, Angie. Not just in overcoming Rob Williams, but in every single obstacle that’s been placed before me in life, to eventually get here, the pinnacle of what it is to be a wrestler in PRIME. The Five Star champion. It’s an incredible achievement and one I refuse to take for granted. I’m looking forward to defending this title every chance I get against real wrestlers like TAL here. His Word and Light willing, this will be a long and prosperous reign.

Father Don looks down at his Five Star title and smiles.

Don Winters: As for you, Tom. I’ve got nothing but respect for you. You’re a true professional through and through, and despite our disagreements with His Word and Light, I know you’re an upstanding guy. There’s a few folks on this roster who exemplify what it means to be professional wrestlers and those are who I want to defend this Five Star title against. Kuroyama is on my radar, so is Farthington, but I can’t think of a better first opponent than The Anglo Luchador.

Winters continues to smile.

Don Winters: You’ve proven yourself time and time again. The definition of a Timex, taking a licking, you keep on ticking. I respect the way you went after Ivan, and I’ll tell you right now if you ever need any help against that man in the future, count me in your corner. But man oh man, am I looking forward to ReVival 47. I feel like I haven’t had a match in PRIME with someone technically proficient yet and TAL, are you ever that man. I’m eagerly anticipating our battle, and I know we’re going to put on one heck of a show for the fans in Paris.

Winters pauses and reaches off-screen, procuring a small Pious Penguin plushie. He hands it across to The Anglo Luchador, whose face beams like the lights above the ring.

Don Winters: And Tom, as a show of good faith, I know you’re a fan of the little guy, so I wanted you to have this.

TAL: Oh man, usually before big matches, my opponents give me a reason to go to the hospital.

Angie laughs uncomfortably. Don laughs.

TAL: But I love it, Don, and I’m glad you feel the same way. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. And I think there are no two more perfect people to take that first step than The Revelator and The Last Son of Tenochtitlan. To a man of God, from a man of, well, many gods? Good luck, and may the best wrestler win in Paris.

The Luchador extends his hand. Winters responds in kind, shaking his hand while patting the Five Star title with the other.

Angelica Brooks: Well, this is rare! We have our main event coming up next, after this quick commercial break!

And we cut to commercial.

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/04/ReV47-Commercial.mp4

The lights fade until the arena is pitch black. A hush falls over the audience. A piano begins to play… and then a woman begins to sing.

“The Ecstasy of Gold” by Ennio Morricone. Shout out to the best movie soundtrack of all time.

A lone spotlight shines on the stage, a silhouette encased in shadow standing still as fog rolls at his feet. He’s wearing a cowboy hat. You know exactly who this is. He’s not even trying to hide it. This is about pomp and pageantry; the stroking of an ego so big it might as well be the size of England and half of Scotland. The song builds to a crescendo as black and white scenes of the desert play across the PRIMEView. As the music reaches a fever pitch, the operatic singing and the mourning violins and the drums like the beat of war all growing louder and louder and louder until…

It stops. The spotlight shuts off. The PRIMEview goes blank. And then?

A wailing guitar. A grinding bass. Drums so loud they shake the roof of the O2 Arena.

“Fastest Horse in Town” by Sturgill Simpson.

The arena fills with spiraling red lights. The screen becomes a psychedelic fever dream of hissing static, flowing lava, fire and brimstone. And there, standing amongst it all at the top of the ramp, is Daytona Diamonds. His hands are balled into two twin fists. He’s wearing gold from head to toe because of course he fuckin’ is.. There’s a smirk on his face as wide as the Grand Canyon. This is it. His first main event. His moment. His time to shine.

Through all that sound and fury, Vince Howard’s voice shouts out loud.

Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring from Carson City, Nevada… weighing in at two hundred forty five pounds and standing six foot one… he is The Rhinestone Cowboy, The King of the Rodeo, The Only Daddy That’ll Walk the Line, and The King of the Ocean, baby! He is…

Halfway down the ramp, Daytona shoots finger guns in lieu of real guns because security is a, quote, “fuckin’ bitch”. Behind him, boom goes the pyro. It looks like diamond dust raining from the sky, all glitter and sparks.

Vince Howard: …DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYTOOOONNNNNA DIAAAAAMONDS!

The PRIMEates boo. Of course they boo. What else are they supposed to do? Daytona Diamonds doesn’t give them a single solitary iota of shit. He has other things on his mind. Other things like… winning the Intense Title, for instance. Climbing the steps and into the ring, he drops his coat at ringside. He takes his hat off the top of his head and places it on the turnbuckle on his side of the ring. By the time the music fades and the house lights return to normal, he’s leaning against the ropes, cracking his neck, calm as a cucumber. We’ve been here before.

That smirk never leaves his face.

The camera cuts back to the top of the stage, where the lights in the O2 Arena flicker for a moment before they shut off completely with a loud..

BANG!

“Ecstasy of Gold” (or “L’ Estasi dell’Oro” in the authentic Italian) by Ennio Morricone once again plays out over the 02 Arena. The Kaelsalvanian flag, whose three distinct colors are red, green and black, flutters proudly on the PRIME*View.

The Herald, his tunic stained with liquor and bodily fluids, stumbles out onto the stage. Atop his head sits the loyal cowboy hat he had received at the Diamond Mine. Tripping, he falls flat on his face, laying there in a heap.

Four Kaelsalvanian troopers clamor out onto the stage, surrounding the Herald and helping him to his feet. Bentley wears a bleary expression with a slack jawed grin hanging from his face. The crowd laughs mostly, because they can be cruel.

Marching out on stage with an expression that is partial embarrassment, partial anger that Daytona Diamond ALSO used “Ecstasy of Gold” for his entrance. He seems to be pointing down at Diamonds and yelling something about how the Champion should get to use the song, not the challenger. Speaking of the INTENSE Title, it is wrapped around his waist while he has a hangman’s noose held in his right hand with the rest of the rope held in his left. The London crowd doesn’t hold back as they pour boos down on the Champion.

Max notices the Kaelsalvanian Soldiers holding up the Herald with a look of confusion. Tossing the rope and noose onto the stage Max flips off Daytona before turning his attention to the Herald and his guards. There seems to be a very intense conversation happening.

With a tremendously stiff slap across the face, Max drops the Herald. The guards look at each other in confusion, unsure what to do. Kael snarls at his retinue, pointing down at the Herald as the guards quickly pick the Herald up. Max pulls a microphone from his pocket and shoves it into the Herald’s face.

The Herald: ..stan…standing at.. Six fOOT-..wait.. We’re in.. in the Empire..uh..

Max cants his head to the side, his sneer getting a little larger as the Herald seems to be working something over in his head.

The Herald: ..standing at ONE point..n..nine three…METERS TALL.. and seventeen point ONE FOUR.. STONE.. The…wonderful and wicked..MAXILLlll…MAXIMuuull… MAXIMILLIAN WILHE-uuugh!

The Herald projectile vomits onto the stage. Jumping back nimbly to avoid any area of effect damage, Max quickly dismisses his guards and the Herald to the back with a look of disgust. He snatches up the noose and rope once again and marches his way down the ramp and to the ring.

Nick Stuart: Well it looks like both men had the same idea here tonight, Richard.

Richard Parker: Yeah but this probably saves PRIME tons in production.

Nick Stuart: That’s true though knowing that probably will not improve the INTENSE champions mood.

Richard Parker: It’s like a Maid of Honor wearing the same wedding dress to the Bride’s wedding shower, Stuart, absolutely ruining Max’s entrance.

Climbing the steps, Max pauses for a moment to wipe his feet off before slipping between the middle and top rope. He avoids moving to the center of the ring, cautious of his opponent. Instead he immediately moves to his corner, setting the rope down before removing the INTENSE Championship from his waist.

Nick Stuart: What do you think Max is thinking right now?

Richard Parker: He overpaid for his entrance music, probably.

He doesn’t look happy. He looks pretty angry, possibly more upset that Daytona used “Ecstasy of Gold” than that he’s aiming to take the INTENSE Championship. Holding it high above his head as the music fades we are left with the crowd showering the INTENSITY with boos.

Elvis Nixon calls both men over to the middle of the ring, as if this match featuring a man who threatened to hang the other for the deathmatch championship in the company could be contested with sportsmanship. The Champion brushes him off as he’s leaning over the top rope, giving last minute instructions to The Herald, when…

CRACK!

DING! DING! DING!

Richard Parker: Hmmph, so much for sportsmanship.

Nick Stuart: Rich, Max promised to hang Diamonds earlier in the show. I think sportsmanship is out the window.

Kael falls limp on the top rope after Diamonds clubs him in the back of the head with his elbow. Somewhere across the void of time, a voice cries out from a fresh Farthington Jizz Pod claiming Diamonds has an illegal metal plate grafted across the top of his ulna and radius, but again, this is the Intense Championship, baby. The only rule is don’t die, motherfucker.

Rather than follow up, the challenger rolls out of the ring, shoots a menacing glance at The Herald, and then reaches under the ring for Plunder Number One.

Nick Stuart: Oh my Lord, is that a cricket bat? Shades of the great Hida Yakamo!

Richard Parker: Who?

Nick Stuart: Oh the humanity…

Daytona slides back into the ring and winds up with the cricket bat as if it were its American counterpart. Max, bats knocked out of the belfry, ducks and reaches into his tights to pull out…

Richard Parker: Pocket sand?!?!?

Nick Stuart: You know, after dozens, nearing hundreds of Intense Championship matches across the ReVolution and ReVival, you’d think I would’ve seen it all by now and yet…

Having gotten accustomed to the JetSki life, the sand does 20 percent more annoyance to Diamonds than normal. Kael rolls out of the ring himself and rolls out a pallet from underneath.

Nick Stuart: Wait a second, does he have a stack of Heinz Beanz?

Richard Parker: You fool! Those aren’t brand name! Those are MEAT?-brand BEANS?

Richard is correct. Max wheels out a supermarket display pyramid of BEANS?, of which he hastily grabs the top tin. Kael takes aim at Diamonds’ head as he’s turning around, getting his wits about him after being Dale Gribble’d. But he wouldn’t be on his feet for too long…

THWIP

THUMP

Richard Parker: That was a perfect AMERICAN football pass by Kael there. Too bad I have to dock him points because they play football with their feet here.

Nick Stuart: Daytona Diamonds just got hit in the head with a can of beans and THAT’S what you’re worried about?

Max grabs two more cans and rolls into the ring. He climbs on top of a woozy and still downed Diamonds, opening each can (they’re pull tabs, work smarter, not harder) and then raising them up in the air to a mixed reaction from the O2 crowd.

Max Kael: PIP PIP CHEERIO, HOPE YOU LIKE BEANS?

Champion dumps both cans down the challenger’s throat simultaneously. Diamonds begins convulsing like he’s being shocked. His face is turning slightly green. Somewhere, in that same Jizz Pod from earlier, the homunculus accusing him of having a loaded forearm grows a little stronger.

Nick Stuart: What is in those BEANS? Can’t be FDA-approved.

Richard Parker: Good thing we’re in England. No FDA here to bother anyone.

Nick Stuart: Rich… you know what, I’ll let you live this lie.

Kael bails out of the ring to grab more beans. Diamonds vomits in the middle of the ring before rolling over on his back and slowly getting up. The champion steps into the ring with another can of BEANS?, but he sees that the challenger has gotten up ahead of schedule and charges at him. Diamonds sidesteps him at the last moment, causing Kael to skid off his heel in the vomit the challenger left there. After a moment of uncontrolled, frictionless sliding, Max falls comically backwards, landing flat on his back.

Nick Stuart: Hoisted by his own petard.

Richard Parker: Hey, that’s not a nice thing to call someone, Nick.

Nick Stuart: Do you even know what a petard is, Rich?

Richard Parker: If I say no, would you lose respect for me?

‘Tona grabs the can of BEANS? Max was holding and takes his turn straddling his opponent.

Daytona Diamonds: HOW YOU LIKE IT YOU SON OF A BITCH?

Diamonds smashes the can of BEANS? hard on Max’s head, enough to leave behind a dent on the can. Daytona convulses again at the thought of having touched even the can that the BEANS? came in before bailing out of the ring and rummaging underneath the apron. He shoots to his feet with a more conventional, less stereotypical weapon.

Nick Stuart: Well, this has gone from quirkily violent to stage ten quickly, because Daytona Diamonds has a chair wrapped in barbed wire.

Richard Parker: Why would he do that? Wrap a chair in barbed wire? You can’t sit on that now! C’mon!

Max shakes off the can shot to the head, but before he can get off his knees…

CRACK

Nick Stuart: I think I saw some skin fly off Max’s back.

Richard Parker: Mommy.

The champion writhes in pain for a moment but immediately rolls onto his back, almost out of instinct. Diamonds holds the chair over his head, looking to slam it down on the prone Kael until, well…

THUMP

Nick Stuart: Well, one thing’s for certain. Don Winters may not need to take in anymore Diamonds Orphans after that.

Richard Parker: Right in the tea biscuits.

After taking a boot to the groin, Daytona drops the chair and doubles over. Max takes the opportunity to get to his feet and nail Diamonds in the head with a plain ol’ rising knee strike. Diamonds falls to his back, and Max takes his turn with the chair.

Nick Stuart: OOF! Kael grinding the top of that chair into Diamonds’ forehead. The barbed wire… my god.

Stuart’s commentary is interrupted by the viscous red blood oozing out of the Rhinestone Cowboy’s forehead. Kael pops to his feet, flecks of his own blood spotting on his back. He throws the chair away and calls out to The Herald who frantically rushes over to the side of the ring Max beckons him from.

Nick Stuart: The Champion about to end this?

Richard Parker: You know, as much as I like seeing Max Kael do Max Kael things, I’m not sure I want to see a hanging here after we’ve had two crucifixions in this calendar year alone. That’s a disconcerting number of crucifixions, you know.

Max goes to slip the noose around Daytona’s neck, but the rugged Cowboy resists the Lord’s attempts at fitting him for makeshift gallows. Diamonds struggles to his feet, pressing Kael back. There’s a reverse tug-of-war that ensues, with the two men pushing at each other while holding onto the rope instead of pulling. Kael’s three-inch height advantage allows him to drive Diamonds backwards, but the cunning Cowboy has a trick up his sleeve in the form of his own well-placed knee to Kael’s groin.

Richard Parker: Well, it’s a good thing Kael reproduces mostly with science and not…

Nick Stuart: That’s enough, Rich.

‘Tona tosses the noose and rope behind him, because he’s an asshole, not a murderer, and rolls out of the ring again, grabbing the cricket bat that fell to the outside after POCKET SAND. He slides back into the ring, puts the bat down for a moment, and then opens the barbed wire chair, which has been rigged to actually open. Diamonds only plays dumb on television.

Nick Stuart: Evil intentions from the challenger here, Rich.

Richard Parker: Look, I hate it when two guys I love fight too, but I mean, it’s a championship here in PRIME. You know how hard one of those is to win?

Diamonds beckons to the Intense Champion.

Daytona Diamonds: GET UP! GET UP YOU STUPID SUMNBITCH!!

Kael staggers to his feet, holding his mini-MEAT?balls, but his respite is short-lived.

CRACK!

Nick Stuart: Right across the chest!

To add even more injury to the aforementioned injury, Max lands seated in the barbed wire steel chair. He remains seated for a nanosecond before popping up to his feet, back arched inward, screaming at the top of his lungs. Diamonds helps him back to the canvas with a butt-shot from the handle of his cricket bat to Kael’s temple. The champ collapses like a sack of potatoes, and Diamonds covers…

ONE!

TWO!

Kael kicks out, instinctively if I had to guess.

Diamonds puts the boots to Kael again before turning around to look for another weapon to use without having to waste precious time. A lightbulb goes off over his head as he sees the rope Kael brought to hang him with. Again, he’s not a murderer, but he is an asshole.

Nick Stuart: What, what’s Diamonds doing?

‘Tona wraps the rope around Max’s body only in a half loop, stepping on his body. He grabs one side of the rope with both hands and…

Richard Parker: THAT’S WHAT HE’S DOING! ROPE BURN! ROPE BURN! ROPE BURN!

Diamonds lets out a villainous laugh until he’s suddenly jerked back. The rope was long enough so that it was still dangling on the outside of the ring, and guess who is patrolling the ringside area on behalf of the Intense Champion?

Nick Stuart: The Herald saved his master’s title reign!

Richard Parker: I hope he gets extra time in the pool tonight.

Nick Stuart: You’re thinking of Hank and the Glueminati, Richard.

Richard Parker: Oh, you’re right. Sorry. I’m still jet-lagged.

Nick Stuart: It’s been nearly a month since we’ve been over here!

Diamonds hits the back of his neck on the top rope and drops to the canvas. Max rubs his chest where the rope burned him and shakes it off. He’s got a title to defend, after all. He sizes up Diamonds and nails him with another running knee to the mush. Then another. Then ANOTHER.

Nick Stuart: Max Kael doing his best to give Diamonds some amateur rhinoplasty here.

Richard Parker: Look, I know some people who would pay GOOD money to have that surgery done.

Nick Stuart: With running knees to the face?

Richard Parker: I mean, you have heard of the term painpig, right Nick?

Nick Stuart: I’m telling Lindsay Troy to take away your internet privileges.

Kael drags Diamonds’ lifeless body to the middle of the ring.

CRASH

Weapon of Max Destruction. But no pinfall attempt. Max came to win this match one way and one way only.

Rope. Neck.

Richard Parker: Oh no.

Nick Stuart: Never let it be known Max Kael isn’t a man of his word.

The PRIME Minister of Maxopotamia leads his groggy and stumbling victim to the ropes. Diamonds struggles to free himself of the noose around his neck, but he’s too out of it to fight effectively. Max laughs as he pushes ‘Tona over the top rope, deftly grabbing onto his own rope.

Nick Stuart: Fans at home, if you have any kids watching this, I hope you’ve long turned it off.

Richard Parker: HOW CAN YOU SOUND SO CALM, NICK? HE’S GETTING HANGED!

Just then, the O2 Arena stirs. Three men in black bodysuits make their way into the ringside area. Two of them, a grossly fat man and an impossibly jacked guy, head in from the crowd. A third one, slender, slips from under the ring. The slender and jacked guys grab Diamonds and alleviate his breathing while a stunned Max loses his grip, both from the shock and from the fat guy accosting him from behind.

Richard Parker: ANGELS! ANGELS ARE REAL!

Nick Stuart: I don’t think angels dress in black, Rich, but whether you care about a man hanging or the integrity of the Intense Championship, uh, things have just gotten interesting.

The fat masked man throws haymakers, but Max absorbs them, running on pure adrenaline and whatever PEDs his Jizz Pods pump into his body (no we’re not doing phrasing anymore, sorry) and fires back with stiff headbutts that might wind up causing surgeons to take his brain out and put it back in after cleaning it in the future. He grabs at the assailant’s head, slipping and removing his mask.

Nick Stuart: That, THAT’S FRED DICK!

Richard Parker: ANGELS ARE REAL! FRED DICK IS AN ANGEL!

Max lands another HARD headbutt to Dick’s skull, a work hazard if any given how hard his head is, and then drops back to bounce off the ropes.

Nick Stuart: DREAMWEAVER! DREAMWEAVER!

But Kael’s resistance is short-lived. The huge guy surprises him from the back with a choke sleeper. Not just any choke sleeper.

Nick Stuart: That looks, wait, is that short but impossibly jacked guy who I think it is?

The big guy releases the hold, Max gasping for air, and turns him around as he throws him towards the slender man, who nails him with a running bulldog. The massive muscle man drops to the outside to help Diamonds back into the ring. Daytona nods to Dick and both the remaining masked men and climbs to the top rope.

Nick Stuart: This is all too surreal. This is a mockery of a title match, and Elvis Nixon can’t do a THING about it, but I mean, they did save a man’s life tonight.

Richard Parker: What a company we work for, Nick!

Diamonds aims his shot and SMASHES into the back of Max’s head with the Blood Meridian. He rolls the champ over, and Elvis makes the count…

ONE!

TWO!

….

……..

……….

THREE!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Here is your winner, and NEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW PRIME Intense Champion… Daytonaaaaaaa….. DIIIIIIIIIIIIIAAAAMONNNNNNNNNNNNNNDS!

The crowd releases a loud reaction, mixed, but everyone has a reaction to the match. The smattering of cheers fades out as the realization hits the faithful in London. Yet another villainous group has seemingly formed around a tainted title win. Diamonds, clutching the Intense Championship just handed to him, stands next to a wheezing and gasping Fred Dick. The other two men bookend them, and they simultaneously take their masks off.

Nick Stuart: Harley Walker? STRONK Godson? What, oh Jesus.

Richard Parker: Honestly, Nick, in a company with a lot of groups like these running around already? This one might be the real gamechanger.

The three men in black bodysuits raise their masks high in the air while Diamonds clutches the Intense Championship, face bloodied, neck reddened from hanging. The crowd’s booing intensifies further as they realize there’s a new posse in town.

One that weighs a slick 24 carats, daddy-o.

FADE.

TO.

DIAMOND.