ReVival 58

The Nevada sun hangs low and harsh, cutting sharp shadows across the Lawlor Events Center parking lot. A maze of vehicles fills the space – luxury cars belonging to the talent, broadcast vans with their satellite dishes reaching skyward, and the scattered vehicles of arena staff.

The camera glides through the lot, building tension with each passing row. Then it stops dead on a sight that freezes the blood: Jamaal Ingram and Cory Kensington of KING lie motionless on the asphalt, victims of an unseen attack.

Fresh bruises mark their bodies, and a thin line of blood traces its way down Kensington’s face. The only sounds are distant – car doors, voices, and the usual bustle of a venue preparing for showtime.

A security guard rounds the corner at a brisk walk, then runs as he spots the scene. His radio comes up fast: “Medical to Lot B immediately! Two wrestlers down — need assistance now!”

While the guard checks on the fallen men, the camera tilts up slowly to take in the arena looming above. Its walls hold the story of what happened here in their silence. The screen cuts to black, and ReVival 58 begins.

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/10/ReV58-Commercial.mp4

ReVival 58.

Reno, Nevada

Hm… *checks notes* Ah, yes.

Lawlor Events Center.

Make. Some. Noise.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Good. Good.

Now…

SHOW! SOME! SIGNS!

WINTERS VS. FARTHINGTON IS FOR THE SICKOS
HEY SEBASTIAN I HAVE A DRINKING PROBLEM, CAN I PUT MY CIGAR OUT ON YOU TOO?
CANCER ‘MIDCARD’ JILES
THE HEADLESS WHORESMAN IS RIGHT BEHIND YOU
HEY FRED DICK, DONT SHID PANTS
PINEAPPLES GO ON PIZZA, NOT WRAPPED IN BARBED WIRE AND ACROSS THE HERALD’S FACE
3 SECONDS PER PIN, 20 POSSIBLE PINS PER MINUTE, 30 MINUTES…YOUNGBLOOD COULD WIN 600-0 AGAINST A CORPSE
PLEASE REMOVE THE MAN BESIDE ME AND THE MATH HE IS HOLDING
BETTER DO ALL SIX ARMAMENTS JUST TO BE SURE
IF FRED DICK LOSES WE DOMESTIC TERRORIZE
IF FRED DICK LOSES WE WILL MAKE JAN 6 LOOK LIKE JULY 15 AND THAT IS NOT EVEN A HISTORICALLY INFAMOUS DATE I DON’T THINK. BUT I DON’T READ SO WHO KNOWS.
BOBBY DEAN COME CHECK OUT MY NIPS
CAN YOU BEAT AN EGG WITH DICK? GUESS WE’LL FIND OUT!

The dynamite duo of Nick Stuart and Richard Parker are ready for the action and the first match is underway.

Nick Stuart: We start the night with a banger, folks.  We have two very complex competitors about to duke it out.

Richard Parker:  The only thing that stinks worse than Sage Pontiff is Steve Harrison.  We all know that Sage doesn’t bathe.  He just rubs Nag Champa on his armpits and calls it a day.

Nick Stuart: What do you have against Steve Harrison?

Richard Parker:  Blah blah blah he’s Canadian.

Nick Stuart:  Well, that’s not a reason to dislike someone.

Richard Parker: We can agree to disagree on the topic.

Vince Howard: The following match is for one fall!

Cut to Vince Howard in the center of the ring looking dapper as ever.  The cheering increases as the fans direct their attention to the stage.

Vince Howard:  Heading to the ring first, and weighing in at 204 pounds…

“Satori Part II” by Flower Travellin Band begins to play and The Bodhisattva of Transformative Experience struts onto the stage.

Vince Howard:  From Joshua Tree, California.  He is the Bodhisattva of Transformative Experience…Saaaaaaaaage Ponnnnnnnntiffffff!

Cue the boos as Pontiff smirks and glides down the ramp like a free spirit that’s about to open up a can of hippie ass.

Richard Parker: Just look at this dread-head bearded man.  He reeks of essential oils.

Nick Stuart:  Sage has been, well, going through a transformation as of late, but he’s still not necessarily the most gentle soul in the world.

Richard Parker:  Counterculture has to come with some pushback, Stuart.  You need to understand this.  Not everything is flowers and polka dots.  Sage Pontiff is tough as nails, and he should probably trim them.

Pontiff walks up the steps and ignores the reaction he’s receiving from the crowd.  He enters the ring and embraces the universe with open arms.

Vince Howard: And his opponent: weighing in at 250 pounds…

The lights dim and the slow melodic song of “Monsters,” by Phish begins to play. Steve Harrison slowly emerges to the entrance ramp. His green robe flows behind him as he takes a few steps. His eyes are closed as he stops at the top of ramp:

“Easy now, easy now

Easy now, easy now

I wake up in my bed

With monsters in my heads

Easy now, easy now

Easy now, easy now

I wake up in my bed

With monsters in my head”

Steve’s eyes open at the last mention of Monsters and “Set Your Soul Free,” by Trey Anastasio w/ Derek Trucks begins to rapidly play. He puts his arms in the air and nods towards the crowd as he begins to walk a bit faster down the ramp.

Vince Howard:  From Montreal, Quebec, Canada…he is the Miracle Man…Steeeeeeeeve Harrrrrrrrison!

He smirks as the fans react to him, he doesn’t seem to care if they boo or cheer as he concentrates on the ring he will be competing in tonight. He gets to the steps and swiftly makes his way up and into the ring.

He walks to the middle and looks out at the crowd and then runs from one corner to the other and then leans against the turnbuckle and takes his robe off and hands it to the ring attendant as he prepares mentally for the battle ahead.

Nick Stuart:  With Phish playing it makes me think of one of the greats that we lost just a few days ago.  Rest in Peace to Phil Lesh.

Richard Parker:  Who’s Phil Lesh?

Nick Stuart: Bassist for the Grateful Dead, one of the most legendary bands ever.  He was 84.

Richard Parker:  Well, I’m sure he’s grateful, and he’s dead.  84 years is a long life, Nick.  You’d be lucky to make it 84 years.

Nick Stuart: I think I could live that long.

Richard Parker:  Wanna make a bet?

And the match begins with the sound of the bell.  The referee, Jimmy Turnbull, circles around Sage Pontiff and Steve Harrison as they stare at each other.  Pontiff and Harrison are the same height, so there’s no feeling of anxiety between the two.  They lock up in the center of the ring and Pontiff is quick to get Harrison into a headlock.  Sage grinds his bicep into Steve’s face.  Harrison pushes Pontiff and gains enough momentum to launch him toward the ropes.  Sage bounces off the ropes and is met with a shoulder block that sends him crashing to the ring below.  Pontiff grimaces and looks up at the Miracle Man.  The fans are cheering as Steve obtains control early.  The Bodhisattva isn’t quick enough to dodge the first stomp, but he does dodge the second, and he rolls to the ropes and latches on.  The referee jumps in front of Harrison and ensures that his attack doesn’t continue until the rope break is finished.  The ref begins to count and pressures Pontiff to expedite the break.

The Bodhisattva rolls back into the ring and slowly pulls himself to his feet using the ropes.  Turnbull moves away from the action and Pontiff strikes!  He launches at Harrison and nails a stiff right.  He follows that with a stiff left, another right, then he takes a few steps back and attempts a clothesline.  Harrison ducks!  The Miracle Man races toward the ropes and bounces off.  Pontiff turns around and is met with a diving shoulder tackle!

Nick Stuart:  Great quick offense by Harrison in the early goings as Pontiff is taken down by a vicious shoulder tackle.

Richard Parker: Yea, well, Pontiff might have got a little overzealous there.  He should have continued the jabs and followed that with a more immediate strike.  Taking a few steps back cost him.

Harrison doesn’t attempt a pin, but instead hurries to the fallen Pontiff and straddles him.  He lays into Sage one clenched right fist after the other.  Turnbull begins to count to start breaking up the melee and Harrison gets to his feet after the fourth punch.  The fans cheer the Miracle Man as he roars toward them and he’s getting hype.  Before he can turn around and return attention to the Bodhisattva – he falls backward!  Pontiff rolls Harrison up and Turnbull falls to the mat for the count.  One!

Nick Stuart: Those punches didn’t faze Sage but the schoolboy is unsuccessful as Harrison kicks out.

Richard Parker:  It was worth a shot.  Sometimes you catch these idiots in the middle of trying to think they’re the bees knees and you take advantage.  Nice try, Pontiff.

Harrison rolls away from Pontiff and the referee shows Sage one finger.  Pontiff smiles and rolls to his feet.  Harrison doesn’t waste any time and he lunges toward his competition.  The Miracle Man smacks Sage with a left forearm, followed by another, and another, then he ends the attack with a kick to the gut!  Pontiff falls forward with his stomach in his hands.  Harrison doesn’t let Sage fall to the mat.  He, instead, straightens Pontiff and then wraps his arms around him.  Belly-to-belly suplex!  Harrison launches the 204 pound Pontiff around and slams him onto the mat with a vicious thud.  Harrison goes for a cover.  Turnbull falls to the mat.  One!  Tw-kickout!  Pontiff pushes Harrison off and rolls to the ropes.

Richard Parker:  C’mon, Pontiff.  You can’t let this guy get the momentum.  I get that Steve is 46 pounds heavier, but don’t let the big man get the best of you – you freakin’ hippie!

Nick Stuart:  That’s a good call, Rich, Harrison is a solid 46 pounds heavier than Pontiff; albeit they’re the same height at 6’4”.  You’d think it’s a balanced brawl, but Harrison has some gerth.

Richard Parker:  You don’t talk about another man’s gerth like that, Stuart.

Harrison waits for Pontiff to rise and when he does the goal is to pacify the Bodhisattva and make this an easy day at work.  But, Sage has other plans and lays into Steve’s chest with a solid knife edge chop that sends vibrations through the crowd.  The fans shout as Pontiff nails another chop, reddening Harrison chest plate and sending him stumbling backward.  No matter the weight difference – a good knife edge chop can go a long way.  Pontiff stalks Harrison.  The Miracle Man stumbles toward the turnbuckle but Pontiff doesn’t allow him to seek refuge in the corner.  He grabs Harrison by the shoulders, spins him around, smiles, and then headbutts the Miracle Man between the eyes!  Harrison flies back and lands in the corner with a thud.  Sage runs, jumps, and splashes Harrison!  Pontiff backs up and rushes toward Harrison again.  Another splash!  The third time is a charm and Pontiff scales the turnbuckle so that he can begin sending five knuckles like a jackhammer into Harrison’s forehead.  The crowd boos!  Turnbull counts and asks for Pontiff to stop.  Sage doesn’t let up.  Five punches.  Six.  Seven!  He continues until he reaches ten solid strikes and then he hops off the turnbuckle.  He’s showered with hate, but it just bounces right off him.

Richard Parker:  Don’t stop, Pontiff!  Shove his face into your dirty, disgusting, vile, wretched, hairy arrrrrrrrrmmmmmpiiiiiiiiit.

Sage takes Richard’s advice, takes a breather, and then focuses his attention on Harrison.  He begins to stomp a mudhole into Steve, and the Miracle Man melts down to the mat while in the corner.  Four stomps later and Pontiff bends forward to lift his opponent to his feet.  He drags Harrison into the center of the ring and ignites the crowd with a textbook, smooth as butter, brainbuster suplex!  He does not go for the pin, and instead grabs Steve by his ears in order to lift him back to his feet.  He slaps Harrison in the face!  He does it a second time!  Then he kicks Harrison in the gut.  Steve folds forward and Pontiff pulls him in to set up for the Shamanic Dreamweaver!

Nick Stuart: Pontiff has Harrison ready for the Shamanic Dreamweaver!  This is it!

Richard Parker:  Wanna know what’s awesome about this?  That’s the Canadian Destroyer.  Harrison is Canadian.  He needs to be destroyed.

Nick Stuart:  Nice observation, Rich.

Pontiff is ready to flip around and nail the Canadian Destroyer, but Harrison doesn’t follow through!  Steve sends Sage over with a back body drop!  But Pontiff lands on his feet!  Harrison turns around, he’s thinking that he’s got Sage right where he wants him, but on the contrary!  Pontiff hits the trigger and unleashes a furious super kick that sends Harrison flying into the air and landing on his back with a grotesque thud.  Sage continues his assault and decides that perhaps an aerial maneuver would assist in a potential future victory?  He scales the turnbuckle and patiently sets himself up so that he doesn’t screw up the transition.  He stands tall, and his arms are open.  He leaps!  He’s going for a diving headbutt!

Harrison, using every muscle fiber in his body, kips up and absolutely obliterates Pontiff with a European uppercut!  Sage’s legs go out from under him, and he lands on the back of his neck.  Harrison loses his footing after putting a lot of effort into the attack.  He falls to the mat as the fans go crazy!  Turnbull checks in on Pontiff – the Bodhisattva is responsive, but that took a lot out of him.

Nick Stuart:  My GOODness!  What a way to gain back the momentum.  The crowd is behind Harrison every step of the way here.  Pontiff is seeing little cartoon birds encompassing his head.

Richard Parker:  Turnbull needs to do something about this mess.  I think Harrison may have had a foreign object in his hand when he hit him with the uppercut.  He threw something out of the ring.  I saw it happen.

Nick Stuart:  No need to make excuses here, Richard.

Harrison is slow to his feet, but he’s got the excitement behind him.  The crowd is cheering Miracle Man!  Miracle Man!  Miracle Man!  He sets his sights on Pontiff.  Turnbull watches Sage slowly stand.  Harrison grabs Pontiff and sends him flying into the center of the ring with a hip toss.  Pontiff, already in pain, arches his back and grimaces.  The Bodhisattva is on his knees.  Without warning, a taunt, a gesture, Pontiff is nailed in the back of the head with Enlightenment!

Nick Stuart: Harrison hits the Enlightenment!  The knee trigger to the back of the neck!  Pontiff is down!  Pontiff is out!  Harrison goes for the pin!

Richard Parker:  It just isn’t Sage’s day.  Today isn’t Sage day.

Harrison flips Sage’s lifeless body over onto his back.  He hooks the leg.  Turnbull falls to the mat.  One!  The fans cheer as Harrison wrenches the leg back more.  Two!  Pontiff is moving, but not enough to save him from Turnbull’s hand hitting the mat a third time.  Three!  Jimmy points and signals for the bell!

Nick Stuart:  What a way to start the night.  A fast paced and fantastic matchup.  Steve Harrison gets the dub, but Pontiff got his shots in.  Perhaps going for the gusto and diving off the turnbuckle was the wrong choice?  He just wasn’t physically the same after that European uppercut.

Vince Howard:  The winner of the match by pinfall…Miracle Man…STEVE…HARRRRRRRRRISONNNNNNN!

“Set Your Soul Free,” by Trey Anastasio w/ Derek Trucks plays throughout the arena as Steve Harrison pushes himself away from the fallen Sage Pontiff.  He gets to his feet, smirks, and throws his arm in the air.  Jimmy Turnbull reaches over and helps to hold Harrison’s arm up as the victor.

Richard Parker:  Tough way to start the night for us good guys.

Nick Stuart: Still plenty of game left.

ReVival moves on.

…Previously on…

…THE RED MANIFESTO…

Wilhelm Kael: My predecessor wanted to use you for a night light. I have… higher aspirations for you, my friend.

The former Maximillian Wilhelm Kael is wearing a white lab coat and is surrounded by several Russian scientists. They scurry around him like rats while Wilhelm casually circles an operating table where sits the head of Lowell Dot Com.

Wilhelm Kael: Fitting that it’s Halloween, Mr. Dot Com. What I intend to do can be considered… unnatural…

Two of the Soviet Scientists shuffle over with a silver case. They unlock it, retrieving a syringe containing a swirling, green fluid. Slipping on a pair of gloves, Wilhelm retrieves the needle and jabs it deep into Lowell’s forehead.

Soviet Scientists #1: Sir… this is all experimental, there is no telling what might ha-

Before he can finish, Wilhelm sends a stiff backhand across #1’s face, knocking him to the floor. Wilhelm’s eyes scan the others to see if there is anyone else who might voice a concern. There are none.

Wilhelm Kael: A wise man once said: The mind is a labyrinth, a puzzle. And while the paths of the brain are plainly visible, its ways deceptively apparent, its destinations are unknown. Its secrets still secret.

Surprising everyone, save for Wilhelm, Lowell’s eye twitches. His eyelid closes then slides back open. Some of the scientists scream, others flee in terror.

Wilhelm cocks his head to the side, stroking his chin as a wry smile touches his lips.

Wilhelm Kael: …Hmm-hmm…

☠️☠️☠️☠️

The Herald prances over a green hill in some majestic, seemingly mythic landscape. In one hand he carries a large, golden horn of some shape or sorts. It’s not normal looking but it seems to fit with the Herald just the same for that very reason.

The Herald: It’s been a long, long time since I’ve done this!

Clamoring up to the top of the green hill he plops down with a happy smile.

The Herald: Phew! Here I am. Gonna take a breather.

Pulling a Halloween cookie out of his pocket, the Herald consumes the treat like the Cookie Monster himself had set him on the task. Finishing up, the Herald jumps back up to his feet, his sugar levels replenished.

The Herald: Alrighty! Let’s do this!

Raising the bizarre trumpetophone to his lips the Herald unleashes a mighty noise. It’s a cross between the silver call of a trumpet, the lean scream of a bugle and the sexy call of a saxophone. Its call rises over the hills and mountains, carrying far across the horizon. Having completed his toot, the Herald lowers his horn.

The Herald: HEEEEEEERAAAAAAAAAALDS ASSSSSSSSSEMBLE!!!

☠️☠️☠️☠️

The Herald skips through the secret lab where Wilhelm Kael had recently been experimenting with the now undead head of Lowell Dot Com. How did the Herald get such unfettered access to such facilities?

Well everyone just assumed he worked directly for Max and honestly, nobody really considers the Herald a threat. Just go with it.

The Herald: Wow, we’ve gotten a lot more evil laboratory space put in ever since Max decided to change his name.

?????: EYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!

The Herald practically pisses himself as an ear piercing wail echoes around the lab. Falling to his hands and knees, the Herald crawls across the crowd with a panicked look on his face.

The Herald: Okay, okay, just a terrifying scream in a spooky lab, it’s probably nothin-

?????: EYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!

As the screaming ends the Herald chances a peek at his surroundings. His eyes light up when he finally sees the source of the horrific warbling.

The Herald: LOWELL! You’re re-alived!

Scurrying over to a medical table where Lowell’s head is propped up, connected via various tubes and hoses connected to his neck allowing him to breathe. Or really, just provide his mouth air to scream.

Lowell Dot Com: EYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!

The Herald: Oh wow! That’s really loud, you’d make a great Herald.

Lowell’s milky dead eyes swivel to the Herald. The Herald meets his gaze.

The Herald:… you’d make a great Herald…

☠️☠️☠️☠️

THE RED MANIFESTO

We are not treated to the normal introduction to the Red Manifesto nor the traditional crimson staging. Instead it’s a lone fireplace, burning warmly amid red brink and black wrought iron. The soft crackling of the wood gives the scene a calm, inviting feel.

And then Wilhelm Kael, dressed in an all black Red Army uniform walks calmly into frame. A beard has started to take shape on his face since the last ReVival. Likewise, he appears older, the lines of his face deeper while his eyes are a pale gray.

Wilhelm Kael: I know many of you have had concerns following the horrendous attack on my body last ReVival at the hands of FLAMBERGE. Rest assured, a lesser man would have been laid to rest by the brutal ambush but I, Wilhelm Kael, am lesser to no man. FLAMBERGE, despite what you did I have no hard feelings. You’ve..

Kael looks thoughtful for a moment before settling on the word he desires.

Wilhelm Kael: … helped me to become a better man, a wiser man. In your desire to slate your lust for revenge or to halt my march toward Cecilworth, whatever it might be, you’ve only made me more powerful. I shall share my appreciation with you at ReVival 60.

Wihlem does not wink.

Wilhelm Kael: Turning my sights to later this evening, I will be facing “The Diamond” Brandon Youngblood. This man is a beautiful testament to the power of hate, a work of art tempered by the blood of his enemies. I would just as much throw a lit match on the Mona Lisa than deprive the world of your beautiful rage. Unfortunately that is what I am called upon to do tonight.

A slight smile touches the edges of Wilhelm’s lips. It’s not maniacal or dramatic, just a small shadow of pleasure hanging at the corner of his mouth.

Wilhelm Kael: Have you ever held another human’s head underwater and felt them struggle? Felt the panic rush through their body as they thrash, scratch and crawl in desperation? They can’t scream or they’ll only drown faster but every moment denied oxygen leaves them weaker… and weaker… and weaker.

Clearing his throat, Wilhelm waves someone off camera to come forward. The Herald prances forward in his Red Army uniform, a wide, goofy grin on his face.

Wilhelm Kael: Introduce yourself, my lad.

The Herald: It is I, Sub-Marquis Bentley Tennyson Primrose-Farthington, the Herald of the Wise and Wonderful Maxim-

Before the Herald can finish, Wilhelm slaps him so hard, he does a complete 180 before cashing down to the ground in front of the fire.

Wilhelm Kael: Brandon, my mystery opponent, FLAMBERGE. I have one mission, one goal. I’m going to face Cecilworth Farthington at Colossus. You’re all test subjects for something new. Something I’ve designed specifically for our young Lord Farthington the Lesser.

There is a healthy amount of contempt slapped on Cecilworth’s title.

Wilhlem Kael: Of course, we all know how fickle Farthingtons can be. Thankfully I’ve a perfect test subject… right here.

Wilhelm steps over the Herald, who has started to stir, shaking off the tremendous slap he had just received. Kael immediately locks in a Camel Clutch, hoisting both of Bentley’s arms up over his knees. However instead of locking on the chinlock, Wilhelm drives his right thumb into his victim’s neck while using his left to apply more upward pressure. The Herald wriggles, unable to escape. Tears flow from his eyes as he clearly is hurt, confused and unsure what is happening.

Wilhelm Kael: Just like drowning another human being. They struggle. They fight. And then..

The Herald’s wild wriggling slows before abating completely. Wilhelm releases the hold, smoothing out his uniform as he kicks the lifeless body of the Herald away.

Wilhelm Kael: … they’re gone.

And so are we. ReVival moves on.

[PRERECORDED]

[November 1, 2024 1300]

[Lawlor Events Center Reno, Nevada]

It’s cold in Reno, but that doesn’t stop the hardcore PRIMEates from congregating at the back of Lawlor Events Center, trying to catch a glimpse of their favorite PRIME athletes arriving at the arena.

It has been a dull afternoon thus far. The crowd has ebbed and flowed, thinning in waves before being replaced by a new volley of fans hoping to see Coral Avalon’s giant forehead in person. Could it really be as large as it looks on TV? There’s no way the gods actually make men like that.

Rob Williams steps out from the Indian Chief he managed to score with the remainder of proceeds from his Black Lightning after paying the arrears of Anna’s gym. Immediately he sees Sebastian Gold pandering to the fans.

The Golden Boy lands a standing backflip and bows dramatically for the applauding fans. His happiness fades when he sees Rob. The burn mark Rob’s cigar left on his shoulder itches.

The nemeses lock eyes across the lot, inside the metal railing separating their world from the fans. These fans are about to witness how thin the membrane is that separates what they see on television from the realities of the violence, the travel, the spotlight.

Fists clench and the pavement reverberates with the increasing slapping of feet as the two men instinctively brace for impact. They are feet away before half the fans realize they’re dangerously close to the action and make way.

Sebastian:  Come on, Rob. We can’t fight around all these people.

He says through clenched teeth.

Rob Williams: I didn’t realize this was a fucking boy scout meeting. You here to play grab ass with the other development guys?

Gold: Wow. You went there. Alright.

He nods, takes off his leather jacket and ****charges Rob. He swings a wide right hook that Rob manages to slide and lock him up. The two men go back and forth, attracting a crowd of rowdier (read: already wasted) fans that start to egg them on:“GET HIM BASH.” “BURY HIM ROB!” Others join in, one fan yelling on top of another, each trying to undo the last, trying to be heard, when one voice cuts right through with a word you really don’t wanna call Sebastian Gold.

The world stops for everyone but Gold whose head spins to the direction sound like a rabbit hearing a branch break. Rob straightens like a weather vane.

A pin drop would sound like a nuclear bomb in the silence that follows.

Bash’s eyes sweep the crowd, resting on each face as if to count it, ending on Rob. Williams squints, examining Gold’s face. The kid is doing a good job of masking it, but Rob sees the impact. Sebastian mutters something under his breath and runs out of view.

Williams pushes back on the heels of his cowboy boots and wheels around to the source of the slur.

Rob Williams: Who the fuck said that?

It’s the Red Sea as everyone moves away from a drunk man of middle age. There is nothing remarkable about this man. Rob sees nothing that he believes would even begin to justify the arrogance required to think that he could say something like that. He is simply plain toast with butter – a mark in an indistinguishable wrestling shirt you would expect to see at any show. With surprising deftness Rob bounds the guardrail.

Man: I was just joking!

Rob Williams: I wasn’t.

Rob rears back to unload great violence on him, but a hand on his shoulder stops him. He turns and sees Sebastian, tire iron in hand, ready to swing.

Sebastian Gold: Let him go, Rob. Don’t make me have to hurt you. Not for this guy.

A smirk crosses the Legend’s face and he drops the man to the ground.

Rob Williams: Oh fuck you and all your holier-than-thou bullshit. What moral credit is there in being craven, boy? You want to hurt him? Fucking do it.

Sebastian shoulders his way past Rob to stand over the man.

Sebastian Gold: I don’t like it either. But I have to be better than him. I have to set the right example.

Rob Williams: Check your zipper – your god complex is hanging out, kid.

Gold ignores him and turns his attention to the man lying on the ground.

Sebastian Gold: What did we learn today?

He breathes a sigh of relief and looks up to him.

Man: THANK YOU! Thank you! I-I’ll never do it again.

One lightning-fast jab is all it takes to send the man back down to the floor. Sebastian’s fist hits with a sickening CRACK to man’s face, a few globs of spittle and blood sprinkle the guardrail. Some of the crowd gasp, some take out their phones. Sebastian only looks down at what he’s done.

Sebastian Gold: No, you won’t.

Rob steps back and smiles, arms folded as he admires the young man’s work. Quick, precise, efficient. Only one hit, but you can’t underestimate how much damage an unprotected blow to the head can do.

The Enemigos surround Bash but all he’s doing is staring at the unconscious man. A medical team rushes in but he doesn’t seem to see them.

Sebastian Gold: (muttering)  It was fun while it lasted.

Rob stands to the side grinning ear to ear.

Rob Williams: Now THAT was fucking exciting, wasn’t it, BASH? Didn’t that feel gooooood?

Sebastian shakes his head and says through gritted teeth:

Sebastian Gold: Fuck off! I’m done with you, Rob. Just leave me the hell alone.

The Enemigos close in and escort him away.

Rob Williams: We’ve only just begun, sport. You wanted me? You got me!

Despite Sebastian’s vitriol, the light in Rob’s eyes doesn’t darken at all. He sticks his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and turns to leave, whistling “Washington Square”by the Village Stompers.

Nick Stuart: We’re keeping the action going on tonight’s Revival, ladies and gentlemen! Next up, Crash Jackson faces off against Kenny Freeman of the Red Army!

Richard Parker: The Commies are finally comin’ for our hot dogs, Nick! But honestly? They could have them…

Nick Stuart: Not sure I understand what you’re on about right now, but that’s nothing out of the ordinary by this point. Let’s head to the ring, where our man Vince Howard is ready to make the introductions.

The house lights come down, and the stage lights come up in RED. To the tune of Micah Ray’s trap remix of the Soviet National Anthem, Randall Schwartz steps out of the entryway to a chorus of boos. Kenny Freeman follows him out, and the jeering only gets louder.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentleman, the following contest is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, accompanied to the ring by the Entertainer, Randall Schwartz… he hails from Los Angeles, California, by way of Moscow, Russia, and weighs in at one-hundred and eighty-five pounds… representing the Red Army, here is KENNY FREEMAN!!

Richard Parker: Finally, Randall Schwartz can manage his comrade without having to be confined to a shark cage!

Nick Stuart: I think we should just consider ourselves lucky the other members of the Red Army aren’t coming out with him. In any case, Freeman is coming off a failed attempt at taking the Intense Championship from Daytona Diamonds at UltraViolence, but tonight provides an opportunity for this Master of the Multiverse to bounce back!

Richard Parker: Well, if he wants to stay in Ivan’s good graces, then he better make the most of this opportunity.

The classic multiversal masters make their way down the ramp, side by side. Schwartz does his best to play up Freeman, but the fans let them hear it anyway. They slide into the ring together for more posturing, completely ignoring the reaction.

The music is replaced by Volbeat’s “A Warrior’s Call”, and the fans come alive! The red lights on stage are joined by flashes of YELLOW right as Crash Jackson bursts through the curtain!

Vince Howard: And the opponent… hailing from Buffalo, New York, and weighing in at two-hundred and thirty-eight pounds… here is “The Northern Light” CRASH JACKSON!!

Crash comes streaking down the rampway, pumping his fist and slapping hands with the ringside fans! He runs an energetic loop around the ring before scrambling up the steps and onto a turnbuckle, getting the crowd rowdy with more fist-pumping before somersaulting into the ring.

Nick Stuart: Crash looks fired up and excited to be here tonight! Listen to these fans!

Richard Parker: These fans are morons, Nick! They see any ordinary stooge pumping his fist, and they cheer! It’s infantile key-jangling, I tell you!

Nick Stuart: Regardless, the story of this young star’s rise in the ranks has been one that has captivated the PRIME Faithful as of late! A win here tonight could keep that momentum going… but it’s anyone’s guess as to what’s in store when going up against the Red Army!

Schwartz goes to ringside. Presiding official Ashley Barlow makes her final checks on both competitors, and gives the cue to the timekeeper to start the action.

DING DING

Freeman and Jackson both come out of their corners, and go straight into a lock-up. Jackson immediately tries to force the arm around the back into a hammerlock, but Freeman gracefully reverses, drops to the mat, and clips the leg to bring Crash to the canvas. Before he can move, Crash takes a sudden knee strike to the back of the head, leaving him open to a front facelock.

Nick Stuart: Freeman with the quick takedown, but Jackson is powering his way right back up! He’s got the leg hooked, and… a Northern Lights suplex puts Freeman on his back!

Richard Parker: The very move where he got his nickname! Who could’ve seen it coming?!

Freeman’s tag team instincts leave him rolling to the near corner. Jackson approaches to follow up, but finds himself on the receiving end of a toe kick to the midsection that doubles him over. With Crash stunned, Kenny boosts up to the second rope and vaults over him.

Nick Stuart: Freeman with the sunset flip, right into the pin!

One…

Two…

-but CRASH rolls forward into a RANA!

Richard Parker: The ol’ switcheroo!

Nick Stuart: One…

Two…

Freeman kicks out!

Both men break free from each other and quickly rise off the mat, but Jackson is just a step faster, catching Freeman with a high-elevation standing dropkick that pegs the Multiversal Master square in the face! K-Free hits the mat, quickly scrambles back to his feet, and gets up in time to find himself in the line of fire of a SUPERKICK–

Nick Stuart: Kenny BAILS from the ring before Crash Jackson could connect with the Wide Left!

Richard Parker: Can’t say I blame him! Nearly had his head kicked off and sent flying into the fourth row!

Standing tall in the ring, Jackson pumps his arms high and gets the fans LOUD! Kenny is soon joined by Randall, offering words of support while Ashley Barlow begins the ten count.

Nick Stuart: Looks like Kenny Freeman needs a breather after that exchange!

Richard Parker: Cut the man some slack, Rich! He clearly can’t breathe from the pervasive stench of ketchup and mustard!

Not wanting to wait any longer than he has to, Crash presses his advantage and hits the ropes for a head of steam. Flash photography bursts throughout the arena as he clears the ropes and completes the Tornillo Suicida!

Nick Stuart: TAILGATE DIVE by CRASH JACKSON–but FREEMAN GETS CLEAR, and RANDALL SCHWARTZ gets taken out!

Richard Parker: Hey, now! Randall did nothing to deserve that!

Nick Stuart: Maybe he should’ve stayed out of the way, then?

Freeman finally slips back in under the ropes, quickly followed by Crash, but Kenny gets the drop on him with yet another lightning fast standing dropkick. Crash reels, clutching his face, and Kenny sees a wide-open window of opportunity as he gets a head of steam and runs off the far ropes.

Nick Stuart: Watch out for Kenny Freeman OFF THE ROPES — NO WAIT!!

With a head full of steam, Freeman launches himself into the air… only for Crash to catch the cross body block! K-Free’s face briefly fills with panic before Jackson brings him down over the knee for an impromptu rib-breaker!

Nick Stuart: Well, that backfired.

Richard Parker: Bah! Max’s weight-gaining regimen clearly wasn’t enough for Kenny to put on the necessary pounds. This is EXACTLY why Russia needs hotdogs!

Nick Stuart: Crash hooking the leg… will that be enough?

One!

Two!

NO, it will not!

A sharp elbow to Freeman’s ear keeps him temporarily stunned while Crash pulls him off the mat. When he’s up, Kenny pops an elbow of his own into Jackson’s gut in an effort to slip free, and runs himself once more into the ropes. Crash is waiting for him, but Kenny slips under the arm, traps it, and drills the Northern Light head first into the mat!

Nick Stuart: ARM-TRAP DDT by Kenny Freeman! Jackson is down, and in another world off that impact!

Richard Parker: Or in another verse, if you will!

Nick Stuart: There goes Kenny up to the top rope… oh wow, SOMERSAULT LEGDROP!! He hooks the legs for the cover!

ONE!

TWO!

CRASH KICKS OUT!

Kenny sits Crash up and immediately goes for a seated rear naked choke. Crash fights him before he can trap his body with a legscissor, frantically working himself up to his feet. With K-Free hanging on his back, the Buffalo Kid counters with a reverse jawbreaker!

Nick Stuart: Jackson gets himself out of the submission attempt, and Freeman is reeling… Crash bursts forward, and a LEG LARIAT brings Kenny down! Freeman’s attempt to capitalize was quickly shut down!

Richard Parker: Capitalize? You mean communize, Nick!

As Freeman recovers, Jackson hits the ropes again for some speed. He hops up to Kenny’s head for a swinging DDT, but Freeman deftly slips under his arm and twirls him around. A snap swinging neckbreaker puts Jackson back to the canvas!

Nick Stuart: Freeman turns the momentum of this match once more, and now snatches Jackson off the mat with an OKLAHOMA ROLL!

Richard Parker: You mean OUR-klahoma Roll, comrade!

Nick Stuart: Whatever! The point is, the shoulders are down!

ONE!

TWO!

THR–NO!! Near kickout!

Freeman assists Jackson to his feet before snatching the arm and sending him running into the corner. Crash’s chest impacts painfully on the top turnbuckle, but he turns around in time to DUCK a corner splash by K-Free, and counters by dumping him over the ropes!

Except Kenny deftly lands on the apron…

Nick Stuart: Crash with the reversal, but Freeman lands on his feet! Jackson doesn’t see him!

Richard Parker: A classic capitalist mistake!

Nick Stuart: Jackson turns around now… and K-FREE TAKES HIM TO THE MAT with the SPRINGBOARD SENTON!

Kenny Freeman takes a moment to nod Randall Schwartz, now recovered on the outside, letting his longtime partner know that that was for him. Then he proceeds to put the boots to the Buffalo Kid, until Crash drags himself to the ropes and official Ashley Barlow is forced to intervene.

Nick Stuart: Jackson back to his feet with the help of the ropes, but Freeman SNEAK ATTACKS from behind with a LEGSWEEP right into the Reverse DDT!

ONE!

TWO!

THRE–NO!! Another near fall!

Richard Parker: I want Ashley Barlow’s meds checked! That was the slowest three-count ever!

Freeman takes a moment to dust his hands before methodically pulling Crash back off the mat, stunning him with a sharp knee lift right to the solar plexus before whipping him into the corner. He follows through with a running shoulder block aimed at Jackson’s midsection, but the Northern Light pulls his lower body up at the last second, leaving K-Free to collide with the turnbuckles!

Nick Stuart: Kenny is reeling after hitting the corner pads, and another attempt to “communize” goes up in smoke!

Richard Parker: Now you’re catching on, Nick!

Nick Stuart: Now Jackson boosts himself up… and DIVES OFF with the LFG DDT! Crash may have put this one away after that move, and he hooks both legs for the pin!

ONE!

TWO!

THR — NOOO, KICKOUT!! Kenny had to dig deep for that one!

Richard Parker: Oh, so NOW the ref knows how to count!

Jackson shakes his head in frustration, but quickly pops back to his feet and hurries to the corner. He hops to the top rope and does double joint-smoking gesture!, earning a huge pop from the crowd!

Nick Stuart: Crash is looking to cap off this match by going high risk! Here he goes with the 420 SPLASH…!

But Kenny gets the knees up!

Nick Stuart: NO!!

Richard Parker: YES! In Multiversal Russia, marijuana smokes you!

Freeman pops to his feet, shakes the feeling back into his legs, and a smile forms on his face. Crash is still on the mat clutching his ribs when Kenny hits the ropes and pops a lightning-fast elbow drop across his temple. He hops up, hits the ropes again, and lands another! The third time, he stops briefly to do a quick COSSACK DANCE, and caps it off with a legdrop!

Nick Stuart: FOLLOW THE FREEMAN!!

Richard Parker: With some moves that would make the Praporshchik proud!

Schwartz is practically celebrating early at ringside. With momentum on his side, K-Free pops right back up and springboards off the ropes with a MOONSAULT…

…only for Jackson to return the favor by lifting up his OWN knees! Freeman moans in agony off the impact and scrambles back up, clutching his chest. But Crash is up before him.

Nick Stuart: WIDE LEFT! This time it hits the mark, and Freeman goes DOWN!

Richard Parker: No! There’s NOTHING “left” about this hotdog muncher!

Freeman is unmoving after catching Jackson’s boot directly under the jaw. Not looking a gift horse in the mouth, the Buffalo Kid runs to the corner and climbs up to the top rope…

Richard Parker: Someone get him down from there! Do something, Randall!

Nick Stuart: Crash Jackson could be going for it here! Up to the top rope… is he going for it…? YES!! CRASH DOT COM!! CRASH DOT COM!! He hooks the legs…

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!!

DING DING DING

The PRIMEates cheer loudly as Jackson rolls off of Freeman’s chest. Volbeat comes in over the PA. Barlow helps Crash back to his feet and raises his arm in victory.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of the match, by pinfall… CRAAAASSHH JAAAAACKSOOOONN!!!

Randall Schwartz helps Kenny Freeman from the ring, and they begin the despondent trip back to the locker room. Crash stays in the ring, climbing turnbuckles and keeping the celebration going with the fans.

Nick Stuart: A solid win tonight for Crash, after a back and forth battle with the Red Army’s Multiversal Master! This young man is definitely going places!

Richard Parker: Give K-Free his flowers, Nick! He would’ve had this match won if that Northern BLIGHT hadn’t stolen his genius countermove!

Nick Stuart: Be as it may, the victory tonight goes to the Buffalo Kid, Crash Jackson! We need to take a quick break, ladies and gentlemen, but when we come back, we’ll have–HEY WAIT!!

The crowd reaction flips to one of shock and surprise when someone hits the rings and brings Crash’s celebration to an end with a flurry of rights and lefts.

Nick Stuart: That’s BRYAN DAWKINS!

Richard Parker: BRUH!

Nick Stuart: What is the meaning of this?! Bryan Dawkins is going after Crash Jackson!

Richard Parker: BRO!

Barlow jumps into the action to break them apart, but there’s little she can do to keep the two raging men from hammering away at each other. The timekeeper rails on the bell and more officials come pouring down the rampway.

Nick Stuart: I don’t know what’s going on, ladies and gentlemen, but something appears to be unresolved between Crash and Bryan Dawkins!

Richard Parker: I’ll say!

Nick Stuart: We’ll try to get this situation under control by the time we get back from commercial! Don’t go anywhere!

ReVival goes elsewhere…

This hype segment has got it all.

Green screen with the red banner of the Soviet Union.

IVAN STANISLAV in blocky Soviet-style letters emblazoned in gold in the center.

Ivan Stanislav standing in front of it, occasionally causing distortions with the green screen as he moves. He’s dressed for combat versus Adam Ellis. You know the outfit. Gray shirt, red suspenders, black pants, and his hair cut high and tight. He’s angry. He’s mad.

He’s The Russian Bear after all.

Now all that’s needed are words, and Ivan is more than happy to supply them.

Ivan Stanislav: PRIME! There are a lot of members of roster who like to laugh. Myself included. Why, Ivan Stanislav has most iconic laugh in wrestling profession. No one is going to deny this. No one is going to challenge this. But there are others who enjoy laughing too! Anglo Luchador cracked jokes until I cracked him! Chandler Tsonda was funny until I sent him to retirement! Jared Sykes, do you remember him? That jokester is but a memory once I got through with him. Brandon Youngblood even laughs once a year, I am certain, but he could only cover his mouth with one arm once I broke his other one!

Ivan smirks.

Ivan Stanislav: But there is one person in PRIME who thought they could have a laugh last year and get away with it: Adam Ellis. Despite being wholly forgettable and devoid of any interesting emotional qualities, he, of all people, thought he could thumb his knows at Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav. He thought he could poke the bear and get a chuckle. He thought he would never have to suffer consequences of his little laughter.

Ivan grins.

Ivan Stanislav: Out of pity, PRIME laughed with him. They thought it was cute. Perhaps they thought it was funny that Adam Ellis, the walking block of wood, might actually show some semblance of personality! They thought that Adam Ellis was becoming interesting, with his little quips and jokes.

Ivan points a finger at the screen.

Ivan Stanislav: I told every one of you that Adam Ellis was a ne’er do well backstabber back then, and look where Ellis is now, PRIME. A serial-adulterer, ruining not just his own marriage, but others! A man with an infant at home, and he is too busy sleeping around with other people’s wives! A sexual deviant! Well, that is not going to happen on MY watch!

Ivan waggles a finger.

Ivan Stanislav: I look beyond mere personal affronts to myself. Adam Ellis did not realize that Ivan Stanislav was also a champion of family unit! A protector of sacred institution of marriage. Why do you think there was a Pretty Pink Red Army? There was no Pretty Pink Glue. No Pretty Pink eGGs. No Pretty Pink Whorsemen! Because none of those groups care about family values like The Red Army!

Ivan snarls.

Ivan Stanislav: Which is why I am going to take such great pleasure in beating the дерьмо out of you this evening, Adam Ellis. For hard working, married families around the world, regardless of nationality! You have already tried to play damage control, you yellow-bellied coward!

Ivan shakes his head.

Ivan Stanislav: You’ve carted your manager out in public to claim she will throw a towel in if I beat you too hard? In wrestling? Are you serious?! I don’t care what she says, towel or not, I’oll beat you down until I am through with you, and turn your towel crimson!

Ivan roars.

Ivan Stanislav: Take heart, young man! For first time since coming to PRIME, Adam Ellis, you will actually be noticed: for standing in the shadow of Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav and being absolutely destroyed in the process! I am unstoppable! I am unbeatable! And I am indefatigable, Adam Ellis! And you, dear jokester, will be the next casualty in my great patriotic war! And with that in mind, it is now my turn to laugh! DYAAHAAHAA!!

And again.

Ivan Stanislav: DYAAHAAHAA!!

And why not one more?

Ivan Stanislav: DYAAHAAHAA!!

Stanislav’s raucous laughter echoes as we fade to black and move elsewhere.

Cameras come to life amidst the hustle and bustle in the belly of the Lawlor Events Center. In this shot, we find the Bruh on a brisk pace toward the Argyle Position, ready to go to war with Action ‘Bastian. It’s not even three seconds that go by before a metal fire door whips open.

CLAP!

The sound of metal on concrete silences everyone nearby and they make way for the cause of said loud, scary noises. He steps into sight, clutching half of a hotdog in his hand, wearing ketchup and mustard all over his mean mug as he scans the crowd.

“BRO!”

The Bro finally spots the Bruh. He shoves the rest of the dog down angrily and marches at Dawkins. He brings his messy face within millimeters of Bryan’s as he stares daggers into the Hawaiian. Dawkins is doing everything in his power to avoid eye contact.

Crash: What in the wide world of fuckin’ sports that all about, Dole Bro?!

A somber look washes over Dawkins’ face before he turns away from addressing this.

Bryan Dawkins: Look, bruh, I don’t have time to get into this right now. Match comin’ up, ya know?

Crash goes wide eyed.

Crash: Well you sure as fuck had time a couple minutes ago! So again, what gives? We got a problem or something?

Bryan solemnly stares at the cold, gray concrete floor.

Bryan Dawkins: (whispering) I didn’t have a choice…

Crash leans in, wanting to hear whatever this ‘good reason’ is about to be, and can’t wait for it.

Bryan Dawkins: I didn’t have a choice…

Without acknowledging the Northern Light, Dawkins side-steps Crash and makes a beeline toward Argyle. As Bryan rounds the corner, Crash is left to try and figure out what in Jim Kelly’s good name just happened.

But before he can, a voice bellows from somewhere down the hallway:

Voice: GET YA HOT DOGS! I SAID FREE HOT DOGS OVER HERE! I PROMISE THIS IS NOT A TRAP!

He shoots the hands on his hips up into ten extended fingers. He’s ready to rage out on some redhots, dawg. He doesn’t even turn around.

Crash: Gimme ten, brozilla.

Crash spins, rage still just below the surface, but cocks an eyebrow at the source of the hotdog promises.

Crash: Bash? You slingin’ ‘dogs these days, dude? Fuck it. Gimme twenty, bro!

He flashes ten digits at Sebastian Gold, PRIME’s newfound Hollywood star, who is clearly about to wrestle. The Northern Light flashes them again, bouncing his brows in unison.

Sebastian’s changed out of his bloody clothes but is still clearly rattled. He’s more at ease once he finally finds:

Sebastian Gold: Crash! There you are! First off, I’m sorry, the hot dogs were a lie, I’m actually still banned from catering. And now a few other places too…You have a second?

Crash simply blinks at Bash. Like a lion looks at the zookeeper when he jokes about feeding him a live and spry goat. Bash does that weird kind of horizontal grin emoji. Crash sighs, sure he’s not gonna rage-eat hotdogs as a solution to these… Bruhgressions.

Crash: I literally have two million seconds, forever, bro. What’s up? And… you owe some fuckin’ hotdogs, bronado.

Sebastian Gold: I will! Trust, your next ten dogs are on me, brolcano! Now, I’m worried Rob is gonna interfere with my match, or jump me, or I dunno!

Sebastian starts pacing, the nervous energy curdling into paranoia.

Sebastian Gold: I’ve already been so unBruhfessional tonight, bro. I can’t afford to have anything else go wrong. I could use another pair of eyes.

This registers with the Hot Dog Hero. His eyes narrow as a smirk splashes over his lips. Crash lets his eyes drift toward where he last saw Bruh.

Crash: As a matter of fact, dude, I’ll up you one.

Sebastian stops pacing.

Sebastian Gold: Really?

Crash leans into the ear of Bash. The whispers are silly it seems, judging by Sebastian’s face. Then something that’s not as silly is said, and Bash’s eyes pop wide.

Sebastian Gold: Oh, I didn’t mean t-

Crash fires up a thumb. Then winks.

Crash: You got it, Bashywood.

We move on. To the Bandits. Apologies.

We cut somewhere else backstage.

It’s backstage because, as Coral Avalon discovered when he walked in the building, there is no skybox in the Lawlor Events Center in Reno, Nevada. Thus, the King of Conquerors is forced to place his Throne Room in a locker room for himself.

Bobby Dean’s gone off to get ready for his match with The Anglo Luchador, and Tony Gamble has gone with him. Cancer Jiles, meanwhile, is standing off in a corner somewhere and wishing he were dead.

That leaves just Coral Avalon and Hessian to their own devices.

Coral isn’t seated in his throne. In fact, he’s in his ring gear with a “King of Conquerors” branded T-shirt, and he’s pacing back and forth. Hessian stands there like a monolithic juggernaut, exuding a menace that Coral seems unaffected by.

Coral Avalon: Hess, I’m gonna be real with you. I don’t exactly trust the Whoresmen to not mess with us before the match.

Hessian nods.

Coral Avalon: They’ll run the opposite way if they see you, so why don’t you see if they’re trying to do crap like… I don’t know, slashing our tires or knocking over our merch tables or something or vandalizing our stuff. I don’t even want them looking at our bags. Oh, and while Fred is mine, you have my fullest permission to obliterate any other Whoresmen on sight.

Hessian smiles like this is the best news he’s heard all day.

Hessian: Sure.

Then he turns and walks out of the room, leaving Coral to sit down at his throne and contemplate his opponent for the eve–

Lord Gavin Yum, Esq.: Avy!

Coral almost jumps out of his wrestling boots, but somehow manages to remain seated. The ugly man in the gray suit and bowler hat has found his way to the side of the throne like he’s Grima fucking Wormtongue.

Coral takes a moment to reset himself.

Coral Avalon: Gavin, why are you here? I thought you’d be in Japan with the rest of the Kingdom.

Lord Gavin Yum, Esq.: I, uh… I wasn’t needed over there, according to Claire. And Franco. And Anubis. Even Ignacio! Ignacio, Avy!

Coral Avalon: No, wait, check that. How did you get past security?

Lord Gavin Yum, Esq.: I simply invoked your name and they let me in! Isn’t that simply wonderful?

Coral doesn’t need one before he has to wrestle Fred Dick in the last match of the evening, but he has a headache now.

Coral Avalon: I didn’t even ask you to come…

Lord Gavin Yum, Esq.: Yes, but now I am here! And clearly, you need some help, because…

He takes a glance over his shoulder at Cancer Jiles. Jiles has not moved a single muscle.

Lord Gavin Yum, Esq.: (whispering) …Your “friend” isn’t doing so hot.

Coral waves him off.

Coral Avalon: Jiles will be fine.

Cancer Jiles: I’m fine. COOL, even.

Coral Avalon: See? He’ll be fine.

He sighs, and glares at Gavin. Coral and Gavin have known each other for over a decade, so he’s used to Gavin being… Gavin.

Coral Avalon: You didn’t answer my question, why are you here?

Lord Gavin Yum, Esq.: Obviously, because I felt that my services were required!

There is a long pause.

Coral Avalon: Okay. They’re not, though. The Bandits and I have this. Bobbo and Tony will be another step closer to getting a shot at the tag titles, Hessian’s on “murder” duty, and Jiles… Jiles is fine.

He is definitely fine. He’s so fine that he’s still staring at the corner. We can’t tell if it’s an unblinking stare, on account of the scuffed T-shades. But that’s how fine he is.

Coral Avalon: Just… I don’t know. Stay out of the way tonight. Actually, you might as well leave the building before Dam or Wade or LT or, hell… Clay finds y–

The moment the name “Clay” leaves Avalon’s lips, Gavin is gone. It’s like he teleported right off of the screen.

Coral Avalon: …Gavin?

The camera pans to the left. There is a locker there that definitely wasn’t there earlier. Coral stares at it for a while, and then facepalms.

Coral Avalon: I’m getting too old for this.

Let’s move on to Bryan Dawkins and Sebastian Gold meeting in the ring, shall we?

I GET AHEAD ON MY MOTORBIKE

I GET AHEAD ON MY MOTORBIKE

The Opening riff of “The Living End” coats the arena as yellow smoke covers the top of the ramp.

THERE’S NOTHING ELSE BUT MEEEE

Sebastian flips through the smoke and lands at the top of the ramp and throws up his hands for the crowd.

THERE’S NOTHING ELSE BUT MEEEEE

The Bastion of Action takes his time heading to the ring, signing autographs and taking selfies with fans.

Vince Howard: On his way to the ring!… From Los Angeles, California, weighing 193 pounds… THE BASTION OF ACTION, SEBASTIAN GOOOOOOOOOOOOLD!

AN EMPTY ROOOAAAAD

AND A COOL, COOL WIND

MAKES IT FEEL SO GOOOOOOOOD

He climbs the top turnbuckle and points to the sky.

Nick Stuart: Sebastian Gold is a great young wrestler, one the fans are really getting behind.

Richard Parker: He’s annoying! Maybe if we’re lucky, Dawkins will break his jaw and shut him up!

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: Weighing in at two hundred and two pounds, hailing from Hilo, Hawaii…BRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYAN DAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWKINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNS!

“BRUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

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: Bryan Dawkins has had a bit of a rough time since returning to PRIME, both in ring and out of it.

Richard Parker: Well part of that is his fault! Look at the company he keeps! Guy doesn’t make the best decisions.

DING DING

Dawkins and Gold meet in the middle of the ring, shaking hands.

RAAAAAAAH!

With the crowd on the side of both men and pleasantries out of the way, they begin circling one another. Dawkins shoots in for a leg, but ‘Bash quickly jumps back. He wags a finger at the Bruh, who responds with a slight smirk before climbing back to his feet. They go back to the feeling out process when Gold shoots a roundhouse kick Dawkins way… But Dawkins blocks it!

Dawkins is quick to fire off a counter elbow, but Gold ducks! A quick shotei from Dawkins! The Golden Boy ducks again! A punch! At least, that’s what Sebastian thought. Turns out the Former Flyin’ Hawaiian was baiting Gold! He clamps on a headlock and quickly flips the younger wrestler over his hip and onto the mat!

Nick Stuart: Bryan Dawkins used his veteran knowledge there, drawing the younger Sebastian Gold into making a mistake!

Richard Parker: He sure did, Nick. This Gold kid is gonna have to keep his head on a swivel, cuz Dawkins is dangerous. Weird as hell, but dangerous!

As Dawkins cranks on the hold, Gold thrashes around, desperate for escape. He starts hammering at Bryan’s ribs. Dawkins winces at the blows, but tightening up the hold sets Sebastian back to frantically flailing. The Golden Boy keeps trying to find some way out of the grasp of Dawkins.

He goes back to trying to hammer his way out. This time, the blows go to the elbow of Dawkins instead of the ribs. The Bruh wants to up the pressure of the headlock again to quell the assault, but the strategy was a smart one from the Bastion of Action. In doing so, Dawkins grunts in pain and the hold loosens, allowing Gold to slide out the back and up to his feet!

Nick Stuart: Gold is up and… OH MAN! What a dropkick!

Richard Parker: And another! And another! He’s turning Dawkins into pineapple chunks!

Indeed, the Former Flyin’ Hawaiian rolls out of the ring after that flurry. He doesn’t get much of a reprieve, as Gold quickly moves and grabs the top rope. He flings himself upward, hitting and bouncing off to the floor with a crossbody that hits the mark!

YAAAAAAAH!

As Sebastian Gold climbs to his feet, he plays to the crowd, drawing an even bigger cheer. He drags the stunned Dawkins to his feet and rolls him into the ring. Action ‘Bastian climbs onto the apron and again appeals to the PRIMEates. He goes to springboard off the ropes again. But Dawkins pops to his feet, less worn out than first thought. He climbs up the ropes, no hands needed, hooks his arms under Gold’s and tosses him into the ring with a thunderous belly to belly suplex!

Richard Parker: Damn! Stunt Boy here is still doing stunts now, whether he wants to or not!

Nick Stuart: What an absolutely devastating move from Bryan Dawkins! I’m not sure he didn’t suffer some damage there himself.

As pointed out, the Bruh has to take some time to climb to his feet. Luckily for him, Sebastian Gold isn’t doing much at the moment, outside of the occasional muscle twitch. Dawkins moves over to his opponent, grabbing the left leg by the heel and raising it to expose Gold’s hamstring. Dawkins sends a few stomps to the vulnerable muscle, drawing out cries of pain from ‘Bash.

The Former Flyin’ Hawaiian twists the ankle, upping the offensive pressure. Dawkins looks to spin around the leg and potentially lock in another hold! But in the process, Gold manages to turn the situation into a drop toe hold! Before Bryan can fully recover, ‘Bash drives a knee into his ribcage. Dawkins rolls towards the ropes, clutching his ribs in agony. Gold slaps at his left knee, trying to get the feeling back into it.

Nick Stuart: Quite the back and forth we’ve got going on here, Richard! Any time it seems like one man might have the upper hand, the other seems to find some way to counter.

Richard Parker: Ya know what would give one of them an edge?

Nick Stuart: Don’t say “cheat.”

Richard Parker: Fine. I’ll just think it.

Gold is back to his feet, waiting for the Bruh to recover. When he does, the younger man runs and jumps towards the corner. He flies off the second ropes, twisting around and catching the unprepared Dawkins with a hurricanrana! He hooks the legs!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

The Former Flyin’ Hawaiian struggles to a knee, where he gets blasted across the chest with a kick from Gold. Then another! A third! But while the first kick seemed to sting Dawkins, the subsequent kicks look to have started waking him up. Bryan gets to his feet… and sends a stiff slap across the face of Sebastian Gold!

OOOOOOH!

Richard Parker: There we go! That’s what I wanna see!

Nick Stuart: Tempers might be getting out of control here.

Richard Parker: Great! I’m here for it!

Gold clutches his jaw, a look of disbelief on his face. It doesn’t last long as Golden Boy returns fire with his own slap! Dawkins’ head jerks to the side, but his face lacks the surprise Gold’s did. He straightens back up and cracks Sebastian with an elbow! Gold stumbles back, but manages to stay on his feet. He steps in and throws an uppercut that just grazes the Bruh’s chin!

Dawkins’ legs wobble, but he stays upright. He throws another elbow that connects, but with a bit less spice than previous. Gold counters with a punch to the ribs. Dawkins swings with a punch, but Sebastian ducks under it and hits another blow to the ribs! He keeps the pressure on the ribs with two more punches.

‘Bash roars and rears back for another uppercut. Dawkins manages to dodge behind with a drop step, grabbing a waistlock. He doesn’t stay idle, whipping Gold back with a bridging German Suplex!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Nick Stuart: That was a close two! Both men are giving their best effort to pick up the win.

Richard Parker: Wouldn’t hurt to maybe rake the eyes or grab some tights on a pin.

Nick Stuart: Stop it.

Dawkins looks to Elvis Nixon to confirm the kickout. Like The Anglo Luchador shooting a basketball, Elvis confirms it’s only two. The Bruh wastes little time arguing, opting instead to send some stomps to the left leg he targeted earlier. Gold tries to cover up to little effect.

Dawkins grabs the leg while simultaneously pulling Sebastian to his feet. He smashes the point of his elbow into Gold’s thigh. As ‘Bash clutches at the leg, the Former Flyin’ Hawaiian hits the ropes and drops his opponent to the mat with a vicious chop block!

Nick Stuart: A bit of a ruthless display from Bryan Dawkins!

Richard Parker: Can ya blame him, Nick? He wants to win! Now if he were to grab a chair—

Nick Stuart: Seriously, stop it.

Like things are on rewind, Dawkins grabs at the left leg and tugs Action ‘Bastian up to his feet once more. However, before the elbow comes down again, Gold swings his right leg up and over, clocking Dawkins with an enzuigiri! The duo crumple to the mat and lay motionless for moments. Elvis starts his count, making it to six before both guys start moving. ‘Bash manages to get himself up with the help of the ropes at eight while Bryan is on all fours.

Gold gingerly moves over towards Dawkins. He rubs his sore leg before turning around. He flips up and back with a standing moonsault, mostly on one leg, and crashes down on the Former Flyin’ Hawaiian! The crowd roars at the unorthodox use of the move. Gold clutches at his leg, face contorting in agony. Elvis Nixon checks to see if the young man can continue, who waves him off. He struggles to his feet, his focus on Bryan Dawkins.

Nick Stuart: Even though he might be worse for wear, it looks like ‘Bash is ready to finish things!

Richard Parker: Seems that way. If he were to kick Dawkins in the throat—

Nick Stuart: Rich!

Richard Parker: I can’t help it! I’m all pent up watching these goody goodies doing things the “right” way!

The Bastion of Action stalks the Former Flyin’ Hawaiian as he lumbers to his feet. When Dawkins turns around, Gold buries a kick to the gut, doubling him over. He follows up with a hard knee to the face. The Bruh is in trouble as Golden Boy sends a roundhouse kick aimed for his head! One problem: Dawkins catches the kick, interrupting the Triple Threat. Gold whips around with another enzuigiri, but the Bruh ducks and ‘Bash crashes to the mat!

With his opponent in a compromised position, Dawkins quickly pounces on the weakened left leg, grapevining it. He pummels Gold’s ankle with elbows before he locks in a heel hook! Sebastian thrashes and wiggles around. He tries to find some way to strike out of the hold. No luck. He tries to drag them towards the ropes, but Dawkins has the pair planted firmly in the middle of the ring. With no other options, Sebastian Gold is forced to tap!

DING DING DING

Dawkins immediately releases the heel hook, falling back in exhaustion.

Vince Howard: The winner of the match, by submission!… BRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYAN DAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWKINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNS!

Nick Stuart: Sebastian Gold was game and I think he had Dawkins measured to finish, but the veteran pulled it through in the end.

Richard Parker: Yeah yeah yeah. Both guys did bust their ass, that’s true. Next time, sneak a chain in there!

The recovering Bryan Dawkins and Elvis Nixon check on Sebastian Gold. As they are, someone slips over the barricade and jumps into the ring. They jump Dawkins, pounding on him!

Nick Stuart: What the?!

Richard Parker: Who the hell is that?!

Nick Stuart: Is that… I think that’s Tiger Jackson! From Missouri Valley Wrestling!

Nick is correct, the person assaulting Bryan Dawkins is indeed Tiger Jackson. Elvis Nixon tries to order Jackson out of the ring, but his pleas fall on deaf ears. It does, however, give Dawkins just enough time to catch a sloppy blow from Tiger. The Bruh blasts Jackson in the stomach with a punch, backing the MVW stalwart off! Dawkins gets to his feet and hits an elbow that sends Tiger to the floor. He follows him out and the two begin trading blows, tumbling over the barricade in the process! Back to their feet, they continue to brawl throw the crowd.

Nick Stuart: Somebody needs to separate those two! Lets go backstage while we try to restore some order!

And ReVival moves on.

Every once in a while, you might find yourself standing at a crossroads.

Decisions. We all have to make them. Our choices define us; who we are, what we believe, how we interact with the world. Occasionally, we make the best decision possible and everything works out just fine. Sometimes, it’s a give and take; you take the good with the bad. And occasionally…

…well, occasionally you light a fire that not even an ocean’s worth of water could put out.

Daytona Diamonds. The Rhinestone Cowboy. He has the Intense title slung over his shoulder, his usual bedazzled attire replaced by a pair of old jeans and a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off that reads, in big bold letters, “I BELIEVE IN FRED DICK”. He still has the cowboy hat, though. Obviously. He’d barely be himself without it.

He’s walking down a nondescript hallway backstage at the Lawlor Events Center. There’s that usual swagger, that shiteating grin, that aura of just absolute motherfuckerdom. It’s all there, proudly displayed… until it isn’t. Suddenly, just as he’s about to turn a corner, Daytona stops dead in his tracks. He raises an eyebrow and tilts his head before a slow smirk curls at the corners of his lips, eyes narrowing and arms crossing over his chest.

The camera pans to reveal Jason Snow approaching from the opposite direction.

Daytona Diamonds: Well, well, well! If it ain’t ol’ Jason Snow! How we doin’, hoss? Workin’ hard or hardly workin’? Ha!

Jason Snow: Contractually obligated.

Snow’s eyes lower to Diamonds’ shirt. He points.

Jason Snow: You know every time I run into that guy, something bad seems to happen to me. I should probably talk to him about that someday.

Daytona Diamonds: That guy’s ‘bout to be your goddang Universal Champion, buddy! Best get to talkin’ real fast, huh? Freddy Dick may not have time for you this time next week!

There’s that grin again, punctuated by a wink.

Daytona Diamonds: Say, you know a little somethin’ ‘bout bein’ a champion, don’tcha? Used to be a real hot shot, ain’t that right? Shame you couldn’t’ve taken this here Intense Title off me, get back some of that ol’ thunder you’ve been missin’.

Slowly, The Rhinestone Cowboy reaches out his hand, patting Snow on the shoulder.

Snow looks at the hand. Looks at Daytona.

Daytona Diamonds: Tough luck, compadre. Guess wrasslin’s a young man’s game, ain’t that right? Y’know, if you’re circlin’ the drain, we always got room for you in The Whoresmen. How’s that sound?

Snow looks at Daytona’s hand again, still patting his shoulder.

Jason Snow: Circling the drain, huh?

He looks Daytona in the eye now.

Jason Snow: You know, for a second it did feel like something was missing. Pretty sure I found it though.

Daytona Diamonds: Well, shitfire! It ain’t like findin’ Jesus, but findin’ your way to a life of whorin’ and roarin’ sure ain’t bad! C’mon, let’s get you back to The Whorehouse and get you one of these shir–

Diamonds stops, his hand stopping on Snow’s shoulder as his jaw clenches and an expression somewhere between ‘concern’ and ‘realization’ on his face when he notices the look in The Original Villain’s eyes.

Daytona Diamonds: …you are talkin’ ‘bout findin’ The Whoresmen. Right?

Snow does nothing but maintain eye contact. It feels like this could get violent at any second, like fumes waiting for a spark. Eventually Snow simply shakes his head. Whatever suggestion of camaraderie or even good natured kindness Daytona might have been showing is almost immediately out the window. Instead, his upper lip snarls, a sneer escaping before he quickly pulls his hand back.

Daytona Diamonds: Sonuvabitch… Alright. Alright! In that case, lemme just go on and lay it all out for you, buddy. Circlin’ the drain? You’re fuckin’ right. You ain’t just circlin’, you’re already goin’ down the pipes, bucko! Ridin’ ‘em like a goddang waterslide! You think I ain’t seen you back here? Walkin’ ‘round like Billy Badass? Hell, I ‘member when you came back! Same fuckin’ night I let ol’ Donny Winters get crucified! Everybody was talkin’ ‘bout you! And what’ve you done since…? Huh…?

Daytona stops, shaking his head and spitting off to the side, pattin’ the belt slung over his shoulder.

Daytona Diamonds: Jack. Fuckin’. Shit. Just another one of PRIME’s so-called ‘legends’ stealin’ the spotlight from the goddang future. While you’ve been cavortin’ ‘round actin’ like it’s still 2009, you wanna know what I’ve been doin’…? Winnin’. Killin’ it. Buildin’ a goddang legacy. And here I am, ‘spite of my better judgment, offerin’ a washed-up has-been a chance to be a part of that legacy, to ride with the big boys, and you got the goddang audacity to turn me down…?!

Jason Snow: I think maybe you should–

Daytona Diamonds: I think maybe you should get fucked, peckerwood.

One last sneer and, just like that, Daytona’s walking away, his shoulder colliding with Snow as he passes. As the camera settles in on Snow’s face, The Rhinestone Cowboy calls back one last time, his voice echoing from off screen.

Daytona Diamonds: It ain’t ‘09 no more, champ! You keep on livin’ in the past! I got a fuckin’ future to worry ‘bout!

A flash of something in Snow’s eyes. Slight, but definitely there. Something. The camera hangs for several seconds on his face, Snow just watching Diamonds walk away while we listen to the echo of his footsteps fading somewhere out of our view.

An undisclosed location where the stone walls are painted with the most badass graffiti.  Beautiful abstract tags spread across the limestone and converse in code to hide the identity of the artist.  This is a setting fit for someone from the streets; an interpreter of urban culture.  There are stories to be told through every crack in the sidewalk and the bits of litter that season the concrete.

Black Sheep Baez steps into frame wearing a tailored white suit complimented with a gold tie, 24 karat cufflinks, a Kay Tissot around his wrist, a gaudy 24 karat gold chain with a bedazzled crucifix, Armani shades, and the cherry on top: the black and gold Air Jordan 1 High OG’s; size 15 (because he has them big boy toes).  Ya boi, dressed to the nines, is also no slacker on the grooming.  His goatee is lined perfectly and his bald head is always freshly polished.  The light reflected off his dome almost makes it look like a halo.  This is a man, regardless of his upbringing, who doesn’t neglect lookin’ fly.

Speaking of fly: his pearl white smile is angelic.

Black Sheep Baez:  This is a general PSA from ya boi, the Sultan of Smoke, Black Sheep Baez.

He inches closer into the frame while rubbing his hands together.  He licks his lips.

Black Sheep Baez:  Most of y’all don’t know me.  I’m not going to clutter you with a bunch of history.  I’m not going to attempt to show off and give you this long diatribe about why I’m the next great showman of PRIME.  Talk is talk, fam.  It’s cheap.  Ya boi gotta walk the walk.  That’s where the luxury is.

He smirks.

Black Sheep Baez: PRIME is overflowing with some of the greatest this sport has ever seen.  The list of legends is endless.  But, I’m up to the task.  I want to square up with the men and women that have made this place the golden road of pro wrestling.  I am ready to prove that I’m worthy; worthy enough to eventually get a shot at that Universal Championship.  Perhaps worthy enough to even wear it around my waist?  Not if, but when.  Y’all already know that ya boi’s future is bright.  You can feel it.  There’s a rumbling all around PRIME.  Whispers in ears.  The talk is humbling.  They know.  They aint ready for that smoke, but that smoke is comin’.

He nods and looks away from the camera.

Black Sheep Baez: Get ready to witness.  ReVival 59, fam.  Aint nothing finna stop ya boi from his ultimate escalation.  It’s fitting; ya feel me?  Nothin’ tickles me more than realizin’ that the comeback comes full circle at an event called ReVival.  G’yat dayum!  That’s right.  The revival.  The second coming of BSB.  Si te caes siete veces, levántate ocho.  Dig it.  Don’t sleep on ya boi.  That’s a fact.

He looks back into the camera and lowers the Armani’s so that they’re sitting on the tip of his nose.  He looks directly into the lens.  He’s not shy.

Black Sheep Baez:  Bring Flamberge.  Bring the Russian Bear.  Bring them eGG bois.  I don’t care who it be.  All I know is – ya boi bringin’ the fire.  All. Night. Long.  And that’s…on God.  See you in two weeks.

He holds up two fingers.

Black Sheep Baez:  Deuces.

ReVival moves on.

We go to the back, where Simon Tillier is standing by with a mic in hand.

Right away, we can tell there is something very, very unusual going on with our dear junior reporter…

Simon T: YOYOYOYOOO WHASSSSUP to all my homies out there in the PRIMEVERSE!! Yaboi SIMON T comin’ atcha!

Gone are Tillier’s trademark speed blue suit and ruby red-rimmed glasses. Simon is wearing an oversized blue and white PRIME basketball jersey beneath a puffy jacket in similar colors, accessorized by shades, an unreasonable amount of bling, and a cap turned sideways on his head.

Simon T: Yo, CHECK IT, fam! We got VAE VICTEE in the HIZZEE! Give it up for my real homies, “BEAST MODE” K-Squared, the Big Byrd-man himself, and my dawg “Naughty” Scotty HUN-TAAAAAHHH!!

The Vae Victin’ trio of Kerry Kuroyama, Scott Hunter, and Clay Byrd look amongst each other in confusion.

Kerry Kuroyama: Simon, what in the blue hell are you babbling about? And why are you dressed like Fred Durst? Halloween was last night.

Simon T: SNAP, yo! These threads ain’t those of any old-school pimpin’ beeyotch! What you see here is a REAL ONE! SIMON SAYS that this time next year, these fire RHYMES are gonna take ya boi to the top of the rap game!

Kuroyama sighs and looks to his wingman.

Kerry Kuroyama: Scott, can you tell me what in the skibidi toilet riz this dumbass is trying to say?

Scott Hunter: I don’t know what you’re talking about! His costume is amazing! Hold on… it’s coming to me… Jamie Kennedy in Malibu’s Most Wanted, right??? I love that movie!!! I must have seen it at least more than once times! I love it! Classic Simon… so all this time you’ve been acting like a complete and total loser, that was all a joke and you’ve been cool this whole time?? Amazing.

Scott throws up a sign.

Scott Hunter: NAUGHTY SCOTTIE APPROVES, BIAAAAAAATCH!!

Kerry makes that face. By “that face”, of course, I mean the one that Charlie Brown makes at the end of a Peanuts comic when he gets slapped with that really dumb punchline, and his frazzled countenance looks to the heavens as if to say, “Please, God, strike me down, and save me from this rampant stupidity”.

Kerry Kuroyama: I’ll be honest, Simon, I don’t have the time or the patience to process whatever the fuck it is that’s going on with you right now, so why don’t you just let me take it from here, because we need to… get serious.

Simon T: That is wiggidy-wiggidy-WHACK, JACK!

Kuroyama takes the mic from the junior reporter (and, apparently, aspiring hip hop star) and overtakes the focus of the camera. Hunter hangs at his side, rubbing palms and nodding with conviction, while Byrd looms forebodingly in the background, sneering coldly with his arms folded over his chest.

Kerry Kuroyama: Jonathan-Christopher, we’re no strangers to one another. We’ve gone head to head as opponents. We’ve fought side by side as partners. As competitors, I think it’s safe to say we know each other well. Which means you know what it’s store for you here in just a few short minutes.

He slowly cranks his neck, and points down the camera with thunder in his throat and lightning in his eyes.

Kerry Kuroyama: My title opportunity at Colossus may still be several weeks out, but tonight, my focus is entirely on you. And I promise you, Hall, that as soon as that bell rings, Adam Ellis and his unbound barbeque-flavored babymaker will be the least of your concerns. For me, this match of ours is no mere one-off with nothing at stake. For me, this is a chance to even the odds. Last year, you had my number in the Almasy. But tonight, things will be different. Because I’m different, Hall, when compared to the wrestler you fought back then. I’m different from the wrestler that fought alongside you at Culture Shock. And on top of that, I’ve got the greatest goddamn Wingman imaginable standing in my corner…

He puts a hand onto the shoulder of Scott Hunter, who for some reason, cracks his knuckles. Hopefully, he doesn’t develop arthritis from that too much. Hang on, is that even a thing…?

Kerry Kuroyama: …but you, Hall? Tragic as it is, you’ve got no one in yours. The story of your “Hallmark Journey” into the heights of the Universal Championship has a downer ending. But my story is still being written. Tonight will be yet another of many bold steps forward I’m making in my journey to Los Angeles. And when I’m done with you, I’m coming right back here to watch tonight’s Five Star Title match… on that monitor, right over there.

He gestures, and we pan over to a live broadcast screen positioned nearby. For some reason, it’s pointed to the camera instead of the three, requiring an obscene amount of neck cranking just to see what is happening.

Kerry Kuroyama: Admittedly, from this angle, I can’t really see shit… but I’m told this is how they do it up in Calgary. But, that will have to wait until later…

The shot recenters on Kerry.

Kerry Kuroyama: Because right now, Hall, we have a score to settle. Right now, I’m ready to collect my pound of flesh. Now, this is the part where I tell you, “You can’t sit with us.”

He briefly looks to Clay and Scott, and shakes his head to the camera.

Kerry Kuroyama: But you see nobody here is sitting. Here in PRIME, Vae Victis stands tall and walks forward.

He elbows Hunter, and turns to leave.

Kerry Kuroyama: Let’s do this, Scott…

Kerry hands the mic off to “Simon T” before stepping out of the shot and heading to the Argyle with Scott at his heels.

Simon T: AWW, DAYUMM! Simon Says, K-Squared out here spittin’ some MAD talk, but only time will tell if he a REAL GANGSTA or a BUSTER! All I know, fam, is IT’S GONNA BE LIIIIIIIiIiIiIIT TWO-NITE, yo!

From off-camera we can hear Scott Hunter chuckle and murmur something.

Scott Hunter: Heh… classic Simon…

He notices Byrd, who has remained behind.

Simon T: SUP, Big Byrd-Man! You down to lend an ear to the ILLEST of rhymes, or should I just catch you again on the flippy-floppy, word UP??

Over the course of the entire segment, the Cowboy Colossus has neither moved an inch, nor has he diverted his cold gaze from the murderous thousand yard stare looking out beyond the camera.

Now, his eyes snap down in the direction of obnoxiously tricked-out junior reporter, and he emits the growl so deep it would make a polar bear shit itself.

Simon T: …dag, yo.

We move to ringside, yo.

The show feed cuts back to the ring.

Nick Stuart: Up next we have Jobathan Cucktopher Hell going up against Kerry Kuryonyourmama in what is sure to be one of this decade’s most intriguing snooze fests.

Ha. No. That’s not Nick Stuart. That’s the special guest commentator for the up and coming match. The one, the only, sorry it’s not Coral Avalon but his blazer wearing lackey, Cancer Jiles.

Nick Stuart: That’s not how I sound.

Cancer Jiles: Kind of is.

Richard Parker: Why are you even down here? Don’t you have a toilet to clean, or boots to shine? Coral does have a match later on tonight that I’m sure you could be dreaming out being in, and yet here you are.

Cancer Jiles: Someone told me there was another crumb living in more shame than me, and I just had to see it for myself to believe it.

Ouch.

Garrett Biggs’ “Mama Didn’t Raise No…” plays over the sound system and on the video screen, a video plays showing a series of wrestling trophies on a dresser next to an old high school football uniform that has ‘Ellis’ on the back.

Cancer Jiles: Just in case the kid needed some fucking help!

An acoustic guitar plays and the vocals begin.

“Mama didn’t raise no… quitter- guaranteed to get the job done.”

Cancer Jiles: Hahahahahaha!!!!!!!!! I did it. It was me. I paid Clarence in production twenty bucks to play his Daddy’s music!

Richard Parker: You are the lowest form of scum that there is.

Nick Stuart: HOW does a person even…

JCH, head down, full of vinegar but light on piss and self respect, meanders down the ramp a broken man. No high fives, no good vibes, no nothing. Upon reaching the ring he slowly saunters up the steps and enters between the ropes. Broken as he might be, he’s also  inadvertently no selling Jiles’ at the same time.

To which…

Cancer Jiles: This crumb. The nerve of him. He’s actually making me look good in this blazer! I cost him the Universal Championship! I cucked his entrance because he forgot to send one in! And still his balls are so far removed from his body that he could care less about any of it! Hate to say it, I REALLY DO, but what a shame.

Richard Parker: Maybe you’re losing your touch.

Cancer Jiles: Maybe. I do wonder though if he’ll snap out of it when he finds out that everybody knew about the torrid, much publicized on JabberXXX love affair for months. You two included. Rumor has it Dirty Dick took those pictures. Hence the nickname.

Richard Parker: Fuck off. You don’t know what you’re talking about.

Cancer Jiles: I know this much, I wouldn’t want to come to work that day, know what I mean, Postal Employee Dicky.

Nick Stuart: We are live on air, might I remind you. Also, for the record, I knew of no such thing, and to my understanding it was a one time affair. I mean fling. I mean, uh, forget it. Kerry Kuroyama, please come on down!

The house lights come down, and the arena goes dark.

But when the stage lights blast on a moment later, accompanied by “Blouses Blue” by Konrad OldMoney and Sleep Steady bumpin over the public address system, the stadium becomes awash in emerald GREEN.

While the stage comes alive with a spectacle of viridian spotlights and argent fountain pyrotechnics. Emerging through the curtain first is Scott Hunter, who garners a sizable pop, priming the crowd for Kerry Kuroyama, stepping out after him.

The Wingmen of Vae Victis stand at the head of the rampway, Kerry in fully green, silver, and black regalia, Scott in capris and a floral pattern shirt unbuttoned down to his abs. They lock their hands at the thumbs to form “wings”, heralding another volley of pyrotechnics, then proceed down the ramp.

Vince Howard: Approaching the ring, accompanied by “The Maven of Miami” Scott Hunter… he hails from Seattle, Washington, United States, and weighs in at two-hundred and thirty-two pounds… representing VAE VICTIS, he is the EMERALD APEX… KERRRYYYYYYYY KUUUROOOYAAAAMAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!

Kuroyama leads the charge, eyes fixated on the ring, while Hunter hypes up the fans at his heels. At ringside, Kerry walks a loop around the ring before scaling the steps to the apron and tearing off his robe in a dramatic flourish. Scott catches it out of the air while Kerry scales a turnbuckle and pumps a fist, showing off the dragon tattooed across his back.

Nick Stuart: The Emerald Dragon has been blazing hot as of late, most notably doing what only one other man has done before him, defending the Alias Championship three times in a row.

Richard Parker: Say Cancer, do you happen to know who the other person is?

Cancer Jiles: Say Dick, if I had a bottle I wanted to break over someone’s head, do you happen to know whose head it would be? It’s not who you were alluding to, either. They don’t make bottles that big.

Stuart snorts audaciously.

Dirty Dick relents reluctantly.

Jiles manifests an empty bottle and places it on the announce table before them.

Most importantly, Scott hangs at ringside while Kerry hops the ropes and limbers up in his corner.

Ashley Barlow, the referee for tonight’s bout, gathers both of the contestants in the center of the ring and quickly runs down the rules. She does so a second time for an inquiring Scott Hunter, who seems to still be under the impression he’s Kerry’s cornerman. Hunter exits the ring. Kerry and JCH retreat back to their respective corners. Jiles audibly yawns, and then asks while lazily covering his headset as to appear off air, “how long do these two very fine people have again?”

Nick and Dick shake and roll in disbelief.

Finally, Barlow calls for the bell.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: And we’re officially underway.

Richard Parker: Word on the street is Kerry is looking for some payback after Christopher-Hall knocked him out of last year’s Almasy Invitational.

Cancer Jiles: Grudges. Never fun. Never easy letting go.

Richard Parker: You would know.

Cancer Jiles: I sure would. Let me guess, the street told you that, too. You idiot.

Nick Stuart: Guys, let’s stick to the action in the ring. I mean, Jesus Christ there hasn’t even been a move yet.

JCH and Kerry lockup in the center of the ring. After a bit of a two way struggle, Kuroyama is able to overpower the former Universal Champion and back him up into the corner.

Cancer Jiles: I’m already bored.

Richard Parker: You can leave?

Cancer Jiles: Not yet. I still have one more thing to do.

Nick Stuart: Great. What else is there?

Nick quickly bites his lip after realizing that the bottle is still on the table, and Jiles is the type of guy who will do just about anything for no reason at all.

Back inside the ring Kerry lights up JCH with a series of chops to the chest. Then, without hesitation, he thrusts his knee into Hall’s gut, which instantly drops him to the canvas. The attack doesn’t stop there. Kerry lands a series of precise kicks/stomps to JCH’s lower back and rib area.

Cancer Jiles: I can see why this guy hasn’t lost in a while. What did you say his name was again?

Nick Stuart: I’m not answering that.

Back inside the ring, Kerry gets JCH upright and delivers a picture perfect standing suplex. He holds and then quickly rolls through the finish for a savvy pin attempt!!

2!

Cancer Jiles: Oh shit this is early!

Kickout!

Richard Parker: Jinxed him. Hope you like Yakuza!

Kerry pops back up to his feet, acknowledges Scott Hunter with a friendly thumbs up, then turns a vengeful gaze back upon The Broken writhing inside the ring. First, it’s a Kimora lock. Then, a seamless transition into a rear chin lock. Then, after a pinpoint knee drop to the lower back he was working over earlier, Kerry locks in one of his signature moves, The Cascadian Clutch!

Nick Stuart: Kerry is trying to make quick work of JCH tonight, albeit in one of the most painful ways possible.

Cancer Jiles: What do you even call that… a stepover… toehold, sleeper?

Nick Stuart: Oddly enough, yes, that’s exactly what you would call it.

Barlow moves in to check on the poor little drummer boy, Johnny Hall. He may be down. He might be getting his downtrodden ass handed to him. Shit, he may even be enjoying the thought of some downtime and what better way to go about doing so than by out shaming Cancer Jiles via losing to a guy who has never won the Universal Championship before.

Well not him exactly.

However, JCH is not ready to lose. Not yet anyway, because before his lights can go out and Kerry is proclaimed the winner, he jolts to life, much like he used to before a sultry, passionate, intense night of massaging Vickie’s feet.

Poor virgin.

Cancer Jiles: Looks like the little boy that got his girl stolen by Adam Ellis has a little more left in him.

Nick Stuart: Correct me if I’m wrong, but this match is oddly reminiscent of when you and JCH faced off. You had the upper hand for most of the match, and then what happened?

Cancer Jiles: Wasn’t the main event so I don’t recall.

Nick Stuart: Sure ya don’t.

Nick speaks in a way that would lead you to believe he also knows Clarence, and he too also knows twenty bucks goes a long way. As such, a small Picture in Picture appears at the bottom of the screen. Inside of it plays the finish of the Jiles/JCH match from ReVival 27.

Cancer Jiles: Well played.

Nick Stuart: Thank you.

Cancer Jiles: Oh Clarence.

Another Picture in Picture appears on the screen, opposite of the other. Inside of that one plays the time when Cancer kicked JCH and Coral won the Universal Championship because of it.

Cleverly edited of course.

Cancer Jiles: Oh, not yet done Clarence.

A third Picture in Picture box pops up on the screen. This one is playing the time Cancer kicked Dirty Dick in the face.

Cancer Jiles: Never gets old.

Eventually, a hen pecks her way into an earpiece, and the Picture in Picture fun goes away.

Cancer Jiles: Buzz kill.

It is worth nothing since you couldn’t really see it happening on the screen while the PiP fun was taking place, but inside the ring JCH mounted a small offensive. Said offensive consisted of slaps, hair pulling, screaming mean things into Kerry’s ear about engagement rings, a dropkick, another round of slaps, and another dropkick.

Then, things really got interesting.

Both men exchanged MDK finishers which were appropriately no sold. Ashley Barlow took a bump, and JCH “accidentally” kicked Kerry in the balls. Luckily for Kerry though, JCH kicked him in his side since JCH doesn’t know where a person’s balls are anymore after having his own removed by Adam Ellis.

Lastly, the blitz culminated with a one count pin attempt.

After that, both men got back on their feet, and Kerry locked in a side headlock.

Nick Stuart: That’s quite the headlock he’s got wrenched in there.

Cancer Jiles: I told you this was going to be a snooze fest. Poor JCH can’t seem to get a move edgewise. You know what would spice things up? We need a Picture in Picture of Adam and Vickie sitting in a tree, watching poor Johnny getting hit by Kerry’s knee.

Ha.

The knee was a reference to earlier in the match.

The headlock is still very much locked in.

Until, with all his might, Jonathan Christopher Hall wraps his arms around Kerry’s waist, hoists him up, and stings the scales of the dragon on his back with a modified belly to back suplex. The cheated on scrambles to his feet, bounces off the ropes, elevates, well, kind of elevates he still has the burden of shame weighing down, and drops his leg clean across the canvas!

Richard Parker: Big swing and a miss!

Nick Stuart: I think that extra millimeter of air might have cost him!

The Forever Man rolls around clutching at his… bottom. The Emerald Apex, having rolled out of the way, finds his feet and dusts himself off. He motions to Hunter that this is it, and he’s going to finish his opponent. Hunter snarls in excitement, and whips his mullet around to fan himself off.

Richard Parker: Well, before this match wraps up I wanted to ask you, who do you think is going to win tonight in the main event? Coral or Fred?

The shitgrin on Dirty Dick’s face is wide enough for all to enjoy.

Nick Stuart: …great.

Cancer Jiles: It’s fine. I’m okay. I’ve eggcepted my fate. I think Coral is going to win, because he is an eGG Bandit, and I refuse to let him lose.

Kerry lands a stiff Yakuza kick. JCH gets an arm up to block it, but still has to suffer through the impact.

Nick Stuart: Does that mean you, and by proxy the rest of the eGG Bandits plan to interfere in tonight’s main event?

Cancer Jiles: I’ll say this much, if any of the Whoresmen even try, even think, even accidently stick a nose where it doesn’t belong, rest assured I will be there to cut it the fuck off with the bottom of my boot. I will eggsecute a mother-fucker on the spot for even sniffing the ring– I don’t care how much cocaine I’ve stashed underneath it.

Richard Parker: Bet?

Cancer Jiles: Bet.

Kerry continues to stalk The Forever Man, and occasionally chips away at him. The whole thing is very methodical, very calculating, and very cunning.

Nick Stuart: And the rest of the dirty dozen?

Cancer Jiles: It’s all hands on deck. Big Hess. Little Two Books. Sleeping Beauty. I even told some of the new guys we were recruiting and if they see something going down to come out and help if they wanted in.

Nick Stuart: You’re recruiting?

Cancer Jiles: God no, I just told them that to curry favor. You’ve seen that freak Godson, right? He’s got veins on top of veins.

Nick Stuart: You are one of one when it comes to being a jerk off, that is for sure.

Suddenly, as in unannounced but with a purpose, out from the back and to the surprise of all  emerges Daytona Diamonds. He’s not looking inside the ring as if to signal Kerry has chosen him at Colossus, nor is he out there to bask in Scott Hunter’s hairdo. Nor is he out there to tell JCH that Adam Ellis isn’t the devil.

No, Daytona’s gaze is fixed upon one man.

Nick Stuart: Well, I don’t think he’s not looking at us, Rich.

Jiles isn’t there to respond because he’s already taken his headset off. In fact, the blazer is gone with the wind, and he’s even tossed his T-shades into the stands.

Definitely a replica pair.

Jiles and Diamonds immediately go chest to chest, nose to nose, causing Daytona’s cowboy hat to pop off. The intense verbal exchange is luckily not caught on the live camera. However, the viciousness of the barbs grabs everyone at ringside’s attention. Most importantly, Kerry Kuroyama gets caught up in the distraction. He looks on, his face reading, “What the fuck? Of all the places?” As he is going through this, JCH seizes the opportunity and rolls him up.

Nick Stuart: I called it! Just like when he went up against Jiles.

Barlow drops down for a count!

ONE

TWO

TIMEOUT!

Scott Hunter interrupts the count by calling for a TIMEOUT. Barlow is stunned. Nick and Dick are stunned. The arena is stunned. Even Jiles and Diamonds take a moment of pause to share in an astonished look.

Kerry is able to easily power out of the pin, and chances are the disruption wouldn’t have had an effect on the outcome. However, before Kerry lands his devastating Kuroyama Driver 2, he does mildly admonish Scott Hunter and inform him that the stipulation is no longer in play since he’s no longer the Alias Champion.

The whole thing sounds a lot longer than it really is.

Regardless, Jiles and Diamonds continue to verbally spar back up the ramp, with an occasional push and/or finger jab to the chest. As the two walk through the curtain the camera picks up Daytona telling Jiles that he’ll be back out there to get his fucking hat, and that he can bet on that.

Inside the ring, JCH’s last ditch effort has failed, and Kerry’s win streak is a three count away from continuing after hitting the Kuroyama Driver 2.

Nick Stuart: He sure did plant him with that one.

ONE

TWO

THREE

DING DING DING

JCH tries to kick out, but is a touch too late. He rolls out of the ring, no one there for him to cry on. Scott Hunter enters the ring, and celebrates with The Emerald Apex. All the while, Vinny Howard does what he does best.

Vincent Howard: Here is your winner, representing VAE VICTIS, the EMERALD APEX… KERRRYYYYYYYY KUUUROOOYAAAAMAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!

The shot cuts away.

Nick Stuart: Welcome back, folks. Adam Ellis faces Ivan Stanislav coming up, and that’s going to be a very –

A very what, Nick? I guess we’ll never know, because “Fistfight” by Ballroom Thieves hits and the PRIMEView lights up with a video package of The Bayou Butcher. Some fans cheer, some fans boo, some fans just eat their nachos. Here comes Paxton Ray.

He’s angry, and it is important to note that he is already in his fighting gear.

Nick Stuart: Well, here comes Paxton Ray, and he looks ready for action!

Richard Parker: Maybe he was also offended by Adam Ellis’s infidelity and is going to take him out before Ivan can!

Nick Stuart: I’m sure that isn’t true.

Paxton stomps to the ring, then asks for a microphone and rolls under the ropes and looks towards the back.

Paxton Ray: Now I know I gotta match comin’ up, an’ I can’t wait t’finally get my hands on Wade Elliott, but I don’t want his t’be the only ass I kick tonight. Last ReVival I was shoved into a small room and attacked from behind by a coward.

Nick Stuart: Bold words from a man who attacked his own partner from behind two years ago.

Paxton Ray: Now I know this is a weird business we’re all in, and we’ve got weird people in masks and fruit-themed wrestlers an’ once we even had a dancin’ fuckin’ bear, so sometimes weird shit is unavoidable. But some motherfucker who watched too many musicals as a kid decides he wants t’take me out?

Paxton walks over to the ropes and leans on them, looking at the ramp.

Paxton Ray: I got a feelin’ you’re here tonight, mystery man. So why don’t ya come on down here like a man an’ face me?

The fans cheer because they love bloodshed. A few moments pass and no one appears. Paxton begins to pace inside of the ring.

Paxton Ray: Come on, ya piece’a shit. Don’t ya want revenge for whatever I did t’ya? Well I’m right here. Let’s do this!

Again he is met with nothing.

Nick Stuart: Well whoever that masked assailant was, he seems to not be here tonight.

Richard Parker: Or he’s hiding, and let’s be honest, I would probably hide from an angry Paxton Ray too.

Paxton Ray: Last chance t’come get your beatin’ like a man. Otherwise I’ll hunt ya down like a dog, an’ whatever mercy I might give ya tonight is out the fuckin’ window. When I find ya, I’ll–

“In sleep he sang to me…in dreams, he came…”

Just like two weeks ago, a bold tenor voice bursts out in song. Only this time, it’s not coming from a locked room. It’s flowing from every speaker in the arena.

Nick Stuart: It looks like we’ve got another appearance by Paxton Ray’s secret…well, I wouldn’t call him an “admirer.”

Richard Parker: You mean your admirers don’t lure you into a quiet room and beat the crap out of you with a cane? You need to get out more.

Nick Stuart: And you need to talk less.

Spotlights swing across the arena, hoping to locate the mysterious singer. He’s not at ringside…he’s not in the crowd…the entrance stage is the obvious place, but he’s not there either.

???: That voice which calls to me…and speaks my name…

Finally, one of the lights catches movement in the rafters, eventually revealing the same figure from two weeks ago. A man in a black cloak and white porcelain mask.

???: Paxton Ray…

The spotlights converge, encasing the phantom in a circle of light. One could hardly say he’s trapped, though.

This is exactly what he wants.

???: You ridiculous little man…still believing you’re the one who calls the tune.

Paxton Ray: You’re damn right I’m callin’ the tune. An’ right now we’re gonna play a little ditty that I like t’call “Get your creepy ass down here so I can pound ya into next week!”

This gets a cheer from the crowd, who probably are full of bullies.

???: You say that like you know any other songs. And you’re very good at it…you sang it so well last time, that I’ve heard it in my head every night. FOR TWO YEARS!

Paxton loses his anger momentarily, and in its place is something more vulnerable, more fearful.

Paxton Ray: God dammit, tell me who the hell ya are!

???: TWO YEARS, PAXTON!

The words come out as a screech; the Phantom’s enigmatic air morphing into a psychotic tantrum.

???: Is that so long? Am I so unmemorable? Have you really ended so many careers that mine doesn’t even register?! You thug! You BEAST! YOU MON–

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The jeers from the crowd bring the speaker back to his senses.

???: Of course you’d all side with him. Well, maybe you all need a reminder of who Paxton truly is.

A still image appears on the PRIMEview. It shows Paxton Ray wrapping barbed wire around the head of the Anglo Luchador, back when they fought over the Intense Title at ReVival 21.

???: This is the man you’re cheering, PRIME.

Another, this time from Colossus ‘22. Paxton Ray whips Jared Sykes with a necklace made of alligator teeth.

???: He may tell you he’s no longer the Devil. He may even believe it himself.

UltraViolence ‘22. A battered and bloodied Jonathan Rhine is held aloft, above Paxton’s head. Only a few moments away from The Moment.

???: But make no mistake…a demon he remains.

Another still, this one far less familiar to the PRIME faithful. This one shows a young man being loaded onto a stretcher. His body is that of a tanned Adonis, sculpted muscles glistening under the lights. It definitely looks like a superstar’s body. But his face…barely even looks like a face. Many fans recoil in horror, and a few of them scream.

???: And soon, very soon…I will send him back to hell.

Paxton, for his part, is staring at the PRIMEView solemnly. No one likes to see their faults, and unfortunately for him, he has a lot of them, and they were all caught on camera. His anger momentarily gone, his fear momentarily gone, he’s left with something else entirely.

???: Patience, Paxton. By the end of the night, you’ll have your answer…and I’ll have my revenge! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!

With a flourish of his cloak, the figure disappears from view. The spotlights search for him again to no avail…but once more, his voice can be heard…

???: “And do I dream again…for now I find…”

Paxton, with no hint of the earlier energy, rolls out of the ring and makes his slow walk up the ramp, looking up at the rafters as he does so.

Nick Stuart: Well we still don’t know who this person is, but if he’s telling the truth, we’re going to find out tonight!

Richard Parker: Do you think he’ll kill Paxton?

Nick Stuart: Not re–

Richard Parker: I kinda hope he kills Paxton.

Cut to backstage where the fluorescent lights flicker and cast harsh shadows across Adam Ellis’s slumped form sitting on the locker room bench.

Sunny O’Callahan paces before him, her blonde curls bouncing with each agitated step.  She has a bottle of Southern Comfort in one hand and gesticulates towards Adam with the other.

Sunny O’Callahan: Adam, please,” Sunny pleads, her voice cracking. “You’ve got to snap out of this. Ivan will tear you apart if you don’t fight back!”

Sunny’s fists clench at her sides.

Sunny O’Callahan: Dammit, Adam! I know you’re hurting, but this isn’t just about you anymore. Think about your daughter!

Adam’s vacant stare bores holes into the grimy tile floor. His mind replays the moment he returned to the apartment to find out Ginny walked out with their baby daughter Abbigail. The memory of Vickie’s perfume, the taste of too much beer… it all swirls together in a nauseating cocktail of regret.

Sunny O’Callahan: Don’t you get it?  You’re letting Vickie Hall win.

She leans over him.

Sunny O’Callahan: Don’t let her win, Adam.  She’s done enough damage.  That bitch ruined Jonathan-Christopher Hall’s life.  For God’s sake, don’t let her destroy yours.  That skank has poisoned your mind.  You made a mistake.  Why are you continuing to punish yourself for what happened?  What… do you think if Ginny somehow watches you get blown up every time you set foot in the ring… that she’ll see you get beaten to a pulp and come running back to you?  Jesus Christ, Adam… if you’re not willing to fight for yourself, how in the hell can you fight to find a way to win Ginny back?

…

Nothing…

…

Sunny O’Callahan: Goddammit! Talk to me!

Still no response.  Sunny balls one fist and shakes her head as she contemplates shotgunning the rest of the Southern Comfort in the bottle firmly clasped in the other hand.

Sunny O’Callahan: ARRRGHGHHHH!

Sunny’s about to unleash a torrent of frustration using profane and colorful metaphors when the door swings open. Drew Mitchell swaggers in, his long blonde hair settling over his shoulders and covering the back of his buttoned shirt. He wears jeans and regular street shoes.  Sunny manages Drew in Chicago and brought him in due to the serious, extenuating circumstances.

Drew’s flanked by the towering figures of R.G. Jenkins and David Bonnett aka The Alabama Gang from Missouri Valley Wrestling.

Drew Mitchell: Cavalry’s arrived, love.

Drew’s cocky grin falters as he takes in the grim scene.

Sunny whirls around, relief flooding her features.

Sunny O’Callahan: Drew.  R.G.  Dave.  Thank God you’re here.

R.G. steps forward. Dressed with a black bandana covering his bald head and sporting a black sleeveless vest with jeans and boots, Jenkins is an old-school, no-nonsense 42-year-old grizzled ring veteran.  His weathered face creased with concern.

R.G. Jenkins: What’s the game plan, darlin’?

Sunny runs a hand through her hair, glancing back at Adam’s motionless form.

Sunny O’Callahan: The second I feel things are getting out of hand, I’m throwing the towel in.

David nods grimly.  Bonnett is a large man wearing a gray t-shirt and blue jeans and boots.

David Bonnett: That Russian Bear’s a scary guy.

Sunny O’Callahan: Here’s the deal.  Ivan Stanislav has a goddamn ‘lifetime’ contract that PRIME gave him, and he thinks he’s entitled to… well… he thinks it gives him free rein to maim anyone- wrestler and non-wrestler.  I know Ivan is going to try to hurt Adam tonight and I’m going to try like hell to prevent that from happening.  Adam is in no shape to be in the ring with him but… hey… what do I know.  I wasn’t the one who decided to book him against Stanislav when Adam’s at his absolute lowest point. That’s why I asked you, R.G., and Drew to be here and why I texted Bryan Dawkins too in case I need help.

Drew Mitchell: Aye, lass.  We’ve got your back.

R.G. Jenkins: We’all got your back, Sunny.

Sunny’s eyes gaze down at Adam. She can almost feel the crushing weight of his despair, and it terrifies her. How can she protect him when he won’t even try to protect himself?  She tips her head back and guzzles down a healthy portion of Southern Comfort.

Sunny O’Callahan: I just hope we make it through tonight.

We head to ringside.

Adam Ellis comes out on stage with Sunny O’Callahan to a mixed reaction.  Adam’s face is expressionless, almost numb.  Sunny’s dressed as usual in the guise of a background singer of a 70’s Southern rock band and takes a large swig from her bottle of Southern Comfort.

Richard Parker: Do you think Adam and Ginny go to couples therapy?

Nick Stuart: It’s honestly none of our business, Richard.

Also, tonight Sunny also has a towel draped around her neck.

Richard Parker: You think the towel is all the tears Ellis sheds?

Nick Stuart: Stop it!

The camera follows Adam walking down the ramp and rolls in under the bottom rope.

Vince Howard: The following match is one fall… Introducing first.. From Warrensburg, Missouri.. Standing at six-foot-four and weighing in at two-hundred-and-twenty-six pounds… AAAAAAAAAAAADAAAAAAAM EEEEEEEEEEEEELLIS!

Adam goes right to his corner with Sunny following behind him.  Sunny tries to get Adam engaged in the match but Adam’s thoughts are clearly elsewhere.

“The Soviet National Anthem” by the Russian Red Army Choir blasts over the Lawlor Events Center crowd, the mixed reaction for Ellis turning over to boos.

Nick Stuart: Sunny is trying to get her man into the game and the reason for that is heading to the ring right now.

Richard Parker: My sources say that Ivan has been in a terrible mood since his loss to Luke Colton.

Ivan Stanislav storms out onto the stage, his heavy overcoat swirling around his massive frame dramatically. Lurking in the shadows behind Ivan is Wilhelm Kael, his own overcoat draped over his shoulders like a cape. The Russian Bear raises both of his hands and bellows at the hostile Reno crowd.

Vince Howard: And his opponent.. Hailing from Arkhangelsk, Russia… he stands at seven-foot-one-inches tall and weighs in at four-hundred pounds… He is the Russian Bear IVAAAAAAAAAAAN STAAAAANISLAV!

Storming down to the ring, Ivan bats away the outstretched hands of any fans brave enough to risk his wrath. Kael follows, providing a soft golf clap for the leader of the Red Army as he looks on with a gray, flat look on his face.

Reaching the ring, Ivan easily pulls himself up onto the apron and then over the top rope. Pushing past Elvis Nixon, Ivan stomps across the ring and gets right up into Ellis’s face. Adam doesn’t make eye contact, instead he allows Ivan to muscle him back into the corner. Sunny is desperately trying to get Adam to do something, anything as Stanislav’s music fades away.

Nick Stuart: Adam Ellis still looking very reluctant to do anything.

Richard Parker: This idiot is walking into his own funeral!

DING DING DING!

Ivan hasn’t given Ellis any space and as soon as the bell rings, his hand engulfs Adam’s face, dragging him out of one corner and hurling him into the other. Ivan charges in hitting a massive splash, the entire ring shaking as he impacts Ellis like a Soviet locomotive.

Nick Stuart: This is not going well for Ellis.

Richard Parker: I can’t wait to see this guy get torn apart!

Adam crumbles out of the corner as Sunny rushes to that side of the ring with a worried look on her face. Ivan slowly turns, looking down at Ellis with a confused look on his face. That confusion turns to disgust as he grabs Ellis by the throat, dragging him to his feet before shoving him away.

Nick Stuart: This.. this is crazy, Ellis isn’t going to just let Ivan crush him here, is he?!

Richard Parker: Suicide by Stanislav, that’s a hell of a way to go.

Adam stumbles into the ropes, steadying himself as Sunny can be heard begging him to defend himself. Ivan looks at Sunny then back at Adams as the crowd boos. Expecting a competitive match it’s becoming clear what Ellis is doing. Or rather what he’s not doing.

Infuriated, Ivan turns to Kael, shouting something at the Commissar of the Red Army. Kael produces a microphone, tossing it up to the Russian Bear who turns his attention back to Ellis.

Ivan Stanislav: I came here for FIGHT, you American trash.

The Russian Bear is right up in Adam’s face, his massive mitt of hand grabbing a fist full of Ellis’s hair.

Ivan Stanislav: Hit me.

Releasing Adam’s hair, Ivan holds his arms wide giving Adam a free shot. The crowd is cheering Ellis on, eager to see the taste slapped out of the Russian. Sunny is pleading with her husband to listen to the crowd.

Ivan Stanislav: HIT ME, YOU ADULTEROUS COWARD!

Ellis looks up, staring Ivan in the eye. It’s impossible to know what he is thinking but surely something Ivan has said has struck a nerve. His fists ball up and he takes a step toward Ivan.

…and then nothing. Whatever fight there might have been, it’s gone. The crowd boos as Ellis simply takes a step back and hangs his head.

CRACK!

A furious Ivan Stanislav sends his hand crashing down across Ellis’s chest. The contact sends ripples across Adam’s flesh, his body crumbling beneath the force of the blow.

Nick Stuart: Somebody needs to stop this.. This execution!

Richard Parker: Ellis could just surrender but I think this sicko wants this!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

The Russian Bear goes wild, furious at being robbed of his satisfaction, a massive fist clobbering the side of Ellis’s head knocking him down to the mat. Snatching Adam up by the scruff of his neck, Ivan tosses him into the nearby corner with ease, the impact causing the ring to shudder once again.

As Ellis stumbles forward he is turned inside out by a massive King Kong Lariat. Ragdolling through the air, Ellis crashes down in a heap, unmoving.

Nick Stuart: End this thing, Ivan, I’m begging you.

Kicking him over, Ivan drops for the cover. Sunny looks relieved as Elvis Nixon drops for the count.

1…

2…..

3!

NO!

Before Elvis Nixon can slap the mat for the third time, Ivan yanks Adam’s head and shoulders up by his hair. He’s staring directly at Sunny when he does it, a cruel snarl on his face.

Richard Parker: I guess Ivan doesn’t think Adam’s suffered enough!

Nick Stuart: Sick, Parker, this is sick!

Tugging Ellis up between his legs, Ivan Stanislav powerbombs his opponent flat in the center of the ring.

Seeing enough, Sunny jumps onto the ring and throws the towel.

Or rather she would have if her hand hadn’t been intercepted in the attempt. Wilhelm Kael yanks the manager of Adam Ellis off the ring apron, tearing the towel away from her hand. He shoves her away before retrieving his microphone.

Wilhelm Kael: Your client has some kind of death wish, it seems disrespectful not to honor his desire, don’t you think?

Dragging Adam Ellis up to his feet in the ring, Ivan chokeslams him straight down in the center of the ring. Sunny pleads, begging Kael and Ivan to stop.

Wilhelm Kael: Adam thinks he’s just punishing himself. Selfish, don’t you think? Do you think he knows how he’s punishing Abbigal Jane? How he’s hurt.. And how he’s hurting his wife, Ginny? How he’s hurting his.. friends. Or maybe you secretly enjoy watching Ivan give your client what he so rightfully deserves?

Sunny’s pleading turns to anger, her face flashing red. Back in the ring Ivan has dragged a lifeless Ellis up to his feet.

CRUNCH!

Ivan drives his forehead down like a moon smashing through a smaller astral body. Blood spills from Ellis’s forehead as his body is discarded by the Russian Bear. Adam’s blood splattered like paint across Ivan’s face adding to his savage appearance.

Nick Stuart: Adam Ellis hasn’t thrown a single offensive move,  Elvis Nixon needs to make an executive decision here, for the safety of Adam Ellis’s career!

Sunny attempts to jump up onto the apron once again only to be grabbed by Kael, pulling her away by the waist. Flailing, she begins to kick, bite and scratch at the Commissar of the Red Army.

Nick Stuart: Somebody get that monster off Sunny O’Callahan! He’s got no right to put his hands on her!

Richard Parker: She’s trying to interfere in the match! Kael’s just keeping this fight fair!

Nick Stuart: Fair?! One of the men isn’t even fighting!

Richard Parker: That’s his problem!

In the ring Ivan picks up Adam, wrapping his arms around his opponent before lifting him up in a massive Bear Hug.

DYAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Ivan tightens his grip, twisting side to side as he shakes Ellis like a British nanny. Blood, sweat and spit fly as Ivan’s chest and face are painted crimson. Seeing as Adam Ellis is completely unresponsive, Elvis Nixon signals for the bell!

Vince Howard: And the winner of this match by Referee Stoppage… IIIIIIIIIIIVAN STANISLAV!

Sunny manages to get a fingernail into Kael’s face, tearing a deep gash causing him to release her. She immediately rushes into the ring, screaming, clawing and tugging at Ivan along with referee Elvis Nixon. They both do all they can to pry away Ivan’s iron grip.

Satisfied with the damage he’s caused, Ivan releases the bear hug as Ellis’s bloodied body is dropped at Sunny’s feet. She instinctively covers up her husband’s body with her own, shielding him from any further attack by Ivan.

Nick Stuart: We need medical staff and security, damn it!

Richard Parker: Ivan probably didn’t hear the bell at first, that’s just how focused he is when he’s in that ring, Stuart.

Wilhelm climbs into the ring, blood trickling down the side of his face where Sunny had scratched him. He hands Ivan the towel he had stolen from Sunny. The Russian Bear stands like a looming mountain over Sunny and Adam, using the towel to clean the blood off his hands and face.

As the Soviet Russian National Anthem contends with the boos of the Reno crowd, Ivan discards the bloodied towel on Sunny before leaving the ring. Kael’s glare seems to linger on Sunny a moment longer before he follows the Russian Bear out of the ring.

Nick Stuart: Folks, we need to let our medical team do what they need to do. There is still more to come tonight, stay tuned.

As the Red Army make their way up the stage, medical staff race past, joining Nixon and Sunny in the ring to check on Adam Ellis.

ReVival moves on.

Static fills the screen. A fuzzy image appears, slowly becoming more clear.  We’re backstage, but the production quality is that of a bygone era when all the cool high school kids had giant video cameras they would use to document their sins at barn parties. As the setting comes into focus it is washed in a blue hue, 240 pixels of nostalgic grunge with tracking marks on the edges. We are finally able to make out Rob Williams. His eyes are closed and the angle is such an extreme close-up that it’s banned in twenty-three states.

He opens his eyes and stares into the camera with extreme sexual energy. Make that thirty-four states.

Rob Williams: (In a god awful Johnny Cash voice) Hello, I’m Rob Williams. Welcome to The Fucking Show™.

The camera begins to pan out and we see Rob Williams in all of his white trash glory, a sleeveless Pabst Blue Ribbon shirt accentuating his many tattoos. An unfiltered Camel dangles loosely from his lips. In his right hand is a corded microphone and in his left a boombox. Rob sets the boombox down, laying the microphone on top of it and pressing play. A familiar guitar melody grooves from the speaker, dripping with reverb.

Teddy sniffing glue he was twelve years old
Fell from the roof on East Two-nine

“People Who Died” picks up its pace as we pan out further to find Harley Walker passed out in a wheelchair next to Rob. Harley is in his full stuntman regale. The camera zooms in on Harley’s face, his cracked lips open.

Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
They were all my friends and just died

Rob moves and begins gyrating his hips, raising his hands above his head to hold up dueling peace signs. His eyes stay closed as he sways. For a big, violent, raging alcoholic piece of shit.. The guy has some moves. That sound you hear? Panties dropping all over the world.

They were two more friends of mine (two more friends that died)

With a handful of Harley’s hair, Rob bops Harley’s head along to the beat. He lets go and Harley’s head drops back, smacking the metal rim of the wheelchair. Harley is none the wiser.

Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
Those are people who died, died
They were all my friends, and they died

Oh god, now he has the microphone and he’s holding it up in a phallic notion, gyrating it at Harley. Forty-eight states. Finally, the music comes to an end.

Rob Williams: Welcome, welcome all of you pieces of shit to The Fucking Show™, the hottest new segment on PRIME. Every week we will prove that Harvey Walker here is ten times the stuntman Sebastian Gold could’ve hoped for, even as an invalid. Ok now, Harley, we have a dangerous and dynamic stunt planned for you this week. We call this one the WHEELCHAIR OF DOOM!

The camera zooms in and out on Harley in his wheelchair. A gong bangs somewhere in the distance.

Rob Williams: Now, to not have the boss crawling any further up my ass than is due, I gotta remind all you at home that ol’ Harvey here is a trained professional. This stunt was thoughtfully engineered on the back of a bar napkin at Mustang Sally’s, a titty bar in Bloomsburg, Pennsylvania by a guy named Jedadiah and a young lady named Porsha. We hired a crew of professional carpenters from the local Home Depot a few hours ago to carefully construct the set here. Long and short, don’t try this shit at home.

A disclaimer flashes across the screen:

PRIME does not condone nor endorse any of the actions on this telecast. PRIME will not be held liable for any injuries sustained trying to reenact anything witnessed on this segment or any other segment. His name is actually Harley Walker and he is, despite all appearances, a trained stuntman.

Rob Williams: Whoa, that was weird! Alright, now for the big reveal!

Williams bends over and pulls the tape out of the deck, flipping it over before pressing play. Rob disappears from view leaving a disturbing image of an unconscious Harley Walker lifeless in his wheelchair to a shitty recording of a drumroll likely recorded by the boombox.

Rob Williams: Over here.

Pan left.

Rob Williams: TADA!

The drumroll continues past the intended mark.

Rob Williams: Aw goddamnit, fix that in post.

Cameraman: This is live, hoss.

Rob Williams: You’re fucking my whole thing up. Closes his eyes and takes a breath ANYWAYS….  The Fucking Show PROUDLY presents you the Wheelcha-*DRUMROLL CRESCENDO-*fucking hell. THE WHEELCHAIR OF DOOM!

A shoddily constructed wooden structure that vaguely resembles a runway and stunt ramp sits behind Rob. He holds his hands out like he’s one of those assholes in the Christmas commercials who purchased a car without telling his wife. Whatever the hell this contraption is, it is in no way safe. Bungee cords are fastened to the top of the runway.

Rob Williams: Alright, Harvey – it’s SHOWTIME!

Rob makes his way back over to Harley.

Rob Williams: Now, Harley, before we get started is there anything you’d like to say to the masses of adoring fans? Or maybe a few words to mock that sniveling little shit Sebastian Gold?

The microphone slaps Harley in the face.

Harley:…

Rob nods his head, pulling the microphone back up to himself.

Rob Williams: Well put, comrade. Speaking of comrade, fuck those guys, right?

The microphone once again smacks Harley in the face.

Harley:…

Williams nods in agreement before he pulls the microphone back up to himself.

Rob Williams: Truly a fucking oracle, this guy. Alright, well, without further ado.

The microphone screams feedback as Rob drops it to the ground. Rob moves to the back of the wheelchair, jerking Harley around inside as he yanks it into motion. The wooden monstrosity creaks and cries out as Rob backs up the runway, pulling Harley along. A pained face comes over Rob.

Rob Williams: Jesus Henry Christ, boy, you need to switch to clear liquors.

They stand at the pinnacle of the abomination now. Well, Rob stands at it. The peak is some twenty feet off the ground. Rob looks over the edge, laughing and punching the insentient Walker. Sounds God never intended this world to hear sound from the ramp as Rob kneels to strap the bungee cords to the legs of the wheelchair- the entire structure shimmying with each movement.

Rob Williams: Alright, partner. Godspeed.

Williams slides down the ramp on his ass, yelping as a splinter catches him. He mumbles something about murdering the carpenters as he makes his way around to the back of the runway. A rope dangles in the air ominously, hanging maybe four feet off the back of the runway.

What might that be for? Oh, it’s to fucking jettison Harley Walker to space.

Rob jumps up and grabs it with both hands. Harley and his wheelchair roll backward, the bungee cords fully taut.

Rob Williams; ONE! TWO! TH-

The rope slips out of Williams’ hands, sending him flying to the ground with a thud. Was that flying? No. Flying is what Harley and his wheelchair do. The man and the chair reach a few g’s at once as the bungee cords suddenly lose all tension, rocketing Harley forward.

For a brief moment, it appears the stunt will work. The wheels miraculously stay on the ground and all of the dark liquor coursing through his body glues Harley to the seat. Rob scurries on all fours to watch like a kid setting off his hobby rocket. The naysayers can be damned. Harley is halfway up the ramp when the scene cuts to Williams wearing a hard hat.

Rob Williams: Remember when this guy hit me with a fucking toilet lid? Shhhh!

Williams leans down and we see a Looney Tunes-style detonator box on the ground before him. He presses the handle down with an evil smirk.

BOOM

Everything seems to give at once. Think of a ramp and runway built of Jenga blocks and suddenly some impatient kid sweeping them all in on themselves at once. Full-on carnage. Harley is completely buried.

Rob Williams: Aw, shit.

Williams stands up, putting his hands on his hips and surveying the wreckage in disgust.

Rob Williams: Uh, Harvey? Are you ok in there buddy?

The room is completely silent.

Rob turns back around to the camera with a wicked smile.

Rob Williams: Ok everybody. This has been the first episode of The Fucking Show™. If Harvey is alive, we’ll be back next ReVival with more of Harvey’s wacky antics! And if we learned anything here tonight, let it be that it doesn’t take talent or sack to be a stuntman – hell, you ain’t even gotta be fucking conscious.

Fade away.

Sweat profusely dripping off Jonathan-Christopher Hall, he slowly strolls through the backstage locker rooms. A win, a loss, nobody could tell the outcome between JCH and Kerry Kuroyama anyway since Jonathan-Christopher looks like death either way.

Hall approaches his destination and comes to a complete stop. He looks at the door in front of him, as the camera pans over to read: RED ARMY. Hall raises his hand, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, bracing himself for whatever is to come when he knocks.

…Only for Jonathan-Christopher to move away ASAP and continue down the hall.

It looks like he’s going to leave the arena when he comes across another door at the far end. He stops in front of this one, too. The name tag reads: FATHER DON WINTERS. JCH merely closes his eyes again, raises his right hand…

And knocks, albeit ever so slightly. Weakly. As if anyone is inside there, they may not even hear.

Jonathan-Christopher looks to his left, then his right.

He runs away. SUPER FAST SPRINT. Straight out the back door, still in his wrestling gear and nothing else, all his belongings left behind.

The exit door closes behind him, leaving the hallway full of locker rooms empty and quiet.

We join RIA, walking backstage on her phone. The Psychoberry slowly strolls down the hallway, thumbs taking away at the device, an absolutely beaming smile on her face. So focused is she on her phone, that she doesn’t notice Seán O’Neill approach her.

Seán O’Neill: Hey buddy!

RIA looks up from her phone at her friend, smile still plastered on her mug.

RIA: Hey Seány! What’s up?!

Despite the warm greeting and typically positive nature that’s surrounded the two lately, O’Neill slightly rolls his shoulders and shifts back and forth between his feet. There is a sense of uncertainty in his voice as he replies.

Seán O’Neill: Are… Are you okay?

The grin fades from the Psychoberry’s face. Her eyebrows furrow as her eyes squint, lips curled up at an awkward angle. After a moment, a more subtle smile returns to her face.

RIA: I mean, yeah. I’m good. Hell, I’d say I’m great at the moment! Why do you ask?

Seán’s eyebrow arches involuntary, a tell-tale sign he’s not convinced by RIA’s response. He shuffles his feet as though he’s trying to find the least possible confrontational posture.

Seán O’Neill: So, I’ve been hearing some stuff…

RIA: Some stuff?

Seán O’Neill: Yup, stuff!

RIA: Gonna have to expand on that, dude. Stuff is a pretty broad category.

Seán O’Neill: Well, I can’t really claim to understand it all. Apparently there is something called a “Jabber” and that on this thing you’ve been acting a little oddly lately. A little… shady, if you know what I mean?

This time, the smile fades and stays gone. A look of stone cold seriousness has come into place instead.

RIA: Look… It’s complicated. Very complicated. It’s not really your problem or something for you to worry about. I got this handled, alright?

O’Neill shakes his head softly. There is sadness in his eyes and in the resigned smile he gives his friend.

Seán O’Neill: You know that’s not really how this works right? When I needed help it was you who had my back, helped me turn things around and take control of the chaos I was going through. You know that doesn’t just go one-way? If it is something you don’t want to, or don’t feel comfortable talking about, then I will respect that, one hundred percent. But you can’t think that I’m going to be able to turn my concern for your well-being on and off like a light-switch. So the bad news is, you’re stuck with my big dumb ass wanting to be sure you’re ok. That’s what friends do, and you my friend… are… my friend!

O’Neill squints as all his brain-power is given over to deciding if what he has just said made any sense. RIA lets out a sigh, shoulders slumping. She moves over to a wall and leans against it, arms crossing loosely on her chest.

RIA: I know you are… But this isn’t something that most people can help with. I’ll be honest… I have a condition called dissociative identity disorder. Multiple personalities, essentially. Been dealing with it since I was about seventeen. Nightshade is one of them and she’s an awful bitch. No remorse, no sympathy, full of hate.

The Technicolor Comforter of Pro Wrestling shifts her arms, gripping herself into something of a self hug.

RIA: I… I don’t want those I care about to have to deal with her. Not you. Not Vae Victis. Not Angel. I worry what Nightshade would do or say to all of you if she got out for more than a few minutes.

Seán nods silently, a brief awkward pause ensues before he chuckles and steps towards RIA, clapping a hand on her shoulder.

Seán O’Neill: Oh don’t worry about me matey, I grew up in Northern Ireland in the eighties, I daresay my skin is thick enough to take whatever comes my way. That’s besides the point though, someone much wiser me once said “A problem shared, is a problem halved”

O’Neill flashes one of those increasingly more common cheesy grins of his. The Psychoberry shakes her head with a sigh.

RIA: You’re not gonna let this go, are you?

Seán O’Neill: Nope! I’m far too much of a pain in the ass for that!

RIA ran a hand through her hair.

RIA: Okay, fine. We’ll talk, alright? But not tonight. I wanna keep my mood light. Spending a night with an angel.

O’Neill nods, removing his hand from RIA’s shoulder.

Seán O’Neill: There’s no rush, you know how to get a hold of me whenever you’re ready. As for right now – I’m heading to catering, apparently Nevada is famous for it’s Basque cheesecakes, there’s going to be hell to pay if Bobby has got there before me!

The SurReal One takes his leave, sure to pop up somewhere when least expected. A glum looking RIA sighs heavily. At least until looking back down at her phone. As she continues to glance at it, a small smile works its way back onto her face as she begins walking.

We cut back to ringside.

Nick Stuart: And now, fans, we have “Beautiful” Bobby Dean squaring off against The Anglo Luchador!

Richard Parker: You know what I want to see? A pie eating contest. Dean could win that one.

Nick Stuart: Yes, but we do wrestling here.

Richard Parker: Well, way to be a buzz kill.

“You’re The Best” by Joe Esposito hits the speakers and the impressively(?) big-boned “Beautiful” Bobby Dean comes into view in a bedazzled blue robe, the belt of which is stretched to the absolute limits of modern fabric technology. Tony Gamble is at his side as he saunters toward the ring.

Vince Howard: This match is set for one fall! Making his way to the ring, from Houston, TX, weighing 369 pounds… BEAUTIFUL BOBBY DEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNN!

Dean enters the ring through the middle rope, the middle rope nearly collapsing to the bottom rope from even a glancing pressure from his weight. He disrobes, God help us, and awaits his opponent.

The lights go out in the arena, and a big murmur goes up in the crowd, excited for what’s next. Then the PRIMEView lights up to show a Japanese man with impeccable combed-over black hair, a square jaw, and a towel around his neck emphatically saying a phrase in his native tongue. The translation is in subtitles:

“PRO WRESTLING IS A SACRED SPORT!”

RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

A spotlight shines on the curtain, and a beat later, The Anglo Luchador jumps out, dressed in a green tracksuit with a purple towel around his neck, pumping his fist into the air. He jogs in place at the top of the ramp for a moment before bounding down to the ring, slapping hands. He gets to the ringside area, strips from his entrance gear, throwing each piece into the crowd before sliding into the ring.

Vince Howard: And their opponent, weighing in at 211 pounds and hailing from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He is the first Intense Champion of the ReVival, the Last Son of Tenochtitlan, and the Spear of Huitzilopochtli… The Anglooooo…. LUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCHADORRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!

RAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!

Jimmy Turnbull calls for the bell.

DING DING

TAL is light on his feet, hopping from side to side, standing in stark contrast to the lumbering Dean, who already seems visibly tired.

Tony Stuart: TAL is giving up more that 150 pounds to Bobby Dean here tonight. He’ll need to rely on his athleticism and speed to overcome that massive disadvantage.

Richard Parker: He better hope Bobby isn’t hungry!

The two men lock up in the center, and TAL quickly darts behind Bobby’s massive frame. He picks a leg and sends Bobby crashing face first into the mat! He darts up, no doubt in a desperate attempt to avoid Bobby’s ass and its nefarious fumes, and secures a grounded side headlock. Bobby manages to work to his feet and back TAL against the ropes. He attempts to shoot him off to the far side, but TAL bears down on the headlock! Bobby lifts him in the air, TAL kicks his feet, and snaps Bobby over in an insanely crisp headlock takeover, taking him back to the grounded headlock!

Richard Parker: That measured on the Richter Scale!

Tony Stuart: TAL is doing a fantastic job of utilizing his technical prowess to control the much larger Bobby Dean.

Referee Jimmy Turnbull steps in to check on Bobby, who is struggling to break TAL’s grip on his head. Bobby rises to his feet and lifts TAL into the air once more, but TAL flips and lands on his feet behind Bobby! Bobby turns and is met with a right! A left! A right! Bobby swings a wide right hook at TAL, but TAL ducks and leaps deftly into the air, connecting with an enziguri! Bobby staggers backward into the ropes and TAL moves to the opposite side. Bobby charges, the ring shaking and ropes bouncing with each stride, but TAL drops and pulls the top rope, sending Bobby crashing to the floor below! Tony Gamble rushes to his side to provide counsel while TAL works the crowd.

Nick Stuart: Bobby Dean has absolutely crashed in a heap to the floor! Tony Gamble is helping him recover, but that was a giant impact!

Richard Parker: He’s still jiggling!

Nick Stuart: Bobby seems to be shaking the cobwebs loose, but wait! TAL is picking up steam!

In the ring, TAL charges toward the pair on the floor! In an impressive feat of agility and athleticism, he launches himself to the rope and dives to the floor, crashing into both Bobby and Tony!

Nick Stuart: DO A BARREL ROLL!!

In a mass of humanity on the floor, Tony Gamble scurries away and Bobby is on his knee, bracing the apron,  gasping for air, his gigantic belly rising and falling. TAL is back to his feet and the crowd is going crazy for him! Bobby slowly rolls under the bottom rope and TAL follows quickly behind, laying the boots to him! Bobby crawls toward a corner and slowly pulls himself up.

Nick Stuart: What is Tony Gamble doing?!

Gamble, still recovering from the dive, has pulled himself to the apron and has the attention of Jimmy Turnbull. TAL moves toward Bobby but, seeing the opportunity, Bobby kicks TAL squarely in the juevos! TAL staggers back and falls to the mat.

Nick Stuart: What a despicable move by Bobby Dean! TAL is down!

Richard Parker: Despicable? Maybe. Genius? Absolutely! It’s only cheating if the ref sees it, Nick! Bobby can’t be blamed for Turnbull’s ineptitude.

Nick Stuart: Surely you can’t be serious.

Richard Parker: I am and don’t call-

Nick Stuart: Stop it.

The damage having been done, Gamble hops off the apron and Turnbull turns around to see Bobby stomping the tar out of TAL, who is still struggling to recover from the low blow. Bobby scoops TAL from the mat and sends him crashing back down with a body slam. He presses his heel into TAL’s throat, seemingly both to inflict punishment and to take a breather, as he huffs and puffs, exhausted from the exertion of the match. Turnbull counts:

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

FOUR!

Bobby lifts his foot from TAL’s throat at the last possible second, to which Turnbull reprimands him. Bobby pulls TAL to his feet and lays a heavy knee to the stomach, doubling him over, before clubbing him over the shoulders which drops TAL to a knee. Bobby reaches down to lift TAL up, but he’s met with a series of rapid punches to his stomach–the ripple effect would almost be beautiful if it weren’t so grotesque. TAL fights to his feet! Right jab! Left jab! RIGHT CROSS! Bobby staggers back from the punch and TAL follows up with a knife edge chop! TAL hits the far ropes and comes bounding back!

Richard Parker: What a clothesline! He killed him!

Bobby counters with a stiff clothesline that turns TAL inside out! Bobby, panting heavily, goes for a cover.

ONE!

TWO

KICKOUT!

TAL shoots a shoulder up before the three, but he’s clearly dazed from the shot. Bobby lifts TAL up once more and backs him into a corner. He squashes his back to TAL’s chest and then rams his impossibly rotund posterior into TAL’s gut, driving the air from his lungs! He crumples in the corner and Bobby pulls him out by a foot, before “climbing” to the bottom rope, his astronomical ass positioned directly above TAL’s face. A dark shadow engulfs his masked face. A shadow of stink, if you will.

Nick Stuart: Oh, God! We’ve seen this before. TAL is seconds away from a very bad time.

Richard Parker: The smell alone will melt your skin like Raiders of the Lost Ark, Nick!

TAL is starting to come to and his eyes bulge to a burlesque size when he sees the predicament he’s in. As Bobby comes crashing down, TAL manages to move out of the way without a second to spare! Bobby crashes ass first into the mat and yelps out in pain!

OHHHHH!

Bobby is doubled over, taking heaving breaths. Tony Gamble hops up on the apron in the opposite corner and calls Bobby over. Bobby waddles toward him, breathing heavily, clearly very fatigued. TAL is pulling himself in with the assistance of the ropes. Bobby and Gamble exchange some words, Gamble giving him a pep talk, Bobby nodding wearily, still trying to catch his breath. Gamble hops down the floor after the pep talk, but Bobby starts to slump into the corner, his eyes closing as he slumps to a seated position.

Nick Stuart: Is Bobby… sleeping?

Richard Parker: Of course not! He’s just resting… his… eyes?

Parker’s voice fades as it becomes evident that Bobby is in fact sleeping, his jowls bouncing with noisy snoring exhales. Gamble is yelling from the floor for him to wake up, but to no avail. TAL, now to his feet, cautiously approaches, certain this must be a ruse. He extends his foot into Bobby’s bulbous belly. Bobby jerks! And then immediately slumps again in deep slumber.

Nick Stuart: This can’t be real life.

TAL gently shoots a quarter half nelson on Bobby’s head, careful to not wake him up, and slowly pulls him forward, cradling his upper body as he does so. He positions Bobby away from the ropes and gives Turnbull a dramatic “SHHH” finger to illustrate he needs to count quietly. Turnbull slowly drops his knees and quietly counts without touching the mat.

ONE

TWO

THREE

DING DING

Nick Stuart: I thought I’d seen it all in PRIME, but this… this is a first.

And we cut to commercial.

Backstage.

Where a conversation occurs.

Nate Colton: No, I’m still looking. He’s gotta be around here somewhere, right?

That conversation is between Nate Colton and…whoever he’s talking to on the phone.

Nate Colton: There’s gotta be Enemigos all over the rafters by now. I’m heading to Argyle; maybe I can catch him before he does something stupid.

While Nate rounds a corner towards the Argyle position, he bumps into someone and stops. Now, Nate Colton is a solidly built young man, so it would take someone of considerable stature to bring The New Diamond to a stop.

At best? Maybe Hessian?

At worst…?

The grunt from Ivan Stanislav has a peculiar Russian-ness to it and, as Nate looks up from his phone into the eyes of The Russian Bear, there’s a silent moment where everything seems to freeze.

Nate Colton: Gotta go.

The New Diamond takes the phone from his ear, never looking away from his enormous adversary.

The two men nearly tore apart PRIME to get at one another, with both men crossing lines that should never have been crossed. The young man emerged the victor, while the older veteran was sent licking his wounds.

And The Russian Bear is notorious for not just handling his business in the ring. Colton is wise enough to steel himself for a fight, and while he keeps his eyes on Stanislav, he no doubt has to worry if someone is sneaking up behind him.

Still, Stanislav growls his name.

Ivan Stanislav: Nate Colton…

The Russian Bear looks none the worse for wear after his match against Adam Ellis.

Nate Colton: Ivan.

It’s not until after Nate speaks that he looks down to see something completely unexpected: Ivan Stanislav’s paw of a hand.

There’s only been two people in the ReVival Era who have been offered the hand of Ivan Stanislav, and Anna Daniel and Hessian are nowhere to be seen. Ivan clears his throat.

Ivan Stanislav: We had a good…

He clears his throat, as if the words just don’t want to leave his body.

Ivan Stanislav: …a good…

He grinds his teeth and turns his head slightly to one side. He lets out an “ahem” and looks back at Colton, his hand still outstretched.

Ivan Stanislav: …a good match.

The New Diamond looks down at Ivan’s hand, as if it’s some kind of alien thing. In a way it is–Stanislav is generally not known to show respect to a rival, especially one as bitter as these two have been. So, for the gargantuan Russian to actually offer a hand like this…that’s not something to be taken lightly.

Nate stares at the hand for a moment longer, and then looks up at Ivan’s face again.

Nate Colton: Are you fucking with me right now?

Ivan hisses. Not so much at Nate, perhaps more to himself as he draws air through his thick, cube-shaped teeth. He keeps his hand outstretched and clears his throat.

Ivan Stanislav: You know, I never respected you, Nate Colton. Why, I had more respect for Brandon Youngblood than you. Young, pretty American boy with beautiful girls on his arms, loving family intact, foolish siblings… American dream, they might say.

Stanislav’s eyes shift slightly, searching Nate’s face, or perhaps, unfocusing and searching inward instead.

Ivan Stanislav: You fought with heart. I respect that. You need not put value on my respect, nor accept it, that matters not. But… I was wrong to say you were a coward. That you were hiding from our fight. You were caring for your brother and… that means great deal to me.

Ivan purses his lips thoughtfully and exhales. The air whistles through his nostrils and mustache as he nods down at his still outstretched hand.

Ivan Stanislav: So… what will it be, son?

Nate Colton: Ivan, I mean this from the bottom of my heart…

Obviously, this could serve as a major turning point for PRIME. Two bitter rivals making amends? If Nate chooses his words carefully, he could change the course of history. Maybe even bring about the kind of world he always hoped PRIME could be.

Nate Colton: Fuck. Your. Self.

…or, he could do that.

Nate Colton: Fucking seriously, Ivan?! A half-assed apology for the least shitty thing you’ve done to me or my family, and you think I’m suddenly going to shake your hand?

Stanislav’s demeanor changes as he withdraws his hand and balls it up into a fist. In the cramped backstage hallway, The Russian Bear looms larger than in the ring, and he moves closer to Colton, sucking up the oxygen in the area. He snarls, but is… grinning?

Ivan Stanislav: Ah… felt good, did it not? To take that piece of steel in your hand and beat your opponent, didn’t it, Colton? To swing, again and again, out of futile frustration, hatred, and rage. Just like you are showing right now. In front of the world, your family, your girlfriend. To show them the warrior that exists deep beneath that handsome exterior?

A low, almost mocking chuckle rumbles through his barrel chest.

Ivan Stanislav: And you show it once more, Nate Colton, in this very moment. The beast within. The monster beneath the surface.

Ivan chuckles.

Ivan Stanislav: The type of person who would fit, perfectly, within my Red Army. Victory at any cost. Rules be damned. Unshackled and unfettered. Not one step back. You can try to hide it, you can try to conceal it, but we all saw it. It was…

Ivan exhales.

Ivan Stanislav: …exhilarating to watch. Both then… and now.

Nate Colton: You…

An icy sheen flashes over Nate’s eyes for a moment. It’s a look that has become all too familiar in recent months–the same one he held when he prepared to bring hell to Ivan Stanislav in Spokane.

The clenching of his fists tell us exactly what’s on his mind right now.

If he doesn’t choose his words carefully, that fire will burn again.

Nate Colton: You’re right, Ivan. It did feel good, beating the absolute piss out of you. But you know what hasn’t?

He starts to lift his hand to make…some kind of gesture…but his elbow locks, keeping it in place. Because if he moves his hand at all, only one thing is going to happen.

Nate Colton: Every goddamn day since.

Disgust spreads over the New Diamond’s face–more than what was already there.

Nate Colton: I hate everything I did that night. It went against everything I want to be as a wrestler and a man, and I only did it because you made it necessary. And the fact that my lowest point is something you think I should be proud of…honestly, that tracks. ‘Cause you’ve always had ass-backwards ideas about respect anyway.

Nate leans in a little closer, better to show the sneer on his lips and the gritting of his teeth. But he still does not move his hands.

He can’t trust them.

Nate Colton: And if you think I’d waste a second hanging around with your gang of bootlickers and psychopaths, you are out of your goddamn mind. I would rather retire–I would rather die–than be part of your “Red Army.” Ever.

Despite all that is said, Ivan responds to just one sentiment from Nate. His grin fading, and a thoughtful frown forming.

Ivan Stanislav: I never said you should be proud of it.

The grizzled veteran recalibrates quickly, the smirk returning to his face after a moment’s thought.

Ivan Stanislav: Sometimes, I feel like I look into a mirror when I see you, Nate Colton. You may regret not taking my hand.

There is just the hint of a chuckle as Stanislav pushes past Nate and starts to walk down the hallway towards his destination. But, The Russian Bear stops and turns slowly.

Ivan Stanislav: Oh… and Nate?

Nate Colton: What.

Normally, that word is a question. Here, it’s an attempt to pack “get to the goddamn point” into four letters.

Ivan Stanislav: Blame me for what you did all you wish, but we both know who reaps the whirlwind. Yes, you won the match… but you said you would get me to say “I Quit” and despite revealing your true self… you failed.

Ivan winks.

Ivan Stanislav: Was it worth it?

Ivan Stanislav turns and lumbers around the corner, while a Russian tune whistles from his lips, long after he’s disappeared.

Colton tenses up at the shrill melody. He stands stock-still, the only movement coming from the hairs rising on the back of his neck. It’s only when the tune finally fades that he’s able to relax.

He takes a few breaths, slowly releasing his muscles, and finally opens his eyes.

He–and we–see a hallway, empty of enemies…and of answers.

Cut.

Cut to the parking garage where, hovering by the rear doors, we find the Murder Show surveying the rows of cars for any sign of Whoresmen activity. He isn’t exactly sure if the BMW Isetta, AMC Pacer, ‘59 Coupe Deville or Canyonero he’s spotted belong to the Bandits, but they along with the Hess Express and all the other cars remain unmolested under his watchful eye. With Fred Dick and Daytona Diamonds being notorious for their inventive chaos and proclivity for vehicular mayhem, Coral sending the big dog out on guard duty was perfectly reasonable. As a former champion himself, the giant was happy to acquiesce. One less concern for the carton.

Occasionally one runner shows up to collect a box out of the merch truck. Another appears to collect a spare part from the high shelves set up beside the back doors. Someone else trudges out carrying a wad of cardboard and plastic sheeting and chucks it into the nearby dumpster. Anyone he does recognize mills past ignorantly; face in phone or headphones turned up.

Even Rose and David Noble don’t seem to care that he’s there as they jog their way through the lot. That or they haven’t noticed him yet. The Second Coming has a faraway look in her eyes, despite her mouth moving in response to David’s. Like a cat that’s just spotted a laser dot, the Murder Show ducks behind one of the high shelves, peeking over a stack of plywood boards as they approach. His gaze turns to the dumpster, lying wide open across the aisle.

A perfect opportunity has presented itself.

He remembers two weeks ago when Rose bumped into him. Same as when she walked right into Bryan Dawkins and started an issue that ran all the way to a bloody finish at UltraViolence. It seemed to be a recurring theme for her.

The look in her eyes tells him that she didn’t feel the same thrill going up against Cancer Jiles that he felt facing Snow. Whether she’s still shaking off the loss or just plotting her next move, her expression is bordering on sour. It dawns on the giant that perhaps he could help turn that frown upside down.

Hessian: BUMP!!

He leaps out at the passing pair and grabs Rose around the waist, spinning like a hammer-thrower and yeeting the 135lber into the air like she weighs nothing. Noble spins on his heels, stunned by the sudden sight of the Second Coming careening over ten feet above. She doesn’t even hit the sides of the dumpster as she disappears inside it, landing with a soft whumph! and kicking up a hail of packing peanuts and styrofoam. Hessian’s joyful laugh bellows throughout the lot.

David Noble: Have you lost your mind?

There’s a curl of a fist from David as he debates a fight that he seems to be chomping at the bit for, but turns towards the dumpster that now contains his long-time friend. He rushes over to the dumpster as her head pokes up, with an even more sour look on her face.

Rose: What the fuck? Did your cerebral cortex take a vacation, or is your skull just an echo chamber for bad decisions?

She looks at David who is offering to help her down and she begrudgingly takes it.

Rose: Aren’t you supposed to ensure things like that don’t happen? Or did Big Daddy Cool have feet as light as a feather over there? Never mind, don’t answer that.

She brushes the remaining trash off of her, picking the packing peanuts out of her hair, which only irritates her even more. She moves towards the Murder Show, looking to do some murder of her own.

Rose: Is this some sort of eGG Bandit hazing ritual? Do they require you to torment innocent bystanders for initiation? Should I brace myself for Bobby Dean’s thong-clad burger binge? Or perhaps Tony Gamble’s clog-footed dance extravaganza? And dare I dream of witnessing the mythical appearance of the elusive Doozer?

Rose can feel the fury in her chest and she looks over at David.

Rose: Is this what my life has become? I’ve spent the last year harassed by The Red Army and next year is going to be the eGG Bandits?

She then looks back at Hessian.

Rose: Do I need to waltz over to Coral Avalon for a year-long tango of tedium? Because Too-Tall, I’ve got a crown-shaped reality check locked and loaded, ready to dethrone his delusions faster than you can say ‘two decades of denial’. Trust me, I’ll have him embracing his commoner status in the blink of an eye.

The Murder Show’s eyes light up, his mouth agape and teeth bared through the big, silly grin.

Hessian: You got all that air-time and not even a woohoo? Just straight machine-gun fire out the gate?

The giant turns to Noble, genuinely befuddled.

Hessian: Is she like this all the time?

Clearly not in the mood to banter with the man who just grabbed her and tossed her, she grabs Hessian’s face and re-directs it to look at her.

Rose: No, no. Don’t talk to him. You talk to me. You put your hands on me and then want to be surprised that I don’t want to… what… go steady? I don’t know what happens in your Parts Unknown country and how you were raised in whatever backwoods country you were born in, but read the room. This isn’t the 2nd century where you picked a woman up over your shoulder and claimed her as yours. Hands off, fuck head. You don’t get a pat on the back.

David clears his throat.

David Noble: The answer is, obviously, yes.

She glares at David.

Rose: You want to start with me? After everything of today?

Noble’s eyes go wide as he shrugs and shakes his head. The Murder Show’s shoulders slump, the smile slips and he visibly deflates, looking everywhere but into Rose’s eyes as the guilt sets in.

Hessian: I’m sorry, I meant no harm, didn’t realize you were always ‘on’. Guess you’re not one for horseplay.

He almost glances back at David again before correcting course and meeting Rose’s angry eyes as he speaks bluntly.

Hessian: Why is everyone so serious around here? I try to make friends, I get demonized. Bit of innocent roughhousing? Demonized. Is it me? Or is everyone else a little soft?

Rose: …wait, you’re making yourself the victim in all of this? Was you picking me up and tossing me into the dumpster you trying to make friends? You’re as bad as Scott McPhee.

Hessian looks confused.

Hessian: …who? Was he on the PRIME roster?

Rose: Scott McPhee was in my third grade class. His brain switched from the ‘girls are gross and cooties’ mindset quicker than most boys — which I appreciated, but his go to was to harass the fuck out of me. Why? Because he liked me. He wanted to be friends. He wanted to hold my hand. You doing innocent roughhousing? Bullshit. You made your friends — Cancer Jiles. Bobby Dean. Doozer. Tony fucking Gamble. You knew my father — do you think he thought a friend Tony Gamble was a friend of his?

Rose shakes her head.

Rose: You’re an enemy, Hess. Because of the choices you made. You don’t get to throw yourself a pity party because you had the option to choose your friends in the lunch room and go with the class clown and his dumb followers who want to prank everyone, throw all the tampons on the floor, and set fire to the trash cans just to get out of taking a final. I’m trying to raise my daughter to be better than that and you dumbfucks run around as if you’re burning ballots in Washington. Grow the fuck up.

Then, an idea crosses her mind.

Rose: Or step foot into the ring. With me.

Perplexed still, the Murder Show throws his hands up frustratedly and lets them clap against his sides.

Hessian: This is what I’m talking about. Pity parties, victims, misconduct. What kind of way is that to speak to anyone, much less a Hall-of-Famer? No matter how often I remind people how long I’ve been around this business I still get tarred as though I were a rookie. Everyone’s spitting feathers because I’m on-side with Jiles, so what? The show of loyalty means nothing? Treating him as fairly as everyone else, what about that? Is that a sin too? It’s not an exclusive partnership..

He folds his arms sternly and straightens his posture, looking straight down his nose at Rose.

Hessian: For someone who speaks so intelligently and conducts themselves accordingly, I’d have thought you’d be diligent enough to recognize who you’re getting snippy with, young lady. I’m the only giant other than Ivan Stanislav to survive multiple generations in the wrestling world. At the top. I’ve seconded countless talent through the years; muscle for hire, tag team partner, you name it. Championships, executive orders..I’ve done it all. And not once have I ever turned my back on someone who didn’t turn on me first.

Chancing his luck, the Murder Show points out a stray packing peanut at the back of Rose’s collar by motioning to his own neck.

Hessian: You missed one, by the way.

She begrudgingly reaches back and flicks it off without breaking eye contact.

Hessian: Who says I don’t extend the same courtesy to you some day? Hm? And thus your friends by association? I stayed out of your match against Jiles two weeks ago. I spoke kindly to you when you bumped into me and went on another one of your tirades. The yeeting was a poor choice, admittedly, but you were yeeted as an equal, not in the deviant way you’re attempting to skew it as. I’d hurl Gamble as readily as you, provided there’s a safe landing nearby. I’m not anyone’s enemy Rose, in fact I’m starting to think maybe everyone’s just jealous that I’m not on their side.

Rose: When you have something worth being jealous about, I’ll let you know. I’ve seen Hall of Fame up close and personal. You don’t impress me. You’re not special to me. You forget, I watched my father create something from nothing. I watched Hall of Famers growing up and they lace their boots up the same as David and myself, put their pants on one leg at a time — except for Gamble who has to hop into them because his arms are too short. You think showing loyalty is a virtue, but the cause has to match it. You’re loyal to a coward — sounds like you simply earned the ultimate participation trophy in the game of life. Bravo for your commitment to mediocrity.

Rose inches closer.

Rose: You are right about one thing though, I’ll give you credit for that. You are one of two giants that have had a lasting impact on this industry. I’m staring the down the barrel of one, I might as well get practice with the other. ReVival 59. Las Vegas. You going to keep running those gums or show me if the Murder Show is all he’s chalked up to be? Or do you need to check with your handler first?

Hessian: He’s not-

The giant twitches, irked by the jab.

Hessian: Look, I’m not asking anyone to like it. I’m helping someone out and he just so happens to be public enemy number one. I wasn’t aware of that when I joined up with the Bandits but, if anything, it makes my case even stronger. Cancer Jiles could be the biggest dirtbag in the world; so low that he can slither under the gap in the door with a top hat on without knocking it off, so low that you don’t believe a word that comes out of his lying mouth. But if you ask that piece of crap if Hessian is a name that you can trust? That I–

He thumps his chest hard.

Hessian: -can be counted on to watch someone’s back and prevent them from getting Kobe’d into a dumpster?

David’s shoulders slump at that.

Hessian: Then you best believe that lowdown, no-good son of a bitch when he tells you that, yes, you can. Because it’s undeniable. The god’s-honest truth. I’m proving my integrity to everyone, and doing it the hard way apparently, because there’s more than one person walking around this place wearing a false smile. I’m not one of them. You talk a lot of shit Rose, but you don’t strike me as a bad kid. I’m not a bad guy. If I was, you’d be laid out with a cracked skull on the concrete and David here would probably be kicking my ass just like the old days.

David’s posture improves.

Hessian: Instead I gave you a friendly little receipt as a reminder to watch where you’re going in future. No barb-wire pineapples required. I get the impression you’d snipe me no matter what I did though, christ you’re wound up so tight you’ve asked me for a match twice already despite the fact I’m so beneath you. Fine. If you won’t respond to a kindly manner or a neighborly yeeting then I suppose a fight can’t do any more harm. Make the match.

He puts a smile back on, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Hessian: I’ll help you prepare for your other giant.

A moment passes. Rose looks at Hessian.

Rose: Sorry, are you finished? I checked out and did other more interesting things in my head — like wash my hair, do my taxes, schedule a colonoscopy — while you were monologuing for…

Looks at David.

Rose: I guess you?

Looks back at Hessian.

Rose: I’m going to assume somewhere you said ‘yes, sure, let’s fight’. Because, that’s what you do. So, cool. I might not be able to yeet you into a dumpster, but I sure as hell intend to pin those shoulders to the mat for the one-two-three.

She begins to walk away — leaving Noble behind.

David Noble: Well, her mouth might get her into more trouble than not, but she stands for something. You and me? That’s going to have to wait for another day.

The Murder Show glances over at the dumpster again, his eyes lighting up once more.

David Noble: Nope.

David walks away, after his friend. Hessian heads in a different direction. He watches as Rose turns the corner and before he can make it, someone sneaks out of the shadows and tackles him into the wall and whisks him away.

And we head to ringside.

“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

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.

Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring, weighing in at 255 pounds…he is The Bayou Butcher…PAAAAAXTOOOOONNNN RAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYY!

Southern twang, and a steady drum. The crowd begins to rise as the music picks up The PRIME*View snaps to life with an aerial view, following a large, black pickup barreling down a dirt road, throwing up a cloud of dust in its wake.

The entrance strobes as “Step Up (I’m On It) by Maylene and the Sons of Disaster wails away, the camera panning to the front of the pickup, zooming in close on an Alabama license plate, and revealing just two words:

BAD DOG

Too long, and too little,
Tell me when you gonna bring it on.
Small fights, and big stages,
Never terrified enough to run.

Vince Howard: From Pine Ridge, Alabama!!

A big frame in a wide-brimmed drifter’s hat hides in the strobe lights, that hat tilted down a touch, the fans bellowing in the arena.

Vince Howard: Standing six feet! Four inches tall! Weighing in at two-hundred and fifty-four pounds!

The smoke starts settling, the lights start trailing.

Vince Howard: A former PRIME Intense Champion!!

The chorus hits, and the Son of a Bitch himself strolls out to the top of the ramp, one fist in the air.

Vince Howard: THE BAD DOG!!!!! WADE!!! ELLLIOTTTT!!!!!

RUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!

The Blue Collar Brawler takes it in for a moment before making his way to the ring, the arena going absolutely ape-shit for the Southern Sparkplug’s arrival. Meanhile, the music rises as Wade climbs the far turnbuckle. He removes his hat, holding it high in the air as the chorus hits heavy.

ALLLL LIIIINED UP AND BUILT FOR PRESSURE!

(STEP UP! I’M ON IT!)

SAAYY YOOOUUUR PEACE LIKE IT’S THE END!!

(STAND BACK! WE’RE MOVIN’!!)

He drops to the floor, tossing his hat ringside. Next to go is his gray t-shirt, revealing the tattoo of Angus the Bluetick Hound on his left pec. The music trails, and he takes place in his corner.

DING DING!

Nick Stuart: A clash of two heavyweight bulls, and – OH!

Without hesitation, without a second thought, Wade Elliott takes two steps forward and punches Paxton Ray in the mouth.

POW!

What – did you think these guys were going to start with a collar-and-elbow?

Pax’s head whips back – but then he grins, reels, and throws a right cross of his own.

SMACK!

Wade touches his fingertips to his lip – heh, no blood. Not yet. Decent shot, though.

And then it’s a hockey fight.

Elliott has a handful of the back of The Bayou Butcher’s tank top as he throws clubbing shots wherever he can to the head and shoulders…Ray doesn’t have this luxury since The Bad Dog is shirtless, so he’s just got a tight grip around the back of Wade’s neck and is shooting shots that are more in the ribs and guts.

Having that little extra material to grab gives Elliott the smallest edge, and he pulls, tangling Ray’s arms and face a bit as the tank top is half-removed. Elliott uses the opening he’s created to throw an elbow into Ray’s exposed ribs, followed by a headbutt which sends Ray down. He scrambles to get rid of this damn shirt that’s gotten in the way and gets to the ropes just as Elliott is about to go in for some more good old fashioned pummeling, but Elvis Nixon steps in.

Wade shrugs and takes a step back. Ray gets to one foot, then the oth-

BOOOOOOM!

Nick Stuart: HUGE lariat by Wade Elliott, and that sends Paxton Ray over the top rope and onto the floor!

Richard Parker: This might go down as one of the least graceful professional wrestling matches we’ll ever see, unless we ever get to book Phil Atken vs. Jonathan Rhine…

Nick Stuart: …well indeed, these are two of PRIME’s premier brawlers, and – just, no Richard. Just no.

Richard Parker: I’m just saying! There would be an equal number of flips!

Nick Stuart: Zero?

Richard Parker: Zero Flips Pro Wrestling!

As Paxton Ray works to collect himself after being sent to the outside, Wade Elliott steps through the ropes in pursuit. Count Outs are for cowards who don’t want to finish fights, after all, and if there’s one thing Wade Elliott loves, it’s finishing a fight.

Wade runs in and delivers a stinging kick to Paxton’s back, and then a second one. He lifts his boot to go for a third –

Paxton springs to life and grabs the free leg! He twists HARD and sends Wade Elliott face first to the ground in what could maybe be generously described as a Dragon Screw take down, if the technique was more dancerly and less brutal. Ray pounces on the prone Elliott and starts throwing rights and lefts everywhere he can. The ‘Bama Bruiser is absorbing significant punishment, but soon he’s able to grab Ray and roll over to gain the advantage. He gets a few stiff jabs in right at Paxton’s eye before Paxton rolls over as well. This continues – the rolling, the punching, the “WorldStar fight after school on grainy cell phone footage” of it all, the crowd roaring louder and louder as the brawling gets more visceral and more stiff, until –

Elvis Nixon: THREE! …..FOUR!

Nick Stuart: One of these two has to disengage and bring the action back to the ring soon, or they’ll both be counted out!

Richard Parker: I mean, if they care about “winning a match”, I guess.

Elvis Nixon: FIVE! ……SIX!

Wade is first to get to his feet and he begins the draining work of trying to lug all 255 pounds of Paxton Ray back to the ring by his head. As they approach, Ray gets his feet under himself. He reaches up, and shoves…

THUNKKKKKK!

…and Wade Elliott has crashed into the ring steps! Paxton stalks over and slams the back of Wade’s head into the steps two more times for good measure!

THUNK! THUNK!

Elvis Nixon: SEVEN! BRING IT BACK TO THE RING, GUYS, COME ON!

Paxton grabs the dazed Wade and throws him under the bottom rope and into the ring. Ray hops onto the apron and Nixon stops the ten-count. Ray holds the top rope from the outside and looks out into the crowd, then to Elliott who’s still on the ground. He tests the ropes for springiness, stretches his legs, and looks like he’s thinking about trying something.

Nick Stuart: Hold on there, partner – The Murdergator might be thinking of trying something new here!

Paxton Ray leans back, pulling the top rope with him, gaining a tremendous amount of potential energy to be unleashed into some sort of previously-unseen high flying maneuver…

…

And then he calmly steps through the ropes, stomps over to the Blue Collar Brawler, and punches him some more.

BOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: You were saying?

After some heavy shots, Ray presses down on Elliott’s shoulders!

ONE!

TWO – shoulder up!

A couple more punches, and Ray goes for another pin!

ONE – Elliot HEAVES the Bayou Butcher off of him! He sits up and rubs his head for a second, then rises to his feet. He looks fresh, and Paxton’s eyes are WIDE from across the ring!

Nick Stuart: If you’re gonna be dumb, you gotta be tough!

Richard Parker: Paxton Ray knocked him down, but he got back up!

The two men lock eyes. Welts are forming – Paxton’s eye, Wade’s lip – and the sweat is flowing. Both men’s knuckles are going to be sore as hell tomorrow.

The Bad Dog’s been through worse.

He charges across the ring – SPEAR TO PAXTON RAY! He has the mount now and is throwing punch after punch after punch! The Murdergator covers up, but some shots are still getting through!

After a spell, Wade reaches down and grabs the sides of Paxton’s temples – HEADBUTT! Both men might have gotten a little loopy on that one, but while Wade can shake out the cobwebs, Paxton’s shoulders are down! The leg is hooked!

ONE!

TWO!

No – kickout at 2.5!

Wade looks over at Paxton and touches at his own forehead – that headbutt might have split him a little bit, Lindsay Troy’s going to be annoyed at him later, but that’s a future problem. Right now, he’s dealing with a Southern redneck who’s tough as nails and whose punches feel like he’s wearing brass knucks, even though he’s not. No time to dilly dally.

He decides to give his knuckles a respite for a minute and goes to set Paxton Ray up for a piledriver…but Pax resists. Wade throws an elbow, then clubbing hammer blows, into Ray’s back. He lifts – Ray is able to fight it before going vertical!

The Bad Dog reaches for his lower back for just the briefest tick – lift with the legs, Wade, the guy is 6’6” – before slamming a few more elbows into Ray’s spine. This seems to enrage the Murdergator, who drives forward with his legs and pushes Elliott off of him. In a flash, Ray is spinning – DISCUS ELBOW!

NO! Wade ducks it! He steps back to gain momentum – BIG BOOT TO RAY’S CHEST! It sends Ray into the ropes – DISCUS ELBOW! THIS ONE CONNECTS!

CRACK!

Uppercut from Wade!

POW!

Headbutt from Ray!

CLONK!

Another headbutt from Ray!

CLONK!

Elliott is dazed! Ray sends him into the ropes, then hurls him across the ring with an Irish Whip! He spins, gains momentum, and goes for One Day Blinding Stew – Elliott ducks it! He halts his momentum and turns to see Ray stumbling a bit after his huge strike finds air. Elliott kicks Ray in the gut, doubling him over. He sets him up with the standing headscissor, lifts with his legs, and-

POWWWW

ONE!

TWO!

THR-NOOOO! PAXTON RAY GETS THE SHOULDER UP!

Both men’s chests are heaving – this is a lot of exertion, and some of the initial adrenaline might be wearing off.

If either man’s battle plan for ending this little beef of theirs was five minutes of punching being enough, well – we’re into the 13th minute, and neither man is giving in. Time to find out what they have in the reserves. Maybe like a really big punch.

Nick Stuart: That piledriver may have been the first offense that wasn’t a strike in this entire match.

Richard Parker: Next up will be a hurricanrana, I’m sure.

Both men are still on the mat. Elliott rolls over and gives a half-hearted forearm shiver to Ray’s liver.

Nick Stuart: …or more punching.

Richard Parker: Lots more punching.

Paxton returns the favor with a clubbing shot to Wade’s chest. Wade fires back, then Paxton, then Wade, then Paxton…with each punch, they are slowly rising from the ground to their knees to their feet.

BOO!

YEAH!

BOO!

YEAH!

BOO!

YEAH!

Wade blocks a right hook and goes for a sequence!

YEAH!

YEAH!

YEAH!

Paxton counters with a left!

BOOOOOOOO!

YEAH!

BOO!

BOO!

BOOOOOOOO!

Paxton winds up, spins – DISCUS ELBOW CONNECTS!

SMACKKKKKK!

…WADE ABSORBS IT AND STAYS ON HIS FEET! Paxton looks confused for a moment, before hitting the ropes, charging across, and hitting another HELLACIOUS discus elbow!

SMMMMMAACKKKKKKKK!

…Wade Elliott just takes a step the side, and with his hand, dusts off the spot on his sternum that just soaked up yet another huge strike. The biology of the human chest is betraying his attempts at no selling – we can all see that right now, the Bad Dog’s chest is quickly revealing a forearm-shaped purple bruise that really might need to be looked at later, or at least will require several coats of WarmCold to dull the pain.

Paxton looks at this display. Wade, his gaze steely and cool, his eyes not revealing even a hint of the pain shooting throughout his 52-year-old frame. Surely the old-timer is bluffing. He can’t take another one of those, can he?

Paxton shrugs before going full-hog charge into the ropes, bounding back as fast as the Bayou Butcher can run, spinning, throwing –

Wade goes low and grabs him! He pivots his hips, turns – a suplex attempt?! – Paxton throws some elbows into the side of Wade’s head, releasing him from the hold – THROWS THE ELBOW AGAIN – Wade wraps around Paxton’s waist and runs forward! Shoulder tackle into the corner! He begins peppering Paxton with jabs and jabs and rights and lefts! He’s fired up!

As the crowd cheers him on, Elliott looks to gain more leverage in his punches and steps onto the bottom ropes. Now the strikes are coming into the top of Paxton’s head, and he’s in trouble.

Wade then goes up to the middle ropes, and the punches keep raining and raining down…but then.

Paxton got tired of getting punched. HE is the puncher, after all. The punchinist. The Punch Daddy Deluxe.

And so he surges with as much of the gas in his tank as he can spare and lifts Wade off the ropes! He takes two steps forward – punches keep getting thrown down on him, he can’t hold it much longer – and then he SLAMS Elliott down with a powerbomb!

Nick Stuart: HUGE power from the Murgergator there!

Richard Parker: Is that, like, the second non-strike in this match? I’m telling you, we’re getting a Springboard 450 Splash tonight, just wait!

Wade winces a little, which for him is like anybody else’s screams of agony. Paxton has to shake the cobwebs out a bit, but soon he’s steadied himself back in the corner where he was chomping down a full plate of knuckle sandwiches moments ago. His eyes are fixed, and he’s measuring the ‘Bama Bruiser. As soon as he’s upright, even just a little bit…

WHAMMMMMM!

Nick Stuart: ONE DAY BLINDING STEW! That elbow might have broken Wade Elliott’s JAW!

Wade is badly dazed, but instinct compels him to throw a wild haymaker…it misses! Paxton uses that momentum to hurl Wade high into the air…

Nick Stuart: LAFAYETTE LULLABY!

Richard Parker: GO FOR THE TOP ROPE KID!

The Bayou Butcher ignores this request and falls across the Bad Dog’s chest! Elvis Nixon begins the count!

ONE!

TWO!

…

THREE!

DING DING DING!

“Fistfight” by the Ballroom Thieves blasts out through the arena speakers and Elvis Nixon raises Ray’s arm in victory.

Vince Howard: HERE is your winner…the Bayou Butcher! PAXTOOOOOON RAYYYYYYYYYYY!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: What a fight we just saw, partner!

Richard Parker: I can’t believe we didn’t even see, like, a suicide dive! Or a shooting star press!

Nick Stuart: …can’t you?

Before Paxton can exit the ring, Wade’s found his way to his feet. He grabs Paxton by the shoulder and spins him back around so they can look each other in the eye.

OHHHHHHHH!

It’s tense for a moment, and camera’s don’t pick up the words the two men are now exchanging. Wade seems to be leading the conversation, and before long, he nods and holds out his hand. Paxton’s not normally into this sort of thing, but he sees the hardened look in Wade Elliott’s eye. He’s not doing this lightly, and he doesn’t just do this for everyone. This isn’t Looper, it’s not about the younger guy killing off the older version of himself or some shit – this is real.

And real recognizes real.

Paxton takes Wade’s hand and they share a firm, if short, handshake. Paxton then steps out of the ring as Wade watches on. The Bad Dog touches his lip – yep, good amount of blood this time – and he almost cracks before reeling it in.

Then…

Paxton Ray leans against the ring apron outside the ring. That match took a lot out of him, and he’s interested in getting backstage to start the recovery process.

Suddenly, the arena is plunged into darkness.

Nick Stuart: It looks like Paxton’s night isn’t over yet! The man who’s been tormenting him is about to strike!

Richard Parker: Turn the lights back on so we can see the revenge!

Richard does not get his wish, but he does get a sudden jolt of color bars and static on the PRIMEview…and then, one more still image.

2022 Belmont Classic. Night Two.

Paxton Ray snarls and seethes at a fallen opponent–a young man screaming in pain while clutching at his knees. After two straight minutes of targeted assault, the young man would need immediate medical attention.

What he got was another three minutes.

This image is soon replaced by a video, putting the final pieces in place.

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/10/Mystery-Video.mp4

The lights turn back on. Paxton has taken a few steps toward the stage, ready for his self-proclaimed nemesis to appear.

Unfortunately, he has…right behind Paxton.

Nick Stuart: The man is behind Paxton! Turn around!

Richard Parker: Yeah, so you can get it right in the face!

Indeed, the man revealed as Sammy Broadway stands behind Paxton, and as the Bayou Butcher turns, he eats a spin kick to the face.

Some fans cheer, some fans boo, and Paxton crumples to the floor.

Sammy laughs over Paxton’s body, sending a few stomps for good measure. Then Sammy pulls Paxton to his feet.

Nick Stuart: Sammy Broadway, a man that Paxton injured brutally two years ago, is preying on him now! Paxton is worn out from this match, he doesn’t have much — whoa!

Richard Parker: Talk about a high note!

Paxton, upon being lifted up, delivered a left hand to the face of Sammy that was so hard, so direct, that Sammy’s Phantom mask shattered. Broadway stumbles back into the guardrail, and Paxton releases all of his frustration into him, tackling him against the rail.

From there it’s chaos — both men delivering punches as they spill to the ground. Each man takes advantage briefly only for the other to turn the tide and deliver their own flurry of punches. Tiny shards of porcelain draw blood from Sammy’s face, and Paxton’s hands.

Nick Stuart: This is getting intense, I think we need security out here!

But we don’t get security. Instead we get someone else. A streak of blue comes down the ramp, making a beeline for the brawl.

RRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!

Nick Stuart: IT’S NATE COLTON! NATE COLTON IS ON HIS WAY TO–

Richard Parker: To what? Who’s he here to help?

That question seems to get its answer when the New Diamond shoves his way into the brawl. He puts his back to Sammy Broadway, blocking him out while he tries to keep the Bayou Butcher at arms’ length.

The hope is that cooler heads will prevail, only there don’t seem to be any around.

Sammy Broadway: NO! NO! LET ME GO, DAMN YOU! LET ME HAVE MY REVENGE!

Paxton Ray: Colton? What are ya doin’?

Broadway keeps trying to swipe at Paxton around Nate. He’s got enough reach that he might get in a stray shot at some point, but it’s more likely that he’ll accidentally put an elbow into Colton’s head.

CRACK!

Like that.

Colton, suddenly red-faced, turns around and retaliates.

Nick Stuart: Look at that! Colton just shoved Sammy Broadway to the ground!

Richard Parker: Good! We’re here for a fight, and at this point I don’t care who’s involved!

Paxton Ray looks to push past the New Diamond and resume the attack. Nate barely gets an arm up to block him, while still keeping his focus on Broadway.

Nate Colton: Knock it off, Sammy! This has gone too far already!

Sammy Broadway springs back to his feet, ready to charge back into the fray…

Sammy Broadway: I WILL NOT BE DENIED!

…but a large pair of arms grabbing him from behind say otherwise.

Wade Elliott: That’s enough, kid.

The Blue Collar Brawler–still feeling the fight with Ray, but never one to shirk his duties–hoists Sammy Broadway into the air, despite the young man’s protests and thrashing. He throws Sammy to the ground and pins him down, leaning more on his security training than his wrestling instincts.

With one crisis averted, Nate Colton finally turns around, and sees another.

Paxton Ray…staring at him.

Confused, at first.

Paxton Ray: Wait…did ya help him? Were ya the bastard who let him in?

Nate Colton: What? No–

A shove.

Paxton Ray: I know your sister hates me. I thought ya were different.

The right thing for Nate Colton to do here is to deescalate the situation. And there’s probably a voice in Nate’s head, telling him to do just that.

Only the rest of Nate Colton isn’t listening.

So when Paxton shoves him again, Colton does not answer with the open hand.

He chooses the closed fist, right to Paxton’s jaw.

“OOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Richard Parker: All right! Now we’re talking!

Nick Stuart: Ray and Colton going at it! I don’t know if either man wanted that fight before, but they sure as hell want it now!

The two PRIME stars swing wildly at each other. Paxton is slowed by fatigue, and brawling is antithetical to Colton’s wrestling style, but the facts aren’t slowing either one of them down.

“RRAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!”

Nick Stuart: This is turning into chaos! We need to get security down here!

Richard Parker: Or, and hear me out for a second…we don’t?

The two men wrestle each other to the ground, just as a pack of Enemigos show up to stop the chaos.

Nick Stuart: Fans…I don’t even know how to describe what just happened. It could be a while before we figure all this out.

The final shot before we head backstage shows Colton and Ray wearing masks of fury, practically howling at each other while the Enemigos pull them apart. Just behind them, Wade Elliott and two more Enemigos drag away an enraged Sammy Broadway.

Sammy Broadway: YOU RUINED IT! YOU RUINED EVERYTHING! RELEASE ME, DAMN YOU!!!

Cut.

Nick Stuart: And up next, we have our first of three matches in the Brandon Youngblood, Max Kael, and FLAMBERGE… what do you call it? Tournament?

Richard Parker: I think the word you’re looking for is torment. Close though.

Nick Stuart: …sure.

We cut to Vince Howard, who is in the ring, ready to introduce our competitors for tonight.

Vince Howard: The following match is a thirty minute Iron Man match! The individual with the most pinfalls in these thirty minutes will be the winner. Introducing first…

“”J.O.E.L.” by JT Music blares out over the Lawlor Event Center as the lights dim. The stage fills with smoke, provided by the numerous PRIME fog machines, while red light strobes like flickers of lightning through it. Boos begin to well up as the crowd reacts to the arrival of the Lord-Commissar of the Red Army.

Nick Stuart: We’ve seen a very different Max Kael here tonight so far.

Richard Parker: WILHELM Kael, Stuart! How dare you dead-name the Lord-Commissar of the Red Army!

Nick Stuart: I apologize, Wilhelm Kael is a very different… kind of Kael than we’re used to. How’s that?

Richard Parker: Better, I won’t report you to him for that heresy cause we’re friends, Stuart.

A tall, dark figure lurks in the fog standing in the center of the stage. As the music hits the first beat drop, all the fog is sucked away to reveal Wilhelm Kael, glowering out at the hostile crowd. He’s in his Red Army gear though there seems to be considerably more black compared to the red and Soviet gold.

Nick Stuart: I’ll say this, he’s looking more physically fit than I think I’ve ever seen him, Richard.

Richard Parker: My sources inside the Red Army tell me since his tie at UltraViolence, Kael has doubled his training schedule and restructured his diet for maximum gains!

Folding his arms behind his back, Kael slowly makes his way toward the ring. He holds his head high, his chin pushed proudly forward. Pale, gray eyes scan his surroundings while a look of constant disgust is etched into his face. Despite being one of the “youngest” members of the roster, Wilhelm looks older somehow, the lines of his face more severe.

Richard Parker: You think Kael has picked up smoking?

Nick Stuart: Why do you ask?

Richard Parker: Oh, no reason. No reason.

Climbing up the ring steps, Wilhelm wipes the bottom of his boots off on the apron before stepping between the rooms. He gives Jimmy Turnbull a threatening look before stepping to the center of the ring. He folds his left hand behind his back while his right fist high.

Vince Howard: From Arkham, Massachusetts by way of Moscow, Russia.. He stands at Six-Foot-Four and weighs Two-Hundred-And-Fifty-Five pounds… the Lord-Commissar of the Red Army… WIIIIILHELM KAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAEL!

Wilhelm retreats to his corner and prepares for the match to begin.

Vince Howard: And his opponent…

The Arena darkens. The shift in ambiance has the fans rising to their feet. And then, a declarative statement.

THEY

ARE NO LONGER

YOUR PEOPLE

TO SAVE

The roar that follows is primal. Unrelenting. Bloodsport (World Domination) by HEALTH surges through the arena, and as it does, the ramp and the video wall underneath the PRIMEView glow a stark red before turning black, the Tower of Babel logo cutting through the dark, prominent and surging. The PRIMEView comes alive with the PRIMETron of Brandon Youngblood. Across it is a variable who’s who in the sport of professional wrestling, countless who have walked the hallowed halls of PRIME, and in them, a staggering constant; they all wilt before raw, unbridled physicality and domination. Suplexes. Strikes. Spinebusters. The highlight reels of catching and destroying would be challengers. The championships won. The accolades minted.

Sets of red and white laser lights from on high and below cut through the air, and then, The Dream Killer arrives. Youngblood is in no hurry, stalking his way onto the ramp, eyes forward and focused. His expression is stoic. Stone. Reaching the point before the descent, he stops, surveying the crowd at his flank. His arms fold across his chest, his head high up and his chin pointing forward.

From both sides, the loud bang and blinding white of pyro explodes in powerful bursts.

As the smoke bellows, he slowly paces forward, the arena lights now back on in full. Once to the arena floor, he stops, staring at Kael in the ring. After a few tense moments, he walks to the steps, making his way up them, his dominion whole on the ring apron. At the halfway point, he steps between the ropes, taking the center of the ring.

Vince Howard: Hailing from Bandera, Texas by way of Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada… weighing in at two-hundred sixty pounds… he is…THE TOOOOOOOOWER! OOOOOOOF! BAAAAAAAAAAAABEL! BRAAAAAAAANDON! YOUNGBLOOOOOOOOOD!

Impossible to read is Youngblood as he holds court, and as he glowers at Kael, his head tilts to its side.

Nick Stuart: There is no love lost beween these two men.

Richard Parker: That’s putting it mildly. I believe if Youngblood ripped Kael’s arms off and beat him with it, he’d gladly take the prison sentence.

Nick Stuart: That is probably more accurate.

Jimmy Turnbull gives his final set of instructions to both men before signaling for the start of the match.

DING DING

Both men move cautiously around each other, circling one another. Youngblood stares at Kael, burning a hole through him as they circle one another. Youngblood immediately closes the gap between them and puts Kael into a collar-and-elbow tie-up. The two jockey for position before Youngblood pushes Kael into the ropes. Turnbull orders for an immediately break, but Youngblood is locked into the battle and Turnbull has to put his body in between Kael and Youngblood. As he separates the two men and moves around Youngblood, Kael blasts him with a kick to the groin as hard as he can muster.

Richard Parker: GIVE ME YOUR BONES!

Nick Stuart: No thank you.

Richard Parker: No, the move, you ding dong. Kael blasted Youngblood straight in the you-know-what and Turnbull didn’t even see it. Genius!

Nick Stuart: Turnbull’s back was to Kael and that gave Kael the opening he was looking for.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

With Youngblood dropping to one knee, Kael yanks Youngblood up to his feet and puts him into the Tiger Driver ‘91, driving Youngblood’s body violently into the mat with brutal force. The crowd stands, shocked and stunned, as Kael goes for the cover on Youngblood and Turnbull begins his count, none the wiser to the cheating methods of Max Kael!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING

Vince Howard: The winner of the first fall… MAX! KAEL!

MAX KAEL – 1 / BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD – 0

Reeling from the first loss, Youngblood struggles to his feet.

Nick Stuart: I can’t believe what we just saw!

Richard Parker: This is Max Kael through and through. He thinks three steps ahead every single match and there are few who can match him in terms of intelligence and wit.

Nick Stuart: Well, he’s definitely knocked Youngblood off his game and he looks to be sizing up to take advantage of it.

Richard Parker: Advantage is his middle name. Or nickname. It’s really hard to keep track. Have you seen all these press releases he sends out? Give me a minute and I’ll figure it out.

Kael capitalizes on the staggered Youngblood, not missing a beat as he uncorks a trio to knife-edge chops to Youngblood, trapping him in the corner.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

Kael shows no mercy as he continues his assault, smelling blood in the water. Turnbull immediately begins counting, yelling at Kael to cease his attack, but Kael is unrelenting. As Turnbull gets to a four count, Kael breaks clean, but as Youngblood stumbles forward, determined to get offense of his own in, Kael connects with an Arkkham Uppercut. The Diamond staggers from the shot, but refuses to go down. Instead, he launches himself forward and catches Kael with a desperate clothesline that sends both men crashing to the mat.

Richard Parker: Talk about a desperate move! Kael has completely knocked Youngblood from his gameplan and Youngblood is just flailing for anything right now.

Nick Stuart: I think that clothesline was well timed, actually. It was the move that Youngblood needed in the moment and gives him a moment to catch his breathe.

Richard Parker: Sure, Nick. Sure.

Nick Stuart: Look, you have your perspective and I have —

Richard Parker: No one cares.

Kael immediately rolls under the bottom rope, creating a bit of space, but Youngblood shakes the cobwebs loose and follows after him. As Youngblood pursues him, Kael spins around and blasts the Tower of Babel in the face with a boot that stuns him. Max then rams Youngblood back-first into the ring post before delivering a series of elbows, each one connecting with the base of Youngblood’s neck. Turnbull begins a count once again, ordering both men into the ring. After a few seconds, Kael rolls Youngblood into the ring, who begins to move away from Kael, feeling the impact on his neck and upper back.

Max maintains his advantage though as he slams his boot repeatedly into the back of Youngblood’s skull before dragging him to his feet and connecting with a short-arm clothesline. Brandon’s torso bounces off the canvas — echoing throughout the arena. Max drags Youngblood to his feet once again and whips him into the ropes only for Youngblood to connect with a running shoulder block. Kael drops to the mat and The Diamond reaches down to drag Max to his feet. Kael quickly locks in the Arkham Death Grip, the intensity in his eyes growing as he looks at Youngblood. Turnbull immediately checks on Youngblood, who is struggling.

Nick Stuart: Kael has been absolutely relentless to start this battle off. Youngblood is simply trying to survive right now.

Richard Parker: We are minutes into the match and we might be see Youngblood down 2-0 and with a nearly impossible climb back considering we only have thirty minutes for this match.

Nick Stuart: Never count Youngblood out.

Richard Parker: Says the man who wears his Youngblood shirt every chance he gets.

Turnbull checks on Youngblood, who is trying to fight through the pain, but is fading from the pressure being applied from the Tongan Death Grip. As Youngblood’s body slackens, Turnbull lifts Youngblood’s arm in the air and watches as it falls. Kael, fuel added from the sight of Youngblood fading on him, applies more pressure and watches as Youngblood’s arm drops for a second time. Turnbull go for it a third time, but Youngblood powers up and Kael drapes his body across Youngblood’s back in the process. Brandon drives his boots into the canvas and charges backwards and drives Kael into the corner, ramming him into the turnbuckles. Pain shoots across the face of Kael, but he quickly retaliates with a rake across the eyes followed by a series of stiff elbow strikes to the temple.

Kael refuses to relent, even as Youngblood stumbles out of the corner. He quickly locks in the Trotsky Choke — targeting The Diamond’s vulnerable neck — before pelting him with a series of precise elbow strikes to the face and skull of the former Universal Champion. Youngblood drops to his knees, unable to truly free himself of Kael. Turnbull immediately begins to check on Youngblood before raising his arm and watches as it drops. Jimmy does this two more times before signaling for the bell.

DING

Vince Howard: The winner of the second fall… MAX! KAEL!

MAX KAEL – 2 / BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD – 0

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: This… I don’t think anyone saw this coming.

Richard Parker: Oh, definitely not. Not if you’re a Youngblood fan that is blinded to the other talent that is in PRIME.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think that’s the case.

Richard Parker: Kael is the future, get in line.

Nick Stuart: Is he threatening you?

Richard Parker: Shhh.

Turnbull orders Kael away, allowing Youngblood a moment to gather himself. Kael moves to the opposite corner and crouches, waiting for his chance to pounce. There is an intensity from Kael that’s always been there, but seems to be front and center tonight. Meanwhile, Youngblood starts to sit up, the blood coursing through his veins once again. He looks at Turnbull, who wants to ensure Youngblood is able to continue. Brandon begins to get to his feet, taking a moment to balance himself using the ropes. Turnbull tells Youngblood to take another moment, but Brandon quickly pushes Turnbull out of the way before lifting a rushing-towards-him Kael into the air and spikes him into the canvas with a spinebuster that shakes the ring and sends a cheer through the audience.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Youngblood tries to capitalize on the moment, but instead rolls onto his back, still feeling the effects of the assault he’s taken on this entire match. With his chest heaving, Brandon can feel the energy from the audience, but also the toll his body has been through. Meanwhile, Kael rolls to his knees, with a sadistic grin plastered across his face — obviously pleased with how things are turning in spite of the spinebuster he just took.

Richard Parker: Pin him, Max! You could probably get a third fall just like that!

Nick Stuart: I don’t think that would work.

Richard Parker: Oh, what do you know?

Nick Stuart: I know that Youngblood is starting to get to his feet.

Richard Parker: Well, fine.

Youngblood grabs the charging Kael, lifts him off his meet and drives him into the mat again. Both men are quick to their feet, Kael liking the challenge that Youngblood is now putting up, but Youngblood slips behind him and takes Kael’s legs out from under him, connecting with another takedown. Kael fights his way back to his feet only for Youngblood to connect with a hip toss. As Kael fights his way to his feet again, Youngblood drives his knee into Kael’s midsection before connecting with a butterfly suplex. Brandon, feeling a bit of rhythm building up follows it up with a punishing leg ride. Max though slams his thumb into the eye of Youngblood, halting his momentum while Turnbull gets onto him about the illegal tactic.

Brandon moves away from Kael, but connects with a snap suplex after Kael goes for a clothesline, but misses. Youngblood drags Max to his feet and slams him back onto the canvas with another snap suplex. Kael tries to counter with a Monkey’s Paw, but Youngblood technique is unparalleled as he transitions into a waistlock before hoisting him into the air and connecting with a German Suplex that launches Kael across the ring.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: And Youngblood starting to take control of this match as he is now stalking Kael, ready to put him through more punishment.

Richard Parker: You get excited about thirty seconds of action? I pity your poor wife.

Nick Stuart: Leave my wife out of this unless you want me to start talking about your ex-wives.

Richard Parker: Take your pick, each is crazier than the last.

The Diamond pounces on Kael, locking him into a single leg Boston Crab with a neck lock. Positioned in the center of the ring, Kael furiously fights against Youngblood’s fingers, hoping to get free of his grip, but it is iron-tight. Turnbull checks on Kael, who refuses to submit, and instead starts crawling across the ring. Youngblood though is a massive body that just shifts his weight to put that thought to rest. Kael despearately claws at the mat, but realizes his effort is futile before tapping out at the eight minute mark.

DING

Vince Howard: The winner of the third fall… BRANDON! YOUNGBLOOD!

MAX KAEL – 2 / BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD – 1

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Richard Parker: Clearly Jimmy Turnbull is a closeted Youngblood fan.

Nick Stuart: Kael tapped out!

Richard Parker: I don’t think that’s what happened.

Nick Stuart: It is!

Richard Parker: Sure, Nick. Sure.

Kael wastes no time getting to his feet and charges at Youngblood — angry about picking up his first loss in the miatch. Youngblood is ready for him though as he connects with a perfectly timed backdrop suplex, sending Kael crashing to the mat. Youngblood follows this up with a leg ride, grinding his elbow into Kael’s lower back while maintaining his position and control.

YOUNG-BLOOD! YOUNG-BLOOD! YOUNG-BLOOD!

WIth the fans firmly behind him, Youngblood continues to try and contain the Commisar of the Red Army. Kael reaches up though and connects with an eye rake – not his first of the match — which earns the admonishment from Turnbull. Kael brushes him off, focusing instead on continuing his assault on Youngblood as he connects with a Basilisk Eyes into the turnbuckle. Youngblood collides hard and is stunned, giving Kael the opening to lock in another Arkham Death Grip. Brandon quickly powers to his feet though — Kael still attached — which the Commisar transitions into a sleeper hold, using his body weight to drag The Diamond down to the canvas. Turnbulls checks on Youngblood as the former Universal Champion seems to be fading again.

Nick Stuart: Youngblood is in a precarious position! Could he go down again?

Richard Parker: Count on it. I’m telling you, you could’ve put money on a Kael victory in Vegas tonight.

Nick Stuart: …did you?

Richard Parker: Do what?

Nick Stuart: You know it’s against company policy to bet on matches, right?

Richard Parker: Is it? I mean, yeah, of course… what page of the handbook is it on?

Youngblood summons his strength as his arm threatens to drop for a third time. Brandon rises to his feet and falls backwards onto Kael, crushing him under the substantial weight of the Diamond. Brandon digs his knuckles into the canvas to pish himself up to his feet and is met with a Red Right Roaring Elbow from the Commisar of the Red Army. The crack of Kael’s elbow across Youngblood’s jaw echoes throughout the arena, but Youngblood somehow manages to stay standing. Kael inches towards Youngblood and is met with a trio of knee strikes to the midsection that land deep into Kael’s bread basket.

Even with the wind knocked out of him, Kael fires off a right, knowing how important it is to stay in the match, but Youngblood retaliates with one of his own that nearly shakes his fillings free. Kael — out of nowhere — connects with a Brow Beater, connecting with a series of headbutts that staggers Youngblood where he stands. Brandon clears the cobwebs quickly and fires off successive clubbing forarm strikes — each shot connecting and sending him stumbling backwards. Youngblood closes the gap and continues with strike after strike until Kael ducks underneath one, spins Youngblood towards him and uses that momentum to connect with a Blue Thunder Bomb. Kael quickly rolls through and goes for the cover as Turnbull begins counting.

ONE!

TWO!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: And Kael nearly picked up his third pinfall of this thirty minute Iron Man match!

Richard Parker: Hasn’t it been thirty minutes yet? I feel like I’ve been watching Turnbull trying to figure out how to count for thirty-seven minutes now.

Nick Stuart: That was a legit count.

Richard Parker: Only you and Ray Charles think that and Ray Charles has been dead for twenty years.

Nick Stuart: Not him being blind joke?

Richard Parker: Ray Charles was blind?!

With frustration etched into his face, Kael yanks himself to his feet and immediately begins climbing to the top rope, with Youngblood in tow. Youngblood though comes to his senses and drives his fist into Kael’s ribcage as they’re standing on the turnbuckles, Youngblood on the second and Kael on the top. They both trade fists back and forth with one another before Kael decides to go for broke and headbutts Youngblood

CRACK!

The sound reveberates throughout the arena and you can see both men are feeling the effects of it. Kael connects with a second one for good measure — and doesn’t feel great about his choice that time. Still, he grabs at Youngblood and hoists him up before connecting with a Super WMD! Youngblood’s body is splayed across the canvas, a result of his neck being driven into the canvas. Max crawls over and makes the cover.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING

Vince Howard: The winner of the fourth fall… MAX! KAEL!

MAX KAEL – 3 / BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD – 1

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: BOOYAH! BOOYASHAKA!

Nick Stuart: …don’t.

Richard Parker: I will channel the spirit of Reed Young! I feel him in my veins.

Nick Stuart: I need my dart gun. Meanwhile, Kael picks up a third pinfall and has a two-fall advantage! You get the feeling he’s putting it all on the line here tonight.

Youngblood struggles back to his feet, shaking the cobwebs free and grabbing at his neck and skull after the dangerous top rope Tiger Driver he took. Kael quickly closes the gap and targets his neck with elbow after elbow. Youngblood is staggered by the shots, stumbling backwards and trying to fire off a jab or two of his own, but Kael maintains his pressure before whipping Youngblood into the ropes and hoists him into the air and drops him throat first across the top rope! Youngblood flails, grabbing ath is throat, and Kael sees an opening as he presses the back of Youngblood’s neck and applies pressure to his throat with the top rope.

Turnbull orders Kael to break the hold while Kael argues back at him that he’s not doing anything. At the four count, Kael breaks the hold and tosses Youngblood to the outside. Turnbull continues to explain the rules to him and Kael steps away from the ropes as Turnbull follows after him, still talking to Kael about breaking the rules.

Richard Parker: What are you doing Turnbull? He didn’t do anything wrong!

Nick Stuart: I think choking someone out is against the rules.

Richard Parker: I think Youngblood enjoyed it. You know he’s into that BDSM.

Nick Stuart: No, I don’t think he is — wait, who the hell just slipped out of the crowd.

While Turnbull is berating Kael for breaking the rules, a shrouded figure hops the barricade and begins assaulting Youngblood with a series of strikes before connecting with a Judo Toss. The hood from the hoodie the man is wearing falls as he does and it is revealed to be FLAMBERGE. The Neck Collector begins stomping away at Youngblood before reaching into his jacket and pulling out a pair of brass knucks and slams them across the face of Youngblood, dazing the former Universal Champion. FLAMBERGE drills him a few more times with the knucks before getting to his feet and disappearing into the crowd once again.

Nick Stuart: What a heinous attack!

Richard Parker: I would call that gamemanship. FLAMBERGE understands that by taking Youngblood out and limiting his pinfalls here tonight that it gives him a greater chance on 59 + 60. Genius move!

Nick Stuart: You would think that.

Kael, noticing FLAMBERGE disappearing and Youngblood laid out on the canvas floor, brushes past Turnbull and slips out of the ring. He grabs Youngblood, rolling the barely conscious Youngblood back into the ring before slipping in behind him. He grabs Youngblood by the wrist and drags him to his feet before connecting with the Mperial Star Destroyer! He then pins Youngblood and Turnbull begins his count.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING!

Vince Howard: The winner of the fifth fall… MAX! KAEL!

MAX KAEL – 4 / BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD – 1

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: And the fans making it clear their dissatisfaction for Youngblood being screwed!

Richard Parker: Look, this is what happens when you paint a giant bullseye on your chest and call yourself the Diamond. People are going to take you out and bring their best game each match. Kael just has his number.

Nick Stuart: FLAMBERGE was the primary reason for that!

Richard Parker: Oh yeah, that.

With Youngblood barely moving, the medical staff come over and check on him. Kael looks over at Youngblood and brushes him off before walking around the ring and yelling back at the fans.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Kael stretches his arms out and welcomes the jeers from the crowd and prances for a moment before Turnbull tells him to knock it off. Kael though seems unconcerned — and a bit confident — considering his three pinfall lead.

The medical staff try to take Youngblood out of the ring, but the Diamond brushes them off, pushing his way to his feet using the ropes before snapping around and turning to look at Kael. There is a certain amount of intensity in his eyes — possibly from Kael being a bit too confident, FLAMBERGE attacking him, or being down three falls. You could probably put money on all of them and they would all be right. Kael, noticing Youngblood is back on his feet charges at him and is met with a ring-shaking spinebuster!

Nick Stuart: And just like that, Youngblood has arrived.

Richard Parker: I think he’s been here the entire time. We’ve been watching him for fifteen minutes now.

Nick Stuart: Not this Youngblood. This is the Youngblood that could rip Kael from limb to limb.

Richard Parker: Yeah and Kael would probably re-attach them to his body himself.

With something primal awaken inside of him, Youngblood begins driving his knee into the body of Kael — repeatedly. Kael tries to cover up or create space, but to no avail. Brandon wants to break something inside of Max and could you blame him? Cheers from the crowd only fuel him, ecstatic to see Youngblood’s legendary fighting spirit appearing ready to go. Kael, getting to his knees as Youngblood has given im a bit of space, reaches into his pockets and tries for the Pocket Sand trick, but Youngblood is ready for it and covers his eyes!

Youngblood then spins behind Kael and connects with a half nelson suplex that results in Kael’s body bouncing off the canvas! Youngblood immediately locks in a leg ride and Kael struggles to get away from the Diamond. Brandon though drives his elbow into the lower back of the Commisar, each elbow strike precise and exacting as much damage as possible. Brandon breaks the hold and yanks Kael to his feet before connecting with a butterfly suplex!

Nick Stuart: I think we’ve entered a suplex party! Because Youngblood just connected with a belly-to-bell suplex!

Richard Parker: And now a Hatch Suplex.

Nick Stuart: Gutwrench Suplex.

Richard Parker: Release Fisherman Suplex.

Nick Stuart: Front Chancery Suplex.

Richard Parker: Suplex Slam.

Nick Stuart: Teardrop Suplex.

Richard Parker: Gutwrench Suplex.

Nick Stuart: Nah, he did that one. Northern LIghts Suplex.

Richard Parker: Make. It. Stop.

Kael, nearly out on his feet, throws a desperation Arkham Uppercut, but Youngblood catches it mid-move and transitions into the Diamondpless. The head-driving German Suplex connects perfectly as Kael is laid out on the mat. Youngblood hooks a leg as Turnbull begins his count.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING!

Vince Howard: The winner of the sixth fall… BRANDON! YOUNGBLOOD!

MAX KAEL – 4 / BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD – 2

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Richard Parker: Clearly a fast count.

Nick Stuart: Clearly you don’t know how to count.

Richard Parker: What?! What are you talking about?! I’ll pull my toes out and count for you right now.

Nick Stuart: Anyways, Youngblood starting to show some life as we have hit the twenty minute mark in this match, but he’s got a long up hill climb to go.

Richard Parker: Too large a hill for a man of Youngblood’s stature. He’ll pop a lung and fall down the rest of the way.

Energy and adrenaline coursing through his veins — with the crowd chanting his name in the background — Youngblood feels like he’s gotten a new lease on life. He makes his way to his feet, shakes out his limbs, cracks his neck, and lays eyes upon the Commisar of the Red Army before closing the gap in a hurry and yanks him to his feet. Kael, dazed and confused, fires off a right, but it misses completely and Youngblood lifts him into the air and tosses him onto the mat with a fireman’s carry slam. Kael sits up, pain radiating across every inch of his body, and pushes himself up to his feet before launching himself forward with an attempted clothesline. Youngblood sees it coming and slips underneath the arm of Kael before putthing him into a waist lock.

Kael struggles — mightily — against the mammoth arms of the Diamond, but is unable to break free before Youngblood lifts him into the air and drives his body into the canvas with a German Suplex. Brandon locks his fingers tightly and uses his prodigous strength to roll through and drag Kael back to his feet before connecting with a second German Suplex. Kael looks like he’s used all of his lives and then some while Youngblood drags his body back to a vertical base before yanking him once again into air and slamming him into the canvas with a third German Suplex. The successive nature has taken a lot of wind out of Kael’s sails as he lies there on the canvas, wondering which city he’s in.

Nick Stuart: Youngblood is pouring it on and destroying Kael’s body in the process.

Richard Parker: That’s fine, he’ll just get a new one.

Nick Stuart: You have to wonder how much Youngblood has left in the tank as well. He took a beating earlier in this match and is now having to find additional energy to try and catch up on Kael here.

Richard Parker: Turnbull — that moron — is checking on Kael and Youngblood. Just give Kael another victory, Turnbull! It’s fine!

Nick Stuart: He’s clearly checking on both men, ensuring they can continue as the intensity of this match ratchets up.

Youngblood drags his body off the mat and begins the process of doing the same with Kael. Max — desperate and with his back up against the wall — claws at the eyes of Youngblood and follows that up with a Roaring Hellbow. Youngblood though ducks it and with Kael disoriented, connects with another butterfly suplex that leaves Kael looking up at the ceiling. Youngblood locks into a rolling kneebar and Kael groans with pain as he reaches out, trying to get his hands on Brandon, but the pain is immense as he feels tendons and sinew pulling and grating against one another. Kael closes his eyes, grits his teeth, and slams his free foot into the face of Youngblood, creating enough force to stop the Diamond from ripping his leg off and beating him with it.

Desperation continues to pour off of Kael as he stumbles back to his feet and goes for a Kaelsalvania Burning only for Youngblood to deftly avoid it before wrapping his arms around the Commisar. He lifts him into the air and drills him into the mat with a Karelin Lift, making sure he drives as much of Kael’s head and neck into the mat — and through it if he could. Youngblood explodes back to his feet and roars out at the crowd, who greet him with approval.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Richard Parker: Show off.

Nick Stuart: Youngblood is looking like a man with a refreshed sense of self right now as he hones in on getting his third victory over Kael.

Richard Parker: Not going to happen. We’re twenty-three minutes or so into this match, he’s running out of time and we’re all going to laugh at the sad man when Kael walks out of here with more victories than he does.

Nick Stuart: I’m not willing to count Youngblood out quite yet.

Youngblood immediately locks in a heel hook submission and Kael cries out in pain as Youngblood wrenches as much as he can while Turnbull checks on Kael. Stuck in the center of the ring, Kael realizes this is quickly a losing proposition and immediately slams his hand into the mat repeatedly, not wanting to suffer further damage that could risk him losing this match completely.

DING!

Vince Howard: The winner of the seventh fall… BRANDON! YOUNGBLOOD!

MAX KAEL – 4 / BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD – 3

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: And Youngblood continues to close that gap!

Richard Parker: And yet, he will fall mightily short when it is all said and done.

As Youngblood gets to his feet and takes a moment to catch his breath, Kael views this as an opportunity as he’s seen his lead shrink and the advantage that he had is no longer there. Max immediately rushes at Youngblood and connects with a series of clubbing forearms and follows that up with a trio of vicious headbutts that staggers the Former Universal Champion. WIth the Brow Beaters putting Youngblood on his heels, he barely manages to block the final headbutt — but he does — and he retaliates with a clubbing forearm strike that sends both men crashing to the mat.

Turnbull checks on both men as they push through the pain and exhaustion, with Kael connecting with a Red Right Roaring Elbow that lands flush on Youngblood’s jaw. Brandon though fires off a knee strike that catches Kael in the chest and both men stand there, dazed and teetering, but neither refuses to go down. Kael fires off a series of right fists that stun the former Universal Champion and Kael goes for his Blue Thunder Bomb, but Youngblood counters with a Northern Lights Suplex!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Richard Parker: Can someone shut these fans up?!

Nick Stuart: I don’t think that’s going to happen anytime soon. Youngblood has given life to these fans and in all honesty, both of these competitors are laying it all out on the line here!

Richard Parker: Do you think Kael could stab Youngblood and put us out of our misery?

Nick Stuart: I think if he could have, he would have already done it.

Richard Parker: Fair enough.

Youngblood reaches down and drags Kael off the mat only to be met with a right hand to the stomach from the Commisar. Before Brandon can reach, Kael locks in the Mandible Claw. The pressure increases as Youngblood fights against the hold and he drops to one knee in the process. Turnbull checks on Youngblood, who isn’t ready to give up though — knowing if he does that it could be the end of the match for him no matter what else happens. Kael looks down at Youngblood, using the S.E.M.B. to his advantage, and is surprised when Youngblood grabs his wrist. Brandon then charges forward and drives Kael back first into the nearby turnbuckle — applying force against Kael’s arm to ensure his fingers don’t drive into the back of his throat.

Youngblood uses the ropes to keep himself up, trying to get the MEAT?! like taste from Kael’s fingers from his mouth. Kael immediately launches himself forward and connects with a clothesline that sends both men over the top rope and crashing to the outside!

Nick Stuart: These two men are refusing to give an inch and exhaustion be damned, they’re fighting through it.

Richard Parker: How would you like the taste of Max Kael’s fingers in your mouth?

Nick Stuart: I wouldn’t, thank you very much.

Richard Parker: I’m sure he’ll do it and film it for his OM.

Nick Stuart: His OM?

Richard Parker: His OnlyMax.

The two men use the timekeeper’s table to help themselves back to their feet and Kael immediately slams his boot into Youngblood’s midsection. With the former Universal Champion doubled over, Max lifts him up and connects with the Tiger Driver ‘91, driving Youngblood forward and crashing through the barricade in the process. Both men lay in a pile of heap after the Weapon of Max Destruction while Turnbull begins to count.

ONE!

TWO!

Richard Parker: Ah Ah Ah.

Nick Stuart: What are you doing?

Richard Parker: The Count.

Nick Stuart: …what?!

Richard Parker: Don’t judge me.

FOUR!

Slowly, both men start to move, realizing a double countout is coming if they don’t. Kael rolls away from Youngblood and tries to make sense of where he’s at.

FIVE!

Youngblood grabs the still-standing portions of the barricade to help him move, though the thought of just taking a quick nap — ala Bobby Dean — seems like a great idea right now.

SIX!

Kael finds himself crawling across the floor of the arena, which he should be thankful there’s protective flooring to keep him away from the weird stains that are under there. We don’t know where they came from.

SEVEN!

Youngblood stumbles through the barricade remains as if he had a drunken bender and didn’t realize that it was his body and choices that caused the mess in the first place.

EIGHT!

Kael grabs the bottom rope and wonders if he has any MEAT?! in the back.

NINE!

Youngblood begins to roll in and wonders what the hell is in MEAT?!

TE— NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: And both men make it back in the ring!

Richard Parker: I don’t think Youngblood did! Disqualify him!

Nick Stuart: No.

Richard Parker: Vince, disqualify him.

Vince Howard: Fuck off, Richard.

Nick Stuart: Well, I guess that’s why we don’t let Vince do more than announcing.

Both men lay on the canvas of the ring, chests heaving, when Vince Howard stands up.

Vince Howard: There are three minutes remaining.

Kael fights back to his feet and stomps the heel of his boot into the back of Youngblood’s skull, determined to keep him down. He drags Brandon to the nearby corner and begins to drag him up to the top rope, but Youngblood halts him in his tracks with a stiff shot to the kidneys that nearly makes Kael pass out from the pain. The Diamond grabs Kael and puts him onto this back before connecting with a Samoan Drop off the middle turnbuckle!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Youngblood sits up and as he does, Kael connects with his Arkham Death Grip, squeezing with everything he’s got. Brandon groans in pain, his body wracked with pain and his face turns red as the pressure increases. Youngblood looks out at the crowd — everyone on their feet, cheering and willing him on — and he fights through the pain to his feet. Kael follows behind him and continues to apply the pressure. Brandon grimaces but grabs Kael before connecting with a snap suplex to break the hold! Both men are laid out in the center of the ring, chests heaving.

Richard Parker: There’s only about ninety seconds left! Youngblood is going to lose this!

Nick Stuart: Ninety seconds is a long time. At least, for you it is.

The fans are watching the clock with bated breath as both men push through the pain — Youngblood knowing he’s up against the clock. As the fans start counting down from sixty, Kael goes for his Mperial Star Destroyer, wrapping his arms around Youngblood only for the Diamond to connect with a headbutt that stuns the Commisar. Youngblood then hoists Kael up and connects with a Diamondplex, bridging it into a pinfall attempt as Turnbull begins his count while the clock continues to wind down.

ONE!

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

TWO!

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

THREE!

DING!

Vince Howard: The winner of the eight fall… BRANDON! YOUNGBLOOD!

MAX KAEL – 4 / BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD – 4

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Richard Parker: ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!

Nick Stuart: And there’s forty-five seconds left. Are we going to end in a tie?!

Richard Parker: I’m going to kill Youngblood.

Nick Stuart: I would pay money to see that.

Richard Parker: Fair. I’m going to kill Turnbull!

Kael rolls away, disbelief on his face while Brandon gets back to his feet and is ready to crush Kael. He yanks him off the mat as the fans continue to count — thirty seconds left. He hoists Kael up and Max goes for the Pocket Sand, but Youngblood manages to block it. Kael then goes for a wild clothesline, but Youngblood ducks underneath it and spins Kael around.

Twenty seconds left.

He puts Kael into a waist lock and connects with a German Suplex, driving Kael hard into the mat.

Fifteen seconds left.

Nick Stuart: And a second German Suplex! I have no idea how Youngblood is dragging Kael up!

Richard Parker: HGH, Nick. HGH.

Ten seconds left.

Third German Suplex.

Bridging.

Turnbull begins his fount.

Five seconds left

ONE!

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

Four seconds left

TWO!

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

Three seconds left.

THREE!

Two seconds left.

One second left.

DING DING DING!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: HE’S DONE IT!

Richard Parker: NO! TIME RAN OUT!

Vince knows what happened though and stands.

Vince Howard: Your winner… by a five to four fall count… BRANDON! YOUNGBLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD!

Richard Parker: No… no….

Kael seems to match this as he lies on his stomach, nearly out of it while Youngblood is lying next to him trying to get some energy back in his body. Medical staff immediately rush in to check both men.

Nick Stuart: And this is only the first of these three Iron Man matches… and Youngblood and FLAMBERGE are up next!

Richard Parker: Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy

Nick Stuart: With Richard crying, let’s head to a commercial break!

We cut to commercial.

Backstage, immediately following the chaotic attack after the opening match of the Colossus Round Robin Challenge.

The perpetrator is hurrying along in what could best be described as a significant “huff”. He’s also muttering to himself, but we’re too far away to hear it. It’s also possible we wouldn’t understand it even if we were closer, as it’s likely that FLAMBERGE is using his native French. He’s a few steps past agitated.

The Bearded Dragon is taking sudden turns down corridors and generally seems to be avoiding anyone who might try stopping him. He’s just got to get out of here, so badly. He’s being steered by forces he cannot comprehend, forces whose outlines we can only vaguely see.

The cameraman who’s been following him picks up the pace, he doesn’t want to lose sight on FLAMBO. Maybe he can catch up, maybe he can even get his attention – chasing the brass ring doesn’t just fall upon the wrestlers, it’s every level of employee within PRIME, and maybe getting a scoop can put this cameraman on the map…maybe even on the radar of the higher-ups. Imagine, Lindsay Troy, asking about the cameraman who got the FLAMBO scoop after his second attack in two weeks to his opponents in the Round Robin…that’s big.

So he hustles. And he’s gaining ground. We start to hear snippets from FLAMBERGE.

FLAMBERGE: “…neck, neck…neck, collect…these two…ces fils de pute…

Soon, we are following signs to the parking lot. Not even stopping by the Glabana, after all the hours the Glueminati spent woppshorking the dang thing…unheard of. Well, actually, that’s not true. Things have gotten spicy with FLAMBO in PRIME parking lots many a time, though there is no longer a FLAMBOrghini to dump thousands and thousands of pennies (and one nickel) into anymore.

Maybe the scoop is still scoopable. We hear a voice that sounds nearby calling out – the voice of the cameraman.

Cameraman: FLAMBERGE! FLAMBERGE! Can we get a-

The Frenchman stops and turns on his heel. We’d been looking at the back of him before, and now we see his truly wild face. His eyes are bugged out, his eyebrows are in a powerful arch, his tightly-lined up beard paired with the eyes sending real “Manic Prince of Glue” energy. He stops the cameraman mid-thought with the raise of a finger.

FLAMBERGE: …………….I am owed two necks. I am taking them before Colossus. Keep following me, and yours could be the bonus third.

He breathes weirdly. The camera’s perspective seems to take a solid two steps back. And after a few tense moments, FLAMBO turns and leaves. We don’t get to see where he goes.

We leave for hopefully more peaceful environs.

The antiseptic smell hits Rose before she finishes pushing open the doors leading to the Lawlor Events Center training room. She pauses at the threshold, the harsh fluorescent light revealing what’s left of KING—her family—laid out before her like casualties of war.

Cory Kensington, always so polished, so perfect, now lies still.. His face is a roadmap of violence – bruises darkening his jaw, dried blood still crusted at his temple. Each labored breath seems to cost him.

Beside him, Jamaal Ingram’s unnatural silence speaks volumes. The man who never shuts up, who fills every room with energy and laughter, doesn’t make a sound as medical staff work around him.

David Noble occupies the far bed, drifting in and out of consciousness. Bandages circle his midsection like a prizefighter’s belt, an ice pack balanced on his swollen knee. Even beaten down, there’s something unbreakable about him – the same fire that’s made him KING’s backbone.

Rose’s fingers curl into fists at her sides. The rage rises in her chest like a tide, threatening to spill over. She forces herself to breathe—one slow inhale, then another, then a third. Each exhale carries away a fraction of her fury, banking it for later when it can be better used.

The chair legs whisper against the floor as she pulls it between the beds. She finds David’s hand and wraps her fingers around it. A promise, unspoken but binding: This isn’t over.

The camera cuts to a steel gray door with the name “Don Winters” scrawled on a piece of masking tape. The cameraman slowly nudges it open to reveal the Five Star Champion prostrate on the floor in prayer. He senses the extra presence in the room and gets up before sitting on the bench beside him. He grabs the athletic tape and begins wrapping his wrists and knuckles one last time.


The Five Star Championship rests beside him, reflecting light from the fluorescents above. If he can feel the weight of impending history on his broad shoulders, he doesn’t show it. After being sufficiently happy with his tape job, he stands and picks up his Five Star Championship and stares at it momentarily. He smiles, before slinging it around his waist, making sure it’s secure.

He takes three deep, labored breaths, stretches his arms quickly and walks past the cameraman and out of his locker room. The cameraman follows him out through the corridors of the arena as the scene cuts out.

The scene quickly shifts to Cecilworth Farthington standing outside the door of the Gluebana (Gloffice? They’ll get there one day), Farthington is staring up at the ceiling, clearly deep in thought about the challenge that lays ahead of him as he leans against the door that contains an ever dwindling number of Glue-adjacent humans and an increasing number of Glue-adjacent ghosts.

Farthington pushes off the door and rolls his neck around, as he looks towards the corridor that will lead him down to the ring. After a few quick stretches and a roll of the wrists, the former Five Star Champion begins his march towards the ring, the camera following him to his back. As Farthington reaches the curtain ahead of the entrance way and pulls it back, the scene once more fades away.

The crowd cheers loudly at the sight of the match graphic.

Nick Stuart: We’re going to find out who the best wrestler is right here, right now!

Richard Parker: Why does everyone get so bent out of shape about records? Cecilworth said it himself, records are meant to be broken. Maybe in two years I will become the longest reigning Five Star Champion. You never know.

Nick Stuart: You?

Richard Parker: I could be coaxed into the ring. You never know.

Nick Stuart: You!?

Richard Parker: You. Never. Know.

Nick Stuart: That would be the da-

Richard Parker: I’m pulling your leg. Do I have to spell everything out? I appreciate good wrestling and we certainly are going to see GOOD wrestling in a moment, aren’t we?

Nick Stuart: That we are.

Richard Parker: But, again, you never know. I could wrestle one day.

Stuart sighs openly as we move towards the man in the middle of the ring.

Vince Howard: This match is…

The crowd waits for it. It’s that random time Vince decides this is the match he’s going to emphasize what fall it’s for.

Vince Howard: ONE FALL!!!

The crowd is rabid! One fall, LET’S FUCKING GO!

Richard Parker: Disgusting. More commentators going into business for themselves. You hate to see it.

The sheer irony is lost on Rich, who literally just went into business for himself, saying he could one day wrestle, but Nick knows what’s up. Needless to say, it’s time to actually get this match started.

Vince Howard: And it is for the FIVE STAR CHAMPIONSHIP!

More ruckus cheering.

Vince Howard: Introducing first, he is the challenger… from Buckinghamshire, England… weighing one-hundred-ninety-seven pounds… he is The Conga Crusher… The Financer… CECILWORTH FARTHINGTON!

The crowd readies, the theme music plays.

Nick Stuart: For anyone who happens to be new to PRIME, because we have a daily growing fanbase, don’t let Cecilworth’s cagey two-hundred pounds fool you. He’s wiry, he’s slippery, he’s also one of the absolute best technicians in the game and he’s coming back for his Five Star Crown.

“Choke” by I Don’t Know How But They Found Me reaches its peak, as the crowd continues to come alive while light shines in every direction. Lord Cecilworth Farthington makes his way onto the stage when the spotlight finds the ramp.

Nick Stuart: Two-hundred-seventeen days is the former Five Star reign from Farthington, after losing to Rob Williams on ReVival 42. Here he is again, to stop Don Winters in potentially passing the record.

Farthington sports his typical self-assured smile that sticks to his face as he swaggers down the ramp. He reaches the front of the apron, rolls under the bottom rope and stands in front of the sold out house as his theme comes to a close.

Vince Howard: His opponent…

The lights dim across the Lawlor Events Center as a reverb and cymbals resound over the public address system before being accompanied by rollicking guitar licks. Crimson, white, and gold strobes flash across the stage and through the arena. Smoke machines blast the entrance and the video for The Five Star Champion begins to play.

RUAHHHHHHHHHHHH~!!!!!

Words begin to flash across the screen, behind a montage of The Revelator.

TWO HUNDRED SEVENTEEN DAYS

PRESTOR DON

THE REVELATOR

FATHER FIVE STAR

The voice of Jim James intercepts the music as smoke continues to fill the entrance way.

“Remnants of the empire, artifacts of love

Will I meet the designer, what will he dream up?

Remnants of the empire, gravity awake

What’s held down to the ground next round goes into space

Raising up the empire, innocence and faith

What will hold you up, and what will stand in your way”

As the smoke slowly begins to clear, Don Winters stands on the ramp, his arms outstretched in the Jesus Christ Pose, his head tipped to the ceiling, his Five Star Championship strapped snugly to his waist.

Vince Howard: WEIGHING IN AT TWO-HUNDRED-FIFTY-FOUR POUNDS. HAILING FROM DETROIT, MICHIGAN, HE IS THE REIGNING AND DEFENDING PRIME FIVE STAR CHAMPION – THE REVELATOR DOOOOOOOOOOOOON WIIIIIIIIIIIINTERRRRRRRRS!

There is no tear away suit this time. The Revelator is on business time. There is history to be made and history to be set. As Winters pivots to turn and face the crowd, another wave of cheers rises and escalates. The Champion throws up a fist in appreciation.

“Then I saw a new Heaven, formed in the bleeding light of dusk

All souls, all faiths, always, we were one

Then I saw a new Heaven, formed in the bleeding light of dusk

All souls, all faiths, always, we were one”

The Revelator begins a slow, purposeful march to the ring, his eyes locked on the challenger standing within. He still responds to the crowd cheers, and they seemingly get louder as he reaches the ring steps.

“Raise a bayonet in the dark, for all the human race

Watch out, watch out you could go the same way

Taking out the empire, watching from afar

It’s not too late, we could wake a new fate”

He ascends the steps slowly with measured steps and wipes his feet on the apron. He gives a small smile to Farthington as he vaults himself swiftly over the top rope and throws his arms out in the t-position from the center of the ring.

RUAHHHHHHHHHHHH~!!!!!

“Then I saw a new Heaven, formed in the bleeding light of dusk

All souls, all faiths, always, we were one”

The Champion pats the Five Star title on his waist one more time before unstrapping and handing it over to Ashley Barlow. He stretches his arms on the ropes and turns from his corner to face Cecilworth one final time before the bell rings.

Richard Parker: You know what I don’t appreciate? Being told how long Winters’ reign is during his entrance. SOME of us actually did our research and knew exactly how many days he has been champion for, and we were excited to express those statistics on live television.

Nick Stuart: So, in other words, you went to the PRIME website, looked up when Don won the championship and proceeded to count out the weeks like anyone else could’ve done.

Richard Parker: (Not catching on) Precisely.

Nick Stuart: It’s common knowledge, Rich.

Richard Parker: Precisely.

Anyway, both men are ready to go as Ashley Barlow calls for the bell!

DING DING

Richard Parker: I can appreciate what we have going on… and they haven’t even touched yet!

Farthington moves in quickly but Winters is waiting for him so Father Donovan steers Cecilworth aside. Farthington takes a couple steps forward into emptiness, ducks down and stunningly sweeps his legs across the mat, catching Winters with a trip while Cecil’s back was turned. The champion falls to the canvas and Cecilworth is quick to pounce, leaping on top of Winters and unloading a whirlwind of forearms into his face. Over and over they go, but the champion shows his own worth, too. He’s crafty. Perhaps not in the self-importance sense of Farthington but nevertheless, Winters slides across the mat along with Farthington and the blows he’s absorbing. The Revelator reaches out, grabs the second rope and pulls them both up as Cecilworth mercilessly keeps trying to get his shots in.

Winters snatches Farthington and tosses him into the center of the ring. Winters sprints towards Farthington with his elbow exposed-

When the challenger drops to the mat, the strike misses, and Farthington rolls Winters into a cover!

ONE.

TWO.

KICKOUT.

Both men pop to their feet as the crowd can’t help but cheer. A standing ovation begins while the champion and challenger rise, never taking their eyes off each other. For an eventful start to the match, the reality is we are only about twenty seconds into the contest.

Richard Parker: Fast and furious and no, I’m not talking about Vin Diesel and “family”, I’m talking about Cecilworth and GLUE.

Nick Stuart: Family and glue are the same thing.

Richard Parker: You sure?

Inside the ring, Winters raises his right arm, merely asking for a test of strength.

Nick Stuart: It’s a smart move to slow the match down. Play to the champion’s strengths. The Revelator has fifty pounds on Cecilworth, all muscle.

Farthington rolls his shoulders forward and cracks his back before taking a step towards and locking his right hand into Winters’ right hand. Their left hands both rise, about to completely lock into the test of strength when-

WHAM!

Cecilworth with a swift kick to the stomach and a hard implant DDT follows.

Richard Parker: Listen, I’m going to say that’s a smart move. This match is nothing more or less than proving who is the BEST WRESTLER. It’s not cheating to kick a man in the stomach and forgo the test of strength. There’s a match to be won here. Call me old fashioned but what Farthington did is strategy at its finest!

Stuart is not going to argue this one as Farthington applies boot after boot to the chest of the champion. Father Five Star is reeling, as Farthington peels him off the canvas and provides a sheer drop brainbuster for his troubles. Winters’ body goes limp and it looks like this wrestling match may be over in the span of TWO minutes…

Farthington rolls Winters onto his back.

ONE.

KICKOUT!

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!

The fans come alive as Winters shoots to his feet and Farthington slips into a corner of the ring, gritting his teeth and nodding his head.

Nick Stuart: Too early to finish the match, Cecilworth has to know this.

Richard Parker: He does now.

Farthington explodes from the corner and meets Don in the center of the ring. The two are smashing each other’s arms into each other’s jaws until Winters has Farthington a couple of steps back. Winters Irish whips Farthington into the ropes and comes charging across with that elbow strike.

WHACK!

This time it connects!

Spit flies out of Farthington’s mouth but he remains on both his feet as he wobbles around, wildly swinging into thin air.

Kick to the gut.

Full release vertical suplex, dropping Farthington on the back of his neck!

Nick Stuart: Not often you see Cecilworth on the end of something like this.

With Farthington on all fours, Winters measures the challenger and comes running in, knee exposed.

The crowd gets out of their seats as Winters looks for his running knee strike, The Gospel-

But Farthington moves out of the way at the very last second!

Richard Parker: I hate to say this but I don’t mind the call. Go big, RIGHT OFF THE BAT. Establish who is the best wrestler without mressing around. Not every match has to be a FIVE STAR classic, get it?

Stuart says nothing.

Richard Parker: Get it!?

Nick Stuart: Yes, Rich. I get it.

Richard Parker: Excellent!

As Winters stumbles aimlessly into the corner of the ring, he ends up inadvertently whacking his knee against the second pad and needs an extra second for recovery. This allows Cecilworth’s eyes to lock onto Winters’ knees, The Financer’s target is out there in the open.

Winters notices where Cecilworth’s eyes reside, on his bad left knee. Needless to say, The Revelator removes himself from the corner and walks, perfectly, to the middle of the ring. Almost as if showcasing his knee is 100%.

Father Don calls Lord Cecilworth back into the center of the ring to join him, even mouthing something along the lines of finding out who the best pure wrestler is, in a respectful manner, of course.

Which is the whole point of this match. Who’s the best wrestler.

Farthington peels himself away from the canvas but is coy in doing so. He’s cautiously watching Winters open himself up for the wrong move, while the champion makes sure his eyes are locked and loaded on the dangerous challenger, and the man whose record he’s hoping to surpass.

They lock up, they grapple. It’s Donovan who ends up working Cecilworth into a headlock, only for Farthington to push off and send Winters into the ropes. Winters comes across looking for a lariat, but Farthington hops up with a European uppercut. This stuns the champion, as Cecilworth slings around Winters’ body and ends up working the champ into an octopus stretch!

Richard Parker: Ring the bell, this one is over! And toss Don’s dumb merchandise stand out in the trash!

The match isn’t done, Parker’s an idiot. Needless to say, Don Winters is locked into the hold in the middle of the ring and Cecilworth Farthington is stretching him well! Winters tries to lower himself by dropping his knees. He’s attempting to slide out of the position, but no can do. Winters waves his hands around, but he’s not near the ropes, either.

There’s a good minute before Winters finally kicks his feet out from under him and merely hangs in the octopus hold. However, this gives Winters leverage as he’s almost about to slip out of it-

When Cecilworth changes course into a spinning toe hold, then a knee to the face, followed by bouncing off the ropes and double foot stomping the back of Winters’ head. The challenger isn’t done there. He deadlifts the champion and snaps him into a release belly-to-belly suplex.

Nick Stuart: It’s all Cecilworth Farthington!

Farthington hurls Winters into a corner and comes racing in with a knee strike. He’s not done. More strikes. Strikes. Strikes. The champion is certainly reeling now. Farthington Irish whips Winters into the far corner of the ring-

When FATHER DON EXPLODES out of them and clubs Farthington with an inside out clothesline from hell!

Farthington flips in the air before he crashes to the mat as both men collapse!

The crowd cheers! It’s anyone’s game!

Nick Stuart: It’s been a while before I’ve seen SOLID shots like that! I’m talking all of Farthington’s offense and then the desperation clothesline from Winters, too!

Believe it or not, it’s Don Winters who’s up first. He’s reeling, he’s certainly feeling it but he pulls Farthington off the mat and connects with a Russian leg sweep. This is followed by a bulldog choke, plying the challenger off the canvas as he does. Winters works the bulldog choke into a bulldog hold and proceeds to run into the corner, run up the padding and push off, coming down with a running bulldog!

Nick Stuart: Adding insult to injury, Winters lands ON TOP of Cecilworth’s head as he drives it into the mat!

Ashley Barlow slides into position as Winters rolls Farthington over for a cover.

ONE.

TWO.

SHOULDER UP!

Winters cranks his arms forward. He latches onto Farthington’s neck and drives a forearm into it before standing upright with his challenger and connects with a snap suplex. Winters goes over to collect Farthington again…

A second snap suplex.

The champion is feeling it. He grabs Farthington and sends the challenger into orbit with a saito suplex!

Diving knee drop. Elbow to the head. More elbows to the head!! It looks like Father Don has his target now, and he’s laying into the brains of the former Five Star Champion. Knocking the sense right out of him.

Or the sense back into him.

…That Winters will be beating Cecilworth’s record.

Winters lifts Farthington and throws him back-first into a corner of the ring. Using the buckle as leverage, Winters positions Farthington into the spot of a piledriver. A jumping piledriver.

THUMP.

It connects!

The crowd is stunned. Winters quickly rolls Farthington over and hooks a leg.

ONE.

TWO.

KICKOUT.

Winters looks up at Barlow, agreeing with the call while also recognizing he’s not going to waste another second. With the piousdriver not finishing the job, Winters positions Cecilworth into a gutbuster.

WHAM!

The air is knocked out of Farthington. The crowd is on their feet.

Nick Stuart: WILL DON RETAIN!?

ONE.

TWO.

KICKOUT!

Shock and awe fill the arena! Nonetheless, Father Don keeps going. He hooks his arms around Farthington again and looks for some kind of powerbomb when Farthington slips out, escaping and fumbling into the ropes. With a bat of an eye, Cecilworth seemingly finds life again because he pumps the demons* right out of Winters with a HARD rolling elbow strike. (*we all know Don has know demons)

Winters is on rollerskates. Cecilworth was already on them, too. Both men are wobbly as Farthington backs into the ropes again and comes charging in.

BOOM!

Nick Stuart: DON WINTERS CATCHES CECILWORTH IN MID-AIR AND CONNECTS WITH REVELATIONS!

The air raid crash… it’s got to be over!

ONE.

TWO.

LAST SECOND SHOULDER UP.

Richard Parker: Winters didn’t hook the leg! He was in such a hurry to get the pin, he wasn’t able to secure the leg, put weight onto Farthington’s shoulders and ultimately win the match!

Winters looks up into the heavens; there’s more work to be done. He rises and brings Farthington along with him-

FISHERMAN’S BUSTER BY FARTHINGTON!

The fans stand once again! The air is pushed out of the building because everyone can see the title reign is over… 217 days is where it ended for Cecilworth. 217 days is where it ends for Don Winters.

And it’s DAY ONE all over again.

Cecilworth is struggling, however, to roll over and drape an arm over Father Don.

He’s almost there…

Almost…

ALMOST…

AL

MOST.

Nick Stuart: THE HAND IS THERE!

Richard Parker: NEW CHAMP, NEW CHAMP!

Ashley Barlow makes the count.

ONE.

TWO.

SHOULDER UP!

Nick Stuart: WOW! I should’ve known!

Richard Parker: He took too long! Cecilworth, that is. It wasn’t on purpose of course. But after eating a NUMBER of trademark moves from our Five Star Champion, there was only so much left in the tank! Farthington should be thankful he pulled off WORTHLESS, the fisherman’s buster, rather flawlessly!

Nick Stuart: Well, Winters certainly showed his WORTH there.

A bad dad-like comment from Nick, but let’s just go with it here. Anyway, both men are trying to find their vertical base. Farthington has drool running out of his mouth while Don Winters has a tiny trickle of blood on the top of his skull. The announcers can’t seem to pinpoint when this happened but in the heat of the match, it could’ve been from anything.

Farthington ducks a forearm. He snatches the champion and delivers a gotch style piledriver.

Nick Stuart: We’re one and one in piledrivers so far!

Richard Parker: The playbook has been thrown out the window. I believe Cecilworth was going to target Don’s knee but really hasn’t gotten around to it. On the other hand, it’s Don’s forehead which is busted open, albeit a little, while he was the initial one who targeted Lord Cecilworth’s head!

Farthington looks down at Winters. He snatches Don’s right arm for a potential armbar submission but the champion rolls into the ropes as fast as humanly possible. Farthington sneers, leans down and is popped in the side of the head with a wild leg swing from Winters. Winters stands, races towards Farthington-

Farthington drops the ropes on Don and Winters falls onto the apron.

A reverse hotshot sends Winters off the apron and crashing to the floor below, as Cecil slides out of the ring, slamming Winters into the apron! Then he slams Winters into the guardrail! Then he slams Winters into the apron. Guardrail. Apron. Apron. Guardrail. Over and over and over, all the while Farthington is watching Ashley Barlow with the TEN count.

She’s at NINE, so it’s time to throw the champion back inside. Once Farthington is through the ropes-

Nick Stuart: OH NO!

Winters connects with a DESPERATION cutter, immediately sliding into position for the half crab attempt, The Threshing Floor…

But Farthington is into the ropes in a flash!

Richard Parker: There’s no way Winters was going to be able to lock in the crab. Look at him, he’s reeling BIG TIME from being pummeled around the apron and guardrail!

The crowd cheers everything they see. Winters gives the clean break and backs up, while Farthington pushes off the ropes and slingshots himself back towards Winters-

Savate kick by Winters. The challenger is DOA again.

Winters grabs Farthington’s legs and tries for The Threshing Floor, when The Conga Crusher finds the ropes and holds onto them for dear life!

Barlaw starts the count but really doesn’t need to because Father Don drops the hold. As the challenger tries to get up, you can see the gears shift in Winters’ brain and he might be trying for something else. He drags Farthington in close, potentially looking to set up a powerbomb… or one of an orange crush variety-

Farthington slips feet, hits the ropes and delivers a kitchen sink knee strike! Farthington leans down, attempts to grab the right arm of Winters but the champion rolls into the ropes, so Farthington instead deadlifts Winters into a release back-to-belly suplex!

Nick Stuart: Both men are out AGAIN!

Barlow starts a ten count, as the crowd remains on their feet. Farthington is the first to a vertical base since he was the last to connect with an offensive maneuver. The challenger moves towards the champion and lands a hard uppercut. A second hard uppercut. Another. Another. ANOTHER. AN.OTH.ER!!!

Farthington tosses Winters into the ropes but Winters holds on BUT Farthington also holds on and suddenly Cecilworth has Winters’ arm into ARTICLE 51-

NO!

Winters is in the ropes! Barlow’s on top of it and before ANY damage is done, each wrestler is on their feet yet again.

Farthington ducks a knee from Winters and Winters sidesteps an uppercut from Farthington. The challenger takes a couple of steps back, runs forward and so does the champion-

WHAP!

Their heads fly into each other!

Don Winters goes limp.

Cecilworth Farthington hasn’t moved, either.

Ashley Barlow starts her TEN count while the crowd rumbles their feet.

Nick Stuart: I don’t know about this…

Replays show they both absolutely ate each other’s foreheads at the same time.

Richard Parker: Winters was working on Farthington’s head in the earlier stages. I like his chances at getting up first!

Barlow’s count is at FIVE and neither man has moved.

SIX.

Winters’ arm FINALLY rises, but he has yet to do so.

SEVEN.

Farthington’s right knee shakes a tiny little bit. But he isn’t anywhere close to standing up, either.

EIGHT.

Winters rolls onto his chest. Farthington does the same.

NINE.

Winters’ head is raised. He sees Farthington in a similar position. Both men are on their chests, hands on the mat, about to push up and off the canvas mat…

They do.

…

Well, not nearly enough for Ashley Barlow to stop her TEN count, since they both could barely push off at all and remain on the canvas.

TEN.

The crowd boos.

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: This match is a double knock out… therefore, it is A DRAW!

More boos, just because everyone wanted to see it keep going, of course.

Vince Howard: As a result and STILL your FIVE STAR CHAMPION… FATHER DON WINTERS!

The crowd cheers, out of respect to who keeps their title.

Nick Stuart: Donovan Winters breaks Cecilworth Farthington’s record! This… uh, this can’t sit well with Farthington at all!

Richard Parker: It’s not sitting well with ME. More, more, more! More blood! More moves! Move everything!

Farthington can only look up from the canvas he lays on. Then again, it’s pretty much the same thing Don Winters can do, too. Ashley Barlow lays the title beside the champion while she checks on Winters and another ref is in the ring to check on Farthington. Eventually, Farthington rolls out of the ring and collapses onto his knees, clearly still shaken up. Meanwhile, Don Winters sits on the edge of the apron, title on his left shoulder, rubbing the top of his head.

Nick Stuart: Even if we didn’t get the outcome we hoped for, Rich, I have to hand it to both men tonight.

Richard Parker: More. MORE. MORE!!!

ReVival goes to commercial.

Deep in the underbelly of the Lawlor Events Center…

The Boiler Room.

Red lights (for some unknown reason) create a demonic atmosphere inside.

And the damned demon that dwells there?

Fred Dick.

He sits butt-ass naked and criss-cross applesauce in the center of a circle created by several substances that he plans to abuse.

Spray paint.

Four Loko.

Salvia.

Hydroxycut.

Non-Drowsy Claritin.

Fred Dick: Look up-awn these here ingredients. Lawd they just look so DAYUM GUD, don’t they?

Fred chuckles to himself. Scratches his nip.

Fred Dick: That’s on account of the fact that these are the alchemical ingredients which will turn thee from pyrite to GOLD, from mere man…

His voice deepens.

Fred Dick: To monster.

He stands up, clicks his heels in the air and sits right back down. Thankfully, the camera only reveals his bare ass in his sudden expression of joy.

Fred Dick: Cornel Abalone… Yew may think yew got ol’ Fred figured out. But when you step in that RASSLIN’ RANG TONIGHT… TO DEFEND THAT UNIVERSAL TITLE, BOY…

Fred sneers.

Fred Dick: Yew ain’t gonna be facin’ ol’ Fred! BAHAHAHAHA!!! Hell naw. Yew gon’ be defendin’ that belt against an entity much more cruel… much more menacin’, much more…

Fred Dick (after dramatic pause): Boiler-Roomy… Muahhhhhhhhhahahahahahahahahaha!!! HAAAAAAAAA!!!! HA!!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!! HAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!! EhehehehehehHeheheHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEEEEEEEE!!! EEEEEEEHEHEHEHEHEEEEHEEHEHEHE!!!

Fred begins shouting like he’s the kids from the animated TV show, Captain Planet. In fact, he literally mimics each of their individual voices and accents as he shouts the ingredients.

Fred Dick: SPRAY PAINT! FOUR LOKO! SALVIA! HYDROXYCUT! NON-DROWSY CLARITIN!

The camera turns away as we hear Fred inhale deeply and cough. We hear a can pop open and get chugged. We hear a lighter flick, another inhale, and coughing. More coughing. More coughing. He coughs so hard he almost throws up. Then we hear packages of medicine being opened. A deep swallow. More chugging of a drink. And then finally, a spray from an aerosol can. More inhaling.

When the camera returns, Fred is no longer sitting.

He’s no longer naked.

He’s in a Captain Planet costume from the neck down, and a red gimp mask from the neck up.

Fred Dick: LAAAAAAAAWD BY DEM POWERS WHUT HAVE DONE BEEN COMBINIFIED!!!! I HAVE BECOME!!!! BOILER!!! ROOM!!! FRED!!!!

Boiler Room Fred roars! Like a lion! Then he roars again like a bear! Then he barks because he’s got that dawg in him.

The scene fades to the Pinnacle of All Sports.

We return to a wide shot inside Lawlor Events Center, the fans buzzing in anticipation, knowing what is next. Suddenly, the arena lights dim, a loud cheer erupting from the crowd. Out of the blackness, the PRIMEview comes alive, the PRIME logo displayed prominently. It fades, the opening tones of “Rivalry” by Colin O’Malley beginning to play. With a lashing strike of blue, words fill the screen.

THE PRIME UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP

THE PINNACLE OF ALL SPORTS

Descending, a lone spotlight shines upon a table of velvet. Stood up for prominence is the PRIME Universal Championship belt, polished and shined. As the music continues, its contours and plates are scanned with care. Every detail is magnificent. The tension of sound rises, and with it, the camera pulls away from the majestic championship. The scene abruptly cuts to black.

And with the rising dramatic percussion, the still shots. Subtle movements slowly focusing upon the figures as they appear for a few moments, their achievement marked in text in convenient spaces.

The inaugural Universal Champion and final Global Champion. The bridge between the eras, cemented at King of Kings 2. He stands an enigma, a seeming average man in build, but what he lacks in impressive physique he makes up for in mystery. One championship belt for each trench coated shoulder. His eyes are focused and evident through the white mask absconding his identity.

1st Champion
BLACK ANGEL

A titan of muscle, massive in stature not just physically, but for his time in the sport. A once hero, now, he is a betrayer, joining the Dark Age. There is no sense of shame with his smirking expression.

2nd Champion
BODA

A whirlwind of color, a form of taut muscle and artistic expression. She stands stoic, the championship belt over her shoulder. Does she care? Only she knows. Her moment has arrived, seemingly unstoppable, one of the greatest beginnings to a PRIME career of anyone. The Vanguard of the Golden Age. A trendsetter.

3rd Champion
KARINA WOLFENDEN

Behind crimson glasses protecting his eyes, a seminal figure. Chiseled from granite, his tattoos prominent, if ever a man stood as The Supreme Machine, it is he. The ender of the K-Wolf’s era before it even started. Later, the hand chosen by Tyler Nelson to put an end to a Universal charade. When one speaks of PRIME, his name is one of the first to come.

4th, 8th Champion
KILLEAN SIRRAJIN

The winds behind him sweep about, blowing his majestic hair with perfect photogenic bravado. The only true Son of God. His appearance has not changed, even today, proving his parentage. The Last Judgment features prominently on his tights. Chicago’s favored son, the roar his mere visage elicits is one of the loudest of the night. Under his hand, you shall be crucified and saved.

5th Champion
HOYT WILLIAMS

Before him were titans in stature, but in their place comes one in sheer brutality. His fists and forearms are taped for battle, his muscle built for performance and savagery. Inhuman. A wrecking ball in human form. From nowhere, he arrives at this pinnacle, only to be knocked from it in the greatest upset in the history of PRIME. He will regain it from one of his greatest rivals, The Supreme Machine on the biggest stage. Years later, he returns from the sidelines, managing to defy expectations to put a temporary halt to The Murder Show. Rushmore features him prominently. He stands as one of the truest of greats.

6th, 9th, 21st Champion
TCHU/MATT WARD

A goofy wire of man. The most unassuming of all. So long of a shot, his chance comes in the middle of Revolution, a clear expectation of how easy he shall be steamrolled. A Christmas Miracle. Perpetually silly, the joke is not only the Inhuman Being, but also, all those who thought so little of him.

7th Champion
CLYDE WALKINS

Born from the stars, beloved by all, charismatic, amongst the most skilled the sport has ever seen. He has returned from injury to claim his rightful place, but failure is all that meets him. In this moment, the drums of war sound, the very foundation of PRIME under threat from Machavallian forces. The star rises and turns his back on the fans and people who believed in him, joining the ranks of the devils who claim him to be their friend. Clean shaven, burned by the light. He fights off a record number of challengers. He is where the balance of PRIME rests.

10th Champion
NOVA

The balance of power shifts. Her face, her essence, are intrinsically linked with PRIME, but in this moment, she is an assumed outsider. This moment changes not only her place in the company, but in her life. Home. The ultimate trendsetter. The Queen of the Ring becomes The Final Boss twice over. Her spot amongst the very greats is without question. In this building, she was the one to close out the prior era. Without her, where we stand today isn’t possible.

11th, 13th Champion
LINDSAY TROY

The rival to the Queen. Scum looks down upon him. A betrayer of friendship, of allegiance, all for self service. So many times, he fell, unable to answer the challenge, and in doing so, all rejoiced. Driven mad, Ahab manages to rise in his final stand, capturing his illustrious white whale.

12th Champion
SONNY SILVER

Mismatched eyes, lacerating fingernails, and diminutive stature. In one night, she nearly conquers the Halo. In her next match, she manages to usurp the Queen. Scary and unknowable, a chameleon who can assume the identity of any she chooses. She lacks her own agency and identity, yet here, for a time, she can claim the Universal Championship as her own.

14th Champion
COZEN

The Man in Black hides his pieces and scars under a dress shirt and slacks. A mess of black hair falls along the sides of his face. Many claim him to be emo, but they will come to know him as the ruiner, death incarnate. His war against PRIME will eventually lead to its closure. Even here, with a painted black middle finger, his detestment of PRIME is evident.

15th Champion
DEVIN SHAKUR

Charisma personified. In truth, his arrival to this pinnacle has been foreseen for ages. His potential is limitless, yet in critical moments, he falters. Until here. Until now. Until he realizes the promise after years of toil made to look like a designer accessory. His presence is legendary. A hero to so many. Brash and arrogant to others. Regardless, he is can’t miss, must see, and unforgettable. His reign, to this point, lasts longer than all others before.

16th Champion
CHANDLER TSONDA

The Unbeatable. The Unconquerable. Awoken from dream, The Original Villain stops fighting with mere bits of his true skill and strength. The path he cuts lasts over a year, and in its wake, promising careers, legendary challenges, and destinies all fall under his heel. Gone, but never forgotten. Though some draw close, he walks away into the annals of history never having lost the most prestigious prize in the sport.

17th Champion
JASON SNOW

From the distance, from the ether, his face painted with black, the oddest of sorts, his skin pale, he returns. The Intense Championship is marked as his in all of lore, but after conquering the Halo, he soon after fulfills an impossible destiny, capping off a Hall of Fame career with the final piece it lacked.

18th Champion
VANGELUS OLSIG

Hollywood beckons. A silver screen savant, he brings with him pomp, circumstance, and a director’s vision. An outsider who rises.

19th Champion
CASTOR V. STRIFE

The monster incarnate. The Murder Show. Burly, powerful, a viking from a long forgotten age who has spent an age in PRIME without realizing the fullness of his potential. It is remembering what it is to be dominant that he ascends to his throne, leaving behind a wake of broken bodies and dreams. For a time, the lineage ends with brutality under his knuckles. The oppressive, uncompromising final champion of the Revolution.

20th, 22nd Champion
HESSIAN

The spear of the ReVival comes from the Revolution. Before this moment, he is considered the greatest to never win ‘the big one’. After over a decade away, the Tower of Babel rises, removing all doubt, finally taking his place amongst the true greats, perhaps marking himself as greater than all. For others in this era, this prize is transient. For him? They are one.

23rd, 29th Champion
BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD

A life’s work. Destroy the past and present and burn it all away so the future can rise. The Humble Proprietor has spent his life as an afterthought, cast aside, treated less than human despite his love of the sport he has dedicated his life to. Their cackles and machinations forge an intensity fitting for a monster. The threat. The killer. Robbed of the result of it all. Even in the distance, his name brings chills to the air.

24th Champion
PHIL ATKEN

Lights, camera, pucker and kiss. The Anti-Christ. Under t-shades and salt shoes, he brings with him an apocalypse in tracksuit and baby blue. Despised and thought little of, the ultimate cockroach doesn’t just survive but thrive. His threats carry weight because he makes good on his promise. Nobody on this list has a hope of ever being this COOL.

25th Champion
CANCER JILES

The Event Horizon, the future, all of the ReVival’s promise and dreams comes in his chiseled form. His reverence to PRIME’s past is known, but he makes his own history, taking the Universal Championship for his own and under the most dire of circumstances. He stumbles, but in Hell, he overcomes not only the yang to his ying, but the oppressive boot of the Soviet state.

26th, 28th Champion
HAYES HANLON

Punk rock in all forms, a fighter through and through. He doesn’t care about the championship, just what it brings to him in the ring. The greater fights. The ability to test his penchant for destruction. He snuffed out the promise of the horizon in his void. A goat kick to the head. A free spirit for rebellion against the norms.

27th Champion
REZIN 

Some would call him a relic of a begotten age, a frozen monstrosity thawed and set upon the world to maul and reign under a banner, an ethos that demands both domination and subjugation. An ageless goliath, The Russian Bear returns to the field of professional wrestling battle after over a decade in seclusion. And in his wake? Utter carnage. A warrior from the old age set upon the present and future, not only striding, but surmounting all.

30th Champion
IVAN STANISLAV

Few can claim to be worthy of being phenoms in the new era of PRIME, yet the pillars of such are rarefied. But for the French Super Athlete, The Neck Collector, the Lizard King, he stands not only above, but perhaps beyond all. His arrival to this place is the culmination of an undefeated year. A winning streak unmatched by ALL before him. He is the weapon promised, the embodiment of The Humble Proprietor’s vision. A puzzle perhaps unsolvable.

31st Champion
FLAMBERGE

From oblivion he rises, as if from a waking coma. Drenched with guilt, self made, self perpetuated. Look upon the clown who makes those laugh, yet do not notice his weight, his tears. Ascend from the murk and stand ready, violently so, in the face of so many oppressors. Black Sheep never again.

32nd Champion
JARED SYKES

The ultimate simp. Seemingly helpless. But powered by his love and his dedication to his Amazing Life Partner, he perseveres, and does what most think is nigh impossible for someone of his ability level. He finishes the story, and now, we live in an epilogue dictated from his success.

33rd Champion
JONATHAN-CHRISTOPHER HALL

The Crownless King. A wrestling nomad. Across near every continent, he has fought with his all, governed by an unyielding love of the sport of professional wrestling. His role was ordained to be The Never Was, the fountain of knowledge, the bridge to the future. Not marketable. Taken for granted. Yet bitterness never seeps in, never taints his drive and passion. In this, the final year of his quest, he does what some think he could not do…something many others believed he always had capacity to achieve. The crown achieved. Now, The King of Conquerors.

34th Champion
CORAL AVALON

With the final image fading away and the song having reached its crescendo, a final shot of the Universal Championship upon its velvet table is shown. And then, we cut to black.

A rich history of greatness.

Tonight, a crossroads.

Never before, in the ReVival, has the Universal Championship been successfully defended three times in a single reign. Just holding the title is difficult enough. Getting to this point is nigh impossible. Yet here, on this night, perhaps the impossible is about to take place.

But if it doesn’t, can you even imagine? The very fabric of reality itself, being ripped apart at its very seams. All under the fumes of paint and lord knows what else.

Tonight, a king will reign.

Be it of Conquerors.

Or The Wrong.

The arena descends into darkness.

Pitch black darkness, like the inside of Satan’s butthole.

Red lasers, hundreds perhaps, begin to strobe and flicker and burn trails across the empty darkness.

“The Unforgiven” by Metallica hits the speakers. The epic, acoustic guitar intro, combined with the occasional spattering of drums and distortion, finally cracks wide open, and the true song begins.

New blood joins this earth,

And quickly he’s subdued.
Through constant pained disgrace
The young boy learns their rules.

There’s just one problem.

No one’s coming out.

With time the child draws in.
This whipping boy done wrong.
Deprived of all his thoughts
The young man struggles on and on he’s known
A vow unto his own,
That never from this day
His will they’ll take away.

Nick Stuart: Where the hell is Fred Dick?

Richard Parker: Excuse me, but Fred Dick is dead. He has become Boiler Room Fred.

Nick Stuart: Well where is he!?

What I’ve felt,
What I’ve known
Never shined through in what I’ve shown.
Never be.
Never see.
Won’t see what might have been.
What I’ve felt,
What I’ve known
Never shined through in what I’ve shown.
Never free.
Never me.
So I dub thee unforgiven.

The PRIMEview flickers and turns on, revealing Reed Young standing in the boiler room. He wears a black gimp mask on his face.

Reed Young: You ready?

Then, we see Boiler Room Fred sitting on a bench. He lights three Newports and smokes all three at the same time. He takes a big draw. Blows out a smoke ring. Pokes his finger through them.

Boiler Room Fred: Make ‘em wait.

The PRIMEview cuts off.

The fans jeer with severe disapproval.

They dedicate their lives
To running all of his.
He tries to please them all –
This bitter man he is.

Nick Stuart: You gotta be freaking kidding me.

Richard Parker: Actually, I’m Richard Parker. Freaking Kidding Me is my cousin.

Nick Stuart: Shut the hell up Richard.

Throughout his life the same –
He’s battled constantly.
This fight he cannot win –
A tired man they see no longer cares.
The old man then prepares
To die regretfully –
That old man here is me.
What I’ve felt,
What I’ve known
Never shined through in what I’ve shown.
Never be.
Never see.
Won’t see what might have been.
What I’ve felt,
What I’ve known
Never shined through in what I’ve shown.
Never free.
Never me.
So I dub thee unforgiven.

The guitar solo hits.

Still no sign of Fred anywhere.

What I’ve felt,
What I’ve known
Never shined through in what I’ve shown.
Never be.
Never see.
Won’t see what might have been.

Finally, Boiler Room Fred emerges with Reed Young, both stay masked up in their gimp masks, BRF is still in his Captain Planet attire.

Nick Stuart: Well look who finally decided to show up.

Richard Parker: SATAN’S DARK ASSHOLE HIMSELF, NICK!!! BOILER ROOM FRED IS HERE!!!

What I’ve felt,
What I’ve known
Never shined through in what I’ve shown.
Never free.
Never me.
So I dub thee unforgiven.

Fred relaxes his arms, hunches over, and runs like an ape all the way to the ring as Fred Young, holding a can of spray paint like it’s a sacred relic to the sky, also sprints to the ring.

Never free.
Never me.
So I dub thee unforgiven.

Fred stands on one set of turnbuckles. He makes a jack off motions at the crowd.

You labeled me,
I’ll label you.
So I dub thee unforgiven.

Fred stands on another set of turnbuckles. He makes more jack off motions at the crowd.

Never free.
Never me.
So I dub thee unforgiven.

Fred stands on a third set of turnbuckles. More jack off motions at the crowd.

You labeled me,
I’ll label you.
So I dub thee unforgiven.

Fred stands on the fourth and final set of turnbuckles. He makes jack off motions at the crowd.

Never free.
Never me.
So I dub thee unforgiven.

Fred stands in the center of the ring. The lights come up. He laughs maniacally and performs jack off gestures with both hands, as though he has two dicks. Then he moves to his corner, and hisses like a feral cat for the entirety of Coral’s entrance.

And as he does? Not to outshine their boy? The Poor Whoresman. Rob Williams. Harley Walker. The Rhinestone Intense Champion Cowboy himself…Daytona Diamonds. No STRONK. The Brick Shithouse is absent. Probably doing ads. Or Alpha Brain.

The lights go out.

Fans murmur amongst themselves as, for several seconds, nothing happens. It’s just darkness, save for the cell phones. It’s only one sound that causes them to stand up and take notice. They’ve heard it at least once before in the hallowed halls of PRIME. It’s the sound of… a bird’s tweeting.

The PRIMEview comes alive. It’s a hallway somewhere backstage. Nothing’s going on in it. Perfectly boring, ordinary hallway, full of production boxes and disappointment. Then, something comes around the corner, and the cameraman has to run up to see what it is.

The first man walks around the corner, as COOL as can be. Fans boo him immediately and mercilessly, because that’s Cancer Jiles. Yes, everyone’s favorite crumb™ (citation needed) is making his way around the corner. It’s worth noting that he’s doing this in slow motion, because that’s how the eGG Bandits roll.

Coming in behind him is another man that fans aren’t particularly huge fans of, and that’s Tony Gamble. The PRIME Hall of Famer, inducted in 2012, strolls next to Jiles. He walks among giants, acting for all the world like he is one of them. It’s this attitude, above all others, that makes him a Hall of Famer.

Behind him, casting the widest possible shadow, is the tallest of the eGG Bandits. Hessian. The other PRIME Hall of Famer in the eGG Bandits, inducted the same year as Gamble. A menacing mountain of a man, shaped in the image of COOLYMPUS itself. The Murder Show.

Next? It’s Bobby Dean.

Richard Parker: Wake me up when this is over.

Nick Stuart: You can’t be serious.

Richard Parker: Honk shoe, mimimimimi…

Nick Stuart: …He’s serious.

Bobby Dean is carrying a bucket of popcorn chicken, and he’s speed-eating it because he’s anxious as all get out. After all, he hasn’t actually been in the vicinity of Fred Dick since a terrible experience in a bounce house, and even Bobby would remember that shit.

And finally, it’s the man of the hour. The tower of power. Coral Avalon strolls out from around the corner, dressed in his long fur entrance cloak with two lion heads mounted on the shoulders. The Universal championship is strapped around his waist. Avalon places himself in the center of the group. After all, he is the Golden Bandit. The Captain. The man who has taken the eGG Bandits to new heights. The road to Colossus goes through PRIME’s very own King of Conquerors.

Once that sweet Mongolian throat singing of Wolf Totem hits, the eGG Bandits make their walk down the hallway. In slow motion, as stated before. We cut to each of them as they walk. We barely see the top of Tony Gamble’s head as he is dwarfed by every man in the crew – even the relatively smaller Avalon and Jiles. We see Hessian with murder in his eyes. We see Jiles as stone-faced and COOL as usual, but very likely screaming internally. We see Bobby as he puts three chicken nuggies in his mouth.

Then, with one last parting shot of the eGG Bandits showing their united front, it cuts to black and so does Wolf Totem.

We cut back to the building, and there’s now a palpable buzz in the air.

And then the guitars of Monster Siren’s “Real Me” hit and fans lose their whole goddamn collective mind.

The PRIMEview blazes to life once again, with five familiar words for all to see.

CORAL AVALON

KING OF CONQUERORS

Five men emerge from the curtains. The same five men from the entrance video, of course. Standing front and center is Avalon, with Hessian looming menacingly behind Avalon and the other three by his sides. There’s a long pause from the crew as they take in the crowd reaction. It’s practically a hero’s welcome for the eGG Bandits, despite the fact that they’re all crumbs.

Inside of the ring, Fred Dick waits impatiently as Avalon takes in the reaction. Then, with another slow walk, they head for the ring.

Vince Howard: HIS OPPONENT! RESIDING IN SEATTLE, WASHINGTON! HE WEIGHS IN TONIGHT AT TWO HUNDRED AND FOURTEEN POUNDS! HE IS THE GOLDEN BANDIT! THE KING OF CONQUERORS! THE PRIME UNIVERSAL CHAMPION! THIS! IS! CORAAAAAAALLLLLLLL AVAAAAAAAAALOOOOOOOONNNNNN!!!

Avalon never takes his eyes off of the challenger, because there’s a high chance of fuckery even before the bell rings. He knows who stands behind Fred Dick. He knows the lengths Fred will go to win any match, no matter what.

That’s why the Bandits are here, after all.

Avalon climbs up the ring steps and enters the ring, and the rest of the Bandits follow him inside. Well, most of them. Jiles has decided that he’s too much of a crumb and has opted to simply stand on the ring apron, and Bobby doesn’t even bother doing that. Doesn’t matter, Avalon has a Hessian.

Avalon slowly removes the cloak and hands it off to Hessian for safe keeping. The Universal championship around his waist is the next to be removed. Avalon takes a moment to stare deep into the belt, before he calmly hands it off to senior referee Elvis Nixon.

Its go time.

DING DING

Yes, the numbers game is in the advantage of the Bandits. But that hasn’t stopped the Poor Whoresman from wrecking havoc before. And literally, from the ringing of the bell, the Whoresman start wrecking up the ringside area. Kicking and yelling. Hooting. Hollering. Carrying on. Daytona grabs a steel chair after pushing away the time keeper and slams it rapid fire against the ring steps. Harley Walker produces a bottle of Jack…and Rob Williams offers up a zippo lighter. Spray and pray time, motherfuckers. And Reed Young? Glorious…glorious spray paint rains down from the Heavens, with him underneath, trying to catch it in his mouth. Except he doesn’t have much of a mouth. Because of the gimp mask. This display of…hooliganism…gives pause to the Bandits. Yes, literal pause. Bobby Dean stops eating popcorn chicken. Tony Gamble stops smiling…that’s big. Hessian’s shoulders flare, his body coiling, ready to strike. And Cancer Jiles?

He fucking yawns.

With an expressionless glare of stone. After all, he’s well versed in the temper tantrums of children raised in a barn. Or The Pit. Obligatory hexcode reference, you fucking troglodytic pieces of shit.

All of this to say, Elvis Nixon has his hands full.

Coral, for his part, loads up, trying to swing in from the jump of the match, trying to pick the leg of Fred Dick and take him down. To try and wrestle with him. And he grabs the leg, that’s for sure. But Fred Dick isn’t Fred Dick right now. He makes ample jerk off motions at the leg pick attempt, even hopping on one foot. Double jerk offs. Double jerk offs from CAPTAIN PLANET! Avalon doesn’t hesitate and twists and turns the knee of Fred with a dragon screw.

Nick Stuart: Coral Avalon–

Richard Parker: What the–

Nick Stuart: Fred Dick is ALREADY up and he’s making those…

Richard Parker: …gestures. Yeah. The gestures.

Nick Stuart: Avalon doesn’t care though and LAUNCHES into Fred Dick with a european uppercut–

Richard Parker: –OH…but wait!

Nick Stuart: ANOTHER! Fred Dick isn’t moving ANOTHER! And ANOTHER! Fred Dick is just looking at him, looking through him…those were HEAVY shots by the Universal Champion but they didn’t as much as BUDGE the challenger–

THHHHHHHHHHHHHHHWACK!

Richard Parker: OH SWEET HOYT! OH MY SWEET TAP DANCING HOYT!

Nick Stuart: FRED DICK BURIES HIS HAND RIGHT ACROSS THE CHEST OF AVALON!

Richard Parker: HE HIT HIM LIKE A HOYT DAMN SKILLET!

Nick Stuart: AVALON! AVALON! AVALON is GRABBING his chest, and you can see OH SWEET LORD!

Richard Parker: LOOK AT THAT DAMN PAW PRINT ON HIS CHEST!

Avalon’s chest looks like he just went through a five minute knife-edge chop off. The bruising is REAL. And The King of Conquerors grabs his chest, cradling it, trying to catch his breath as hot tears piss from his eyes, as the air tries to find it’s way back into body.

BLAAAAAAAAAAAAM!

Nick Stuart: FRED DICK RAN RIGHT THROUGH AVALON! HIT HIM WITH HIS HIP–

Richard Parker: HE HIT HIM SO HARD HE MIGHT’VE DISLOCATED IT!

This isn’t the man with a win over FLAMBERGE. The finalist in the PRIME Tag League. The winner of Warchamber. No. This is something more. Something primordial. Something…from the bowels. Boiler Room Fred. Moving about. Halo Multiplayer t-bagging. Both hands going off in jack off motions. And as he does so? He is SINGING Unforgiven by Metallica. Or slurring it. Good lord. The Bandits watch. The Whoresman, they are hooting and hollering, but they are mesmerized. More spray paint fills the air.

From the Depths of Hell…

On his way to Colossus…

Boiler.

Room.

Fred.

As he goes on about labeling me and labeling you, he grabs hold of Coral, and SPLATTERS him with a headbutt. The Universal Champion, 2024’s seeming ETERNAL Champion, has no answer. He tries to fire off a forearm, and even though he can feel just how badly he sunk it deep into the jaw of his challenger, it means JACK DIDDLY SHIT. Or shid. His eyes are as wide as saucers. He goes to try and get a double leg takedown. Beasts and monsters, they have a tendency to have light gas tanks. Or they have big ones and they burn hot and blow through all their fuel. Coral, for his part, knows he has the wrestling acumen advantage.

It doesn’t matter.

Fred Dick stuffs the takedown.

And hercs up the Universal Champion.

And calls him The Unforgiven.

AND POWERBOMBS HIM THROUGH THE DAMN CANVAS.

A hook of the leg.

ONE!

TWO!

THREEEENO!

But BARELY. Just barely.

Richard Parker: What in the damn HOYT is this?

Nick Stuart: MY GOD! MY GOD! FRED DICK ALMOST BECAME UNIVERSAL CHAMPION RIGHT THERE!

Richard Parker: THIS IS INSANE! THIS IS–

Nick Stuart: Fred Dick YANKS Avalon to his feet and POWERS him into the corner…HE JUST CALLED HIMSELF A TONKA TRUCK! KNEE TO THE MIDSECTION! HEADBUTT! CORAL AVALON IS GETTING ABSOLUTELY ANNIHILATED–

Richard Parker: AND THE BANDITS ARE DOING NOTHING–

Nick Stuart: STOMP TO THE BOOT! KNEE TO THE GUT! Coral is doubling over KNEE TO THE HEAD! OH MY GOD! TOMAHAWK SLAP TO THE FACE! AVALON CRUMBLES TO THE CANVAS!

Richard Parker: HE CAN’T BE–

Nick Stuart: KISS THE RING! KISS THE RING! AND NOW HE’S DRAGGING AVALON’S FACE BEHIND HIM–

Richard Parker: LIKE A DOG WITH TAPE WORMS–

Nick Stuart: THIS IS–

Richard Parker: AND HE’S STILL DOING THE GESTURES–

Nick Stuart: WAIT! ROLL UP!

ONE!

Boiler Room Fred IMMEDIATELY kicks out.

There isn’t even hesitation.

Avalon scrambles to get to his feet.

You label me.

I label you.

Like a torpedo, Boiler Room Fred launches his gimp mask Captain Planet suit wearing ass into the Universal Champion, who eats the blow like a stack of pins being smashed by a bowling ball. And from the ground, Boiler Room Fred, the King of Pained Paint Style, begins throwing his head into the massive forehead of his opponent.

The targeting gets a HA from Cancer Jiles. It’s involuntary. Maybe. We don’t know. His expression has yet to change. The mutually assured destruction on the outside of the ring has yet to spill over. It has yet to go crazy. But the Poor Whoresman are carrying on something fierce. Daytona is riding his steel chair like a horsey. Rob Williams is just looking for an excuse. Harley Walker is chugging and spitting out his Jack, narrowly missing the spray with his zippo lighter. Hessian is about to cross the rubicon. Bobby Dean is the voice of reason. Yeah? No. He just seems to constantly be in the way of Hessian at any moment he might strike out and start the pier six brawl.

That Avalon’s head is intact is a minor miracle. This is bad. Very bad. He knew this wasn’t going to be a conventional match. But…this? How does one prepare for THIS? What film do you study? Do you go into the woods and trying to find bears that have partial lobotomies that make them more aggressive? And somehow kill their ability to feel pain? His dragon screw, his forearms, his european uppercuts, they hit flush. The connected well enough to break teeth. To stretch ligaments. But they don’t matter.

Nothing matters.

Fuck you.

Boiler Room Fred, sick of bashing The King of Conquerors with his own head, takes the Universal Champion into a side headlock. And for those watching at home, this is one of the single most one sided Universal Championship matches ever. Especially for a Champion who looks like at any one moment, is about to lose everything. About to have everything dashed. The year for the ages. The chance to main event the biggest show of the year AS THE UNIVERSAL CHAMPION. The chance to stand alone with the most defenses in one reign as the pinnacle of all sports. And like a big, wet, blackberry juice fart, it was trickling down the drain. Slowly. Agonizingly. The smell of armpit sweat. The howling of the world’s worst James Hetfield impersonator. And it doesn’t matter. It’s like a vise grip has him. And it isn’t letting go.

Avalon grabs around the hips of Boiler Room Fred, and with everything he has, he lifts. The jerk off motion with his free hand leaves Fred oddly susceptible, and before he knows it, he is brought back with a back suplex.

Bridge.

Pin.

ONE

TWO

NOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: Was that Coral’s best chance–

Boiler Room Fred kicks out at two. This…is big. Very big. And Reed Young knows it. He’s freaking out. Like a gimp. And he NEEDS to get the spray paint back to Boiler Room Fred. The lyrical constitution of Unforgiven is starting to unravel. The jerk off motions are…slowing. And Fred, he is rising, throwing his hips into the midsection of the Universal Champion. Enough of this dumb ass shid. It’s time.

Time for the Era of Wrong Style.

Fuck Coral Avalon. Who is he, anyway? The manager of the Winds of Change?

Running start.

BLOOD.

MODE.

Nick Stuart: OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!

Richard Parker: OH HOOOOYT!

Nick Stuart: RHONGOYMNIAD! RHONGOYMNIAD! HOW?! HOW DID HE DO THAT?!

Avalon went with the arm. Superior balance and movement. And he sticks the kick. And Boiler Room Fred…the record skips. The Black Album stops. And all that’s left is the fumes of a drug haze. Lingering about on his feet.

Reed Young tries to get into the ring. To give his charge more of that sweet aerosol nectar. To unleash the dragon, or the goat, or whatever.

He doesn’t make it.

Hey…did somebody out there order some

STUFFED

CRUST

PIZZA!

Reed Young sure did. The popcorn chicken bucket is gone. Down to the finger licks. And with the burst of deep fried energy, The Man From Honalee absolutely STUFFS the ever loving shit out of Reed Young. It’s horrendous. It’s hideous. And the fans are GOING WILD! And Elvis Nixon, seeing as how this has all spilled into the ring, which was failed to be mentioned?

He violently motions for Bobby Dean to be ejected.

Vince Howard: Bobby Dean has been EJECTED from ringside!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Nick Stuart: Oh COME on–

Richard Parker: Don’t YOU DARE even go there–

Nick Stuart: Reed Young–

Richard Parker: WE ARE NOT GOING TO SPLIT HAIRS! WE ARE NOT GOING TO MAKE IT SEEM LIKE IT’S OKAY FOR ONE SIDE AND NOT THE OTHER! I WILL NOT! NO! NOT WHEN CANCER JILES–

Pucker.

Kiss.

Except there isn’t any of that, because The Bandits are apoplectic about sweet, innocent Bobby Dean’s ejection. The Beautiful One trudges away, the piano music of The Hulk behind him.

The Poor Whoresman have a big ole laugh at this. Daytona is on the announce table, pelvic thrusting in their direction. Hessian is ready to kill. Tony Gamble prevents him. Tony Gamble? A voice of reason?

What.

The.

Fuck?

An exasperated Coral Avalon tries to collect himself, completely out of sorts in this absolutely out of sorts contest. He would rather be anywhere else than here. It’s an unknown. Beyond any wrestling he’s done on any continent. The air is rarified here. And Boiler Room Fred…is melted away. Fred Dick is lumbering, trying to collect himself. His head ringing.

Fuck this.

Nick Stuart: RHONGOYMNIAD! RHONGOYMNIAD AGAIN!

Richard Parker: RUNNING START!

Coral Avalon is done with all this. Fred Dick sits up. Reality is SCREAMING at him to kill this fool. And he will. Take off running, King of Conquerors.

Nick Stuart: SECACE!

Richard Parker: HE’S GOING TO COMPLETE THE COMEBACK!

There is no cover. No. Hell no. This insanity, it has to end. Avalon climbs to the top rope. From here, he can see Colossus. The road is clear.

Seize the grandest of moments.

Nick Stuart: CARNWENNAN! COOOOOOOOVER!

The entire crowd counts with him.

ONE

TWO

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!

Richard Parker: THE WHORESMAN JUST YANKED NIXON OUT OF THE RING! Walker and Williams!

The back of Nixon’s head smacks against the ground, causing him to instantly turtle. Rob Williams, seeing the opportunity, grabs the chair from the hand of Daytona Diamonds, still perched on the announce desk. And with all he has he puts it up in the air and into the ring. Avalon is irate. He sees the chair and tries to stop this all from unfolding.

Harley Walker, however, is in the ring. All as Fred Dick lays, quite literally dead, on the canvas. Walker goes to take a shot at the Universal Champion. Avalon ducks it. Fires off a european uppercut into the jaw of his one time Alias Champion foe. And then he throws another that sends him over the top rope.

Easily I might add.

Because Tony Gamble has grabbed and pulled the top rope.

Rob Williams is ready to get it on. Too bad the Hess Express is pulling up to the station. Heavy, powerful, meaty blows rain down upon Williams. Tony Gamble begins to try and pick the bones of Harley Walker. The Jack Daniels bottle shatters as The Grin smashes it across his head. All in all, a big tangle of bodies. Running from the back are the other officials. Ashley Barlow. Jimmy Turnbull. With them are the Enemigos. This wildness is sure to put an end to the match. The fans are ready to boo. Instead, they motion for the brawling wrestlers to be ejected.

Vince Howard: ROB WILLIAMS, HARLEY WALKER, HESSIAN, AND TONY GAMBLE ARE EJECTED FROM RINGSIDE!

And while they all fight, the officials and security trail with them. Avalon watches this scene unfold. Something isn’t right.

Oh God…something isn’t right.

The uncomfortable murmur through the crowd.

Fred Dick isn’t where last he saw him.

Turn around, Coral.

Colossus ebbs away.

The Intense Champion smirks with his loaded chair.

The Universal Champion, however, charges forward, ready to strike.

Daytona Diamonds drops to the canvas. A Rhongomyniad narrowly missed. And after picking him to be on his War Games team! Poor is thicker than water. The chair is tossed in the air.

And Fred Dick tomahawk spikes it into the head of Coral Avalon.

But not from the ground.

The air.

SLAP

BOX

WITH

GOD

Colossus…make way for The Street Cat.

But there is NO referee!

All the better. Because Daytona is rising and ready to get a hold of Nixon to get him back in the ring. And as he does.

TERMINAL.

FUCKING.

CANCER.

Salt shoes. The King of COOL stands over Daytona Diamonds, then, looks toward Fred Dick. The Street Cat roars in hillybilly jibberish. And he charges.

Jiles ducks Blood Mode. But the momentum is taking Fred back around. He’s ready to strike again. And Jiles, he isn’t going to have time to avoid this one.

Nick Stuart: COOLYMPIAN YOLJK!

Good job. On that one.

Coral Avalon.

Richard Parker: DID AVALON JUST YOLJK HIM?!

Fred Dick grabs at his eyes, screaming, clawing at them with his fingers. Jiles is out of the ring, rolling the dazed Elvis Nixon back into the ring.

Avalon runs forward.

But Fred senses it.

Fred, King of Wrong Style, is right.

BLOOD MODE!

Wait.

RHONGOYMNIAD TO THE ARM!

Fred swings around and throws BLOOD MODE with the OTHER arm.

This time, Avalon gets a hold of him, and rolls through with him. Isolates him on the ground. And starts yanking on his arms with every damn thing he has.

Nick Stuart: VORTIGERN’S PILLORY! VORTIGERN’S PILLORY! OMAPLATA ARMBAR!

Richard Parker: FRED IS FIGHTING IT!

He is. Like a greased hog, like a feral boar, Fred Dick kicks his legs out as best as he can, struggling in quick succession to get to the ropes. Avalon screams out in unadulterated frustration. He can feel himself breaking apart at the seams. Like everything he has is riding on this. And if Fred Dick can escape…he will have nothing left.

This man LAUGHS in the face of reality.

So close already. Legs kicking out. Fred Dick is going to get the ropes.

Except…with one last gasp, Avalon yanks back. They roll. Right back to the center of the ring.

Fred Dick squeals like a hog now. And he tries desperately to get away. But Avalon, as though he is straining with everything he has, is TEARING HIM APART! This is brutal. This is agonizing. Everything he has. Everything he can give. He will rip this man apart at the joints.

Sweat nectar. The spray paint is so close. Reed Young is army crawling toward him but collapses. The can rolls towards him. Limply.

Just.

Out.

Of.

Reach.

He shakes his head. Shid, this hurts. Like a right bihch. Damm.

Elvis Nixon hears it.

He hears the submission.

DING DING DING DING!

Coral Avalon releases the hold, collapsing in a heap. Staring at the lights. Fred Dick balls up.

Vince Howard: THE WINNER! ANNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNND STIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIILL! UNIVERSAL! CHAMPION! COOOOOOOOOOORAL! AVALON!

Nick Stuart: HE DID IT! CORAL AVALON DEFENDED THE UNIVERSAL TITLE!

Richard Parker: In this…INSANITY!

Avalon rolls out of the ring, falling to a knee before retrieving the Universal Championship. Slowly, he staggers back in, drawing to the closest corner, and pumps the Universal Title skyward.

For the third time, he has defended the most prized championship in all of sports.

But make no mistake about it, the man who literally can’t feel his own arms right now, the man most think as nothing but some sick joke…he just showed the entire world of professional wrestling…that he is one of the absolutely most terrifying figures in all of the sport. Tonight, isn’t his night.

But the scary thing is…tomorrow might be.

Until then, though, On Shall The Crownless reign.

FADE

TO

BLACK