ReVival 64

Nick Stuart: Fans from near and far, we welcome you ReVival Sixty-Four! Live from Tenka no Daidokoro, the Nation’s Kitchen. Osaka!

Richard Parker: You just looked that up on your phone, didn’t you? Disqualify this fool.

Suddenly darkness.

Metal guitar riffs bang over the PA system as a masterclass guitarist picks a rhythmic, familiar tune from 1984 to breathe new life into.

“Holding Out For a Hero” by Little V brings the arena to a frenzy. It’s both familiar yet so full of energy that normal Japanese wrestling fans would be bouncing on their butts.

This is PRIME’s Go Home show before Culture Shock, though, so no cheeks are even touching their seats.

Amongst the frenzy of flashing lights, three brave souls emerge to actually keep pressing on in this suicide mission.

Light’s stop, highlighting The Anglo Luchador with his Tag Team belts. He’s flanked by Sebastian Gold and his Alias Championship, wearing a snarl-smile, and everyone’s bro Crash Jackson. The spotlights begin to rage forward as Nobody’s Heroes march into the fire.

The music finally catches on as the metal cover of a 1984 classic shatters the airwaves. The three Heroes make their way to ring and embellish this newfound rock anthem just as they each posture around adorning fans fifty six points five seconds into their new anthem.

I NEED A HERO!

The lights come up real quick as Crash, Bash, and the Mask throw a unified fist in the air. It’s not comic. It’s serious business. And it’s displayed by TAL’s posture as he pulls up his mic.

The Angle Luchador: I didn’t th-

NYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEETTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!

It’s the kind of sound you’d hear if there was a car crash and it was in Russian. And it’s connected to Alexei Ruslan.

Ruslan marches out from the entryway, carrying a megaphone in one hand (painted red, with yellow hammers and sickles of course!) as he belts out another loud, obnoxious flurry of…

Alexei Ruslan: NYET! NYET! NYET!  NYET! NYET!!

Behind him, a mass entry of Red Army members parades forth.

Red Army referee turned Official Red Army Interviewer (because no one on PRIME staff has been willing to interview The Red Army for over a year) Speedy Riggs follows behind Alexei wearing a soviet themed tropical shirt. Kenny Freeman and Randall Schwartz follow suit just behind Speedy. Rose is next, along with Bryan Dawkins. The newest member of the Red Army is sporting quite the look tonight with his hair slicked back to go along with a crimson red suit and black shirt. He completes the look with a yellow tie and new red and yellow sunglasses (available wherever PRIME merch is sold!). From a distance, one might say he bears a strong resemblance to a recently departed member of the Red Army who is now allegedly deceased via a tragic jolfing accident.

Nick Stuart: It’s like the backstage area is a clown car, and here come the clowns!

Richard Parker: I’m going to tell Ivan you said that!

As if Richard has summoned The Russian Bear himself, Stanislav emerges with Arina Timofeyevna next to him. The Russian Bear and PRIME Universal Champion thunders down the entryway like a shot of crimson flame in his scarlet uniform and myriad of medals. Timofeyevna, by contrast, wears a simple olive uniform, but she carries the most cherished prize: The Universal Championship.

Nick Stuart: Are you serious? There are eight of them and just three Heroes!

Richard Parker:  Look, Speedy Riggs is there, he never lets anything untoward happen in his wrestling ring!

Nick can only groan.

Ruslan hops up on the apron, but he doesn’t dare enter the ring alone, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t going to let his voice be heard.

Alexei Ruslan: NOW IT IS OUR TURN TO INTERRUPT YOU!!!

As he speaks, The Red Army surrounds the ring, equally spreading out to leave no means of exit to exist. When they reach their positions, Stanislav himself has made it to the ring, and as he steps up onto the apron, the rest follow suit, and then climb into the ring, completely surrounding The Anglo Luchador, Sebastian Gold, and Crash Jackson.

Stanislav has a microphone, while Timofeyevna remains behind him.

Ivan Stanislav: You do not get to start MY show. I am Universal Champion!

The crowd begs to differ as they begin to rain boos down upon the ring.

Richard Parker: Listen to them, they HATE the Heroes!!

Before Ivan can continue, The Luchador butts in.

TAL: NO! NO! You’re not doing this to these two after all the shit you and that rotten pineapple put them through, and you’re definitely not doing it to me.

RRRAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!

TAL: I don’t give a flying shit if you beat Big Hess, Jason Snow, Nova, and Karina Fucking Wolfenden to win that title, it does not give you carte blanche to do what you want when you want to do it. Lord knows why Lindsay puts up with it but I’m fucking DONE.

RRRAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!

Richard Parker: Jeez, why’s he so angry at Ivan? I get it, the fans hate him, but, that’s no reason to take it out on our proud Universal Champion!

Before the Luchador continues, Stanislav bellows in response.

Ivan Stanislav: Shut your mouth, Luchador. You can put your carcass in that list of “luminaries” who I have destroyed!

He points at the trio in the middle of the ring.

Ivan Stanislav: I do not have championship match tonight, so do not think I cannot eradicate you three vermin right here, right now, if I so much as will it! Look at three of you!

He points to Sebastian Gold.

Ivan Stanislav: The capitalist friend, who stabbed his ally in the back…

He nods towards Dawkins, then points to Jackson.

Ivan Stanislav: The court jester. Always helpful to make others look more intelligent.

He then levels his gaze at the Luchador.

Ivan Stanislav: And the failed veteran, who never can finish what he starts! You three call yourselves heroes?! DYAAHAAHAA!! You are nothing but leeches, charlatans, and liars! Ivan motions from Crash and Gold to TALRest assured, you two, he will lead you to ruin. Just like every thing he touches!

TAL grows more fiery with each accented word. Crash just looks at Bash with disinterest in his eyes. The Hot Dog Hero places a hand on Looch Bro’s sturdy shoulder and casually draws the mic up.

Crash: You done, bro?

RAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!

Crash: You don’t get it, champ.

The Red Army simultaneously turns to one another with amusement and confusion. As far as they know, anything these three Heroes have to say could set off a serious dismantling on their big debut.

Crash: You let Max walk around free to roam. You put the sour in the soup, dude. You planted that dark seed in Bryan’s head, homie…

Crash shoots a glare of unforgiveness at the Bruhmrade before turning back to Ivan.

Crash: And we don’t give a fuck about that belt, Broseph Stalin…

Richard Parker: Arrest Crash for treason! Right now!

Alexei positively fumes, but Ivan cracks a small grin, unsure if he is gonna kill these three tryhards now or later.

Crash: You aren’t gonna stomp around here anymore without steppin’ on a lot of Legos, bro.

Crash turns and begins circling inside the ring, giving fist bumps to TAL and Gold, before stopping on the side with Rose and Kenny Freeman.

Crash: And you two wanna ride with this cluster of fucks? It’s gonna come at a price. I promise you that much.

Kenny just glares at Jackson, either unable or unwilling to give a response without turning to Randall, who simply shakes his head. Rose paces back and forth around ringside — on account of this being the longest she’s gone without sharing her opinion.

Until now.

Rose: You know, you lot, I’ll give you credit where credit is due. Lots of people have run around PRIME, talking about being a hero, talking about fighting back against the so-called ‘bad guys’, but none of them have mustered up the guts to actually do anything about it. All talk, no action. But you three, finally, you’re doing something about it. The only problem is… it’s too late. Instead of heading off the problem when it started to fester, you’ve let it grow to ‘nature has reclaimed the planet’ level problems. And let’s be honest with ourselves… you three aren’t Brandon Youngblood, Jared Sykes, or Chandler Tsonda-level. You’re at the bottom of the totem pole… and Tom. You talk a good game… but the way I see it, you haven’t backed up a fucking thing yet.

A pissed off Gold grabs Crash’s mic.

Sebastian Gold: We haven’t backed anything up? We said we’d get in your way? Well, here we are! I said I’d take the Alias title, here it is!

He hits his title belt and turns to Dawkins

Sebastian Gold: Which reminds me, it’s Bryan Dawkins’ homecoming to Osaka!  Why don’t give him a warm welcome home!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The sunglasses help to hide it, but it’s obvious the newest member of the Red Army is rolling his eyes at the theatrics before flipping a switch with a sinister grin pasted across his face.

Bryan Dawkins: Before I address…whatever that was?

He gestures to Gold.

Bryan Dawkins: I’d like to comment on the events of two weeks ago.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Bryan Dawkins: What the hell? You guys don’t even know what I’m talking about yet!

Spoiler: Osaka doesn’t care.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Bryan Dawkins: Whatever – fuck you guys. I’m glad I moved from this fuckin’ dump of a city. It’s the second best decision I’ve made this year!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

In an uncharacteristic move for the typically respectful Japanese crowd, a few pieces of garbage are thrown toward the ring. No, I’m not talking about the “heroes”.

Bryan Dawkins: What I wanted to say is that I tried to thank Mr. Jolf himself, Joe Fontaine, for ridding the world of that spineless fuck Max Kael…but he kept tellin’ me he doesn’t talk to anthropomorphic pineapples, not after Pasadena…

Dawkins shrugs and refocuses on Sebastian Gold.

Bryan Dawkins: Anyway, back to the business at hand…that’s cute, Bash. Real cute. You boys are talkin’ a pretty big game for a group whose biggest accomplishment was not leaving Budokan Hall in body bags a couple weeks back. If ya want, I can have that arranged for this week, heh-heh–

Dawkins slips into a coughing fit for a moment before continuing.

Bryan Dawkins: Ah fuck, I can’t do this whole “pretend to be the dearly departed Max Kael” thing…

He rips off the tie and jacket and tosses both to ringside.

Bryan Dawkins: But let’s be real for a minute. Without that waste of oxygen interfering on your behalf, that title is still where it belongs…around my waist and in the Red Army.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!

Bryan Dawkins: So, you guys wanna paint yourselves as the honorable, doing what’s right heroes? Do the right thing and return that title to its rightful owner…before I make what Rob Williams did to you at Colossus look like a day at the fuckin’ spa.

He drops the microphone and gets nose-to-nose with the Alias Champion.

Sebastian Gold: You think this title is yours? ****This coming from the man who made a match impossible for me to win? And still…

A furious Sebastian holds up the Alias belt high over his head.

Sebastian Gold: I won. I don’t give a fuck what Max Kael did during our match. You’re mad because you cheated and still couldn’t win! You should learn from your new Starshy, B.D.  ‘Cause there’s only One Man who stole his title in this ring, and I will never call him my Universal Champion!

NOT MY CHAMP! NOT MY CHAMP!

Ruslan roars into his megaphone.

Alexei Ruslan: SHUT UP YOU IDIOTS!!

Ivan follows suit, looking left and right and bellowing angrily at the rowdy Osaka crowd. They might be neighbors with the Russians, but the Japanese fans aren’t interested in being friends. The vein in the side of his head can be seen from orbit as he nearly melts down. His rage boils over, and he charges at the three ants before him, his huge arms over his head.

When outnumbered two to one, discretion is the better part of valor, and the Heroes know it. Rather than escape separately, they move directly towards Ivan.

The Alias Champion slides between the Universal Champion’s legs and pops up behind him. Jackson bulldozes Ruslan onto his back. TAL leaps over Speedy Riggs (who seems to have had no interest in getting physical in the first place). By the time Ivan turns around, the trio are already out of the ring, and the crowd goes wild.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!

They hop the guardrail and move through the crowd, high fiving fans like the dyed in the wool babyfaces they are. Rose and Dawkins make to chase after them, but Ivan waves them back as he seethes in the middle of the ring, calling them off.

Ivan Stanislav: Run all you want, cowards! Consider this evening stay of execution!! You will have nowhere to hide tonight in Main Event!! DYAAHAAHAA!!

Rose: Tonight, The Red Army is going to take you apart!

Bryan Dawkins: And there’s nothing you can do about it!!

Amidst the rain of boos and vitriol from the crowd, The Red Army stands resolute and defiant in the ring.

ReVival 64 is now officially underway.

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/02/ReV64-Commercial.mp4

Osaka.

Do you have signs?

Of course you do.

THIS TIME I THINK MAX KAEL WILL ACTUALLY STAY DEAD
COLD OPEN IN RING
GLUEFORCERS JOLF FOURSOME
WHY DOESN’T CANCER JILES DRIVE A YOLKSWAGEN?
TONIGHT’S MAIN EVENT: RED, FIGHT, AND GLUE
FIRST THERE WAS REVIVAL, THEN SUPER REVIVAL, NOW REVIVAL 64 – CAN’T WAIT FOR REVIVALCUBE
WE’VE FINALLY REACHED REVIVALS THAT HAVE HIGHER NUMBERS THAN IVAN’S AGE

The score from “The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly” rises like a crescendo.

Then, dramatically, BLAZE CLAYMORE steps out into the rampway and the video feed immediately cuts to 16:9 aspect ratio with black bars at the top and the bottom. A red carpet rolls out from the back, but just a couple of feet.

BLAZE arrives wearing a cheap knock-off Armani-esque tearaway tuxedo, waving to the crowd while wearing sunglasses indoors like all movie stars do.

Vince Howard: The following contest is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, from Hollywood, California, weighing in at 180 pounds…he is “The Main Event”! BLAAAAAZE CLAAAAAYMOOOOOORE!

He makes his way to the edge of the red carpet, waving, offering autographs that are not being called for.

The movie score cuts as CLAYMORE dramatically tears away his tuxedo, revealing classic black wrestling gear.

ONE FINGER AND A FIST

I’LL CLAW MY WAY OUT OF ANY SITUATION

I GOT A ONE TWO PUNCH

I’LL FIGHT MY WAY THROUGH ANY CONFRONTATION

Drowning Pool’s “One Finger and a Fist” blasts through the arena speakers to a fair amount of cheers from the Osaka crowd. MD Storm emerges, and he’s in a good mood, earnestly smiling at the crowd. He high fives a few fans and raises his arms up and up to pump up the crowd.

Vince Howard: And his opponent! From Frederick, Maryland! He is “The Charm City Champion”! M! D! STOOOOOOOOOORM!

Storm raises his left index finger to the sky and balls his right hand into a fist as he finishes making his way to the ring.

Referee Jimmy Turnbull checks in with both competitors and signals for the bell!

DING DING

Nick Stuart: This Osaka crowd is ready for action! Here we go!

MD Storm raises his fists and lightly bounces on his feet in a classic fighting stance. BLAZE CLAYMORE chooses not to engage right away, holding up a finger to his opponent in a classic “hang on a sec” stance. Storm declines and begins to press forward. BLAZE ducks his head beneath the top rope and leans outside, beckoning Storm off. Referee Jimmy Turnbull makes sure Storm gives enough clearance, then motions for BLAZE to engage, and he re-enters the ring.

For a second. Then, CLAYMORE holds up his finger again, which draws a few boos; he steps between the ropes again and begins motioning and leaning as if he was about to set up for a really kickass movie star pose. Storm gives him about two seconds before he decides he’s had enough, and he charges across the ring!

SMACK

A clubbing lariat from Storm sends CLAYMORE tumbling through the ropes, off the apron, and to the floor! Storm runs back, bounds off the opposite ropes, and charges – he flies through the middle and bottom ropes…

CRASHHHH

Nick Stuart: MD Storm with a big dive to the outside, he crashes into the debuting BLAZE CLAYMORE! A bit of an inauspicious start for PRIME’s newest “movie star”!

Richard Parker: You gotta figure Storm’s got something to prove tonight, he’s starting off aggressively!

Turnbull calls for the competitors to bring it backside, which currently falls on deaf ears as MD Storm throws lefts and rights, jabs and hooks, some getting blocked by CLAYMORE but some sharp shots getting through. Finally, The Main Event catches a right from The Charm City Champion and pops him in the nose with an elbow of his own. Seeing that the shot has stunned Storm, BLAZE follows up with a headbutt, and another, and before long he’s got Storm pressed against the ring steps, launching his skull with reckless abandon in a Headbutt Rush.

Turnbull’s count is beginning to climb, and so CLAYMORE rolls under the bottom rope, then back to the outside again. The referee is not thrilled about restarting this count, and neither is the crowd. CLAYMORE spreads his arms out wide and begins to motion and stretch and lean forward, prepping for some big grandiose pose once again – and hits it!

Richard Parker: Blue Steel ain’t got nothing on this!

BOOOOOOOM

Nick Stuart: Patriot Punch by Storm! What a shot!

CLAYMORE is sent to the floor in a heap after Storm’s Superman punch connects flush. Storm picks up his sack-of-potatoes opponent, and with a strong heave, he tosses him under the bottom rope and follows him into the ring. Storm throws a quick burst of mounted punches and returns the previous favor with a headbutt of his own, causing both men to go a bit bug-eyed. After a second, Storm shoots the half!

ONE!

TWO! CLAYMORE gets the shoulder up! Storm goes for the mount again, but CLAYMORE presses his legs against his opponent’s chest and shoves him away! BLAZE then kips up and throws a roundhouse kick! Storm ducks underneath! He spins and throws a haymaker – CLAYMORE Matrix-bends backwards and dodges the bullet! Storm stumbles a bit, and CLAYMORE takes advantage with a short kick to the knees! Storm falls face-first! BLAZE then steps forward with energy and bursts up…

THUNKKKKK

Nick Stuart: Oh, BRUTAL Curb Stomp from the man who calls himself The Main Event!

Richard Parker: When I hear that, it makes me think – are we sure BLAZE CLAYMORE isn’t proof that Looper is a documentary and that he’s come to kill off Cancer Jiles?

Nick Stuart: …is that the plot of Looper?

Richard Parker: It’s the plot of something.

Nick Stuart: Cover!

ONE!

TWO!

STORM kicks out, fist in the air!

CLAYMORE has two goals in mind at this moment: press this advantage, and look good doing it. After some mental calculus, he decides the best way to do that is to stay on his feet for maximum posing range.

He presses a knee into Storm’s left shoulder and cranks back his left wrist in a Standing Armbar. Once it’s cinched in and Jimmy Turnbull’s attention is focused on whether or not Storm submits, he begins a run of some classic movie poster poses.

Marty McFly checking his wrist on Back to the Future. James Bond shooting down the barrel of a gun. Rocky Balboa’s fist in the air, which is followed by some grinding of the knee into Storm’s shoulder to layer in the insult.

The crowd’s boos escalate at this, and Storm is fighting his way out, though his arm is still trapped. CLAYMORE starts to swizzle his hips a little, maybe this one’s Dirty Dancing? Or Grease? Regardless, at this stage, his previous priorities have reversed from their previous order, which gives Storm the opening he needs to power out of the hold! CLAYMORE looks at his hands like he doesn’t know how that hold could have possibly slipped. Storm’s left arm is hanging a little, but you only need one arm to punch –

BOOOOOOOM!!

RAHHHHHHH!!

Nick Stuart: Another Superman punch by Storm!

Richard Parker: Ah, but look, he’s not going for the pin – that arm bar did some damage before CLAYMORE decided to work on a new set of glamor shots!

Storm backs into a corner and starts catching his breath, keeping his eyes on his cocky opponent. CLAYMORE ends up in the opposite corner, stumbling there, seeing stars after that punch.

The respite is short. Both men get a similar idea.

CLAYMORE charges forward and lifts his leg up for a Yakuza kick –

Storm charges and spins, launching the haymaker From the 443 –

…

…

SMMMSMMMACCKKACKKKKK!!!

OHHHHHHHHHHH!!

Both men connect with absolutely crushing headshots – CLAYMORE’s boot meeting Storm’s face a split second before the momentum carries his own face into Storm’s closed fist – and they’re both down!

The crowd begins to clap in unison, slowly, then quicker over time. Then the claps turn to cheers as Storm is the first competitor to make it to a knee; then a knee and a boot. He checks his head with his right hand, which smarts a bit – everything smarts a bit, really. CLAYMORE is still down, and if anything, he seems to be breathing…dramatically? Is that the right way to describe it? Theatrically. Some would say cartoonishly, but CLAYMORE would probably say theatrically. The way a leading man’s torso would heave in and out during a great physical struggle, with notes of Brad Pitt and Ed Norton.

Meanwhile, as CLAYMORE plays action star, Storm is ready to be the action star, and he’s on his feet. He sees his prone opponent and the deep breaths of a dying man and charges forward, locking his wrists around CLAYMORE’s waist, and heaving!

THUD!

Nick Stuart: Crab Trap Suplex from the Charm City Champion!

Richard Parker: I went to Charm City once, they didn’t even give you the little bracelets you use for showing off your charms!

Nick Stuart: …

Richard Parker: …

THUD!

Nick Stuart: …and another Crab Trap Suplex!

Richard Parker: It wasn’t very CHARMING, was going to be the punch line, if you didn’t leave me hanging there.

Nick Stuart: He’s going for a third one here!

Richard Parker: Unbelievable.

As Storm positions himself to deliver a third of his version of a German Suplex, CLAYMORE’s next theatrical performance begins. He dramatically grabs at Storm’s hands and looks to use his raw, movie star strength to power out of this predicament and show off his handsomeness.

It’s not working.

BLAZE CLAYMORE: CUT! Cut! Restart at 1, we’ll reshoot that sequence, places!

…and then BLAZE tries to make his way back to the corner where he started the match.

While Storm’s arms are still locked around his waist.

So BLAZE makes it a whole inch and a half.

…

Jimmy Turnbull looks around and cleans out his ear – did he hear that right?

…

THUD!

Nick Stuart: And there’s the third Crab Trap Suplex!

Storm hooks both legs and leans back!

ONE!

TWO!

…

THR-NOOOO! CLAYMORE rolls through! He’s got Storm’s shoulders pressed!

ONE!

TWO!

Storm kicks out! He’s raining down strikes now, strikes of every shape and size! Jabs! Chops! Haymakers! If he sees it, it’s getting hit! CLAYMORE is dazed, and Storm hooks the far leg!

ONE!

TWO!

…

THREEEENOOOOOO! CLAYMORE just barely gets the shoulder up! More strikes from Storm!

Nick Stuart: This kid is RELENTLESS! It’s a Blizzard Barrage!

Richard Parker: I would just say “I quit” to stop the punching! Geez!

Following the barrage, Storm takes a step back and spins like a whirling dervish – he throws a discus lariat!

…and BLAZE CLAYMORE has dramatically taken a bow. In the middle of the ring.

Yeah. He’s bowing to “his fans” after “his performance”, covered in welts and bruises and maybe even a trickle of red coming down his left eyebrow.

It’s a cascade of boos.

Storm’s lariat finds air, and his momentum sends him bouncing into the ropes. He is slow to rebound, but as he’s turning…

SMASH!

CLAYMORE absolutely trucks Storm with a spear into the corner.

For good measure, CLAYMORE presses the back of Storm’s head against the bottom of the corner padding and sticks him with a single nasty headbutt. Storm is out of it and sitting on the ground against the padding.

CLAYMORE delivers one more pose for good measure – Kevin from Home Alone, hands on yelling cheeks, before charging at his downed opponent…it’s a Bronco Buster!

Nick Stuart: He’s hit him with the Blockbuster!

Richard Parker: The absolute disrespect of that man! Blockbuster used to mean something in this country!

Nick Stuart: …you mean America, right? Because I don’t know if Japan had Blockbuster or not…

Storm is a mess as he separates from the corner of the ring. His vision is blurred, but he still has that fight in him – forever, for all times, that one finger and a fist mentality refuses to quit – and that closed fist is ready, if he could just see that damned BLAZE CLAYMORE…

THUNNKKKK

OHHHHHBOOOOOOOO!

He doesn’t find him – or, he can’t find him. Instead, a running step-up axe kick finds the back of Storm’s head.

BLAZE CLAYMORE: HOLLYWOOOOOOOO!

BOOOOOOO!

He presses Storm’s shoulders to the mat!

ONE!

TWO!

…

THREE!

DING DING DING!

Vince Howard: Here is your winner…”The Main Event”, BLAAAAZE CLAYYYYYYYYMOOOOOOOORE!

The theme from “The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly” blasts through the arena to a booing crowd. Turnbull checks on Storm, who seems to be rallying ok as he holds the back of his head.

Nick Stuart: MD Storm once again showed a tremendous amount of fight here tonight, but it was not meant to be as BLAZE CLAYMORE starts off his PRIME career 1-0.

Richard Parker: A lot of PRIME heavy hitters can’t say they did that; Ivan Stanislav, FLAMBERGE, Coral Avalon to name a few. Someone’s gotta get into his ear about this movie star thing, but if it’s working, it’s working!

CLAYMORE poses dramatically, the war hero triumphant, as the boos continue.

We cut to a close up, tight shot of smoke billowing out of the fiery red tip of a lit cigar. Can you smoke cigars inside Osaka-Jo Hall? Who the fuck knows. You know who doesn’t? Rob Williams. He doesn’t care, either. Beside “The Legend” in her flowing white robe is his tag team partner, Partner in Crime, and Australia’s Favorite Immigrant Daughter – Anna Daniels. Behind them is The King of Wrong Style himself, Frederick fucking Dick. Surely Daytona is somewhere around snorting copious amounts of that John Belushi.

The Whoresmen

The sordid group is joined by a very uncomfortable looking Angelica Brooks. Why is Angelica so uncomfortable? Why, because Dingtona Diamonds is on a laughably short leash that Williams is mindlessly holding. Obviously Rob did not consider what to do with this wild animal after the match with the VV boys.

A long, white rectangular box sits on the catering table (wtf is with this guy and catering tables?) next to Rob Williams. There is a red sash running horizontal and vertical tied into a surprisingly neat bow.

Angelica Brooks: I am, unfortunately, here with the Whoresmen and Dingtona Diamonds at the request of Rob Williams.

Rob Williams: What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You know what, I don’t give a shit. Do what you do best and hold the microphone with that stupid fucking face of yours. Yeah, I requested you bring your saggy ass back here so we get our opportunity to tell the world that we have filed a FORMAL COMPLAINT with the Seattle Gaming Commission against PRIME. A crime was committed last September.

Rob ashes his cigar in the direction of Angelica Brooks with a smirk.

Rob Williams: That’s right, the Whoresmen and Fuck Your Tag Team were robbed. We are the rightful Tag Team Champions. Now I’m not the type to go as far as to accuse Lindsay Troy of a screwjob – but let’s look at the details here. One – two bums beat four of the greatest to ever do this shit. Two – the ghost of Tag Champs past assailed me while not the legal combatant. Three – Elvis Nixon ran the match and he doesn’t know a sneeze from a wet fart when it comes to tag matches.

Anna scoffs as she puts away the Game Boiger.

Anna Daniels: Bold of you to assume these people give a flying fuck about the details, Rob. They really don’t give a shit until it affects them.

She shakes her head, clearly fighting off a migraine just thinking about it all.

Anna Daniels: From the very first moment of us being in that tag tournament, it was made perfectly clear that the roster, the staff, and PRIME management really did not want us to be there. And honestly, we don’t quite understand why. All throughout the path, we were being dragged down by the absolute shittiest refereeing we personally have ever seen in a wrestling promotion. Each time we won, we had to damn near had to kill the other motherfuckers and force the officials to do their goddamned jobs. Even with that, they still kept fucking us over at every given turn, including that last match.

Anna points to the box.

Anna Daniels: But Lindsay–and on this point, we speak only for us, not Rob–we were going to let it go. As much as the whole thing pissed us off, we were going to be the bigger person and keep right on rolling. Because that’s allegedly how you’re supposed to do things around here. That’s what people like to say when you bring stuff like this up. So we let you have your ‘champions’. Then what happened? One of your ‘champions’ died and the other one clearly doesn’t give a flying fuck. We gave you time to fix the issue. Perhaps even too much. And now, that time is up.

Rob Williams: So in the infamous words of Brad Pitt – WHAT’S IN THE BOX? Fred, would you kindly do the honors?

Fred jostles the box excitedly, holding it to his ear.

Fred Dick: Ooooh what’s in hereeee? A brand new big fat dyuck for me??? Could it be a bomb that’s gonna blow my ace up??? Maybe it’s a new car. Or, maybe, it’s someone’s GOD DAMN DECAPITATED HEAD INSIDE DIS BEEEEEEYITCH. Only one way to find out.

Fred opens the box. It’s like that scene in Pulp Fiction where Vincent Vega opens the suitcase. Fred’s face lights up with a golden hue coming off of whatever is in the box. He turns to Rob fully animated like it’s Christmas day in the trailer park and he just got his first pouch of Redman chew. Rob smiles and nods before turning back to the camera.

Rob Williams: You can keep your shitty little Tag Titles and Tag Champs, Troy. The Whoresmen’s friend Jackson Cooley has a lot of friends. And money. He’s very close with the Reno Gaming Commission and he called in a little favor. So we present to you, the fully sanctioned Universal Tag Champions.

From inside the box Rob pulls the two biggest fucking Tag Titles you’ve ever seen and they’re so Rob Williams. Snakeskin, more gold than Saudi Arabia,.and a big “FUCK YOUR TAG TEAM” name plate. All they’re missing is halitosis and a crippling drug addiction. Rob hands one to Anna and then straps his on.

…there’s a joke to make about strap-ons here. But enough about that. The Muse analyzes her tag belt like she is appraising a rare artifact.

Anna Daniels: You know, these kinda fit us pretty fuckin’ well. Big, loud, and somewhat annoying. Which at this point is something this company painfully needs. The tag division has clearly been covered in mud since that fateful night and since none of you dipshits can do your jobs, we’ll do ours.

She straps her shiny new belt on–once again avoiding the joke–and pats the massive face plate with a shit eating grin.

Anna Daniels: Broad shoulders carry a division and big brass balls are needed to carry big golden belts. It’s just a damn shame the rest of y’all have been neutered.

Fred quietly gasps. His eyes tear up. He looks away. She glances at him.

Anna Daniels (whispering): Sorry, bro. We forgot about the whole you not having a dick thing.

Deep breaths, everyone! Anna clears her throat, reaches out and pinches Angelica’s cheeks.

Anna Daniels: Now if you excuuuuuse us, child, we got some work to do.

Rob throws his cigar at the camera like it’s a toothpick. Ashes and embers explode everywhere and the cameraman drops the camera. There are multiple curse words muttered by the cameraman and Angelica as chaos erupts. How fitting.

Rob Williams: Ah fuck, I didn’t mean to do all that. Whatever – send me the bill. Arrive, fuck shit up, leave. Say goodnight to the Universal Tag Champs out. Come on, Fred.

Fred does not come on. Fred looks hurt – emotionally, not physically.

Fred Dick: How come y’all didn’t make me a fancy new snakeskin title?

Rob Williams: Well goddamnit Fred, now you’ve gone and made me feel bad. You know how much it hurts me when you get upset like this. Come on, let’s go find something real nice and expensive we can steal for you to make it up.

ReVival moves on.

We cut… well, not exactly to the backstage bowels of the grand Osaka-jo Hall, but rather to a location right next to the arena hosting the night’s exciting affairs of PRIME action – the grounds of Osaka Castle.

Because Osaka-jo means Osaka Castle

So it’s the hall of Osaka Castle.

Which means the show is at the castle.

What I’m trying to express is that there’s a whole castle right outside. It even has fancy light up shows!

The sun is starting to dim as the cameras slowly pan around to find that two men involved in the evening’s main event are admiring the views of both the castle and the surrounding moat. There’s some beautiful golden boats drifting around the moat, and the hustle and bustle of the masses of tourists enjoying an evening walk around the large grounds consumes the rest of the scene.

Of course, as the camera gets closer, we realise that in fact, the two men are not admiring the beautiful grounds, but rather are using the moat for their own nefarious purposes – a jolf driving range.

Who would do such a thing with such disregard for their host country and their culture and traditions?

Cecilworth Farthington and Joe Fontaine of course. I mean I should’ve said there are three people but does Fabby even count as a person? More of a human golf cart to drag the jolf bag around.

Joe is rummaging around the jolf bag as Fabby holds it up, while Cecilworth seems to already have found his choice.

Cecilworth Farthington: So this is the 2-iron?

Cecilworth holds up the two brass knuckles with chair insignias up to admire in the ever dimming sun.

Cecilworth Farthington: This is just so me. It’s very me Joe.

As if testing their authenticity, Cecilworth tosses a ball in the air and punches it down in the moat below, thankfully missing a golden boat full of tourists’ heads and eye holes. Cecilworth gives a respectful nod to Joe, very much appreciating the craftsmanship, as if there was any.

Cecilworth Farthington: Thanks for making it over to Japan too, I know it wasn’t in your plans but when you know, when opportunity knocks, slaughter it with cheesegraters… that’s an old Farthington family saying.

Joe Fontaine: I remember reading about old Farthington family sayings while we were hanging out in the manor. It’s right there next to “never shit in a dead man’s forest”. Not sure what that one means, but y’know… Jolf!

That is the battle cry of a man swinging a seven-iron, which is made from an alien material not found on this world and makes a curious sound like it’s screaming when it hits a jolf ball. Cecilworth raises a quizzical eyebrow.

Cecilworth Farthington: Is this supposed to do that?

Joe Fontaine: Well… No. I don’t think it likes the weather. It’s definitely sensitive about the weather.

Cecilworth nods knowingly.

Cecilworth Farthington: Yes, yes, the weather. It’s cold but not too cold. Like it’ll produce erect nipples but not shivers. I can see that being a terrifying thing to this seven-iron.

Joe Fontaine: It also hates being sat upon, so I think it might be happier as a jolf club. Everyone loves the seven-iron, though. Even if they don’t know why. I heard it causes hypnosis in one out of every four adults. Very curious, the seven iron.

Cecilworth gestures to Fabby, who is standing completely still, bag still propped up against him.

Cecilworth Farthington: Does that explain… that?

Cecilworth fires another punch ball into the murky depths below, this one gets a lot closer to the swerving gilded tourism boats.

Cecilworth Farthington: Still, we have business dear Joe. What began two weeks ago in Tokyo… that was just a delicious teaser taste. Like when you get those little things on cocktail sticks at a Costco. Now, much like you, I would have also enjoyed if Coral Avalon’s career was ended by our hands, but then those rude Russian types got in the middle of it. Which is very disrespectful when you think about it. He was our quarry!

Cecilworth looks at the seven-iron, which now appears to be… panting… that shouldn’t possibly be a thing.

Joe Fontaine: I know, right? I’ve been trying to scrub Avalon’s name off of the 6-iron for, like.. Four, maybe five minutes? I don’t know. Point is, I can’t get it off. I think it’s cursed, now.

Cecilworth gives a sage and additionally knowing nod.

Cecilworth Farthington: Unfulfilled blood curse, quite common in this day and age. That 6-iron is just going to be like that now… thanks to Ivan. Oh and also the other fifty people who make up his clown car. Who is in it now? Is the teeth guy still around? I liked how he had teeth that weren’t regular teeth.

Joe Fontaine: I don’t know. He hasn’t been around in like a year ever since the fart squad beat him up and then I think killed him a little bit. I think he’s into cheese now? Or maybe that’s someone else. Cheese teeth would be pretty weird, but I have a jolf club to handle that now. Well, had.

Joe laments the loss of his 4-wood, which definitely did not survive what he did with it outside of Budokan Hall two weeks ago. A tragic, yet necessary loss to the sport of jolf.

Cecilworth Farthington: It was for the greater good Joe, the Red Army would be like “rarr, Max is out” and then next thing you know he’s flying a red spaceship with a hammer and sickle into the Tokyo Dome and trying to laser blast me. We’re too wily for these tricks and traps and the 4-wood put an end to all that.

Third attempt at the ole ball punch and Cecilworth smacks what appears to be an American tourist right across the noggin. His fault for being on a boat, Cecilworth thinks, over all of the yelling that has suddenly developed.

Cecilworth Farthington: Speaking of tricks and traps, later tonight us, THE BOYS, THE ABSOLUTE LADS, we can counteract some of the nonsense that runs the risk of plaguing the Tokyo Dome. The Tokyo Dome isn’t for people like Rose to try and ruin perfect good main events through the evisceration of the entire crowd from scowling alone. Nor is it for Dawkins to try and cause a distraction by shoving an entire pineapple up his butt, which would be very distracting.

Joe Fontaine: I think the pineapple’s already there, to tell you the truth. I’ve seen how he walks. Waddles. Walkles.

Cecilworth Farthington: Man, I thought that was just because of him always wearing 3D glasses. I heard they mess with your depth perception.

Joe Fontaine: Well, we can mess with his, uh… um. Death perception! Yeah!

He mutters to himself.

Joe Fontaine: …gottem…

Cecilworth upon hearing the mutter, gives him an almost fatherly encouragement nod. The sort of nod that says “you sure did gottem”.

Cecilworth Farthington: Exactly. This Glueforcement that we’ve been asked to provide in tonight’s main event that pits a shoddily put together team with conflicting interests that seems destined to die againsts Jackson, Gold and the funny masked fella… I think we’ve been provided a GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY here, Joe. Golden, just like that boat below that has an angry bearded man yelling for some reason…

Cecilworth looks down and it appears the man has jumped out of the boat and is now swimming in the moat in a very jolf-like direction. Looks like a job for another shot 2-iron, Cecilworth thinks to himself, as he punches a ball straight to the man.

Cecilworth Farthington: Now that’s what they call a water hazard!

Joe Fontaine: Ooh. Six whole points. I think six points is good.

Cecilworth produces a parchment and quill, scribing the number six right onto the parchment.

Joe Fontaine: You know, two points for successfully jolfing a shot, three points for hitting somebody, and one point because it bounced to the left after it hit the beardman. I think that’s how we’re tallying it. Could’ve been seven points, but it bounced left.

He pauses, considering.

Joe Fontaine: Jolf is a mystery.

Cecilworth Farthington: A mystery that so many friends will get introduced to later tonight. Sadly as scoring methods rather than participants, but that’s neither here nor there or where.

Cecilworth’s thoughts derail at Joe’s jolf club, which now appears to be making lip smacking sounds.

Joe Fontaine: I think it’s hungry.

As if that itself was the full-time jolf whistle, or perhaps it was the sight of an angry bearded man scrambling up the rocks towards the jolf driving range, but Cecilworth thought it was time to skedaddle back towards the hall of the castle.

Cecilworth Farthington: Maybe we should skedaddle back to the hall of the castle. We do have some Glueforcement to plan with our darling friends, the men of lizardly ways and moustache density.

Joe Fontaine: Moo-stache.

Cecilworth blinks, or winks at Joe and begins the trek back to the Hall of Osaka’s Jo. We cut away as an ear piercing scream echoes from the jolf range, but we’re not there with enough time to work out if it’s Joe’s golf club or that guy with that beard.

ReVival moves on.

We go to ringside.

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

RAAAAAHHHHH!!!

Richard Parker: I hate when he does that.

Nick Stuart: Don’t worry, it only happens once a show.

Vince Howard: Introducing first… from the Red Army… weighing one-hundred-sixty pounds… KENNY FREEMAN!

A trap remix of the Soviet Union national anthem plays throughout the arena as Kenny Freeman steps out onto the stage, looking surprisingly confident in his chances of winning the match at hand…

Freeman marches down the rampway and towards the ring.

Richard Parker: We are in a new Red Army era.

Nick Stuart: Don’t remind me.

Richard Parker: With Coral no longer our king, I would assume a Kenny victory would please Ivan Stanislav greatly. Maybe even more than normal!

With Freeman inside the squared circle, Vince moves on.

Vince Howard: And his opponent… from Joshua Tree, California… weighing two-hundred-one pounds… SAGE PONTIFF!

“Satori Part II” by Flower Travellin’ Band cues up and The Bodhisattva of Transformative Experience makes his appearance. Looking controlled and focused, he walks down the ramp.

Nick Stuart: Sage is recently coming off a loss to RIA one month ago, we’ll see if he can get back on track.

Richard Parker: I heard what he had to say about Kenny Freeman and I will admit, Sage sounds locked in.

Pontiff enters the ring, before referee Ashley Barlow runs down the rules to both men…

DING DING

…And calls for the bell.

Pontiff walks to the center of the ring and meets Freeman there with a grapple. However, it’s a quick slide around Freeman’s body as Pontiff holds on and delivers a release side suplex, dropping Freeman on the side of his head and shoulder. Pontiff shoots off the ropes soon after and lands a missile dropkick, square into Freeman’s nose.

It looks like Kenny’s nose is busted open… but no, it’s just Freeman’s red right elbow pad that he’s rubbing his nose into. He’s stunned, but fine.

For now.

Pontiff deadlifts Freeman from behind and throws him halfway across the ring with a reverse gutwrench suplex!

Richard Parker: Strong moves to start, Sage isn’t messing around.

Freeman picks himself up, however. Kenny takes charge at Sage, until the Joshua Tree native steers the Red Army minion into the corner. Freeman smacks hard, chest-first against the buckle, as Pontiff spins Freeman around and looks for a normal gutwrench powerbomb this time.

No! Kenny escapes! The smaller wrestler bounces off the ropes and ducks a leaping forearm strike, as Freeman goes into the next set of ropes. He flies towards Pontiff with a dropkick to Sage’s knees and hits them before The Bodhisattva of Transformative Experience can move out of the way.

Kenny follows with a snap suplex. He holds on and delivers another. As all good things come in threes, Freeman tries for one more when Pontiff escapes by delivering a hard knee into Freeman’s chest.

Kenny doubles over and Sage hits the ropes. Pontiff comes flying off them with that clubbing forearm strike and this time it connects.

Nick Stuart: Sage looked like he was shot out of a cannon!

Richard Parker: I think Kenny Freeman is dead!

Indeed, Freeman hasn’t moved. Pontiff looks down at his opponent and gives his head a quick shake before peeling Freeman off the mat and sending Kenny right back down with an implant DDT.

Pontiff floats over and mounts Freeman. Begin the onslaught of headbutts.

Over and over, the shots drill into Freeman’s skull. Honestly, it looks like Sage is feeling the effects as well. Ashley Barlow calls for a break when Freeman ends up sliding both of them into the bottom rope but nevertheless, a break is needed on both ends.

Pontiff stands and shakes the double vision out of his head. He is seething, ever-so-slightly, as he marches over to Freeman-

But receives a swift kick to the stomach.

The air is temporarily knocked out of Pontiff, as Freeman uses the ropes to pull himself up. He latches onto Pontiff’s neck and then SLAMS them both down to the mat with an implant DDT of his own.

Freeman rolls Pontiff over.

Nick Stuart: We have a cover!

ONE!

TWO!

SHOULDER UP!

Kenny sends knees into Sage’s neck. Five to be exact before Freeman applies a sleeper hold.

Richard Parker: I enjoy a good sleeper, Nick. It puts me into a slumber and I could use a rest!

Nick Stuart: (being facetious) Well, you do have a long night ahead of adding excellent color commentary. Get your break while you can!

Richard Parker: (not catching on) Thanks, partner!

As Richard tries to fall asleep on set (not really), Sage rolls around on the canvas. He’s trying to reach the ropes. Initially, they weren’t that far away but Kenny Freeman shows some cleverness. Perhaps he remembers his training with Max Kael because now the sleeper hold isn’t just applied in the dead center of the ring, Freeman is kneeing Pontiff in the side of the face!

Over and over and over. These shots seem stiff as shit, perhaps harder than the headbutts Pontiff delivered earlier.

Sage is battling. He’s trying to break free but Kenny has the sleeper locked in with both arms and there’s enough space for him to send his right knee into Pontiff’s left temple.

Until Pontiff starts to find a vertical base.

In one swift move, Pontiff is on his feet and then immediately collapses to the canvas, like he lost all weight from underneath him.

But it’s by design.

Kenny is caught off-guard and unsteady. He loses the sleeper grip on Pontiff for just a moment… and Sage breaks free.

Nick Stuart: An incredibly clever move by Sage! I’ve never seen anything like that before.

Both men recover. Obviously, Freeman is dealing with the shock of trying to piece together what happened and Pontiff needs a breather.

Freeman charges at his opponent.

WHAM!

Mule style kick from Pontiff, otherwise known as Namaste.

With Freeman down, Pontiff drags him off the canvas and hooks him into an evenflow DDT.

Nick Stuart: I think Sage has the match won!

Pontiff takes three steps back and charges at Freeman again-

But Kenny works Sage into a small cradle pin!

ONE!

TW-

REVERSED BY PONTIFF!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Both men are on their feet. Pontiff cranks his head to the right, as if to say he’s going to step it up a notch. Meanwhile, Kenny’s eyes study his opponent from all angles, knowing Sage could strike at any time.

The two run at one another-

WHAP!

Nick Stuart: Pontiff levels Freeman with that running forearm strike!

Freeman isn’t down yet, he’s simply on rollerskates. Pontiff hits the ropes and takes a hard run at his opponent, perhaps looking for the Canadian destroyer-

NO! Canada has no play here, as Freeman dropkicks Pontiff in the right leg and Sage flips head-over-heels to the ground!

Nick Stuart: Sage has a solid six inches on Kenny but I think Freeman just knocked him down to size!

Freeman marches over, pulls Pontiff onto his feet and lands a snap suplex.

Freeman points to the ropes. He races there quickly and gets on the second buckle. Kenny measures his opponent…

Big splash!?

…

Pontiff rolls out of the way!

In one fluid motion, Pontiff bounces off the ropes and launches towards Kenny with a spinning heel kick!

Freeman ALMOST falls out of the ring… but Sage Pontiff catches him by the arm before he does!

Nick Stuart: Brilliant move!

Pontiff reels Freeman into the Atharvaveda, a release dragon suplex.

Followed by connecting with the Canadian destroyer, the Shamanic Dreamweaver.

Nick Stuart: Academic!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: The winner of this match… SAGE PONTIFF!

Richard Parker: Not a bad back-and-forth, Nick. But once the tides swung in Sage’s favor at the end, he really made it count!

Pontiff looks down at Freeman, allows Barlow to raise his right arm, and ReVival rolls on.

After the commercial break the show feed comes back to life down at ringside.

Nick Stuart: Well, we’re two weeks out from Culture Shock, Rich, which means we’re two weeks away from PRIME’s first ever Manhunt match!

Richard Parker: I’ve already bet the over on the number of deaths.

Nick Stuart: We still don’t even know all the participants yet!

Richard Parker: Tell it to the–

The surly half of PRIME’s Hall of Fame team is abruptly interrupted by the melodic, vibrant, and yet still explosive opening guitar riff of “I am the COOL”.

Nick Stuart: Here we go.

Osaka-jo Hall swoons because the time has finally come to start the show.

Ha.

Nick Stuart: I guess it’s time to find out what life after Captain Coral Avalon, The Golden Bandit, looks like.

Richard Parker: Not as grotesque if I had to guess, and yes, that was a forehead joke.

Nick Stuart: Gone but not forgotten I see.

Screamin’ Jay starts to hit his notes and out from the back step the Bandits. A T-shaded King Crumb, and a 5-Starry-eyed Vickie the Valkyrie are out first to lead the way. Following closely behind them and in watchdog mode is Big Hess, aka Gojira. Tony, and both of his books are right there with them, and then of course, “Beautiful” Bobby Dean is a couple feet back, picking up the rear.

The near half dozen slowly make their way down to the ring, with Jiles doing most of the antagonizing along the way. He even finds a young Messiah fan, who is clearly stuck in time, and chides them for the better part of a minute.

Nick Stuart: Someone get that young fan some merchandise or something! Vickie didn’t have to put her gum in his popcorn!

Richard Parker: I don’t think that was gum, Nick.

The Bandits finally hit the ring en masse: Hessian, looking like he’s never once smiled during his entire life, steps over the top rope. Tony and Jiles, who look like they just sold a car to a blind person, slither under the bottom rope. Vickie, who needs no description, takes the steps up and shows off the 5-Star Championship for all to see. Bobby follows up after her, smiling widely without a care in the world.

Nick Stuart: Maybe we’ll find out who the next challenger for the 5-Star Championship is going to be?

Richard Parker: Yeah, and maybe I can turn lead into gold.

After the group takes a moment to posture and engage with one another, Jiles pulls a microphone from the pocket of his funeral black tracksuit and away we go.

Cancer Jiles: Hello, Japan! I must say, standing here, in this ring, right now, looking out at all of you… well, I thought you’d be taller.

Ha.

Some of the Bandits chuckle. One of them laughs like a rabid hyena. You can guess who.

Cancer Jiles: Anyway, Ja… ja….Japrimates I suppose we’ll go with, the reason us Bandits are out here tonight is to pay homage to a friend of ours. As you very well know, last show, much to our dismay, our former Captain, The Golden Bandit, Coral “Ain’t No Forehead When He’s Gone” Avalon, finally went out on his shield after standing tall behind it for oh-so very long.

The Eggsecutioner looks around at his brethren, maybe trying to find some courage or strength.

Cancer Jiles: That said, what a run. Like, What. A. Run.

The ring nods in collective agreement.

Cancer Jiles: I mean it. I do. As much as it frosts my tips to say it, especially live and on tape like this, but what Coral was able to achieve over the course of his tenure as Captain of The eGG Bandits wasn’t just remarkable, or legendary; simply put it was better than anything any Bandit has ever done, and barring Bobby becoming skinny again, will probably be better than anything any Bandit will ever do.

A pause for blood pressure concerns.

Bobby’s that is.

Cancer Jiles: He was the absolute best of us, and now, he’s gone. Now, there’s a big hole where his forehead once was that needs filling. Some might say our chips are down because of this, that our shell has been cracked, and frankly they’d be right. I certainly couldn’t argue that fact. Maybe Gamble could, but still, you don’t just replace a Coral Avalon. You don’t.

King Crumb smiles wide, probably at the comforting thought of knowing full well he has a murderous shovel at his disposal to help fill said hole he just spoke of. Meanwhile, a tear runs down Bobby’s cheek. No way of telling if it’s because he’s remembering the prior Captain fondly, or if it’s because he’s terrified at the thought of losing weight.

Cancer Jiles: To honor him, our precious stalwart of a GOLDEN BANDIT, to try and honor the irreplaceable, and to fill that forehead-sized hole left in his absence… I, we, the eGG Bandits, are announcing here tonight that all of us will be participating in the Night Two, MAIN EVENT, Manhunt match at Culture Shock.

GASP~!

Cancer Jiles: Not only that, but one of us is going to win the whole fucking thing, too.

GASP AGAIN~!

Cancer Jiles: For Coral.

It’s shocking, but there’s actual applause.

Cancer Jiles: One last thing before we go. In order to hold up my end of the bargain and ensure these shoes are at their absolute saltiest when it comes time to hunt, I’ve decided not to defend the 5-Star Championship on night one.

GASP~!

That time it was Dirty Dick gasping, and not the audience.

Cancer Jiles: Trust me when I say it wasn’t an easy decision to make. After discussing it amongst the group, and then ad nauseum between the sheets with my love, I concluded that if I’m going to properly honor our fallen Captain it’s best I put my absolute love for the…. fou5-Star Championship aside, and be at 100 percent.

A beat.

Also a wicked smile to go along with it.

Cancer Jiles: For Coral.

Ha.

The camera cuts elsewhere.

We’re in a hallway in Osaka-jo and…

Ah, shit. Here we go again.

Fuck Your Tag Team is unfortunately still in the building. Which, duh. Of course they are. One of them still has a match tonight. We can only assume they found a present for Fred Dick, given that he isn’t currently being their third shadow and yes, they are still wearing those big gnarly fuck off title belts. They are casual in their assorted gaits as if they own the damn place because as far as Anna and Rob are concerned, they do.

Of course, a nice stroll through the arena can’t ever stay nice because they seem to be headed to the exit ramp towards shenanigans…

Except there’s an angry looking man in a mask, looming outside certain Steel Doors O’ Doom, in possession of something the tag arm of the Whoresmen want.

A man who just got done being annoyed by the villains in PRIME that the other villains don’t even like.

A… luchador?

Rob Williams: Well slap my ass and call me Shirley, if it ain’t the biggest disgrace to come out of Philadelphia since… shit, I guess it’s all pretty disgraceful. How’s tricks, Batty?

TAL: Oh Jesus Christ, what the fuck do you two miscreants want? I haven’t slept in days, I had to listen to Alexei Ruslan talk, and catering is passing off those fake ass egg patties as omurice. I’m like this…

The Luchador pinches his fingers as close as he can together without them touching. Seriously, there’s probably a nanometer between them. He’s good at this.

TAL: …close to going to the Glue locker room, grabbing a jolf club, and going Fred Durst all over everyone’s asses.

Anna is baffled. She raises an eyebrow to Rob before glancing back to TAL.

Anna Daniels: First of all, the ring is up ahead. You’re in our way, not the reverse. Secondly, all of that sounds like a you problem. And thirdly, your weird little obsession with FLAMBERGE has caused you to lose your already flimsy place in the hierarchy of PRIME. But seeing as how you are not at all concerned about that?

The Muse steps to the side and makes a sweeping ‘go on’ gesture. She reaches into the pocket of her coat and pulls out a jolf club.

Anna Daniels: By all means, go to Glue and get your skull bashed in. We’re not stopping you. We’ll even sell you the club. Fifty bucks.

Rob Williams: I’d take that deal. Hell of a deal.

TAL: Alright, alright, that’s enough. If you dickweeds want to fight, get in line because it seems everyone wants to fight me these days. If not, then what the hell are you doing here?

At that moment, a wild lizard appears, wearing proper Jolf attire (jorts are absolutely required and we will leave it there for now). He’s holding something low that we don’t quite see in frame yet.

FLAMBERGE: …you are all talking as if you have the open invitation to the Glub House, that you can get one of the bad boys like this for the free…

He lifts up the item – it’s a steel chair, with the headrest bent at a sharp 90 degree angle so as to make an L. An L made out of steel. A brand new steeL jolf club.

FLAMBERGE: Anna, one day you may be able to rent the jolf clubs, what with the clutch scarves and that whole adventure…but YOU, Anglue? You have lost the chance. You did the hem and the haw and the insult to FLAMBERGE, declining l’offre généreuse. And so, I suppose, we must go to the less pleasant path.

He steps forward and locks eyes with TAL’s throat. He then sees Anna’s jolf club out of the corner of his eye and is very confused about where it could have come from (maybe she hit up the Glift Shop?), but he shakes it off and re-focuses on that most unique of collector’s items: a Second Edition neck.

Rob Williams: Shut the hell up, Frenchie. This is our show. I don’t give a shit what qualms you have with this bum, he stole our titles and we fucking want them back. You want to play grab ass? Do it after we’ve taken what’s rightfully ours.

The Frenchman’s eyes do that creepy left blink/right blink/left open/right open thing at the distraction. He turns to the much larger Williams – clocks the gray hair, clocks the “leGend” branded shirt – then responds.

FLAMBERGE: …Ouais, ce vieux s’adaptera à côté de Zapp.

Rob Williams: What the fuck did you say? You sound like a dog that ate peanut butter.

The Luchador throws a random dolley sitting in the hallway and primally screams.

TAL: E-FUCKING-NOUGH.

The three look at him like he has three heads, three masked heads.

TAL: Shut the fuck up. All of you. You two (points at the Whoresmen), rightfully yours? Really, me and Zapp kicked your asses twice. TWICE. FUCKING TWICE. Statistics are not in your favor. And you…

He locks eyes with FLAMBERGE.

TAL: I’ve seen better, more generous offers from Scooby Doo villains. First you take my neck. Yeah, I haven’t forgotten that, you sniveling little dipshit. Then you take my partner. AND THEN YOUR STUPID FUCKING VENDING MACHINE TOOK MY MONEY AND GAVE ME THE WORST SODA KNOWN TO MAN. AAAAHHHHHGGGHHHH…

The Luchador picks up the dolley again and flings it behind him with breathtaking Dad Strength before shooting back around to stare daggers at those accosting him.

TAL: I’ve had it! Between you freaks and the Red fucking Army, I’m about ready to pop every blood vessel in my BODY. So unless you three want to pretend like you’re Ivan and his shitheel pals and jump me three-on-one…

He shoots an icy look at Rob, who, this time last year, was part of Ivan’s hunting party in Brooklyn.

TAL: …pick my bones, and then force Lindsay to do what no one has been able to do so far and take the Tag Titles away from me, you should let me pass and deal with the other shitstorm on my radar tonight.

Rob Williams: Calm down, Towel. You’re making me horny.

Anna Daniels: Tom, for the love of god, stop crying like a bitch. You‘re standing here trying to be holier than thou talking about stats all the while completely forgetting math means less than nothing here.

Is…is she holding up a finger? She’s actually going all ‘em, AKTUALLY’ on this man.

Anna Daniels: And last we checked, you can’t exactly be a ‘tag team champion’ without a partner. Your partner’s dead, bro. Get fucked.

She looks at FLAMBO with a grin.

Anna Daniels: He’d rather waste his time with you anyway.

TAL: I can see why you get under Youngblood’s skin. But I’m the Tag Team Champion until Lindsay Troy tells me I’m not, or until one of you dickheads pins me or my partner.

FLAMBERGE: Imbécile, you turned down my offer to be your partner, Mssr. Anglue Gluchador, and as the matter of fact-

It’s at this point that the Steel Door O’Doom swings open and The Boss steps into the hall.

Lindsay Troy: As a matter of fact, Julien, Tom’s partner should be here any second, then we can get on with this.

Out from behind the corner, just a few feet away from that Steel Door O’ Doom walks a spaced-out man with shoulder-length dirty blonde hair.

Holding a hot dog.

Crash: What’s up, bros?

Crash joins the group and stands next to TAL.

Lindsay Troy: So. My long, national nightmare is finally over now that Tom’s picked a new partner. You all have some things you need to settle, and you’ll get your chance at Culture Shock.

She looks at FLAMBERGE.

Lindsay Troy: Julien, you’ll have your pick from Glue, although with Cecilworth and Hayes otherwise engaged I assume your partner will be Joe. Now that this is settled, I’ll be getting on with my evening.

The Queen walks back inside her office and shuts the imposing door behind her.

Perhaps somebody was expecting a fit to be thrown amongst the Whoresmen camp. But that’s not the way any of this works. Instead, Anna laughs and looks at TAL.

Anna Daniels: So now you care? It took us opening our big ol’ yaps and introducing these–

A pat to the “sanctioned” “Universal Tag Titles.”

Anna Daniels: –glorious bastards for you to remember what you’re actually supposed to be doing. Wow. So impressed.

In case you couldn’t catch that, that was sarcasm. To add insult to injury, she snags the hot dog from Crash’s hand, rips it in half and bites into a part.

Anna Daniels: Dumb. Dumber. We wish you the very worst of luck. And lizard man?

She shrugs.

Anna Daniels: We might take you up on that rental. Admittedly, we’re not entirely sure if we have the right club for the job. And Bucky says hello. Until next time, Top Champs, out!

With that, FYTT move past the tag champ and his new partner.

FLAMBERGE looks like he’s got a retort going, but the Luchador cuts him off at the pass.

TAL: Don’t even fuckin’ look at me, Julien.

He and Crash also walk off.

The camera pans for a second, and for the first time, we see CardJoe, the cardboard cutout of the Glueminati’s most notable Jabber troll and most recent murderer, Joe Fontaine. FLAMBERGE leans over to CardJoe as he watches his future foes depart.

FLAMBERGE: …get all that, Joe?

CardJoe remains stoically silent.

Cue “Stayin’ Alive”, to set the vibe.

The live feed switches to a set of white platform shoes. The shot slowly pans up on a loud blue leisure suit, speckled with studded patterns, and eventually comes to rest of on the head of Simon Tillier, his youthful, bespectacled face complimented with a massive blown-out orb of styled curly hair.

Simon Tillier: What it is, fellow casanovas and foxy mamas?

Stacked against the near wall is an assortment of crates filled with production equipment. He parks a platform on a smaller one, leans in, and works the pelvis.

Simon Tillier: “Rhymin’” Simon Tillier here backstage, givin’ you the straight lowdown on all the jivin’, divin’, and high-fivin’ that goes on here behind the curtain. Can you DIG IT?

Right then, a set of double doors fly open, and PRIME’s greatest manzai act stride into Osaka-jo Hall.

Kerry Kuroyama: Stay on point tonight, Scott. These booger-bums can strike from anywhere.

Walking alongside the Emerald Apex is his certified Wingman, Scott Hunter. Somewhat uncharacteristically, the Miami Maven says nothing, only acknowledging Kuroyama’s statement with a curt nod.

Kerry Kuroyama: First thing’s first, though… we need to stash fuzzball here somewhere safe and out of the way.

The aforementioned ball of fuzz, Kerry Koalayma, rides quite contentedly in a gym bag slung over the human Kerry’s shoulder.

Kerry Kuroyama: Once that’s taken care of, we track down these fart-lickers, and we put them in the dirt. Put an end to this crazy, roid-raging bullshit before it disrupts our plans for Culture Shock.

The Vae Victis cohorts eventually look up and see Simon, and realize they’ve walked straight into an interview.

Simon Tillier: My man, my man! What’s crackin’ with the Men of the Wings too-night?

Kuroyama looks to Hunter.

Kerry Kuroyama: I got this, Scott. You scout ahead, and I’ll catch up in a few.

Again, Scott nods… but remains silent, and continues along the hallway. Simon and Kerry watch him leave, unable to ignore that something seems off about the Wingman. Kuroyama shakes his head and sighs.

Kerry Kuroyama: He’s been like this ever since Perth…

Kuroyama sets the bag-slash-marsupial hammock onto a nearby roadcase in the background and turns back toward the camera to conduct the interview.

Simon Tillier: So K-dawg, what’s the skinny? Cuz last I scoped, Vae Victis ain’t scheduled to groove tonight.

Kerry Kuroyama: Well let me tell you something, Rhymin’ Simon… Scott and I didn’t ride a bullet train out here to Osaka just to indulge in its famed takoyaki, its street cutters, and its ass-backwards Kansai dialect. Vae Victis is here tonight to get serious on the WAR against the Poor Attention Whoresmen.

Simon Tillier: Jeepers creepers, Double K! You ain’t just a woofin’, are ya?

Kerry Kuroyama: I assure you, Simon, I am not. For weeks, Dumbtona Diamonds and the rest of the Dirt Business have done nothing but deal us insult after insult. Attempted immolations. Harassment on Jabber. Constant disruptions during matches, and unprovoked assaults after. Goddamn dingos. And you know me, Simon. You know that I’m the kind of athlete that strives for class and professionalism. The kind that leaves the ass-kickings for when we’re between the ropes. Where it was meant to happen.

Simon Tillier: Ten-four, K Squared! That sounds like you to a tee!

The Pacific Blitzkrieg shakes his head, while the seething anger seen on his face steadily begins to escalate.

Kerry Kuroyama: And I’ve tried like hell, Simon, to keep it that way. To let all this roll off my back, and put my focus back on climbing up the PRIME ladder. But there’s only so much I can take of these bottom-feeding pricks pissing in my face week after week before I’m pushed to a breaking point. And that happened at the last ReVival. RIA and I were meant to even the score. A standard, no-nonsense tag team wrestling match between opposing parties.

Unbeknownst to both interviewer and interviewee, a lasso of rope suddenly encircles the idling Kerry Kuroyama, sitting peaceably in the background.

Kerry Kuroyama: Instead, that slimy son of a bitch Diamonds goes ballistic and gets the match thrown out. Denying RIA and me the opportunity to settle this WAR in the ring. It’s like ReVival 46 all over again… because the fucking coward would sooner flip the ring over and set the building on fire before he sees anyone in his clownshit circlejerk take the L.

Then, in the blink of an eye, the koala is yoinked out of view.

Simon Tillier: I catch your drift, my man. These guys have really been dippin’ in your Kool-Aid as of late. Hard to stay copacetic, given the circumstances.

Kerry Kuroyama: It’s not like me to get down and into the mud, Simon… but it’s clear to me now that it’s the only place to go to bring the fight to this freakshow. So be it. Let the world see what Seattle’s BEAST is capable of when he’s off the chain! Let the Attention Whoresmen remember what it is we mean when we say WOE to the goddamn vanquished! Let Daytona Diamonds experience a level of pain and misery even a gutless piece of trash wrestler like him has never known! Because after I get my hands on him tonight, Simon, and I force that stupid hat of his down his throat, he’ll be shitting rhinestones for weeks! Provided this guy here doesn’t eat it first… right, buddy?

Looking for four reaffirming opposable thumbs up, Kuroyama looks to where he placed Koalayama…

…only to discover the spot empty. No koalas to be seen.

Kerry Kuroyama: …um, buddy?

Confused, Kuroyama turns back around, and–

THWACK!!

Daytona Diamonds: NOW, HOW’D THAT TASTE, YOU FUCKIN’ LIMP-DICKED PECKERWOOD?!

Right on cue, enter The Rhinestone Cowboy. He’s practically foaming from the mouth, veins bulging in his forehead, eyes gone bloodshot. And through all that foam? Well, there’s a smile. A big, mean, wide-as-the-Grand-Canyon smile.

Simon Tillier: By SAINT TRAVOLTA’S LOINS!

Tiller starts to step forward in protest, but Diamonds produces a very threatening step stool from seemingly out of thin air, casting an equally threatening glare. Coughing and clutching his head, an enraged Kuroyama begins fighting through the shock and pain of having a ladder thrown into his face, arduously working his way up off the ground.

Kerry Kuroyama: Day-TON-AAAAA… you SON OF A–

PUNT!

The heel of a cowboy boot to his jaw cuts him right off.

Daytona Diamonds: Naw, naw, naw. We ain’t doin’ all that, kemosabe. I’m gonna talk and you’re gonna listen real good, now ain’tcha?

Diamonds unfolds the step stool and places it with the legs on either side of Kuroyama’s neck, one boot planting itself firmly on the bottom step just to make sure it wasn’t going anywhere. Even as Kuroyama struggled against it, Diamonds shook his head, looking down at The Emerald Apex.

Daytona Diamonds: Kerry, I’m gonna go ‘head and be real honest with you, pardner. I ain’t got a goddang clue what got you so worked up ‘bout me and The Whoresmen. Tryna protect Ami and RIA’s honor? Ol’ Mother Troy put’cha up to you? Hell, I’unno, maybe you’re just tryna be King Shit up on top of Big Dick Mountain.

The Rhinestone Cowboy shrugs, letting Kuroyama push the step stool up just a couple inches before that boot pushed it right back down.

Daytona Diamonds: Whatever the case may be, that ain’t neither here nor there, though. I know how these things go, you know how these things go, we piss and moan and measure each other’s dicks ‘til… well, shit, wouldn’tcha know it? We get ourselves a match to settle them differences of ours. So, reckon that’s what we’re gonna do, ain’t it? Me and you, one on one, Culture Shock. Bam! Put it on the goddang marquee. But that ain’t all, Kerster!

Remember that smile? Oh boy, it’s getting even bigger now. Diamonds leans forward, holding onto the step stool, leering over Kuroyama like a bird of doom.

Daytona Diamonds: If you ain’t figured it out by gettin’ knocked in the noggin with a ladder or pinned to the floor by a step stool, we’re havin’ ourselves a ladder match… and shit, let’s go ‘head and up the ante just a little bit more. I got your koala, Kerry. I got your goddang koala and, if you want that little sonuvabitch back, he’ll be strung up ‘bove the ring durin’ our match. Reckon you’re gonna hafta climb up there and get him down, ain’tcha? All you gotta do is get through me first, buddy. Now, how’s that sound?

Slowly, Diamonds lifts his boot from the step stool and lets Kuroyama push it away, but that respite is painfully brief before The King of the Rodeo (and/or Ocean) delivers one more hard kick right to Kuroyama’s rib cage. And then another. And another. And another, just for the hell out of it. As Kuroyama writhes on the floor, Diamonds rears winks and gives him the ol’ finger guns.

Daytona Diamonds: Reckon I’ll see you in Tokyo, Kerry. Sonuvabitch.

And just like that, The Rhinestone Cowboy leaves just as quickly as he came. Simon Tillier is left standing in shock.

Simon Tillier: Wow… up his nose with a rubber hose, am I right? K-Zilla, what’s your twenty? Let’s get some help here…

Members of the medical crew swoop in around Kerry and begin to assist him…

…and a moment later, they are effortlessly shoved away. The enraged Emerald Apex promptly erupts back to his feet, and storms down the hall after the dastardly Rhinestone Cowboy, fist angrily shaking over his head.

Kerry Kuroyama: DAAAAAYTOOOOONAAAAAAAAA!!!!

The gobstruck junior interviewer is left alone on camera to break down the events.

Simon Tillier: AWW SOOKY-SOOKY, baby! This has gotta be the first time yours truly has ever peeped a full-on KOALANAPPING! What’s gonna happen when these two casanovas come face to face at Culture Shock with a ladder between them? Ain’t gonna lie, gang… I am straight COOKED trynna imagine how that’s gonna go down! But I guess for now, ReVival just keeps on truckin’! Catch you all on the flippy floppy!

Cue “Disco Inferno”. Simon bumps and twists with a classic finger dance. Before people across the globe begin setting their screens on fire, ReVival goes elsewhere…

The lights in the arena go dark as the haunting melody of “A Darkness In My Soul” by Solid Space drifts throughout the arena. A spotlight hits the center of the top of the ramp while some fog dances around the stage. Soon enough, Anna Daniels appears into the light. She begins a slow walk down to the ring.

Vince Howard: Approaching the ring, from Mount Perdition, Gallifrey! Weighing in at 135 pounds! “The Time Lord”, ANNA DAAAAAAAANIEEEEEEEELS!

Anna hops up onto the apron, wiping off her boots. She stares at her opponent wearily before finally stepping into the ring.

Nick Stuart: On one hand, I want to say Anna looks focused. Serious. But I still see a bit of a smirk on her face. Also can’t forget they’re a Whoresman.

Richard Parker: Please, Nick! Show some class! Anna Daniels is a WhoresPERSON, I’d like to remind you!

The arena lights dim as “Shake the Room” begins to play. Golden spotlights sweep across the crowd before a synchronized golden pyro burst lights up the stage. A spotlight reveals Asher Creed stepping out, exuding charisma and confidence, dressed in a white-and-gold hooded jacket. At the top of the ramp, he pulls back his hood and raises an arm, mouthing, “Shake the room!” as the crowd erupts.

Vince Howard: On his way to the ring! From Eden, Texas! Weighing in at 240 pounds! “THE GUIDING LIGHT” ASHER CREEEEEEEED!

Walking to the ring with purposeful energy, he fist-bumps fans and acknowledges kids in the front row with the declaration, “This one’s for you!” Climbing the steps, Asher pauses to scan the crowd before stepping through the ropes. At the center of the ring, he raises both arms as golden pyro shoots from the ring posts. He removes his jacket with a flourish, steps onto the middle rope, and shouts, “We shake this room together!” before the music fades, leaving the crowd buzzing.

Nick Stuart: Asher Creed has had a decent start so far here in PRIME, but he’s getting a stiff test tonight in Anna Daniels.

Richard Parker: You ain’t kidding! I don’t care what this kid’s record is right now; if he doesn’t keep his head on straight and his eyes forward, Anna will make sure it ends up in the third row!

DING DING

Anna steps forward, hands raised and immediately starts throwing jabs and open-handed slaps. Creed covers up, his arms taking most of the blows coming from Daniels. With the striking fury bearing little fruit, the Muse decides to go low, hitting Asher in the quad and knee with kicks. After a third hit to the legs, Creed has had enough and throws a forearm strike Anna’s way. They duck, hitting another kick that drops their bigger opponent to a knee. Off the Time Lord goes towards the ropes. On the rebound, they find themselves planted by Creed!

The Guiding Light slowly gets to his feet, hobbled by the earlier assault on his leg. He pulls Daniels to their feet, bashing a forearm to the side of her neck before the Muse can fully recover. They stumble over to the ropes, using the strands to keep themself upright. Creed stays on the attack, smashing a few more blows into Anna’s chest before Elvis Nixon backs the bigger man off. He complies momentarily before taking The Wavemaker’s arm and whipping them to the opposite ropes. Daniels doesn’t rebound, hooking their arms around the top rope to stop their momentum. When Creed charges forward, they low bridge him, sending him tumbling to the outside.

Nick Stuart: I can’t help but think the leg work done by Anna slowed Asher Creed up just enough for that move.

Richard Parker: Yep. This Creed kid looks good but it don’t mean much when you got a ten cent brain.

Nick Stuart: I’m not sure that’s a fair assessment of Creed’s intelligence.

Richard Parker: Well who’s the one on the ground right now?

Anna grabs the top rope, teasing a plancha. They let go and flip the crowd off, drawing the ire of the PRIMEates. Instead, they step through the ropes and onto the apron before jumping off with a stomp to the upper back of the recovering Asher Creed. Daniels doesn’t let him stay down long, tugging Creed into a near standing position before roughly shoving him into the barricade! Elvis Nixon momentarily stops his count to plead with both competitors to get back into the ring. Anna casually waves him off, sending a few short kicks to the ribs of the prone Asher.

As he gets to a knee, Daniels sends a disrespectful slap across his face. The previous daze that covered Creed’s mug evaporates instantly. Another slap. Asher rises to his feet, teeth clenched. The Muse smirks at him, waving Creed on, practically begging him to hit them. He rears back for another forearm… But instead steps forward and wraps his arms around them, tossing Daniels overhead with a belly to belly suplex! Both lay there, with Anna groaning in pain. Elvis Nixon keeps his count going.

SEVEN

Both competitors begin stirring.

EIGHT

They start climbing to their feet.

NINE

Both competitors scramble and climb into the ring before ten!

Nick Stuart: That was a close call! We’re early in the match, but that fall certainly didn’t do great things for Asher Creed.

Richard Parker: And that suplex on the floor wasn’t the best thing for Anna Daniels either! Neither one of these two is looking that great!

Both wrestlers start to claw their way up. Daniels barely makes it up first and fires towards Creed with a rolling elbow. It connects and staggers the bigger man back, though he does still stay on his feet. They press forward, though not quite at the same pace as they had earlier. Anna jumps up with a knee, rocking the Guiding Light back into the corner. The New Era breaks for their compromised opponent and jumps forward with another knee. Though the blow does connect, Asher manages to not just absorb the blow, but also catch Daniels in a solid show of strength! They try to strike their way out, but Creed flips Anna up and over his shoulder before sprinting forward and depositing them SOLIDLY on the mat with a powerslam! He makes the cover!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Creed flops back onto his butt for a moment, checking the leg Daniels had targeted earlier. Though apparently sore, it does still seem relatively fine. At least, it did before the previously thought prone Anna sweeps both out while grounded. Wasting little time, the Muse goes a bit deeper in their playbook than normal, locking in a Cloverleaf-Liontamer hybrid known as the Wheel of Morality.

Nick Stuart: There’s a move we don’t see from Anna Daniels often.

Richard Parker: I have to assume it’s due to the earlier leg work. Perfect move for that, also targets the back.

Nick Stuart: I sometimes forget you do have wrestling knowledge at times, Richard.

Richard Parker: I could fill a book with it, Nick! Well, maybe not a book. A novella? Maybe a very thick pamphlet.

Creed does his best to use his strength advantage to pull himself towards the ropes. Closer and closer he inches. He’s just about a finger’s length away, one more good lunge could do it! But that’s when Anna releases some pressure and drags their opponent back towards the middle, sending a few stomps to the back before cinching the hold back in. Asher looks like he’s fading. Elvis Nixon drops to all fours to check on the Texas native. When asked if he wants to give it up, a weak nod is the answer. Worse for wear, but still not done. Creed tries to get himself together mentally, making an attempt to push himself up in the hold. Again, the Time Lord tries to crank the hold further, which drives Asher back down.

The crowd starts getting loud in their support for the Guiding Light. Again, it takes him a moment to get his bearings. Once he does, Creed plants one determined hand on the mat, followed by the other. He pushes back up. Unlike the last few attempts, he’s not trying to crawl to the ropes; he’s trying to buck his smaller opponent off. The change in escape works, as Daniels stumbles forward, releasing the hold to catch themself. Anna stands back for a moment. As Creed slowly gets vertical, Daniels fires off a roundhouse kick his way… that he ducks! The Wavemaker spins around just in time to catch an also spinning Asher Creed that smokes them with a discus lariat!

Nick Stuart: My word, he about turned Anna Daniels inside out with that one!

Richard Parker: You ever actually think about that term? How messed up would it be if a move turned someone inside out and how much could we charge for it?

Nick Stuart: I’m not sure whether I should call you enterprising or demented for that suggestion.

Richard Parker: Whichever, I’m not picky.

Creed is the first to recover unsurprisingly. He walks over, reaching down for the splayed out Anna Daniels. Another ruse by the Muse, as they grab a hold of Asher’s hand, looking for Yubi Yubi! finger breaking. But after a few fakeouts, Creed is a bit more ready for this one. He fights, he struggles, he pulls. It turns out this man does not want his fingers potentially broken. ‘Lindsay Troy’ eventually gets frustrated enough that they loop behind Creed, his arm trapped against his body. They spin him around and absolutely slap the crap out of the young man. Asher staggers back slightly before catching his footing and shooting daggers Daniels way with his eyes.

The Time Lord doesn’t back down, moving ahead and trying a running high knee. Unfortunately, Creed is again ready for this move. Like in the corner, he catches the smaller Daniels. This time, however, he positions their legs on either side of his head, perched on his shoulders. Knowing they’re in danger, Anna tries to reverse into a hurricanrana. Creed gets his base wide, blocking the move with great strength and technique. He yanks Daniels back up and plants her down with the Luminous Driver! Creed forgoes the cover, looking to end things. Up Daniels goes before finding themself on the shoulders of Asher. Before the Creed Collapse can be executed, Anna wiggles and shifts, making it hard for their opponent to keep their balance. That pays off as the Muse counters with a crucifix driver! They hold on for a cover!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Nick Stuart: That was a close call for Asher Creed! He had the momentum, but Anna Daniels is proving to be quite slippery.

Richard Parker: Someone who can slip back and forth through time being slippery. Who woulda thought?

Again, both competitors are laid out on the mat. It’s not until Elvis Nixon’s seven count that both make some kind of progress to get to their feet. When they do, Anna makes their intention known; they’re over this. The Wavemaker steps forward and fires off an attempt at their Interrobang Brazilian Kick. However, Asher Creed somehow has enough wits about him to just duck under the strike. In doing so, he quickly scoops Daniels up onto his shoulders! Up the Muse goes and back down as well, the high angle sit-out fireman’s carry driver known as the Creed Collapse planting them on the mat! Sadly for Creed, he looks to be at the end of his energy tank and can’t make an immediate cover. As the Guiding Light looks to navigate his way towards a fall, at about this time, Rob Williams starts to saunter down to ringside.

Nick Stuart: Oh come on! There’s no reason for Rob Williams to be out here! Standard Whoresmen BS!

Richard Parker: It’s called emotional support, Nick! I, for one, appreciate the bond of the Whoresmen!

Asher Creed looks to shout Williams down, but Elvis Nixon is way ahead of him. The referee ducks in between the top and middle ropes, vehemently ordering Williams to the back. For his part, the Legend professes no ill intentions as he continues to creep ever closer to the ring. It turns out he’s not lying… technically. With all eyes on Williams, Daytona Diamonds slips over the barricade, quickly bounding onto the apron. Before Creed can turn around, Diamonds has his cowboy boot off that he uses to absolutely clobber the Guiding Light with in the back of the head! Asher stumbles forward, giving the groggy but upright Daniels a chance to double underhook the arms and drop him with the Oncoming Storm. At this point, Rob Williams conveniently raises his hands in innocence and starts walking backwards up the ramp, but not without pointing towards the ring. Nixon turns around to see Anna flopped on top of Creed, Daytona having scampered back over the barricade. Elvis counts!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING

Williams lightly jogs to the ring, sliding in to help an out of sorts Anna Daniels to their feet, raising their hand in the process.

Vince Howard: The winner of the bout… “THE MUSE” ANNA DAAAAAAAAANIELS!

Nick Stuart: Asher Creed looked to have things in hand, but you unfortunately have to have eyes in the back of your head when the Whoresmen are involved.

Richard Parker: Hey now! The kid gave a good effort and there’s no shame in losing to a wrestler the caliber of Anna Daniels!

Nick Stuart: I’d never question Anna Daniels’ talent. It’s the methods that bother me, Rich.

We head backstage with Angelica Brooks standing by.

Osaka speaks the international language of love. Love for the PRIME institution that is Angelica Brooks.

WHOOOOOOOO!

And maybe a little eensy weensy bit for Chandler Tsonda, who winks straight to camera, before turning towards the interviewer.

Angelica Brooks: I’m here with Chandler Tsonda, who in just a few moments will take on Sean O’Neill. Chandler, welcome.

Chandler Tsonda: Konichiwa, Brooksy.

Ok, it’s not like a nuclear pop, but there’s a little something something out in the crowd. A second-generation Asian-American speaking a little whiff of Japanese gets some appreciation out in the grandstand.

Angelica Brooks: Some might say that your focus is somewhere other than on Sean O’Neill, two weeks after seeing your chance at Ivan Stanislav slip through your grasp. He’ll now defend the Universal Title against Cecilworth Farthington at UltraViolence, and you’re on the proverbial outside looking in. Your thoughts?

Chandler Tsonda: (smirks) I didn’t know you still had some grenades in that belt, girl. Going for the jugular right away, no softballs, I respect it.

The Model Citizen takes a long pause, and looks down. He comes back up for a pointed response.

Chandler Tsonda: My focus is exactly where it needs to be. I was going to demolish Ivan Stanislav at UltraViolence. I’m still going to demolish Ivan Stanislav. We’ve had a postponement. The train’s still coming, it’s just a little delayed. Choo choo.

Angelica Brooks: You’ve declared for the gauntlet of competitors in the Manhunt. Tell me what you’re thinking about for that match.

Chandler Tsonda: If the only path to Ivan Stanislav is the one paved with an entire roster full of bodies, then that’s the path I’m taking. Every night. Every match. Especially that Manhunt. Do you want to ask me what our fans can expect from me in that glass shard tornado of a match?

The expert interviewer gives him a look that says “I’m the one asking questions here.”

Chandler Tsonda: Ok, ok, I’ll stay off your corner. But you can expect that Chandler Tsonda is not waiting around to be gifted opportunities anymore. I’m old enough to have fathered half the roster. I don’t have many shots left to win one of those grandaddy of ‘em all bunkhouse brawls. And I know I’m getting exactly one shot to duff out the Russian. Anybody that stands between me and putting Ivan’s head on my wall might want to start saving up cash for bulk orders of Tylenol Extra Strength, and pricier premiums on their dental plan. And that includes any fucker stupid enough to step in my way during the Manhunt.

Angelica Brooks: Harsh words. Are those more or less harsh than the ones you shared at ReVival two weeks ago that earned you a $20,000 fine from Lindsay Troy’s office?

The Sultan of Style lets out a half-smile, something wry and dry about the look behind his eyes. He’s amused, but irritated. Isn’t he always?

Chandler Tsonda: Happy to donate to Troy’s swear jar. Putting Wade Elliott up in that kennel every night ain’t cheap. (grins, very pleased with himself) I’ve made my peace with what happened two weeks ago. Bad things happen. Bad guys win battles. I intend to win the war.

Angelica Brooks: No one would consider you even an inner circle contender for the Universal Title. It could take months, or longer, to find yourself one-on-one against the Russian Bear, given his status at the top of the company. Are you saying you’re prepared to wait that out? Even though you just acknowledged that your career may be in its twilight?

Chandler Tsonda: Check my math on this, but if I win that Manhunt match, I don’t think I need to have an answer for that pointed question of yours. So why don’t let’s talk on March 16th about what I do and don’t need to wait for?

The veteran reporter nods. These two have done this particular dance many times before, and they know their way around this conversation.

Angelica Brooks: Final question.

Chandler Tsonda: You’re the best in the biz, Brooksy. Let’s ride off into the sunset here. Don’t let me down.

Angelica Brooks: Forgive the ahem softball. I’m not going to be so clichéd as to ask how you’re feeling about that matchup, but do you care to comment on your opponent or match tonight?

Chandler Tsonda: Appropriate fear.

Angelica Brooks: Pardon?

The Model Citizen clears his throat.

Chandler Tsonda: Appropriate fear. That’s what you should have for a good opponent. I’m not afraid of anyone, don’t get it twisted. But a good wrestler, a worthy rival, that’s someone who should strike appropriate fear. I’m not looking past Sean O’Neill, I’ve got a perfectly appropriate fear of what happens if I lose focus, if I have an off-night, if Sean gets on a roll.

He nods to punctuate the possibility, a sign of respect.

Chandler Tsonda: But just one man’s opinion? There’s no amount of fear that’s inappropriate when you’re face-to-face with the Viet Viper in there. When you hear “Welcome Home” and twenty thousand people go…

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

He revels for a moment in this bit of crowd work, but returns quickly to the issue at hand, and turns straight to the camera..

Chandler Tsonda: That’s scary hours. That’s when the devil whispers on your shoulder that it might not be your night, bub. That’s when it hits you that you didn’t prep enough for this, and you wish you’d brought more than a pair of scissors to this particular gunfight.

The Model Citizen takes one final beat to emphasize what he says next.

Chandler Tsonda: Me? I’m done talking. But Sean O’Neill should talk to his gods, because it’s my intention to go out there and make sure prayer is the only option he’s got left.

Off he strides, towards Argyle and the bright lights.

Angelica Brooks: You heard it here. We’ve got Chandler Tsonda and Sean O’Neill, coming up next. But first, let’s throw it elsewhere backstage.

Look, everyone – it’s a man! And he’s standing outside in the dark! You can tell this because of his man-shaped silhouette and the fact that it’s nighttime. Still, that’s some pretty clever sleuthing there, gumshoe. Well if you’re so damn smart, then tell me where he is right now. Go on, I’ll wait.

Peoria?

How’d you know?

Oh, right. Because of the “Live from Peoria, IL” that’s also on the screen right now. Fine then. I guess you got me.

Okay then, riddle me this, Batman: what’s his name?

Steve?

Shit.

Yeah, no, I forgot that the seg slot threads hang out for a minute. Anyway, let Word-Daddy Narrator take it from here…

There is no reaction from the crowd when the scene fades in on Steve Lemieux, PRIME’s newest acquisition. In truth, there won’t be much in the way of fanfare from anyone watching at home either. The only people who’d care are too busy slinging roast beef sandwiches and onion rings to pay much notice. Still, that doesn’t prevent Steve from trying his best to look good for the camera. Which is, to put it politely, something of a stretch.

There is nothing about Steve Lemieux that screams “professional wrestler.” Not his looks, which can at best be described as a Nebraska 6, and definitely not his physique. “Business casual amoeba” is not what one pictures when they imagine the pinnacle of modern combat sports. Still, that’s what the crowd is presented with. Glasses. An awkward mustache. Hair that at best looks like a Friar Tuck comb over. The platonic ideal of skinny-fat.

Steve Lemieux looks like the Grinch on school picture day.

Steve Lemieux: Greetings and salutations, friends and fellows, I’m Steve Lemieux and you can call me “Mr. Beefst.”

Yes, he said that.

Yes, there is probably at least a cease and desist in his future.

No, the fact that he is talking about meat does not make it legally distinct. Neither does the fact that he has a clearly visible upper lip.

Steve Lemieux: I’m the proud proprietor and purveyor of LeMoo’s Fine Sandwiches here in beautiful Peoria, Illinois.

Steve has been holding a large roast beef sandwich in his right hand this entire time. Thought it would be a good idea to point that out.

Did we mention it’s dark? Because nighttime? Time zones, you know. They’re crazy!

Steve Lemieux: If you’ve got a big hunger for a big beef, come on down to LeMoo’s Fine Sandwiches. Easily located in beautiful Peoria, Illinois.

Really hammering that one, isn’t he.

Steve Lemieux: My favorite American Gladiator is Laser.

Uhhh… okay?

Steve Lemieux: And with all the protein-packed power of this big beef three-way…

For the record, in case you’re not up on the lingo, a “three-way” means that the sandwich has sauce, mayo, and cheese. This is a concept that he is quite familiar with.

Steve is not talking about the sex thing. Gotta make that clear.

That’s something which will remain forever alien.

Steve Lemieux: …I can get big and strong like Laser, my favorite American Gladiator.

A blob of barbeque sauce drips off of the sandwich and begins oozing down Steve’s right arm. His eyes begin darting around, as if he’s trying to blink a napkin into existence.

Steve Lemieux: Now you might be wondering why I’m here in PRIME.

Oh, do tell, Stevie baby.

Steve Lemieux: But all the best meats are USDA prime, and I only serve the best meats, so this is a pairing that makes perfect sense. Like ketchup and mustard!

See that smile? That is the genuine glee of a man who has no fucking clue the world of hurt he’s just booked himself a one-way ticket to.

Steve Lemieux: So I’m…

Steve is interrupted by a young man running in from off-camera. We don’t know his name, or really what he looks like, but like all teenage boys he has the hair of a broccoli. One entire broccoli.

For his part, Steve looks a little upset by this new appearance, and for good reason. This is supposed to be his grand unveiling in front of a new audience. He could introduce the world to his love of sandwiches and American Gladiators. I mean really, he hasn’t even started with the Laser deep lore dive.

Steve Lemieux: (to the teen) Buns and beans, you can’t be serious.

While it’s unclear exactly what’s being said, the words are certainly having an effect on ol’ Steve. The longer it goes on the more the color begins to drain from his face, which is hard for a man with the complexion of week-old mayonnaise.

Steve Lemieux: Oh flippity-heck!

Another blob of sauce falls from the sandwich in Steve’s hand, and then not long after all the strength seems to leave Steve’s body. The sandwich itself falls to the ground with a wet plop. Then the panic sets in. He runs towards the camera, his New Balance sneakers gripping the pavement with every dad-like stride.

Steve Lemieux: It’s not true, I swear it! We do not have diarrhea meats at LeMoo’s Fine Sandwiches in beautiful Peoria, Illinois. There is no listeria in the tangy may’naise. Or the regular may’naise. None of the may’naises have the tummyache bacterias.

He raises a pleading hand towards the lends. A hand which is still covered in the sweet mesquite kick of James River sauce.

Steve Lemieux: There are no e-colis on the tomatoes or in the ketchups. We have the best ketchups. Only the best. It says so right on the label. “Fancy ketchup.” Please…

He’s close now. Damn near giving that camera a mustache ride. So close that you can practically smell the Campbell’s Soup musk through the screen.

But then everything goes dark, and all that’s left is the audio.

Steve Lemieux: Jiminy christmas, that goddamn Dolores will be the death of me!

Best move on to something else.

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/02/revivalfreebenjabbervid.mp4

The camera sweeps through the corridor leading to the opulent VIP Lounge at Osaka-jo Hall, revealing PRIME’s Universal Champion, Ivan Stanislav, approaching with a broad grin. He glances down at the camera, his wide smile causing the rugged hairs on his granite chin to crease.

Ivan Stanislav: A new dawn rises, PRIME! A red dawn! Where the elites no longer preside from their luxury boxes, ruling over the common people like the capitalist imperialists they are!

As we draw closer to the door, the unmistakable strains of the Soviet (or perhaps Russian) National Anthem can be heard emanating from within the VIP lounge. Ivan pretends to be surprised. He brings a hand to his ear.

Ivan Stanislav: Why… what is this that I hear?

His smug grin is relentless. He swings the door open, releasing a blast of sound as the VIP Lounge, usually filled with the affluent and famous, is now bustling with everyday Russian citizens.

Babushkas are knitting in one corner.

Children are running around with toy wrestling belts, waving Russian flags.

A group of men is engaged in an energetic game of chess on a glass table in another corner.

Alexei Ruslan stands in the middle of the room, observing the scene, while Arina Timofeyevna stands beside him, still holding the Universal Title. As the crowd spots Ivan, they all cheer in unison, and a daring six-year-old girl leaps into Ivan’s arms. Stanislav lifts her up and laughs joyfully.

Ivan Stanislav: DYAAHAAHAA!!

The Russian Bear strides into the lounge, a space adorned with multiple flat screen TVs broadcasting the arena’s excitement, and tables brimming with Russian delicacies alongside a bar. Beyond these walls, Ivan Stanislav is widely disliked, but inside? He’s a hero. The crowd chants his name, waves their flags, and the charming Russian girl in his arms reaches up to plant a kiss on his cheek, speaking in broken English.

Girl: I wuv you… Staffy Papprchik Stanifflav!!!

Ivan bounces the girl in his arms a few times, smirking.

Ivan Stanislav: И я люблю тебя, малышка! (And I love you too, little one).

He nuzzles his huge nose against her own, and then kisses her gently on the cheek to the applause of the adoring crowd. Alexei doesn’t cheer, but that’s because he has a cold, dead heart.

Girl: Uppies, Ivan, uppies!

Who is Ivan to deny the joy of a child? With one hand, he tosses the girl up in the air. She screams “Whee!!” and lands in his arm.

Ivan Stanislav: There is no skybox here at Osaka-jo Hall, but as you can see, this VIP Lounge is free of wealthy elitists! Only hard working folks! Look, finest knitters in Russia, crafting scarves for the cold winters!

Ivan tosses the girl into the air again, higher this time and catches her as he smiles down at the babushka’s, who are knitting away. They look up at him.

Babushka: We are so proud of you, Ivan!

Stanislav gestures to the men engaged in a chess game in the corner.

Ivan Stanislav: Brilliant minds honing Russian strategy!

Girl: Uppies, Ivan, uppies!

Ivan momentarily looks… annoyed? But he pushes it away. He tosses the girl up higher and she lets out another joyful “weee!!!” She gets some pretty good hang time, because it takes about three seconds before she lands in his arm again.

As if on cue, one of the men yells “Checkmate!” and his opponent gawks at the board. Ivan motions to the joyful children running about.

Ivan Stanislav: And happy children of all—

Girl: Uppies more!! Uppies more!! Uppies more!!!

Stanislav growls, yeets her into the air, and the “WEEEEE” from her mouth fades away to nothingness. Alexei snaps his head up into the air and looks overhead, then waaaay off in the distance behind him. Ivan might have an eyelid twitch now.

Ivan Stanislav: And happy children of all ages! Their cheers heard upon wind all through Japan! They all relish fact that I, Ivan Stanislav, am Universal Champion!!!

The room bursts into cheers. This could easily be the feel-good moment of the year! Alexei steps to one side of Ivan, while Arina positions herself on the other side of The Russian Bear.

Ivan Stanislav: I retired Coral Avalon and ran that elitist “King” out on a rail. Every step of the way, comrades, Lindsay Troy and the imperialists have tried to stand in our way! But can they succeed?

All: NYET!

Ivan Stanislav: There are no other heroes left in PRIME. I’ve crushed them all. We’ve wiped them out! We, the Russian people, have remained strong against Western decadence! Those who threaten us! Those who belittle us! Those who try to marginalize us!

Ivan grins.

Ivan Stanislav: They now call me Champion! I am only hero left!

All: URA!!!

Ivan and Alexei grin as one. Arina looks more pensive as the camera zooms in.

Ivan Stanislav: And PRIME? There is nothing you can do about it. DYAAHAAHAA!!

As Ivan erupts into laughter, the room bursts into song, cheering on their hero. The children jump and dance, the women clap, and the men whistle as we leave this positively uplifting scene…

…to go somewhere else.

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

The arena is buzzing with anticipation as the lights dim, casting the crowd into darkness. The opening chords of “Comfortable Liar” by Chevelle reverberate through the speakers, sending a buzz of excitement through the fans in attendance. The intense, haunting melody sets the stage for what is to come.

As the lyrics begin, a spotlight pierces the darkness, illuminating the entrance ramp.

Broad is this sea…
The salt enters the wounds…
My take on you is simple.

Seán O’Neill steps into the green shaded spotlight at the top of the entrance ramp, his long coat billowing behind him, adorned with intricate designs in black, gold, and green matching his pants and boots. The crowd erupts in cheers, their support washing over the Irishman like a crashing wave. O’Neill pauses for a moment, absorbing their energy. A smile spreads across his face as he begins his walk to the ring; his stride full of purpose.

So heal your fear…
To heal your fear…
Time spent waiting offshore…
The calm before the storm.

O’Neill raises both arms in acknowledgment of the fans, and the cheers grow louder in response. As he reaches the ring, he climbs the ring-steps and then takes a moment to look out at the sea of faces showing the newfound admiration they have for him.

My take from you is simple…
So heal your fear…
To heal your fear.

Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring, from Belfast, Northern Ireland… weighing in at two hundred and thirty-one pounds… He is SUUUUURRRRRREEEAALL SSSEEAANN OOO’NNNEEEIIILLLLLLLLLL!

You’re such a comfortable liar…
You’re such a comfortable liar…
You’re such a comfortable liar…

O’Neill vaults effortlessly over the top rope to enter the ring. Turning to the nearest turnbuckle, he climbs to the second rope and spreads his arms out, wide to each side forming the powerful symbol of a cross.

So calm ’cause I said wrong…
You comfortable liar…
You comfortable liar…
You comfortable liar.

The Irishman removes his coat and hands it through the ropes to a member of the ringcrew. He makes his way to the centre of the ring, and raises his arms once more. A gesture of gratitude to the fans as the final chords of “Comfortable Liar” fade out, leaving the arena charged with anticipation for the match to come.

Seán’s eyes burn with determination, ready to prove he belongs in PRIME. Ready to prove he is better than his win loss record shows – focused on making much more of an impact as he begins his second year in the company. The crowd chants his name, in testament to this new connection he has forged with them.

Nick Stuart: O’Neil coming off a win against Quinn Fleetwood back in Tokyo, but he’s got a tough task ahead of him facing Chandler Tsonda!

Richard Parker: Tsonda has been known to call himself the Viet Viper for a reason, Nick, and he’s poised to strike Sean here tonight!

Vince Howard: And his opponent…

“I said ‘kiss me, you’re beautiful’
These are truly the last days'”

The weathered voice from the beginning of Godspeed You! Black Emperor’s “Dead Flag Blues” fades into the short acoustic section that begins Coheed & Cambria’s “Welcome Home.” After twelve seconds, the guitars thunder in and start to kick ass, as gold and green pyro goes off in perfect timing with the power riffs.

Vince Howard: From San Diego, California by way of Hanoi, Vietnam…weighing in at 187 pounds…CHANNNDLERRRR TSSSSOOOOOOONDA!

As the PRIME*View displays the words “Model Citizen” in white over a black background, Tsonda swaggers out from behind the curtain. He soaks up the fan’s reaction at the top of the ramp, a smirk painted across his face. And amidst the haze of pyro, smoke, and green & gold lights, he sprints to the ring, slides in under the bottom rope, and finally acknowledges his opponent. Tsonda bounces on his toes, mouthing something that’s inaudible to anyone but him.

Nick Stuart: After getting a win over Rose in Perth, Tsonda sets his sights on Sean O’Neil here tonight in Osaka!

Richard Parker: Don’t you mean Tsonda tsets his tsights on…alright, I’ll just stop there.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: Here we go! O’Neill vs Tsonda!

O’Neill and Tsonda start circling, the pace quickens and O’Neill takes a step forward keeping his body in an amateur position, Tsonda is almost dancing, his steps graceful. The ring is home, and Tsonda finds an opening. He shoots in aggressively, Sean takes a step back but Tsonda switches from the leg to the hands. The two begin some furious hand fighting that ends with Chandler Tsonda having wrist control. He whips the arm over his head and falls behind for a perfect hammerlock. O’Neill begins to step forward towards the ropes and Tsonda helps him along, driving him into the ropes.

Richard Parker: Chan has a different kind of energy tonight.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda is looking to be the aggressor here.

Tsonda switches his grip to the waist and keeps the shoulder pinned, he snaps Sean over onto his back with a german suplex and bridges.

ONE!

TWO!

O’Neill continues flipping backwards and puts Tsonda’s shoulders on the mat.

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Nick Stuart: That almost looked like a finish to an Almasy semi-final!

Richard Parker: Close one for both!

O’Neill, already standing, is able to rip himself away from Tsonda’s clutches and immediately drives a boot between Tsonda’s eyes.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think SuReal liked Chandler taking a page out of his own book there!

Sean barks at Tsonda and takes a few steps back, letting Tsonda get to his feet. The second he’s there Sean roars in with a european uppercut that staggers Tsonda backwards. Chandler loads up for a knife edge but O’Neill rips off a second european uppercut and Tsonda staggers his way into the corner. Sean charges in with a quick back elbow that smashes Chandler into the corner.

Nick Stuart: Chandler is paying a price for that quick pin attempt.

Richard Parker: Seems to be getting more expensive with every blow from O’Neill.

The Viet Viper does indeed continue to pay and SuReal seems glad to continue inflating the cost with a series of big right hands that rock Tsonda down to a seated position on the middle rope. SurReal elevates Chandler to the top rope and steps up to the middle.

Nick Stuart: I’m pretty sure both of these guys have bad backs…

Richard Parker: Tsonda is an angel, have you seen the man? He can’t possi…

O’Neill tries to take Tsonda up and over to the mat, but Chandler manages to hook a leg around the rope and stall the attempt. Sean viciously pounds Chandler’s left knee, and yanks it back into place. He finally manages to flip Tsonda over and down to the mat with the second rope superplex.

Richard Parker: LOOK OUT!

O’Neill and Tsonda bounce as they hit, Sean manages to keep his grip, and after a moment, floats over and tries to deadlift Chandler for another suplex but Tsonda is a buzz saw and comes up firing. He kisses Sean on the cheek with a rising knee. SurReal takes a step back feeling his face, and how close he was to an early night. The glancing blow was enough to generate separation and Tsonda shoves O’Neill backwards to get a little more before charging at the ropes.

Nick Stuart: O’Neill almost went to sleep right there.

Richard Parker: That knee was straight out of the Viet Viper playbook. Full of bad intentions.

Chandler comes back and Sean dips to the ground. Chandler jumps over and hits the second rope. Sean is just a second slow and Tsonda plants a picture perfect dropkick into O’Neill’s mouth. O’Neill hits the deck in a flash and Tsonda kips up to his feet and is back to life.

Nick Stuart: Big dropkick there from Tsonda! Caught O’Neill!

Chandler reaches down and drags Sean up to his feet, he gambles with a huge roundhouse kick and this time the slot machine isn’t paying out. Sean manages to duck under the leg by stepping in, and the house continues to punish Tsonda’s aggressive stance as O’Neill clamps his grip and throws Tsonda backwards over his head with some type of modified exploder/belly to belly.

Richard Parker: Big counter by SurReal!

This time the float over is flawless and Tsonda is still rocked. O’Neill gets him halfway up and audibles into spinning and dropping Tsonda on his neck again with some contorted version of a slam. O’Neill slides his leg in between Tsonda’s and pushes the far leg as far as he can while bridging and pinning Tsonda’s shoulders to the mat.

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Nick Stuart: How much more of this can Chandler Tsonda take?

Richard Parker: Depends how many more times he keeps going to the casino.

Sean gets to his feet and smiles towards Barlow, giving her a look and turning two fingers into three. He turns back around quickly and drives a boot into Chandler’s midsection before pulling him up by his fabulous full head of hair.

Richard Parker: Best hair in the biz!

Nick Stuart: Rumor mills had a lot to say about that.

Richard Parker: And nobody mentioned Jiles, HA!

Tsonda comes to his feet and throws a weak chop into Sean’s chest, but O’Neill shrugs it off and sends him flying into the ropes. He grabs Tsonda around the waist and sends him over the top with a release belly to belly but Tsonda manages to go all the way over and land on his feet. O’Neill tries to roll to his feet, but Tsonda plants and drives a blind boot backwards that catches Sean on the bridge of the nose. O’Neill falls backwards into a sitting position holding his face.

Nick Stuart: Looks like Tsonda just hit the jackpot!

O’Neill tries not to blink, but Tsonda explodes to the ropes and comes back with a low dropkick that catches O’Neill in the mouth. Sean flies backwards and rolls to the outside. Chandler pops up and sprints to the ropes, leaping to the top and springboarding off. O’Neill managed to land on his feet on the outside and is staggered as Chandler comes crashing down with a crossbody that sends O’Neill slamming into the barricade as Tsonda hits the concrete.

Richard Parker: I don’t know who that hurt more! Both men are down.

Nick Stuart: That hurt!

Barlow begins counting

ONE!

Tsonda makes his way to his feet, nursing his lower back.

TWO!

He rips off a boot to the downed O’Neill, paying him back for the one earlier.

THREE!

Chandler pulls O’Neill up and sends him careening into the apron. Sean’s back crashes across it.

FOUR!

and Chandler rips off a snap suplex of his own that slams O’Neill on the concrete.

FIVE!

Tsonda gets to his feet and slides into the ring.

SIX!

Nick Stuart: Sean might be down here!

SEVEN!

Richard Parker: Tsonda has a chip on his shoulder tonight.

EIGHT!

Sean gets to his feet and dives under the rope as Barlow begins shouting nine.

Richard Parker: He should have waited that last second!

Nick Stuart: You might not be wrong there, Richard.

Tsonda pounces on the error as O’Neill makes his way to his feet and catches a spinning back kick for his attempt that catches him on the jaw. O’Neill explodes backwards into the ropes and comes back forward into Tsonda. He tries to swing a lariat but Tsonda sticks him in the midsection with a kick. Sean doubles over and Tsonda drops him to the mat with a stalling implant DDT.

Richard Parker: GOLGOTHA DROP!

O’Neill’s head spikes off the mat and Tsonda is up quick. He sprints to the top rope and comes off backwards with a perfect moonsault. Landing on Sean O’Neill’s stomach in the center of the ring.

Richard Parker: MODEL CITIZEN!

Tsonda covers and Barlow slides in.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING 

Nick Stuart: Great match from two very good competitors. Stiff competition.

Richard Parker: Those two hitting each other sounded like gunshots going off. High impact, and Tsonda gambles his way to another victory!

Tsonda gives O’Neill a headnod and slides out of the ring before making his way back up the ramp as the show fades elsewhere.

Fade in.

You ever see those Olive Garden commercials where everyone is smiling, and eating, and drinking, and just having a grand old time with life? Happy families all enjoying each other’s company. None of the kids are screaming. No one is arguing. It’s downright idyllic, right down to the fast casual Italian decor.

What sets it apart is the food. Sure, it has that same mass-produced look as your average chain, only there are no obvious plates. Instead everyone seems to be eating out of a bucket in different shapes, sizes, and colors. This is where the logo fades into view.

But since there isn’t one yet, we’ll just give you the name of the joint:

SKETTI BUCKET

And then there’s the voiceover.

Voiceover: Come on down to Sketti Bucket, the family-friendly pasta experience that everyone can enjoy! We’ve got skettis in all shapes and sizes. Try our traditional skettis, or take a trip to Southern Italy with our skettucini. Looking for something to fill you up? Let our bucketini carbonara do the trick!

Now we get a panoramic shot of the interior of the restaurant, which reveals it’s not just the pasta that comes in buckets. There’s a salad bar running through the center of the restaurant, and patrons line both sides to fill their bowls with fresh greens using tiny plastic shovels, like what you’d find in a set of beach toys.

Voiceover: Every meal at Sketti Bucket comes with a trip to our salad trough. Choose from dozens of options with your choice of dressing!

But wait! The commercial isn’t quite over. From here we fade into a shot of an office. Seated behind the desk is a woman who appears to be in her early 60s, with stark white hair that doesn’t look far off from one of those Spaceballs helmets. Her name is Dolores Merriweather Pepperidge-Pembroke, and we know this because it’s currently printed across the bottom of the screen followed by “Founder of Sketti Bucket.”

Dolores Merriweather Pepperidge-Pembroke: At Sketti Bucket we use only the finest ingredients, sourced fresh from local vendors.

Here the tone shifts a bit. While Dolores is still addressing her audience in a calm, matronly voice, the image on the screen takes on the air of a political attack ad as headlines fade in and out in turn.

“Safety Concerns at Local Sandwich Shop”

“Health Inspector Refuses Comment on LeMoo’s Investigation”

“Steve Lemieux: Mr. Beefst? More Like Mr. Bacterial Gastroenteritis”

Dolores Merriweather Pepperidge-Pembroke: Because when you’re at Sketti Bucket, your family… is our family.

And now we fade back to a shot of the restaurant where happy patrons shovel (literally) scoops of pasta into their mouths. This is accompanied by a little musical number that goes something like this:

🎵Please don’t eat

🎵The diarrhea meat

🎵Instead come to Skeeeeeeeeetti Bucket!

Voiceover: And don’t forget to try our four delicious sauces. Classic marinara. Creamy alfredo. Garden fresh pesto. Aaaaaaaaaaaand purple! At Sketti Bucket there’s something for the whole family to enjoy!

Another pan of the restaurant. This time a family of five all flash a thumbs up in the direction of the camera.

Now we get the official jingle.

🎵Run to Sketti Bucket!

🎵Don’t be a snail!

🎵It’s the pasta that your whole family eats from a pail!

We fade to darkness, but the voiceover continues.

Voiceover: Sketti Bucket. Open at 11501 West Cottonwood Road in Brimfield, Illinois!

Fade.

“WHEN MY BACK’S TO THE WALLLLL!!!”

I!!

WILL!!

CON!!

QUER!!

Osaka-Jo Hall murmurs with polite disapproval as the Event Horizon’s music meets their ears. With far less pomp, but perhaps some circumstance, Hayes Hanlon arrives at the ramp, sauntering down in his standard black dress shirt, sleeves rolled up. His hair is a bit of a mess, but the ‘Stache is on point, and there’s a gleam and a grin across his face. Inebriated? Maybe a little, as evidenced by the gin and tonic in his left hand.

Nick Stuart: Welcome back to ReVival 64 at Osaka-jo Hall in Tokyo, Japan! Just in time to be…graced, by the presence of the Event Horizon, Hayes Hanlon, brandishing what I believe to be a steel chair…with a brick taped to it?

Richard Parker: Two-time Universal Champion, Hayes Hanlon, Nick, if the alzheimers hasn’t set it just yet. And yeah…that’s definitely a brick taped to a chair.

Indeed, firmly in the grip of his right hand, a steel chair. With a brick duct-taped to the top of the backrest. As we’ve established.

Nick Stuart: 2024 wasn’t Hanlon’s favorite year, to be sure, but he managed to kick off 2025 with a win over Crash Jackson at ReVival 62. And now…with a chair in hand.

Richard Parker: Taped to a brick.

AS WE HAVE ESTABLISHED.

Hayes climbs the steps, tipping back the last of his gin and tonic before whipping the plastic cup into the stands, ice and limes spraying about, getting more of a rise from the crowd for the disrespectful show. His music trails off as he steps through the ropes, retrieving a mic from his back pocket. He chuckles, looking down at the chair in his hand, turning and tipping it as the crowd quiets.

Hayes Hanlon: You know, I still don’t know exactly what Jolf is, but Joe tells me this is the putter.

Hanlon takes grip with his other hand, and imitates a putting stroke with the chair before returning to the mic.

Hayes Hanlon: I’ll figure it out, but hey! Is Japan excited to see our guy Joe Fontaine back!? Did Japan like watching Joe beat Max Kael into a pile of sushi rice? No?

A low rumble and murmur at the Event Horizon’s…comparisons. Hanlon laughs with a toothy smile behind the ‘stache, and continues.

Hayes Hanlon: Another ol’ stallion, put out to pasture. Speaking of which…horse, Japan? Really? Raw. Horse??

Hanlon circles the ring, knowing he’s shuffling on thin ice, but shakes his head behind the mic regardless.

Hayes Hanlon: This place is wild, man. But hey, it’s gotta be damn good to see the Glue Factory back at it, right? Besides Joe, Julien’s got TAL all folded up in a box labeled “White People Taco Night.”

Sorry about that one.

Hayes Hanlon: And Cecilworth? He freakin’ loves this place, by the way… he’s already got Ol’ Ivan…UGH…Ivan, on his big, dumb heels. You think Bryan Dawkins can save you, Ivan? Bryan Dawkins???

Home Run Hayes holds an arm out, looking for an answer to his own question, but receives none.

Hayes Hanlon: It doesn’t matter, I’ve kinda been there, done that, when it comes to that giant pile of brittle bones. But still, it’ll be fun watching Farthington squeeze Putin’s nuts out of his throat. Or Trump’s. Both?

He snickers, the crowd remaining less than amused.

Hayes Hanlon: So that just leaves lil’ ol’ me…

Hanlon’s eyes flash, and he turns to the ramp. He lifts the “putter,” and points it to the entrance ramp.

Hayes Hanlon: …and another old horse, that owes Yours Truly a big ol’ “thank you.”

The audience–those who know Hanlon is likely referring to Jason Snow–give a small cheer. And Hanlon himself keeps his attention at the top of the ramp as if he’s expecting Snow to appear any second. But several seconds pass without any sign of the Intense champion.

Hanlon eventually begins to smile.

Hayes Hanlon: Can’t say I’m surprised. I’ve been getting the silent treatment for weeks. And it’s a freakin’. SHAME.Because this guy, who used to be, USED to be, the Original FUCKING VILLAIN, was about to lose his precious Intense Championship to a guy with twice as many losses than in his win column. And who came running to his rescue? Me. ME. And man, whoever said I never did anything for the elderly is eating a lot of crow right now–

He’s cut off by an eruption from the audience as Jason Snow himself emerges from backstage and stands at the top of the entrance ramp. Snow is dressed in track pants and a hoodie, the hood hiding most of his face, and over one shoulder is the Intense championship.

Hanlon smirks, and gives him a second before returning the mic to his lips.

Hayes Halon: Still waiting on that “thank you,” Jason.

Hanlon gives Snow the opportunity. Predictably, he receives nothing.

Hayes Hanlon: Yeah, I didn’t think so. Instead, how about you walk your old ass down that ramp…

Hanlon holds up his brick-chair, pointing it at Mr. 407.

Hayes Hanlon: …and maybe I’ll start speaking your language.

Snow pushes back his hood.

Nick Stuart: Can they do this? Are they talking about having a match for the Intense title right here, right now?

Hanlon smirks, and lowers the chair.

Hayes Hanlon: It’s your call, champ. I know, I just freaking know it’s making your fingers tingle. Mannn, I bet you can feel it in the heel of your boot. Ol’ Snake Eyes. Is there anything left of that? Any fucking venom left in that boot? CHAMP??

Snow tilts his head just slightly. Hesitating. And then he takes a step forward.

And the audience explodes

“RUUAAAHHH!!!”

Nick Stuart: Here we go! Live on ReVival!

Just as he gets to the ring Snow removes the belt from his shoulder. He slides beneath the bottom rope without taking his eyes off Hanlon, and when he pops back to his feet, he’s holding the strap like a whip.

Hanlon can only grin with chair and brick, bobbing in his hand.

The pair keep a cautious distance from each other, neither making the first move.

Hayes Hanlon: (Shrugging) Still nothing? Nothing to say?

He holds the microphone out for Snow, pointing it directly at his face.

Snow doesn’t even glance at it.

Osaka-Jo Hall has the feel of a room that has been filled to bursting with explosive fumes and, any second now, somebody’s going to light a match.

And that’s when the Star Spangled Banner begins to play.

Nick Stuart: Wait… What? What is happening here? This guy? Now?

While some of the folks at Osaka-Jo Hall are too polite to boo another country’s national anthem, many of them boo loudly. Eventually, Rexton William Bader wheels himself out to the top of the ramp, accompanied, again, by four PRIME officials. Bader is dressed the same as we have seen him on preceding shows, in army fatigues with a stars-and-stripes bandana. A pair of aviator sunglasses and the tubes from his oxygen tank–strapped to the wheelchair–dangling around his neck. He looks to one side of the ramp and scowls. Then the other.

Inside the ring, Hayes Hanlon is now leaning on his brick-equipped chair like a walking stick, watching, waiting, while, across from him, Jason Snow watches the ramp without ever fully letting Hayes out of his sight. Both of them looking confused by the interruption (Hayes seems just slightly amused at the same time). For the time being, it appears the two have reached a wait-and-see.

And half the crowd continues to boo as Bader rolls onward and downward.

Richard Parker: I thought Japanese fans had more respect than this. This is an absolute legend wheeling himself down the aisle. And a war hero to boot.

Nick Stuart: I’m really not so sure what this guy is. I tried to look it up last week, Richard, and I can’t find any record of Rexton “The Master” B–You know what? I’m not even gonna say it on air. Hayes Hanlon and Jason Snow were about to finally have it out.

Upon making it to ringside, his face now slack with disapproval (presumably at PRIME’s, yet again, lack of a wheelchair accessible ring), Bader waits while his four attendants work to lift him up while Snow and Hayes exchange a look.

And then, right when Bader’s roughly six feet in the air, being transferred from the two officials on the floor to the two officials on the ring apron, that Hayes Hanlon, smirking, finally speaks up.

Hayes Hanlon: Hey, don’t worry about it, Snow! I’ll bet this dude’s got plenty to say!

From somewhere on his person, or perhaps from somewhere on his chair, Rexton William Bader produces a microphone. And while the officials have paused his transfer into the ring, mid-air (which does not look fun; Bader weighs easily two hundred-plus without the chair), he begins to speak.

Rexton William Bader: Whoa whoa whoa! I am here, Mr. Hanlon, to save you from a horrible, horrible mistake.

Hanlon has a look on his face like, Oh really…

Bader–not into the microphone–begins berating his accompanying officials, asking, “What in the fuck are you waiting for? Put in me in the ring!” And then the officials begin the awkward process of lifting, and then lowering, Bader and his chair into the ring.

Once Bader has his wheels on solid ground again, he rolls over to Hayes Hanlon, holds up a hand, and then turns quickly toward Snow.

Rexton William Bader: You know something, Hayes? I’ll bet this dumb piece of shit has no idea what happened two weeks ago. I’ll bet he has no idea why you marched down to the ring and saved him. I’ll bet he’s spent two weeks trying to process it, trying to understand what happened, and why it happened, and how it happened. But when I saw it, Hayes Hanlon… When I saw you drape Jason Snow’s arm over Tony Gamble for the pin… I knew exactly what I was seeing.

Hanlon waits. Wildly confused. But he waits.

Rexton William Bader: Pure genius.

The boos from the crowd are a little more assertive now that the American national anthem has stopped playing.

Rexton William Bader: I knew right then I was looking at the total package. Not only are you a physical specimen. That’s clear enough to see. But there are a lot of physical specimens. This broken down piece of shit right here–

…pointing at Snow…

Rexton William Bader: –looks good. And not only are you an athletic phenom. But you are also, Hayes Hanlon, a God damn wrestling genius. And I know this because genius recognizes genius.

More boos.

Hanlon glances at Snow; Snow at Hanlon. And then they watch Bader, between them in the center of the ring.

Rexton William Bader: What you want, Hayes Hanlon, is PRIME’s Intense Championship. So for weeks and weeks you’ve been positioning yourself opposite that man. You need him to be champion so that, in a moment just like this, you can win that championship from him. And when I saw that, when I saw that genius on display, I knew… I said to myself, “Rexton Bader, maybe you can’t be the Master no more, but that man… that man right there… Hayes Hanlon… you can guide him to greatness. It’ll take some work, sure. He’s pretty good, Hanlon, but he ain’t great the way you were. Back when you were the Master. But you, only you, Rexton,” –keep in mind I’m talking to myself here– “can take that man to greatness. To the absolute top of the wrestling world.

Hayes blinks a few times, like he’s not sure if he should laugh or toss Bader out of the ring, chair and all.

Rexton William Bader: But you’re making a mistake, Hayes, to do it here. First of all, this audience doesn’t deserve to see you win the Intense championship, given the way they treat a God damn AMERICAN WAR HERO!

If there were any remaining reservations on booing a wheelchair-bound man who entered to a foreign national anthem, those reservations are gone now, and the boos come hard.

Rexton William Bader: No, no, this can’t happen here. This can’t happen unsanctioned. It can be taken away from you if it’s unsanctioned. But let me remind you, Hayes Hanlon: We’re just two weeks away from Culture Shock.

Rexton points at a poster hanging from the rafters, advertising Culture Shock, and Manhunt.

Home Run Hayes looks slowly from Bader to Snow. He rests the chair on a shoulder.

Hayes Hanlon: (pointing at Snow) I’ve been trying for weeks to find out if there are any hornets left in that nest…

Jason Snow: …

**Hayes Hanlon: ..**but I’ve been left disappointed. Man, when PRIME came back? I didn’t want to believe it, but I knew a lot of the old guard couldn’t hang anymore. Wouldn’t have the guts to do what they did 20 years ago.

Hayes scoffs, and eyes Snow up and down.

Hayes Hanlon: But when he came back, I never would have thought he’d show up like this. With his mouth sewn fucking shut…

And now here comes Snow, pouncing ahead with the belt wound back. Hanlon retreats a step and gets a better grip on his chair. It’s all a matter of who lands first…

…but now Rexton William Bader is between them, wheeling his way into Jason Snow’s knees.

Rexton William Bader: What the fuck you think you’re doing? You’re gonna attack my client with a WEAPON? That’s a fucking lawsuit, fucker! That’s assault! That’s assault in a wrestling ring, fucker! Get back! Get the fuck back!

Snow’s eyes go wide with rage.

Bader keeps right on bumping Snow’s knees.

Rexton William Bader: What? Hm? You wanna hit me, fucker? You can’t hit me! I’m in a WHEELCHAIR!

[wEEL che-h]

Snow backs up a few steps and Bader keeps right on coming.

Rexton William Bader: Who the fuck hits a war vet? In a wheelchair? What kind of man? Huh? I’m in a wheelchair!

Snow is forced back to the corner. A couple of times it looks like he might well hit Bader, wheelchair be damned, but then he bails out of the ring.

Rexton William Bader: Yeah, run. Run, you fucking coward!

[cowid]

Rexton William Bader: Go on. Can’t even face a man in a fucking wheelchair. Go on.

Snow points at Hanlon, who’s absolutely beside himself in the middle of all this chaos. Until Snow points up at the advertisement. For Culture Shock.

And the audience explodes.

Nick Stuart: I have no idea what we just witnessed.

Richard Parker: People think they understand the science of matchmaking. But we just saw how the sausage is made.

Snow is heading up the ramp.

In the ring, Rexton Bader has turned back to Hayes.

Rexton William Bader: See that? That’s how we’ll handle negotiations. Now that we’re a team.

Hanlon shakes his head, half in disbelief, yet wildly amused. He holds onto his microphone while leaning into the corner of the ring, and watches Rexton William Bader and his handlers go through to the long, awkward process of lifting the wheelchair back out of the ring and to the floor, all glancing back to the ramp, laughing through his nose.

Elsewhere…

The Boiler Room.

It’s been a while since Fred has frequented that old haunt of his. And now? On the night he is going to blow RIA to smithereens?

Well, Fred could think of no other place to build his rocket launcher.

With a 3d printer in hand, and no earthly idea how to make it work, Fred skips like a happy little lad towards the boiler room, singing a song stuck in his head. However, he only knows one line of the song, so he just keeps repeating that part.

Fred Dick: CAN’T FIIIIIIND A BETTER MAAAAANNNNN! …CAN’T FIIIIND A BETTER MAAAANNN!!! … CAN’T FIIIIND A BETTER MAAAANNNN!!!!!

Fred swings the door to the Boiler Room, and immediately stops dead in his tracks.

Because there, waiting for him with a stuffed, pink teddy bear wrapped in barbedwire?

RIA.

Fred Dick: What in the fug’re you doin’ in my Boiler Room, ace hoe?

RIA: Shut up, bitch! It ain’t your boiler room anyway! What, ya think these things just transport around with ya from arena to arena?! They all have one!

RIA takes a step closer. Fred appears surprised by this new found information.

RIA: I figured this was a fantastic place to find ya. Imma get right down to why I’m here; you. I’m sick of this back ‘n forth bullshit! I wanna end this and, if your dumbass ain’t careful, maybe end you.

Fred grins a toothy grin.

Fred Dick: Bench, nothin’ would make me happier than to end yo ace fuh good. Lawd yes! In FACK, that’s why I’m here. You see this 3D Printer?

Fred holds the 3D Printer up.

Fred Dick: I’ma build me a rocket launcher with it, and blow your ace up. BECAUSE I’M DONE WITH THE SHITS!!! I’M. DONE. WITH. THE. SHITS!!! And yet you keep brangin’ me the shits, even fuggin’ though I’m done with the shits. Well. Have yo ace a seat somewheres and gimme about, oh, eight hours. Then, I’ll blow you up, we’ll have some kinda… jet ski funeral for ya punk ace at Culture Shock, and I’ll go win a fuggin’ title. How’s dat sound? Dat sound good, bench? DOES DAT SOUND FUGGIN’ GOOD YOU BENCH????

RIA raises an eyebrow and just stares at Fred for a minute before sighing. She carefully places the adorably dangerous teddy bear down on a nearby barrel.

RIA: The fuck makes ya think Imma give you EIGHT HOURS to build what the fuck ever and then just blow me up? First of all, it’s you. Should probably double that estimate. Two, you’d have to find me after all that time and I despise any moment I gotta spend around ya, so good luck there. And C, I’m pretty sure whatever ya 3D print ain’t gonna be sturdy enough to both fire something off OR actually propel it forward!

The Psychoberry takes a step to the left. Her expression darkens, perhaps even blackens?

RIA: You dumb fat fuck. You think you have us in danger? We know danger. And we plan to give you more than you can handle.

Fred throws the 3D Printer at RIA. She side steps it with ease. It crashes to the ground and, ironically, breaks into smithereens. She stares at him, like a mother infinitely disappointed that she has a moron for a son.

Fred Dick: Awwwww GOT DAMMIT!!! YEW BROKE MY 3D PRINTER YEW BENCH!!!

Fred tries to back hand RIA, but she kicks him in the nads for his troubles. Fred falls to his knees.

Fred Dick (clutching his balls): Muh boberry biscuits!

She steps right and cackles maniacally, eyes wide, the smile covering her face unsettling. Another shift in demeanor and posture from the Rainbow Riot.

RIA: Freddy Freddy Freddy… What are we gonna do with you? Oh, I know! You wanna talk about blowing us up? We did bludgeon you with a barbwire bat. How about we combine the two?! Barbwire rope exploding ring death match! Sounds like a lot of fun, right?!

Another step to the side from RIA.

RIA: Look dude, this didn’t have to be this way. I don’t like goin’ above ‘n beyond to hurt people. But ya pushed us. Blame us for the printer. Blame us for you assholes attackin’ me. We’re gonna make sure ya know the truth after alla this; This was your fault.

RIA begins skipping towards the exit while the Street Cat struggles to his feet. She pauses, turning to look over her shoulder.

RIA: Oh, we hope you enjoy our present! We worked real hard on it. We’re sure you’ll have a blast with it!

She sends a flirty wink Fred’s way. RIA opens the door, but again stops from leaving.

RIA: One last thing…

She turns, her body holding the door open.

RIA: Banana! Banana banana banana. Banana!

The Psychoberry then turns and makes her exit. Fred waits for a moment to make sure RIA’s not pulling any extra fuck shit. Once he’s sure the coast is clear, he climbs to his feet.

Fred Dick: bAnAnA! bAnAnA! How ‘bout banana deez nuts on yo’ muhfuggin chin?

Fred sighs. He picks up the stuffed bear, wrapped in barbwire.

Immediately, he hears a ticking sound.

Tick, tick, tick.

Fred Dick: Uh oh.

Ticktickticktickticktick…

Then, nothing.

Fred Dick: Oh thank Gawd! For a second, I thought she was blowin’ my ace up–

Boom.

The bear explodes.

Pink, blue, and white glitter flies all over the room. It coats Fred completely. He spits glitter out of his mouth, wipes it from his face.

He sighs.

Once again, Fred’s trust in humanity fucked him over.

ReVival moves on.

Richard Parker: What do we have next, Nick?

Nick Stuart: We have a great bout between Tony Gamble and Jackson Cooley!

Richard Parker: Both competitors oughta be as hot as a matchbox during this one.

Nick Stuart: …I see what you’re doing. I don’t approve.

The arena lights rise as bright as they can. Oxygen pumps in the arena. The sounds of laughter and slot machines being pulled.

Vince Howard: Introducing first… from LAS VEGAS, NEVADA!!! YOUR MOM’S FAVORITE WRESTLERRRRR… JACKSOOOOON COOOOOLEY!!!

I went home with a waitress the way I always do

How was I to know she was with the russians, too?

Jackson Cooley slides out from behind the curtain weightlessly, his feet floating as he breezes out half bent over doing a honky tonk walk. After a few steps he shoots up straight, putting two peace signs up like Nixon and fireworks shoot out fucking everywhere. People duck in the first few rows around the entrance ramp. Following close behind as always, is Nick DeSalvo.

I was gambling in havana, I took a little risk

Send lawyers, guns, and money

Dad, get me out of this, hiyah!

Cooley struts his fucking stuff down the aisle in his impeccable electric blue blazer and zebra pants. All of the women fawn over him, reaching out to try and touch his oiled up chest. He leans in to them, grabbing the lapels of his jacket and acting like he’s going to open up like a demure flower for these ladies. They get close, but he closes the jacket before any can make contact.

I’m an innocent bystander

Somehow I got stuck between a rock and a hard place

Like that Olympic pole vaulter – yes, that one – Cooley gets stuck on the rope as he climbs in. He puts his hands on his hips in an Urkle “Did I do that?” pantomime. It fucking kills. Everyone laughs.

And I’m down on my luck

Yes, I’m down on my luck

Well, I’m down on my luck

As the song closes out, Cooley does a little warmup lap around the ring, letting the entire arena get a look at how fucking cool he is.

I’m hiding in honduras, I’m a desperate man

Send lawyers, guns, and money

The shit has hit the fan

Cooley removes his blazer and tosses it to DeSalvo at ringside before settling into his corner looking so much cooler than his whack ass opponent.

Send lawyers, guns, and money

Send lawyers, guns, and money

Send lawyers, guns, and money, hiyah!

Send lawyers, guns, and money, ow!

Nick Stuart: Cooley looks veeeery comfortable tonight.

Richard Parker: How many hot wheels do you think it’d take to make him look uncomfortable?

Nick Stuart: I’m begging you not to make toy car remarks this entire match.

Richard Parker: And I’m begging you to let me be myself.

Where my heart is, rests my very soul

And the colors bleed from blue to gold

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

When the choice is mine and mine alone

I won’t give in even if you break my bones

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

I won’t give in ’till your sins have been atoned

All I see is the flickering lights below me

Tony stretches his arms out wide, welcoming the crowd’s form of adoration as Johnnie continues to speak and his music plays.

All I need is the power to change what I see

If I can give a little, not a second thought

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

If I’m stuck in the middle, I will take the shot, woah

All I wanna be, yeah

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

Yeah, I was born for this

I will keep my secrets high above

Johnnie Newsman: He thee Capotabola!

In the hopes to protect the ones I love

But I wonder where in darkness lies the truth

Johnnie Newsman: Number won in your heart!

Of the one who took their lives, you can’t excuse

I don’t fear you, I won’t let you take my home

Tony climbs the steps, looking out at the fans that have not quieted down at all since he stepped out from behind the curtain. They love to hate him, even more so as he stands on the apron looking out into the crowd for a moment — not bothering to wipe his feet.

I will climb through to wherever you may roam

I won’t give in, you can even break my bones

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

What is within is a strength you’ll never know

Johnnie Newsman: TOOOOOOOOOOOONYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!

All I see is the flickering lights below me

All I need is the power to change what I see

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

Johnnie Newsman: THEEEEE GRRRRRRIIIINNNNNNNN!!

If I can give a little, not a second thought

If I’m stuck in the middle, I will take the shot, woah

He drops down to one knee, lowering his head as Johnnie continues.

Johnnie Newsman: GAAAAAAAAMMBLLLLLLEEEEE!!

All I wanna be, yeah

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

Yeah, I was born for this

Nick Stuart: Last time we saw Gamble, he was inches away from becoming the INTENSE Champion, Richard.

Richard Parker: Well you know what they say. Almost only counts in hot wheels and hand grenades.

DING! DING!

The two men meet in the center of the ring and, rather than lock up, Cooley sends a stiff jab into Gamble’s jaw. He shimmies and shakes like he’s Elvis Presley, after one jab by the way, the sheer audacity, and he’s rightly slapped across the mouth for it by Gamble, who then sends a stiff forearm right into Cooley’s jaw as a follow up. Cooley finds himself reeling backwards into the turnbuckles as Gamble unleashes a flurry of blows, and the ass whooping doesn’t stop once he gets there!

Big time right hook by Gamble, followed by a left jab and a kick to the gut. Cooley doesn’t see much of a way out of his current predicament. He’s tired of getting beat on! He doesn’t want to get beat up! So he shoves Gamble as hard as he can, and Gamble reels backwards, right into referee Jimmy Turnbull! Gamble wipes out the referee and tumbles over him, hitting the mat himself.

Quick falling dropkick to the face from Cooley wipes Gamble out the rest of the way.

Nick Stuart: Seems a little early for a referee bump, Richard.

Richard Parker: Well Nick when you have a limited edition Jeff Gordon 24 Rainbow Warrior Dupont Hot Wheel in your asshole, you find yourself imbued with an innate need for speed.

Nick Stuart: You’re a disgusting man. You’re a disgusting human being.

Meanwhile Cooley has mounted Gamble and is raining elbows down at his head. Gamble does what he can to protect himself, but many of the elbow shots get through and connect. The Grin has to act fast, and he does!

A clever tie up from his position and a reversal, and BOOM, small package cradle!

Richard Parker: Hahaha! Look at Cooley’s legs flailing, trying to kick out! Kicking his feet like a little baby.

Nick Stuart: But there’s no referee!

True. The referee is out.

And yet, Cooley is still trying to kick out of the small package!

Gamble is holding the small package for so many seconds, with Cooley never managing a kick out, that an American crowd would have counted to 3 five times by now.

But here, in this arena, it’s just… quiet observation.

FINALLY, with determination and effort, Cooley kicks out. And he scrambles to his feet angry as a hornet with a toy car shoved up his ass. Gamble is ready for him, and the two lock up. Cooley transitions Gamble to a side headlock, and Gamble uses his veteran experience to turn that into a teardrop back suplex!

But Cooley then uses HIS veteran experience to flip over the back of Gamble and escape! Cooley lands on his feet, Tony spins around, boot to the gut from Cooley.

Cooley reaches in the back of his trunks.

He pulls out a limited edition Jeff Gordon 24 Rainbow Warrior Dupont Hot Wheel out of the back of his trunks!

Richard Parker: I TOLD YOU NICK!!! I TOLD YOU NICK!!! I TOLD YOU, SON!!!

Cooley wraps it tight in the palm of his right hand, and sends a loaded fist right into Cooley’s jaw, dropping him cold onto the mat!

Cooley puts the car back in back of his trunks and makes the cover!!!

But once again, there’s no referee.

Cooley hooks Gambles legs and holds him in that pinning position just as Gamble did to him not two minutes ago.

Nick Stuart: Jackson Cooley must be the pettiest man on God’s green earth.

Richard Parker: Richard Petty they call him.

Nick Stuart: For the love of– ohp, wait, Turnbull is stirring!

Indeed Turnbull is stirring, and crawling, slowly, as one does when they’re a referee and was recently knocked over, and begins to make an incredibly, incredibly slow count.

ONE!!

.

.

.

.

TWO!!

.

.

.

.

THR– KICK OUT BY GAMBLE!!!

Cooley slaps the mat three times quickly, to show Turnbull the correct speed a ref ought to slap the mat three times. Turnbull looks at Cooley like, “what do you want me to do? I got knocked over ya jack ass!” Cooley climbs to his feet and brings Gamble up with him. He whips Gamble into the ropes, but Gamble is still spry even in his old age, and he leaps onto the second rope and SPRINGBOARDS backwards with a cross body!

Rather than make the cover, Gamble quickly rolls away, allows Cooley to scramble his feet and charges towards the opposite set of ropes, springboards off the second rope again! MOONSAULT!!!

It lands flush! And this time Gamble does hook the legs and make the pinfall attempt!

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

NO!!! Cooley flails, kicks out and gets the shoulder off the mat right in time!

Nick Stuart: Go ahead. Make a toy car in Cooley’s butthole joke.

Richard Parker: I’m trying, believe me. I just can’t really think of one.

Nick Stuart: How about, “Cooley with a hot kick out like there’s a matchbox in his muffler?”

Richard Parker: Nick, look at me.

…

Richard Parker: I am so damn proud of you.

Cooley reaches his feet, but Gamble is a shade faster, catches him on the way up, and drops him with a Russian Legsweep! The Grin reaches his feet and sends a few boots into Cooleys guts! He does the same to Cooley’s legs, before snatching those legs off the mat and locking him in a Boston Crab!

Cooley cries out in agony, lifting his chest off the mat with a push up, but it doesn’t relieve the pain! There’s only one way out of this, and it’s by crawling on his arms towards the ropes, and pulling Gamble with him.

Which is precisely what Cooley starts doing. Slowly, painfully, a left forearm, a right forearm, one after the other, from the middle of the squared circle, until he’s so close to the ropes, he need only reach out and–

Gamble drags him back to the center of the ring and locks in the Boston Crab again!

Cooley can’t stand it. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t want to tap. But he has to tap, it’s his only option out of this agony.

…only he doesn’t.

His butt, full of cars, his heart, full of determination, Cooley once again begins the gut wrenching crawl towards the ropes.

Left forearm. Right forearm.

And just as he’s about to reach the ropes –

Gamble starts to drag him back to the cen–

Cooley flails, throws himself forward with the strength of his hands alone and GRABS the bottom rope!

Richard Parker: Dale Earnhardt levels of determination from Cooley!

Gamble is forced to break the hold, but like a true blue heel, he waits for Turnbull to reach 4 and a half before letting Cooley go.

Cooley rolls out of the ring, away from the torment.

But the torment follows.

Gamble steps out of the ropes and onto the apron. He leaps!

CURBSTOMP TO COOLEY FROM THE APRON TO THE OUTSIDE!!!

NO!!! Cooley rolls out of the way!!!

Cooley climbs up to his feet, ducks a clothesline! Gamble turns and

Richard Parker: OH MY GOD HE’S BITING GAMBLE’S NOSE!!!

Nick Stuart: THAT IS WEIRD AS HELL!!!

Richard Parker: I love it so much!

Guess who doesn’t love it? Tony Gamble, who cries out in pain before sending a knee right into Jackson’s little Cooleys, dropping him to his knee, taking the breath out of him and –

SMACK!!! A mule kick by Gamble finishes the job!

Nick Stuart: An absolutely brutalizing kick by Tony Gamble there.

Richard Parker: A far superior kick to Cuntser Jiles’ super kick.

Nick Stuart: Beg your pardon?

Richard Parker: Hmm?

Nick Stuart: Did you say, ‘Cuntser?’

Richard Parker: Hmm?

Gamble grabs Cooley up by his arm and rolls him into the ring. Gamble slides under the bottom rope. He beckons Cooley to his feet, awaits, ready to strike with the Don’t Smile at Me. He just needs Cooley to get to his feet.

It’s almost like Cooley senses that. Just as he begins to reach his feet, he lies back down on his back.

Nick Stuart: What the hell is he doing?

Richard Parker: Being a genius, Nick.

Nick Stuart: Richard, you’ve been making constant jokes about this so called genius putting toy cars in his ass.

Richard Parker: Every genius who ever lived had bizarre quirks. Who am I to judge?

Gamble, annoyed, goes over to Cooley and kicks him in the ribs. Then stomps on his ribs. Then drops an elbow on his ribs.

BUT COOLEY GRABS HIS ARM!!!

Nick Stuart: ARMBAR!!! ARMBAR!!!

Suddenly, the tables have turned quite severely and Gamble is in real trouble.

But the thing is, Cooley isn’t the only one holding a couple tricks in his ass.

Although, admittedly, Gamble pulls his from the front.

What was no doubt once snuggled against his jimmy and giblets, Gamble slides a set of brass knuckles on his hand.

Nick Stuart: Why isn’t Turnbull stopping this?

Turnbull, to his credit, is paying attention, but Gamble is sly and crafty. He cries out in pain, makes a massive show of it, extends his legs towards the ropes and so on.

His flailing legs “accidentally” sweeps Turnbull’s legs out from under him.

And that’s when Tony nails Cooley right in the kisser with the brass knuckles.

Night night.

Nick Stuart: No!! Not like this!!

Richard Parker: Such a loser-ass bandit move!

Gamble makes the cover! He hooks the legs!

Turnbull recovers enough to make the count!

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

THREEEEEEEE!!!

DING! DING! DING!

“Born for This” hits the speakers. Gamble gets his arm raised. Nick Stuart complains. Richard Parker spits. And Jackson Cooley, well, he didn’t get the checkered flag this time.

We cut elsewhere.

Rexton William Bader is in a huff, wheeling furiously down the quiet corridors of Osaka-Jo Hall, hurrying, wheezing. We can hear the hum of the Japanese audience in the arena.

Bader takes one corner, then another, the camera close behind.

And then finally…

Rexton William Bader: There you are! Finally! Hayes Hanlon! The future Intense Champion. And that’s just for starters. You’re gonna be so glad you hitched your wagon to this horse!

Rexton William Bader has indeed caught up to Hayes Hanlon. Hayes regards the wheelchair-bound Bader coolly, sipping from a fresh cup.

Hayes Hanlon: …you got that backwards, didn’t you?

Bader stares up. For a moment we aren’t sure how he might react. Then he laughs.

Rexton William Bader: See, that’s what I like about you. That’s why I chose you. You’re the whole package. You’ve got the personality. You’ve got the pedigree. And skills? Pssh. You got skills coming out your ass.

The Event Horizon cocks an eyebrow at the strange character in front of him, almost wincing away from him.

Hayes Hanlon: “Chose” me? Is this a weird wheelchair sex thing?

Rexton William Bader: And a sense of humor to boot. Just stick with me, kid, and it won’t just be the Intense Title. You’ll get the Universal Title back. You’ll get all the belts. All the belts at once! I’m talking big things! Huge! And it all starts at Culture Shock.

Hanlon snorts, and turns to walk away from the strange, wheelchair-bound “legend,” but there is is something of a pause. Because whether Bader knows it or not, for Hayes? It DID all start at Culture Shock.

Rexton William Bader: And I’ll be right there, every step of the way. Well, not so much steps in my case… I’ll be right there with you! You and me, Hayes. The dream team.

Hayes Hanlon: I’ll…keep that in mind.

Rexton William Bader: Right there in your corner. That’s where I’ll be. Watching your back.

Hayes Hanlon: (Throwing up a half-assed salute) Sure thing, buddy.

Rexton William Bader: Right there in your corner. The dream team.

Hayes Hanlon: (Calling back, walking further away) Yup, just like 1992 or whatever.

You get the idea. Bader continues to holler after his new “protege,” and Hayes eventually finds a corner to turn left on.

Elsewhere…

We cut to somewhere in the back only to find a seemingly irritated and frantic Blaze Claymore looking around the hallways. His lush red robe, complete with white glittery fringe and sequins sways from side to side as he does his best “Confused John Travolta meme” impression.

Blaze Claymore: Meek! Meek!

The few arena crew scattered throughout the back are trying to stifle laughter as Blaze’s frantic calls and attire call to mind a chicken on helium, but no matter… Blaze finally spots what he’s been after as reporter Matt Mills appears from around the corner.

Blaze Claymore: MEEK!

Matt Mills freezes, body stiff like a deer about to be attacked, as Blaze confidently walks up to the PRIME staff member and claps his hands together forcefully.

Blaze Claymore: Meek. Thank goodness. I’m so glad I found you. You have to warn Lindsay.

Matt cocks his head to the side, his brain still in the starting block while Blaze’s has found its way off the track completely.

Matt Mills: Wait. Who the heck is Meek?

Blaze looks confused. Genuinely.

Blaze Claymore: Is this a trick?

Matt Mills: I assure you, it is not.

Blaze Claymore: Well, it’s you. Meek Mill. Grammy-award nominated rapper, PRIME interviewer, friend of Drake – though, I wouldn’t advertise that last one too much right now. I hear that he imported too many you know whats from the US and now the country is tariffied. I don’t know what about, exactly, but I think it’s bad. You don’t want to be associated with any of that. Trust me.

Matt Mills lowers his head in shame. Not his own. But residually from everything Blaze just said.

Matt Mills: I’m going to ignore everything you just said and start from the beginning. You said you needed to warn the boss about something?

Blaze snaps back to awareness and slaps his forehead so hard Matt Mills is pretty sure he just gave himself CTE. Though, that would explain a lot…

Blaze Claymore: Oh, yes! Of course. Well you see … I was in a match earlier today, right?

Matt slowly nods.

Blaze Claymore: Okay, well, so now that I’m an official member of PRIME and you know, popped my cherry-

Matt Mills: Please don’t call it that.

Blaze Claymore: Well, I just saw a large group of men headed to the ring and I’m pretty sure some of them were Russian spies! And we have to warn Lindsay about them! I will not have my good name be sullied by Soviets this soon after the 45th Anniversary of the Miracle on Ice! What would Kurt Russell think!?

We can see Matt Mills’ brain slowly trying to escape through his ears as he pinches his nose and takes in a big sigh. But as he looks up he just so happens to see, out of the corner of his eye, Lindsay Troy walking their way.

Matt Mills: Hey! Boss!

Lindsay turns to look and as soon as she sees Blaze and Matt, she picks up her pace, doing her best impression of Artie from Pete and Pete as she glides past the pair.

Blaze Claymore: Lindsay! Oh you’re just in time!

Lindsay stops, closes her eyes and turns to look at the pair.

Lindsay Troy: Blaze. Matt. What can I quickly help you with?

Blaze leaps toward Lindsay as she holds up her arms in a giant “X” shape to force Blaze backwards.

Blaze Claymore: Oh God, Lindsay, it’s awful. There are RUSSIANS here. Like… in The Hunt for Red October, or Red Dawn, or Thirteen Days, or … Rocky IV!

Lindsay Troy: (sighing) Yes. I know. That’s the Red Army.

Blaze gasps.

Lindsay Troy: And Ivan is… our champion…

Blaze holds his hands up to his mouth, horrified.

Blaze Claymore: He’s a Russian and his name is Ivan!? Oh… I see… well, there is only one solution then.

Lindsay and Matt take a step back as Blaze dramatically points to the ceiling.

Blaze Claymore: I need your biggest slab of meat, about two dozen logs, an axe, a robot, and Burgess Meredith delivered to my dressing room immediately. This is a job for….

Blaze lowers his arm and gestures to himself with his thumb.

Blaze Claymore: A montage!

Lindsay pinches the bridge of her nose and groans as Blaze dashes past her and Matt Mills. He sprints down the hallway and grabs the arm of the next camera man he can find to follow him.

We watch as they fly off into the distance, with Blaze’s voice just barely audible.

Blaze Claymore: I’m coming for you, Ivan! Just you wait 20 minutes!

Matt looks at The Boss, confused.

Matt Mills: He wouldn’t… would he?

Lindsay gives Mills an exasperated look as she grabs her walkie talkie from her belt.

Lindsay Troy: Dam, can you grab a couple Enemigos and get eyes on Blaze Claymore to make sure he doesn’t kill himself tonight?

Lindsay exits the frame, quickly, with Matt Mills following as the feed cuts back to the arena for tonight’s real main event.

The fans in Osaka-jo Hall begin to take their seats for this evening’s main event, which will likely be some kind of glorious, beautiful mess that it will take a decade for anyone who bore witness to it to forget.

Or some people get hit with jolf clubs while they try to have a match.

It’s definitely one of those two things.

The lights dim down in the hall as a few thunking chords of piano play, reverberating round the very large indeed hall. These piano chords mean that we are in for one of those rare occasions where our Glue boys come out together, as “Razzmatazz” by I DONT KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME begins to play. As the light starts to get brighter at the entrance way, out in front of the crowd step Hayes Hanlon, FLAMBERGE, Cecilworth Farthington and Joe Fontaine. The crowd is oddly delighted to see this group of weird lads, there’s probably some cultural reasons. Osaka is probably a big mustache city.

As Razzmatazz continues to play, the Glueminati saunter their way down to the ring and as they get closer to ringside, the camera catches that Glue’s Jolf Jaddy, the one and only fabby is trailing behind the other men, dragging a very large jolf bag behind him.

The jolf bag contains a wide range of modified steel chairs that the Glueminati has formed a consensus on being different styles of jolf club. For example, the 4-wood that had a rather large hand in the murder of Max Kael

Nick Stuart: You have to imagine asking these guys to be enforcers for tonight’s main event is somebody’s idea of a prank.

Richard Parker: Actually, Cecilworth told me that he’d discovered in the only copy of the PRIME Rule Book that for any trios tag match that contains at least one Russian, and one man with a hotdog fetish, and happens within the country of Japan, a group of handsome enforcers must be elected to stand at ringside to maintain good and proper order.

Nick Stuart: And did you ask to see this page in the rule book?

Richard Parker: Are you calling Cecilworth a liar? I’ll tell him right now! He’s coming this way!

fabby finally manages to get the jolf bag down to ringside, and is heavily panting as he leans against a ringpost. None of the rest of the Glueminati seem much concerned with the health and wellbeing of the man in the golden mask and instead have elected to immediately rifle through the jolf bag to find their chosen methods of outside enforcement. The Financier is the first to make a choice, continuing to brandish the 2-iron he was seen with early in the day. FLAMBERGE and Hammerin’ Hanlon decide to be a bit more discerning with their choices of gluforcement. In the meantime…

The lights drop. Darkness.

Richard Parker: Oh this is just pathetic.

Silence falls over Osaka-jo as fans hungry for justice use their phone lights to illuminate the arena. Then it hits.

Those melodic, fast and heavy riffs draw a pop of pyrotechnics as Little V’s heavy metal rendition of “Holding Out For A Hero” starts to slap over the PA system.

Vince Howard: Coming to the ring at a combined weight of 636 pounds…

Where have all the good men gone?

And where are all the Gods?

Vince Howard: The team of The Anglo Luchador, Crash, and Sebastian Gold…

Where’s the streetwise Hercules

To fight the rising odds?

Vince Howard: Give it up for Nobody’s Heroes!

Isn’t there a white knight

Upon a fiery steed?

The crowd’s reaction might not be 100% in support of the newfound collective of bad-guy ass-kickers but they respond to the energy with full effort. There’s even a group of 20-30 grown men in hotdog costumes, green and purple Luchador masks, and badass shades in the second row headbanging to every riff and sloshing beer everywhere.

We all know they’re here for the fuckin’ shitshow, bro.

Joe Fontaine spots this ground of maniacs and points them out to Cecilworth, who responds with a face that mixes the great tastes of disgust and contempt together. Distempt? Congust? It could also just be confusion or irritable bowel to be honest.

Late at night I toss and I turn

And I dream of what I need

Nick Stuart: I have goosebumps right now, Richard. This is wild…

I NEED A HERO

BOOMBOOMBOOM

Fireballs pop off down the entrance ramp to another roar from the crowd. The dust settles however and ushers a spotlight to the stage.

Sebastian Gold emerges at the front with TAL and Crash on each flank. All three sport their PRIME hardware, a sight not seen before!

RAAAAHHHHHHH

Richard Parker: Wait one minute, Nick! Crash isn’t a ch-

Nick Stuart: You literally did this over an hour ago when the Anglo Luchador asked Crash if he would represent the Tag Titles with him at Culture Shock…

Richard Parker: This Crash is one treasonous thief, folks.

FLAMBERGE takes a moment to look at this situation, and decides that he will actually just wait. Instead he continues to mull his jolf club options, of which there are many, and as the little lizard lad that he is, his hand hovers over a wedge.

There’s a decided change in the mood inside the Osaka-Jo Hall as the lights shift to crimson. PRIME has long known what that means, but Vince Howard, God love him, knows he still has a job to do.

Vince Howard: Weighing in a combined weight of 767 lbs, representing The Red Army! BRYAN DAWKINS!! ROSE!! And the Universal Champion, IVAAAAANNNN STAAAAANNNISLAVVVVV!!!!

The yellow pyro explodes just as the opening chord of The Soviet National Anthem by the Russian Red Army Choir blares through the arena. Bryan Dawkins is the first to emerge sporting yet another new look after his Max Kael cosplay to kick off the evening. Gone are the orange and aqua sunglasses and pineapple skull tights, instead replaced Red Army inspired gear. Red and yellow sunglasses cover his eyes and the hammer and sickle is prevalent on his red and yellow tights. Rose emerges behind him dressed in her usual affair, a glare in her eyes that is influenced by the events of earlier in the evening, and then a moment later, the lumbering, enormous form of Ivan Stanislav himself pulls up the rear.

Inside the ring, the Heroes that people may or may not have been holding out for remain steadfast, eyeing down the Red Army, as well as being quite unappreciative of the red light they are currently basked in. Outside the ring, Joe Fontaine is having an animated conversation with “fabby” about the jolf bag, pointing to a chair that has Coral Avalon’s name plastered on it. He points to the name with a sigh.

Nick Stuart: Well, our guest enforcers for the evening don’t seem to be paying much mind to the pomp and circumstance of the Red Army’s forceful arrival to tonight’s main event, but I’ll tell you that TAL, Jackson and Gold have not blinked, they have not moved, they are staring down their competition and it would appear they can’t wait to get their hands on the Army.

Richard Parker: Everyone wants a piece of the Red Army until they actually get a taste, then it’s the gulags. Probably literally. It seems like something this lot would do.

Of course, Alexei Ruslan is next to him, smirking and clapping next to his massive comrade in arms. Stanislav doesn’t try to wrap the Universal Championship around his waist. Instead, he has it draped over his broad shoulder, the belt, so stark and prestigious in its own right, looks comically tiny against the backdrop of the largest Universal Champion to ever hold the title.

Richard Parker: Now we’re talking. These Nobodies think they can run roughshod all over PRIME! They think they can break the rules! They think they can flaunt their numbers! Now we’re going to even it up! Now they’re gonna get what’s coming to them!

Nick Stuart: This sounds exactly like what The Red Army does day in and day out, Richard.

Richard Parker: Nope!

Nick Stuart: That’s your rebuttal?

Richard Parker: Yup!

Dawkins and Rose leap up to the apron and climb into the ring, with Ivan stepping up after them and gliding over the top rope. Ruslan jogs up the ring steps and brings up the rear. Dawkins perches himself on one turnbuckle and raises his fists high in the air.

Nick Stuart: It’s surreal to see the negative reception that Bryan Dawkins receives. His roots in Japan run deep. He’s dazzled the Land of the Rising Sun on countless occasions and never, not once, have they given him such a verbal lashing.

The shit-eating grin these fans once loved now is met with vitriol. The boos that rain down upon him are new. Perhaps worst of all, he doesn’t seem to care. He shrugs them off before joining Ivan and Alexei in the corner.

Rose, meanwhile, actually confers with Ivan for a moment, looking up at him as The Russian Bear points down at her and speaks in an animated fashion. Outside the ring, FLAMBERGE is currently in deep discussions with a Jolf Bag, but his head spins around for a second just to have a weird moment with Rose as he confers. Like the opposite of a meet cute, whatever that is? Ordained ogre? The point is something be going on with that deal.

Nick Stuart: Perhaps even more unsettling than Dawkins is Rose’s conduct. She not only walks out under the crimson banner and blaring instrumentation of Ivan’s former Soviet Union, but she is actually listening to him! What would her father think?

Richard Parker: Hey, say what you want Nick, but let’s be real: Dawkins was getting screwed night in and night out, and Rose was being held back. You can’t blame them for recognizing who the strongest force in PRIME is right now. It’s The Red Army. And it’s that man right there! The Universal Champion.

Stanislav breaks off from Rose and raises the Universal Title high overhead. He roars at the crowd, flaunting his victory and his station. When they react even more angrily at him, he laughs. Ruslan places one foot on the middle rope and scales it slightly and gives the Japanese crowd a bras d’honneur for their trouble. Although this doesn’t last long as Haye Hanlon attempts to test his putter against the ring apron, mercifully reducing Alexei’s yelling time.

Nick Stuart: No. I’m not gonna let you try to control this narrative, Richard! Stanislav has been a menace to wrestling for his entire career! Perhaps no more than now! He’s bullied, brutalized, belittled, and betrayed anyone and everyone to get what he wants!

Richard Parker: And he has what he wants: The Universal Championship!

Nick Stuart: I think PRIME is finally waking up. I think the Heroes are leading a charge that, frankly, hadn’t been led before. There’s been plenty of PRIME superstars who have stood up to Ivan and his Army on their own, and there’s been success, but also a great deal of failure too! Yes, he won the Universal Championship, but he had Cecilworth Farthington get the jump on him, he had Bandits, he had the Heroes. You think that title puts Ivan in more control? I think it’s a lightning rod for PRIME to finally put him in his place!

Richard Parker: You think so? Look! Who is gonna stand up to that?

Indeed, Stanislav stands in the center of the ring, with his arms raised high, while Rose and Dawkins flank him. KING is gone, and pineapples are now reviled throughout PRIME. Ruslan himself holds the Universal Title off to the side, literally belly laughing with glee as the combined might of The Red Army, unified, prepares for battle. As the music dies and the lights lift, the trio let out a loud “URA!!” and move to their corner.

As the music fully fades away, we hear the rustling of a headset and the camera cuts to Cecilworth Farthington, who is currently continuing to admire his double fisting of brass knuckles. We see that he’s grabbed a spare headset from the announce desk but is not sitting down, as referee Elvis Nixon goes through the final pre-match checks between both times.

Cecilworth Farthington: Yo, Dirty Dick, darling friend… not digging this whole breathless admiration of the Red Army business, you’re supposed to have breathless admiration of me!

Parker seems a little taken aback by such things and a terrifying thought enters his skull.

Richard Parker: I still have my fan club membership, right?

Cecilworth Farthington: The board will conduct an investigation and we will deliver our finding to you after… let’s say… Culture Shock.

We hear the headset slam down again as Farthington takes his place at a neutral corner of the ring with his fellow friends in Glue.

DING DING

And as the Gluforcers settle in their place, we cut back to inside the ring, where Dawkins is keen to start off this contest and put his new found swagger to work. Ivan looks down at Dawkins, and Rose kinda just… well she always looks the same but I’d say that the scowl was more of a questioning one than normal. After a small exchange of words, the Universal Champion and Rose follow Elvis Nixon’s instructions and to their place on the apron.

On the other side of things, now that Dawkins is starting things off, it’s clear the Alias Champion isn’t going to waste a single second. The two men stare down, Gold barely unaware that his partners have left time to the action as they also go apron bound. Before Nixon can even encourage the action, Dawkins and Gold are already meeting each other in the very centre of the ring, fists flying in all directions, each man trying to create an opening to get space from the other’s clubbing blows.

Nick Stuart: This one is getting heated right away.

Richard Parker: Of course it is Nick, did you not hear those horrible, disrespectful and down right rude words that Sebastian Gold said to Bryan Dawkins at the start of the show? Dawkins has been counting down the seconds to this main event so he could LEGALLY get his hands on this stunting fraud.

Nick Stuart: That’s not what… you know what… just gonna leave it.

The weight advantage from Dawkins manages to push the brawl into the ropes, and Elvis Nixon is immediately in to break up Dawkins and Gold. Dawkins pretends that he’s going to respect Nixon’s wishes to “back it up”, but now that he’s got bad sunglasses instead of good sunglasses, he instead shoves Nixon to the side and drills a brutal elbow right into the jaw of the Alias champion, setting Gold on wobbly legs. Nixon yells admonishments from the sidelines, and as Dawkins backs away full this time, and FLAMBERGE slivers in and start poking at Gold in the legs from the floor below. FLAMBERGE has elected to go for the sand wedge he was previously admiring – a steel chair with the headrest bent forward in an L shape. He’s using the bend to poke at the legs of the Alias champion as if he were a dead bug.

Nick Stuart: Can’t say I’m surprised that our outside enforcers

Richard Parker: FLAMBERGE was just testing out if the failed stuntman was still alive! He cares! He knows first aid!

Gold, clearly irritated at the leg polking, turns around and is about to yell at the Lizard Who Defeated Ivan, but as he begins to turn his back, Dawkins is right there with the sharp point of his elbow going into Gold’s back. FLAMBERGE tries to swipe inside the ring again but this time Elvis Nixon catches it and begins to admonish the former Universal Champion. TAL jumps off the apron and moves towards FLAMBERGE, who just smiles and slowly walks away. TAL decides to focus his attention back to the match instead, but unfortunately his own actions caused just enough of a distraction to allow Dawkins to go low on Gold without the eye of Nixon upon them. Gold tumbles to the mat, and as if to make a grand statement, Dawkins immediately rolls over the Alias champion, hooking his leg for a pin.

ONE!

TWO!

No, Gold gets his shoulder up off the mat, clearly frustrating the new Red Dawn…kins. Trying to keep up the attack and the advantage, Dawkins moves over and tags Rose into the fray, Ivan still directing traffic with his booming voice to his team from the apron.

Nick Stuart: Ivan seeming like he’s not trying to get in on the action yet.

Richard Parker: He’s the Universal Champion, he doesn’t have to concern himself with the fools that want to be heroes. Rose and Dawkins will be able to do an admirable job themselves. The true hero, Ivan, will be the Red Army’s Hercules in their time of need.

Nick Stuart: There are days that I truly worry for you, Dick. Anyway, Rose in the ring now, she wanted the Red Army for herself but seems like she has slotted into the minion role for Ivan very nicely.

Richard Parker: Minion? They are all equal!

Rose delivers a bunch of stiff kicks to the already targeted back of Sebastian Gold, and Gold now knows he’s in a bit of trouble, as each quick but powerful leg kick from Rose delivers agony up and down the spine of Gold. Rose takes a few steps back and begins to take measure as the Alias champion tries to regain both his senses and his balance. Just as Gold gets up to his knees, Rose rushes in with a diving knee strike but the Alias champion manages to roll out of the way and Rose falls back first into the mat, creating a small bit of breathing room for Sebastian. It’s at around this point that the camera picks up Cecilworth Farthington walking in a jaunty style in the direction of the Red Army’s corner. He leans over and tries to catch Ivan’s eyes so he can show him his sweet jolf club. Ivan for his part doesn’t pay much mind to the outside distraction, barking at Rose on how to get back on the attack.

Nick Stuart: We knew it wouldn’t be long before Farthington would want to try and poke at the bear.

Richard Parker: That is very disrespectful to imply that Ivan is a literal bear. It clearly states in the PRIME Rule Book that a bear can’t be Universal Champion.

Nick Stuart: He calls himself the Russian Bea… you know what, let’s just move on.

FLAMBERGE has slowly positioned himself to be nearer TAL, and it just so happens that when Gold leaps over for the tag to his new friend, he suddenly isn’t there because someone swung a bent chair at his legs, knocking him off the apron. A despondent Gold looks down at the missed tag, creating just enough opportunity for Rose to dropkick him straight in the back of the skull. The only major error on Rose’s part was that this sent Gold into Crash Jackson, who tags himself into the match. Crash leaps into the ring like a man possessed, running circles around Rose, who keeps herself firmly planted in the centre of the ring, watching Jackson try and find a way in. Clearly irate at everything the Red Army has done to him, Jackson leaps into the air and catches Rose with a spinning DDT that rocks her momentum enough to send her flying to the outside.

Richard Parker: OH NO! NOT THE OUTSIDE!

Rose now realises that she isn’t exactly in friendly territory as Hayes Hanlon stands over her, with his putter in hand. For reference, a putter in this context is a steel chair with a brick mounted to the head rest. Hanlon steps on the head of Rose and begins to tee up for his put, but just as he’s about to swing, FLAMBERGE enters the scene and whispers something to Hanlon. Hanlon looks a bit dejected about the whole situation but takes his boot off of Rose’s skull. As Rose stands back up and is ready to scowl at Hanlon, instead her eyes lock with Farthington’s eyes for the first time, perhaps ever. This moment takes Rose out, forgetting about the match she’s currently in just long enough for Jackson to launch himself up and over the top rope and into her with a picture perfect plancha. Both Jackson and Rose are crumbled on the mats on the outside.

Nick Stuart: I’m not sure what happened between FLAMBERGE and Hanlon there, but whatever you think about Rose, I don’t feel like smashing a brick into her skull is the answer.

Richard Parker: Brick murders are illegal, they are a crime, you can’t just do that.

Nick Stuart: But with both Jackson and Rose on the outside, the enforcers seem to be descending upon the scene like sharks.

Cecilworth walks towards Jackson, clanging his two brass knuckles together, yelling “IF YOU’D DEALT WITH MAX BETTER, NONE OF THIS WOULD HAVE TO HAPPEN” and then Cecilworth fires a punch like into the hot dog sodden gut of Crash Jackson. Farthington peppers up a few more blows, and then tosses him back into the ring. There’s enough force that the camera captures a small chair-shaped bruise on the side of Crash Jackson. At the other part of the ringside fight, FLAMBERGE nods to Hanlon, who simply lets FLAMBO roll Rose back into the ring with no damage done. Alexei Ruslan, who had been ready to start a new argument about the crimes of gluenforcement, takes a few steps away from the ring again, clearly not bothered by the way things have now developed. Crash writhes on the mat, and Rose manages to climb over and hook technically one half of the Team Champion’s leg for the pin.

ONE!

TWO!

Crash Jackson, clearly not looking to give up on this fight so easily, manages to power out of the pin. He tries to get back up to an even base, clutching the left side of his body, but leaving his arm exposed gives Rose an opportunity to leap and latch onto Jackson’s arm, as she tries to lock in a triangle choke.

Nick Stuart: Those blows from Farthington with the brass knuckles looked brutal to my eye. The fact Jackson is fighting on… you know that’s because of everything deep down he knows the Red Army has done to him. This is the kind of fight and resolve from a man who was something to fight for.

Richard Parker: Lovely story, almost brings a tear to my eye but if Rose manages to get this choke hold locked in, then will know that this supposed story of heroes is less of a book and more of a pamphlet.

Inside the ring, Jackson struggles to shake Rose off of his arm, as she has clutched in quite tightly to the whole affair and doesn’t seem to plan to be giving up any time soon. On the apron, the Alias champ has managed to recover from the carefully planned targeting of his still tender back and is slapping on the turnbuckle to cheer his friend on, and most of Osaka-jo Hall decide that they are also Crash Jackson’s friend and begin some traditional rhythmic clapping of supporting for the Hot Dog Eating Fiend. As Gold slaps the padding for his boy, his eyes catch with Dawkins once more. Gold runs around the apron, with Dawkins momentarily distracted by Joe Fontaine claiming that he swears his chair is screaming at him. As Dawkins thinks he’s turning back to the match, he instead meets Gold, who leaps up and delivers a spinning head scissors that sends Dawkins off the apron and crashing into the rails at ringside chest first.

Richard Parker: That’s cheating! Neither man was legal! These Heroes need to be disqualified right away.

Nick Stuart: We always knew that this match was going to break down, and now with Dawkins and Gold on the floor, the Gluenforcement Team is rushing towards them with all manner of chairs.

Fontaine yells at fabby to give him a non-screaming chair, and this means that Joe now possesses an 8-iron, a lighter chair for faster swinging and Joe swings fast, bringing the chair down on both of Dawkins and Gold’s back. Or would, if Gold hadn’t managed to roll out of the way, probably due to all of that stuntman training. On the other side of the ring, FLAMBERGE has once again hooked his wedge against TAL’s leg and has pulled the tag team champion off the apron again. This time, TAL turns his attention fully to FLAMBERGE, and it looks like the two men are just about to start brawling, but Joe Fontaine rushes over and slams his 8-iron into the back of The Anglo Luchador. Thankfully due to it being made of lighter material, it stings a lot to be hit with but doesn’t turn an old luchador’s back to dust.

Nick Stuart: Okay, now we’re getting the match I expected.

Richard Parker: I don’t care what the PRIME Rule Book says, Nixon needs to get these enforcers under control. They aren’t meant to attack the Red Army like that!

Nick Stuart: Are you sure you want to question the actions of your favourite wrestler?

Richard Parker: Don’t you dare!

Ivan, clearly having had enough of everything going on, particularly given Ruslan’s near heart attack after the Dawkins chair assault, yells at Elvis Nixon to fix this injustice. It’s his choice not to get physically involved as the battle between Rose and Jackson continues in the ring. The topic is of course whether Crash Jackson has a right to breathe and Rose remains steadfastly opposed to this. Rose is still latched on to Jackson’s arm but Jackson tries to fight through the pain to get to the ropes. Cecilworth Farthington decides that this would be a perfect time to lightly tap the legs of the Universal Champion with his two brass knuckles because he’s an annoying little shit sometimes. He moves his fist back and forth with a lil shimmy dance, lightly grazing Ivan’s ankles. The Universal Champion continues to try and ignore this clear attempt at a distraction, continuing to instruct and “support” Rose from his spot on the apron.

Nick Stuart: A second bite at the cherry from Farthington. I don’t know if this is a wise move for him.

Richard Parker: I’ve been friends with the man for years now, Nick, I can say that “strategy” isn’t something that I’ve witnessed from Farthington. It’s basically just Id central over there.

Gold is now standing between FLAMBERGE and Fontaine on one side, and an old luchador clutching his back in agony on the other. Elvis Nixon finally intervenes, and the Glue boys back away, allowing the Heroes to get back up on the apron to cheer on Jackson. Rose starts to show signs of fatigue, as her grip grows weaker, not fully able to lock in the choke she was hoping for. The loosening of the grip gives Jackson just enough opportunity, and he is able to break away from Rose, and towards his now full team corner, he leans into the corner of the ring and allows whoever wants in to call their shot. TAL, despite the chair shot from Fontaine and the FLAMBERGE fuckery, can feel in his bones that it’s his time to fight now.

Nick Stuart: You have to be impressed with the resilience of Crash Jackson, Rose had him, she had control of the situation for several minutes but she just couldn’t get the choke hold fully in. Jackson managed to just hold her off long enough to break free.

Richard Parker: Crash Jackson was cheating with access to performance enhancing oxygen and I will not hear anything to the contrary.

Ivan is now directing his troops harder than ever from his position at military command. His booming voice provides the encouragement for Bryan Dawkins to crawl up onto the apron of the Red Army. In the ring, TAL is now hitting Rose with a series of left and right jabs that are leaving the Dusk spawn dazed. TAL readies himself for the finishing uppercut but Rose manages to grab the arm, rolling through and using her legs to tighten in a pin in a locked tight small package.

ONE!

TWO!

TAL manages to break free, at the cost of more torment to his back given the amount of force that it takes him to get free of Rose’s clutches. An exasperated Rose looks to TAL and then to the Red Army corner and decides it’s probably high time to tag out. Just as she looks towards Ivan and Dawkins, she notices that Bryan Dawkins is one again missing in action for the army. As if possessed by the idea of constantly flying into Bryan Dawkins, Sebastian Gold has once again flown across the ring, spearing Dawkins through the ropes and sending both men down to the ground outside. The two men land on the floor padding below as the fists remain flying on the floor and both men try to take a controlled mount on the other. The Gluenforcement team of Hanlon and FLAMBERGE decide it would be fun to join in and add boots to the fray, kicking away at both Dawkins and Gold, who seem to barely notice the Glue boots, caught up as they are in their own battle.

Nick Stuart: I don’t even know if another match will settle this battle between Dawkins and Gold, betrayal and entitlement are a toxic combination.

Richard Parker: The only betrayal I saw was a bunch of people not supporting Bryan Dawkins with his life choices. It’s his life, you’re supposed to be there for him.

Sensing a luchador that is about to strike, Rose looks over to Ivan, who gives a general vibe that he’s had enough of all of this and he’s about to put an end to it, stretching out and offering his paw to Rose for the tag. It just so happens that just as Rose is about tag in the Universal Champion, she is distracted by a voice. What does the voice do? Well the voice yells “Oi, Rose, how’s yer da?”. She looks to where the voice is coming from and sees Cecilworth holding up his phone, with the speaker on. The camera catches that it’s a recorded voicemail from Phil Atken. The voice and the content cause the red mist to descend upon Rose and Ivan is suddenly confused as to why his hand doesn’t have a tag upon it at this moment.

Nick Stuart: Okay, it’s hard to say you can approve of most of Rose’s actions in PRIME but that’s some real dirty pool from the Glue lads. Clearly this was planned in advance.

Richard Parker: They are bonded due to their ability to be little shits Nick, of course something like this would happen.

Rose tries to storm out of the ring towards Farthington, but TAL grabs her around the shoulder, knocking her skull into the mat with a brutally fast Dragon Suplex. It’s clear that Farthington’s most recent antic in the match finally managed to break Ivan’s patience, perhaps due to the lack of tag rather than anything particularly Rose related. As if to put an exclamation point on all of it, Cecilworth jovially punches Ivan in the leg again, just as TAL hits a second Dragon Suplex. This is the final breaking point and Ivan turns his attention towards Farthington, walking down the ring steps and towards one of the Gluenforcers. Cecilworth begins to slowly back away from Ivan and towards his own squad, who turn their attention to the stalking giant, brandishing jolf clubs in his direction.

Nick Stuart: All match he’s been trying to do this! Do you think this was his plan all along? To get Ivan to this point?

Richard Parker: You know what Nick, weirdly I can believe that Cecilworth had some form of plan that involved Ivan Stanislav being murdered with chairs just before his Universal Championship opportunity.

Nick Stuart: Earlier tonight Joe Fontaine asked me to remind everyone in a situation just like this – they’re not chairs, they’re jolf clubs.

With the Glue Boiz otherwise occupied, there is now no one to interrupt the neverending brawl between Dawkins and Gold, they continue to throw haymakers to each other on the ground, each one taking control of the mount for seconds at time before they are rolled off. Back in the ring, Rose has managed to block a 3rd Dragon Suplex by drilling a knee in the face of The Anglo Luchador, sending the current Tag Team Champion to dream street. Rose keeps TAL up on his feet, and with everyone else occupied in every other way, it is now down to Crash Jackson on the apron to rile the crowd into support for his new tag team partner. The Hot Dog Bros in the 2nd row lead the charge as the crowd begins screaming in support of TAL, including several individual ladies who just yell “TAL” on their own. Rose looks to Jackson and there’s a big time sneer on her face, or it’s just her face as normal, but the point is, it’s a mean mugging from Rose that just encourages Jackson to cheerlead on TAL further.

Nick Stuart: The Osaka crowd are really taking to the Heroes, they can appreciate the fighting spirit these men have shown over their time in PRIME.

Richard Parker: Fighting spirit for a spirited effort, no doubt, doesn’t mean Rose isn’t about to crush some Luchador skull.

Rose leans back and readies herself for the Thorn Prick. Just as she’s about to launch her attack, she hears Farthington yelling to Ivan that “it’s not our fault that her father’s brain cremated itself before the rest of his body”. The casual but very callous remark is just enough for her to miss the target, and TAL is quick to slide in with a roll-up. Elvis Nixon is equally as quick to the count.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Here are your winners… CRASH JACKSON! SEBASTIAN GOLD! THE ANGLO LUCHADOR! NOBODIIIIIIES HEROOOOOOOES!

Richard Parker: A travesty! A farce! A farcesty!

The camera cuts to the ring, where Rose is already back to her feet and is now fighting with The Anglo Luchador inside of the ring. Crash Jackson is seen trying to break-up the Fisticuffs Fiesta between Dawkins and Gold that is still showing no signs of slowing down. Near the entrance ramp, Glue and Ivan remain in a stand-off, the clearly dominant of size Universal Champion bellowing at the bunch of weirdos who just seem to be self-amused at everything that has just happened but are ready to join any fight that rolls their way. At the top of the ramp, The Octopus’ Ellis Jackson looks down to the smug Glue lads, giving them an encouraging round of applause.

At the timekeepers table, Alexei Ruslan is arguing with Elvis Nixon and Vince Howard about the decision and how Nixon didn’t keep Glue under control.

Nick Stuart: Why is Ellis Jackson here, everything is already moments away and threatening to consume Osaka-jo Hall!

Richard Parker: Never mind any of that, we need to get an official out here right now. This match should be thrown out! I have never seen the level of disrespectful officiating from Elvis Nixon! He let all this happen.

With stand-offs and brawls in every which way, it feels like Osaka-jo Hall is about 3 seconds from a full scale meltdown.

FADE.

TO.

THE.

BOMB.

The Tag Team champion of the world begins bickering and posturing towards FLAMBERGE. The chippiness continues and CRASH Jackson joins TAL’s side of the argument while Fontaine quickly backs up FLAMBERGE and starts pointing at the PRIME Tag Team Championship on TAL’s shoulder.

Nick Stuart: WHAT’S THAT!

Rob Williams and Anna Daniels come storming down the ramp carrying their “belts” and get into the back and forth. Cecilworth and Hayes are staring down Stanislav now joined by an absolutely irate Rose. A man pops out of the crowd and takes Hayes Hanlon’s head off of his shoulders with a clothesline.

Richard Parker: SHIT! SHIT!

FLAMBERGE, Fontaine, TAL, Crash, Rob Williams, and Anna Daniels turns into a whirling ball of doesn’t feel good. Fists are flying, Rob Williams smashes Crash with the fake belt, Joe smashes Rob with some Jolf club. The standard 9-iron, specifically. Fred Dick, still covered in glitter like he’s a 300 pound Twilight vampire, rumbles his way into the fray with his friends and manages to find himself caught from behind by RIA. Daytona sprints down but Kuroyama belts him with a spear the second he makes his way onto the ramp. The two men roll down the entirety of the ramp as the chaos erupts.

Nick Stuart: This is Culture Shock!

Cecilworth and Ivan almost collide as PRIME security swarms ringside. Ivan tosses Enemigos left and right while Cecilworth is shouting clearly very lovely, charming, and sweet words at Ivan while brandishing a Jolf club of his own.

Richard Parker: We gotta get out of here.

BLACK.