ReVival 66

The door opens into a club level suite inside Rogers Place. It’s a small but cozy room with six theater-style seats overlooking a packed arena and ample space to mull about in the back, including a kitchen island, sink, and full-standing fridge and freezer.

Sitting on the island is a gift basket featuring a sixer of Molson, butter tarts, and all dressed chips, neatly wrapped in a silky cloth fabric and shiny bow.

Blaze Claymore: Here we are!

The Main Event holds open the door as a woman with tan skin and dark hair in her mid 30s walks through, mouth agape. The woman walks toward the gift basket covered neck to knee in a much too large t-shirt clearly just purchased from the PRIME merch stand, which has the words “I’M THE MAIN EVENT” made from that fabric that changes design every time you rub your hand over the little scales.

Sonja Cuchilla: Ay dios mio. Clay. The shirt was enough; isn’t this all too much?

Blaze sets down a heavy-looking duffle bag and smiles, guiding his guest over to the welcome gift on the table.

Blaze Claymore: Nonsense, this is…

Blaze trails off, watching as Sonja examines the gift basket.

Blaze Claymore: it’s… all fairly standard for PRIME VIPs. You’re the star here tonight, Sonja; I’m just the entertainment.

Sonja Cuchilla: (laughing) Yeah, uhuh. I see the receipt here, you big goof.

Sonja holds up a slip of paper and waves it mockingly. Blaze snatches it back—too fast, too rough. Her grin falters.. Her grin fades, just slightly. One brow lifts as he turns away and kneels beside his duffle bag.

Blaze Claymore (smirking): Just be sure you don’t fill up on butter tarts and chips! I got us an authentic Canadian meal for later.

Blaze holds up two boxes of Kraft Dinner and smiles, genuinely pleased with himself as Sonja laughs, steps forward, and takes the two boxes of cheesy goodness from Blaze’s hands and sets them on the island.

Sonja Cuchilla: Well, we can go back to the hotel after you win tonight, have some authentic Canadian dinner, but right now I think I want to open a different kind of gift basket….

Sonja reaches down off camera, grabbing something that causes Blaze to tense up.

Blaze Claymore: Oh… ohhh-

Sonja winks as Blaze seems to acquiesce, taking in a breath and letting her wrap his arms around his shoulders – until he pivots slightly and sees the time flashing up on the wall’s digital clock.

Blaze Claymore: -hhh shit!

Blaze turns and rips open his duffle bag, pulling out his ring gear. Sonja watches, as Blaze begins to strip down right then and there.

Sonja Cuchilla: Wait! I need to freshen up first!

Blaze shakes his head frantically.

Blaze Claymore (frazzled): No, it’s not that. I’m going to be late to my match! Fucking… shit. Here. Help me!

Blaze yanks his pants down as the camera whip pans, thankfully, to the left and holds static on a single framed photo of Canadian natural treasure Rick Moranis for several seconds before panning back over to find an out-of-breath Blaze Claymore is being helped into a flowing red and white overcoat by Sonja. She goes to run a hand through his hair but he instead ducks down and reaches into his duffle bag to retrieve a pair of red-tinted sunglasses, sliding them on.

Blaze Claymore: How do I look?

Before she can answer we hear the voice of Richard Parker beginning to warm up the crowd.

Sonja Cuchilla: I think that’s your cu-

Blaze Claymore: I know! I know. Shit. Shit. Shit!

Blaze mutters under his breath and looks back to Sonja. She smiles weakly as he forces one back in return, mouthing the words “sorry” before yanking open the door and leaping quickly out into the hallway. We give chase, following Blaze to the nearby service stairwell, as he jumps down entire sets of stairs to the second concourse landing.

Blaze Claymore (exasperated): Goddammit! I should have never let you take charge. Now we’re going to get disqualified!

Blaze screams, seemingly at no one, as he continues down to the ground level, slamming his fists into the nearby cement wall, his frustration as his voice echoes upwards and he turns his face slightly, as if toward someone.

Blaze Claymore (timid and defensive): She’s NICE, what did you want me to do!?

The tone shifts again.

Blaze Claymore (angry): I expected you to act like a professional and at least get fucking dressed for our match first!

Blaze shoves the bottom level door open as the camera rushes to keep up. We see a stagehand with a headset try to flag him down.

Voice: Hey Blaze, you’re going to be la-

Blaze Claymore: WE KNOW!

The red robe flows dramatically behind Blaze as the camera stays locked on his head and shoulders like an over-the-shoulder shooter game with dozens of staff and crew watching silently as Blaze picks up speed – seeing the green room door just feet away.

Blaze Claymore (His voice hisses like a snake): You better not have fucked this up, Nathan.

The camera stops, trying to keep focus on Blaze as he closes his eyes, then… a dry laugh.

Blaze Claymore No.

The Main Event clenches his fists and takes in a breath, trying to regulate his breathing.

Blaze Claymore (A beat. Then we hear a twinge of sarcasm met with a deadly serious threat): You better not fuck **this up, Blaze.

We hear the sound of Richard Parker’s voice booming over the arena speakers and watch as Blaze steps forward, across the threshold, and out of frame.

We move on.

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/04/ReV66-Commercial.mp4

Richard Parker: Nice to see someone aware when they run behind on call time, Nick! Absolute state of it…

Nick Stuart: Setting that aside, we’re set to kick off the in-ring action on ReVival 66 with Blaze Claymore taking on the debuting Annabelle Dean!

We cut to the ring, where referee Jimmy Turnbull and announcer Vince Howard are standing by.

Vince Howard: PRIMEates, there’s been enough talk…it’s TIME for your opening contest of the evening, scheduled for one fall! Introducing first…

The score from “The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly” rises like a crescendo until Blaze 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 of what someone on the red carpet would wear, waiving to the crowd while wearing sunglasses.

Vince Howard: Making his way from Hollywood, California and weighing in at 180 pounds, he calls himself The Main Event…he is…BLAAAAZE CLAAAYMOOOOORE!

He makes his way to the edge of the red carpet before reluctantly walking down the remainder of the rampway until he reaches the ring.

Nick Stuart: Blaze looks poised and ready to take on a newcomer in Annabelle Dean tonight!

Richard Parker: I still can’t get over the realization that a new yolk has sprung up from within the Egg Bandits, Nick. It’s a feeling I just can’t shake, like a fever…and the only cure is the bell to call for the end of this match.

Nick Stuart: …

Richard Parker: I’m joking, Nick. Well, mostly.

Vince Howard: And his opponent…

The lights dim.

A youthful breeze makes its way throughout Rogers Place.

Then, “Hot to Go” by Chappel Roan hits like a megaphone inside the eardrum.

Nick Stuart: Here she comes! Making her in-ring debut, the daughter of famed and fabled Honaleean Robert Dean, Annabelle Dean!

In all of her Princess of the Ring glory, and for the first time EVER, Annabelle Dean walks through the curtain and stands at the top of the entrance ramp. Her eyes sparkle just like the rhinestones on her homage baby-blue ring gear.

Richard Parker: Welcome to the show, kid. Good luck. You will need it.

As if her father heard old Dirty Dick, after having a moment to herself, the Crown Prince of Honalee, Bobby Dean, proudly joins his daughter on the ramp to escort her down the aisle.

Nick Stuart: Well, looks like luck is walking down to the ring with her, Dick.

Robert is not alone.

Joining him and Belle are the rest of the eGG Bandits. Hessian is there, shovel in hand, eyes rolled back in his head like a Great White shark. Conor Fuse is there, a bloodied Power Glove covers his one fist, presumably callus’ and a hairy palm cover the other. Tony and Jiles are there, each with a telephone book in their grasp and a half smile to be had between them.

Nick Stuart: I guess the rumors are true. No Vickie Hall on Jiles’ arm; maybe they did split up.

Richard Parker: She can do better.

CBD, better known as Cardboard Dan is also out there to show his support, looking to cut it up should the moment arise. Coral Avalon, the once lauded Golden Bandit has even made the trip, assuming of course he is on the other end of the FaceTime call that’s happening on the phone strapped to CBD’s chest.

Richard Parker: Holy shit! That’s actually Doozer! Like, the real one! The one you can see! The one who drinks Raspberry Mojitos!

Nick Stuart: Watermelon.

Yes, even Doozer is there, and Rich isn’t lying.

You can see him.

Nick Stuart: That’s a lot of Hall of Famers walking Belle down to the ring! You’d think she was the daughter of Lindsay Troy!

Hmmm….

Like a protective mob on Prom Night, the Bandits follow closely behind Belle Dean as she makes her way down to the ring. Bobby even “runs” up the stairs and holds the ropes open for his darling girl for her big debut. No word on the amount of heart attacks he suffered while doing so.

Nick Stuart: Poor Blaze.

While that is happening, Jiles and the rest of the rotten bunch corner Blaze Claymore who at least doesn’t have to worry about acting like his life is on line. Jiles postures, and then threatens THE MAIN EVENT by not so subtly pointing at Hessian and the shovel he’s wielding.

Nick Stuart: No doubt Belle and Blaze will be dancing six feet apart, and she’ll be home by 11 after this.

Richard Parker: Where is Lindsay Troy to put a stop to this bullying? This is PRIME dammet! We’re above this type of behavior.

The referee gets control of the ring and sends the Bandits to the back without major incident. Bobby gives his daughter a kiss, and then exits the ring. Chances are by the time he gets to the back the match will already be over, so he’ll be able to walk his baby-girl back up the aisle as well.

DING DING

The bell rings as the competitors lock up, with the slightly bigger and more experienced Claymore sends Annabelle to the ropes for a clothesline…only for Dean to duck under! This gets some applause from her father as Annabelle continues the moment to duck under a second clothesline…but on the second rebound she gets caught by a dropkick from the Main Event, dropping her to the mat!

Blaze lays in a couple stomps for good measure before bringing Little Dean up to her feet for some right hands that sends Annabelle to the corner. At the instruction of Bobby from the outside, the Princess of the Ring raises her arms up to defend herself until she can break free from the corner…and catches Claymore with an arm drag!

The crowd show some appreciation as Blaze gets back to his feet, looking surprised by the move. He charges at Annabelle, but she sidesteps the Main Event and shoves him even further, forcing Claymore to collide with the turnbuckle in the corner. Blaze turns around to try and break free, but not before Dean can lay in some knife edge chops with the crowd cheering her on!

Three chops in and Annabelle pulls the Main Event in for a side headlock…but it doesn’t last long as Claymore sends her running to the ropes once more, this time connecting with a hip toss that takes the Princess of the Ring down to the canvas. He goes for the cover, and Turnbull drops for the count!

ONE!

NO!

Nick Stuart: Annabelle manages to stay in the match here!

Richard Parker: Looks like Bobby taught her a bit of tenacity in addition to some nifty moves!

Annabelle gets to her feet as Blaze goes to lock up, only for Little Dean to cinch in a wristlock. Claymore quickly turns it around with one of his own, before Annabelle counters into a side headlock…and this time, takes the Main Event to the mat with a takeover! She keeps the side headlock cinched in, trying to force Claymore onto his shoulders for the count…but Blaze rolls over, getting Dean on her shoulders instead to force the break as she quickly kicks out.

She isn’t given time to recover, however, as Claymore brings Annabelle to her feet…only to take her back to the mat with a belly-to-belly suplex. He gets to a standing position, taunting the debuting Dean to stand as well…and just as she does, Annabelle gets sent flying once more with another belly-to-belly suplex! The crowd boos, but Blaze doesn’t care as he drops Annabelle down with a DDT for good measure.

NOW is when Claymore cares about the crowd’s opinion, mocking the fans inside Rogers Centre as they continue to show their disdain. His focus on the PRIMEates keeps his eyes off Annabelle, who manages to make it back to her feet…and she starts landing a flurry of offense on the Main Event, laying into him with kicks to his legs! She sends Claymore to the ropes, but the nerves suddenly kick in as she finds her pausing to decide the next move…allowing Blaze to drop her with a clothesline instead!

Nick Stuart: It looks like Blaze Claymore has really found his stride here, at the cost of Annabelle Dean who’s just been taking a beating!

Richard Parker: Daddy Dean’s trying to give his daughter some words of encouragement, but it’s starting to look rough for her against the Main Event!

Bobby runs over to get closer to Annabelle, trying to will her back into the match before slapping the ring apron. The fans start to clap in time with this, as Dean slowly rises to a vertical base. This doesn’t sit well with Blaze, who starts jawjacking with the crowd to shut up…but this only riles them up even more!

RAAAAHHHHHHHH

An almost literal roar of the crowd gets Annabelle a second wind as she stands on her feet, egging Claymore on as if asking if that’s all he’s got. Blaze obliges with a smirk, looking for an Irish whip that Dean reverses…only for the Main Event to surprise her with a flying clothesline! Claymore isn’t done yet as he stomps away at the Princess of the Ring, much to the disapproval of the Edmonton crowd.

Blaze starts mouthing off at Bobby, mocking him before bringing Annabelle back up…and Little Dean responds with some right hands taking him by surprise as she follows with another knife edge chop! The crowd cheers her on as she lays in a couple more, followed by an arm drag…and as soon as Claymore gets back to his feet, Annabelle sends him toward the corner with another!

Blaze gets to his feet as Dean charges toward him, but the Main Event sends her flying into the turnbuckle instead. He heads to the opposite corner as Annabelle turns around…just as Claymore comes running at her for a Yakuza Kick! NO! Dean narrowly evades disaster, as the Main Event lands his leg on the top turnbuckle instead!

Nick Stuart: Swing and a miss for Blaze Claymore, and Annabelle has regained control of the match!

Richard Parker: By hook or by crook, she’s got a ton of tenacity tonight!

Bobby applauds the hard work his daughter’s putting in, offering some sage advice…to roll Claymore up for the win, to which Annabelle obliges as she grabs Blaze from behind to pin him down for the count. Turnbull drops to the mat…

ONE!

TWO!

NO!

Blaze manages to kick out, saving the match as he gets to his feet with an angry look on his face. Before she can react, Annabelle gets slammed hard with a headbutt by the Main Event…who rushes in for another one to send her reeling toward the corner! He continues with a series of right hands until Turnbull intervenes with a count of four and nearly pries Claymore away from the corner.

This is met with some jawjacking by Blaze, who has to show some restraint not to shove the ref away before turning his attention back to Dean…who starts fighting back with some right hands of her own to keep him at bay! This doesn’t last long, as Claymore sends her right back into the corner with a pump kick…and the Princess of the Ring ends up taking a seat on the canvas, which gives Claymore an idea.

A somewhat nasty, brutal idea that paints another smirk on his face as he charges toward Annabelle for a bronco buster! BLOCKBUSTER–misses, as Bobby manages to pull his daughter out of harm’s way and out to the floor! The crowd cheers, but Blaze is beside himself!

Nick Stuart: Bobby Dean sticking up for his daughter by saving her from that Blockbuster!

Richard Parker: I think Bobby’s lucky the ref’s discretion is slightly in favor of not kicking him out of here Nick, but I can’t say I blame him for making sure Annabelle doesn’t get wrecked.

Turnbull talks to Bobby about not getting involved in the match, with the latter nodding to say he understands…but that doesn’t suffice for Claymore, who leaves the ring to confront him over it. Blaze has a few choice words for the Beautiful One, who is doing everything in his power not to lash out and risk a disqualification for his girl…who gets between her father and her opponent, opting to share a few verbal jabs of her own with the Main Event!

The crowd is eating this up as the two eventually shove each other, which leads to fists flying as the ref has already begun the count.

ONE…

TWO…

THREE…

Claymore and Dean pay no mind as the brawling continues, with Blaze sending the Princess of the Ring into the barricade as the crowd boos. He just laughs this off as he slides back into the ring, allowing the count to continue.

FOUR…

FIVE…

Bobby helps Annabelle up, much to the chagrin of Claymore who shouts at the father to stay out of this. Annabelle is able to slide back into the ring on her own to break the count, but Claymore intercepts her with a stomp to the back before bringing her to the corner. He takes several steps back, ready to set up for the Hollywoooooo…but Little Dean is already up, forcing him to ditch the running axe kick. Instead, he charges at her for a clothesline that Dean ducks…and just as Turnbull has his attention away for a split second, Bobby manages to trip the Main Event up!

Blaze is irate at the Beautiful One, who raises his hands to feign innocence as Annabelle rolls him up! She’s got the pin cinched in, with Bobby offering a helping hand for leverage with Turnbull not catching it as he makes the count!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Here is your winner, via pinfall…ANNABELLEEEEE DEEEEEEAN!

Bobby steps away as Annabelle gets up, applauding for his child as the ref raises her hand in victory…but there seems to be a less than pleased look on the face of Little Dean, who leaves the ring to have a chat with her father about the assist. Bobby nods in understanding, saying he was just looking out for her…and the two eventually hug it out at ringside to the approval of the crowd, before heading up the ramp to avoid a frustrated Blaze Claymore.

Nick Stuart: What a win for Annabelle Dean in her PRIME debut after quite the back and forth bout with Blaze Claymore!

Richard Parker: Claymore proved that the Main Event really IS what resonates the most, though this loss will likely resonate for some time.

Nick Stuart: We saw the conversation Annabelle had with her father just a moment ago, really feels like she’s trying to make her own path here in PRIME.

Richard Parker: Understandable, but when you’re raised by an Egg Bandit you’re bound to find yourself in the midst of a bit of banditry for better or worse!

With the opening bout in the books (which means it’s over, for anyone confused), we cut away from ringside to hear some familiar music signaling what’s coming up next…

…Snark Darkly Presents…

…THE NEWS…

With

The Violet Herald Lowell Dot Com’s Reanimated Head Named Kirk on SPORTS

Commander Oleg Barkova on INTERNATIONAL EVENTS

Kai the ex-lover of Bryan Dawkins on TRAVEL

and

WON Action News Anchor Maximillian Wilhelm Kael

☠️☠️☠️☠️

…Previously on THE NEWS…

The Violet Herald Lowell Dot Com’s Reanimated Head Named Kirk: What do you mean it’s not an embassy anymore?

The decayed face of the former Lowell Dot Com scrunches into an expression of confusion.

The Basilisk Herald: HISSSSSSS!

Kirk bobs up and down in acknowledgement of the serpent-like, multi-limbed creature of European folklore what can turn people to stone. A torn, yellow Herald outfit hangs around his neck indicating that this creature is a member of the famous Heralds.

The Violent Herald Lowell Dot Com’s Reanimated Head Named Kirk: Oh I didn’t know he got kicked out of the Red Army, I spend most of my time in sub-level six talking with that guy with fucked up teeth they keep locked up down there. So what do we do now?

The Basilisk Herald: RAAAAAAAAUGH HISSSS HAAAAAAAS!

Nodding, Kirk looks thoughtful.

The Violent Herald Lowell Dot Com’s Reanimated Head Named Kirk: News? I don’t know if I am camera ready yet but I’ve always had dreams of being the center of attention.

The Basilisk Herald: … hiisss kack!?

The Violent Herald Lowell Dot Com’s Reanimated Head Named Kirk: Probably sports, I’ve always seen myself as athletic adjacent, given my disability.

The sub-dragon monster type allows several clawed hands to gently pat the side of Kirk’s desiccated face.

The Basilisk Herald: PHISSSssss.

The Violent Herald Lowell Dot Com’s Reanimated Head Named Kirk: Huh? I have diabetes. Why, what’s wrong with my body?

Famously keen on avoiding direct conflict, the Basilisk scurries away rather than face an awkward conversation with the head.

☠️☠️☠️☠️

A thickly built stage designer with a gut that could make an Ogre green with envy peers down at the slip of paper he’d just been handed.

Darold Mungussi: He wants the entire red stage reworked back into the old WON ACTION NEWS stage?

Darkly presents a little too-friendly of a smile aimed at the stage designer.

Snark Darkly: Of course, my friend, why mess with a winning look?

Mungussi looks back from the slip at Darkly, chewing on the side of his lip before shrugging.

Darold Mungussi: Okay.

Snark Darkly: Tradition, don’t you just love peer pressure from the past? Looking forward to seeing it on ReVival 66, Mr. Mungussi.

Darkly takes his leave though nobody actually remembers him walking away. He just kind of escaped the narrative between the ticks of a second leaving Darold alone. For a man who’d been working for Max most of his life, Darold was used to this kind of oddity.

Darold Mungussi: Okay, we’re not doing what the guy just asked for.

Whistling sharply, the stage designer claps his hands together aggressively. Climbing out of the surfaces of wood, oil and staging equipment came a small army of malformed goblin-like creatures dressed in ragged blue jumpsuits.

Darold Mungussi: Alright, everybody, we got a new NEWS stage to build for Max Kael. You know the deal, if someone dies you’ve got to give them a full ten minutes to resurrect before you’re allowed to pilfer and eat their corpse. Union benefits apply.

A small cheer ripples through the disturbing, misanthropic work crew and their cannibalistic tendencies.

☠️☠️☠️☠️

Darkness.

THEN NOT!

The white hot lights of the new WON ACTION NEWS TEAM Stage explode to life with a loud bang, not unlike the sound a gunshot makes.

It’s retro in appearance, a soft mat palette of reds and blues creating sharp lines that made up the background imagery for most of the stage.

A SPORTS area, filled with various Sports-Ball related items, is set to the far right of the stage. A tiny little hook houses the disembodied Kirk, the former rotting head of Lowell Dot Com. He flashes a filthy toothed grin toward the camera before blowing a kiss. You can imagine how it smells through the TV ‘cause it’s captured in hi-def 5k and a 6G network.

To the far left of the stage is a larger area set up composed of a large world globe, with a 1980s stylistic vibe involving a lot of chrome. There is no desk forcing whoever works this station to stand. Where Commander Oleg Barkova would have stood is simply a cardboard cutout of him with a sign reading “I don’t work here anymore sadface.” written on it in black marker.

Finally in the center of the stage is a magnificent new glass, chrome and wood NEWS DESK. Seated behind the desk is the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM lead anchor and PRIME’s Black Heart™, Maximillian Wilhelm Kael.

He’s in a black three piece black suit with a #D60000 red bowtie, sporting a silver toothed grin spread ear to ear and he’s ready to start.

Max Kael: Worms of PRIME, welcome to the NUMBER ONE Segment on ReVival, the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM with me, your lead anchor, MAXIMILLIAN WILHELM KAEL!

He pounds his left hand on the desk repeatedly while an excited giggle gurgles between his brand new chrome teeth.

Max Kael: We’ve got a loaded show tonight so let’s get started! Tonight I’m starting us off with two of the newest arrivals in PRIME, a tag team THE GREEN VALE GANG, DANIEL GREEN AND HUGO VALE! The name makes a lot more sense now that I’ve said their individual names.

A large portion of the floor opens up allowing a platform to rise up next to Max’s new WON ACTION NEWS Desk. Strapped into two seats, for safety reasons, are Daniel Green and Hugo Vale. The platform rises in a jerky, probably very unsafe manner, over shooting Max’s desk by about two feet before collapsing down onto the floor.

After a pause to ensure the platform wasn’t about to fall back down into the sub-stage, Max claps enthusiastically.

Max Kael: WELCOME!

Hugo Vale: This isn’t bizarre at all.

Daniel Green sniffs the air, looking mildly nauseated.

Daniel Green: Is that smell part of the ambience, or should we be worried about gas leaks and rotting corpses? You mind if we smo—wait, why am I even asking?

He pulls out a silver cigarette holder, nearly identical to the gold one Hugo carries everywhere. The only real difference being cost: Daniel’s probably ran a tenth of the price. He lit up like a man who’d been practicing for a film noir that never called him back. A lungful of smoke rolls out into the foul air, masking whatever stench had wormed its way into his nostrils. The smoke doesn’t fix the air. Just makes it tolerable, like cologne over decay.

Hugo, noticing this, follows suit without a word.

Daniel Green: Better. In the way a dumpster fire is better than a landfill.

Kael giggles to himself as he watches his two guests. He seems unbothered by the scent of death nor the smell of the smoke.

Max Kael: You’re probably smelling Kirk the Sports Head, he has a particular aroma. Now, gentlemen, you’re new here in PRIME, bright eyed and bushy tailed as they say. Tell me, Mr. Green and Mr. Vale, what makes you stand out against the plethora of tag team talent?

Hugo chuckles.

Hugo Vale: You mean besides the fact that we’re younger, richer, faster, and more talented than all of them? Hmm. You mean besides the fact that we’re the next big thing, and they aren’t? Hmm.

Max Kael: Ignorance and arrogance in the same cup, so efficient! Youth, wealth, speed and talent, plus bigging a big thing, soon I’m sure. What could possibly go wrong?

Tossing one of his cue cards over his shoulder, Max moves onto the next item.

Max Kael: The both of you look to be in line with a run in with the eGG Bandits, professional wrestlings favorite… hmm. Favorite something, I’m sure. I didn’t finish that sentence on my card here, couldn’t think of anything. Anyway, seems like you’re on a collision course with Hessian and Gamble. What are your thoughts on the Bandits?

Hugo’s eyes flicker at the word “Bandits,” before they drift over to Daniel Green.

Daniel ashes the cigarette into the armrest of the chair, really grinding it into the fabric, careful not to snuff out the cherry so he could do maximum damage to the faux-leather monstrosity clearly meant to evoke “talk show luxury” but landing somewhere closer to “airport lounge despair.” His eyes sweep the room, mind quietly processing the sheer absurdity of his current stage-managed reality.

Daniel Green: Hugo and I had designs on the World Tag Team Championships the moment we signed our names on the dotted line of our PRIME contracts. Management has to understand—we are, irrefutably, the future of this company. We’re next up. We’re off the porch, fixing to get active.

He exhales sharply, derisively, kind of half rolling his eyes while staring into the camera.

Daniel Green: But instead of booking us for a shot at those cheap-looking belts—speaking of which, when we do eventually snatch them, we’re replacing them with something that won’t cause our entire country club to convulse in existential cringe. Because once we’re champs, it’s going to take a motherfuckin’ armed militia, a hundred Gravy Seals deep, to take them from us. No, instead of immediately putting us against the champs, the smart decision, the right decision, we’re forced to take a detour.

Green subtly lifts the cuff of his bespoke tailored dress shirt, flashing a Rolex Daytona. Less of a flex than the uber-rare Audemars Patek adorning Hugo’s wrist, but still, it glints nicely under the weirdo lighting of Max’s “studio.”

Daniel Green: As it pertains to those two fools, the eGG Bandits, the aforementioned “detour,” Hugo’s up first. He’s got that big, bearded bitch Hessian tonight. He thinks we’re intimidated by his size; we’re not. He looks like a decrepit hobo mistook a syringe of HGH for his daily fix. Zero star power. Ugly as fuck. Like, c’mon, PRIME, trade that gross deplorable to an Eastern European traveling freak show—maybe you’ll get a pair of Siamese twins in return that can straddle the singles and tag divisions simultaneously. I don’t know! I don’t run a wrestling company: I would be better suited in the CEO’s chair of a Fortune 500, not corralling a bunch of degens that are collectively a decade away from being broke or suffering heart failure, whatever comes first. All I know is, Hessian ain’t pretty like that, he’s dumb as dirt, and I have to imagine his cardio game is as weak as that goof he teams with.

Daniel shifts his weight slightly, letting the pause hang just long enough to signal he’s not done.

Daniel Green: Speaking of that goof… Tony Gamble. I called him out on Jabber last week. May have had too much to drink. Every day’s a celebration when you live like we do. Probably shouldn’t have turned off autocorrect on my phone. But nevertheless, poor spelling and punctuation aside, my point stands: Tony Gamble, I want the opportunity to dig my knuckles into the soft spot of the back of your head. I wanna tear your liver to shreds with body blows. I wanna knock you the hell out. Like I said, *don’t be scared, homie—*I don’t get paid by the hour, and even if I did, the pay here only gets the brokies hard, so I promise I’ll put you out quickly. This doesn’t need to be some big thing, brother; we can dead this in two weeks. Hugo slays the bow-legged Goliath; I demolish the flailing joke that is Gamble—and then we go our separate ways. The GVG deserves better. Because we are better. Point blank period.

Max shakes himself awake, coughing into his elbow before casting a metal toothed grin toward the camera.

Hugo Vale: What he said!

…

Max Kael: Well I think that’s our time gentlemen! The Vale Green Gang, everyone! ON TO SPORTS HEAD!

Before either man can reply the scene cuts to black.

☠️☠️☠️☠️

SPORTS!

After somebody screams sports at the camera, we cut to the former head of Lowell Dot Com now currently going by the name Kirk. He’s happily rolling around inside his SPORT’s cage, his jaw shaking open into a cheerful, if dispoiled, looking grin.

Kirk the Sports Head: Hi, I’m Kirk the Head, here to talk to you about the wide world of SPORTS!

SPORTS!

Kirk the Sports Head: A big thing that happened in sports recently was Cancer Jiles losing Icky Hall’s Five Star Championship! A big congratulations to Steve Harrison for his big win! And condolences to Cancer Jiles, Coral Avalon’s shoes are pretty big to fill and his shadow, wide and difficult to get out from beneath. Everybody loves an underdog story, though, so best of luck to the former, kinda, champion!

SPORTS!

Kirk the Sports Head: In other PRIME sports news, it looks like Conor Fuse and Clay Byrd are looking to mix things up! Classic story of sheltered computer gaming nerd and murderous cowboy who is disappointingly not a minotaur. Will the man named after a mud that dries into brittle stone crush the adult who spends most of his life childing? Or will this all end in cracked pottery?

SPORTS!

Kirk the Sports Head: Do you think Sebastian Gold will join the Gluemanati? What is the current Champion standing on Pancakes/Waffles? I’ve been looking for answers but tariffs on maple syrup have added undue strain on my already razor thin budget.

SPORTS!

☠️☠️☠️☠️

Cutting back from Kirk the Sports Head we find Max Kael very much like we left him, seated behind his brand new NEWS Desk. Displayed on the desk is a copy of Don Winter’s Five Star Bible and a picture of Kai, ex-lover of Bryan Dawkins. The picture is in a red heart frame, very classy.

Max Kael: Worms of PRIME, it’s time to end our broadcast day with a few thoughts from me, PRIME’s perfect predator and you’re number one uplifting force. In my time away from PRIMe I’ve noticed a few changes, a few switcheroo’s, such as they are, and not for the better.

Taking a deep breath Max leans back in his chair, his fingers steepling together at his chest.

Max Kael: Since my absence it seems that you’ve all lost your fighting spirit, your will to win, your aggressive, PRIMal instinct because the Gluemanati are back on top. I spent the better part of a year keeping that entire stable… destablized and now look at them? Holding almost every title in the federation like it ain’t not thing.

Spitting off to the side, Max bears a terribly unfriendly looking smile.

Max Kael: That dog won’t hunt. Now I have other business in the federation, old scores to settle and new ones to create but know this, Glue Boys. Maximillian Wilhelm Kael is coming for that gold. Probably not the Intense Title, I’ve already done my shit with that. No-no, I’m looking at the Five Star Title… possibly even the Universal Title. And in every possible way, I’ll work to help those who are also seeking to undermine your title reigns. Why?

Leaning forward, Max grabs something from beneath his desk. Pulling it free is an iron crown with several empty settings awaiting for a gem to be set into. Well, all are empty save for one, large sapphire set into the left side of the crown.

Max Kael: I’ve got my own legacy to achieve, got my own great goals in mind and unfortunately it’s gonna require Glue blood to achieve them. Max Kael is in PRIME for gold and I won’t rest until my crown is complete.

Lifting the spikey, blackened iron crown above his head, Max’s silver toothed grin spreads like Measles in Texas.

Max Kael: …before long ya’ll can bend the knee to the true King of PRIME… And it starts with lil’Chandler Tsonda tonight. So Tsonda… get them kneepads ready cause before the night is done, you’ll kneel to me.

Just as the crown touches Max’s head the image statics out into darkness.

…heh-heh..

We move on.

We fade in on the face of Matt Mills, and boy howdy does it ever look like our man is trying to hold back one tidal wave of a frown. In fairness, he has good reason to be this upset, and that’s because of the 5-foot-9-inch pile of human disaster standing next to him.

Two words. One name. Lemieux.

Matt Mills of course has a microphone, because it’s his job to talk to people. Steve Lemieux also has a microphone, because no one can quite figure out where he keeps getting them. Two weeks ago it was your standard interview mic. Probably a high-quality Shure, or some shit. This week things are a little different, as my man Steve is rocking the Bob Barker special. Two feet long and pencil thin, Steve’s mic is one whoopy-doo bend away from looking like it could avada kedavra half the Ministry of Magic to death.

Matt opens his mouth to begin the introductions. Matt should know better.

Honestly, same.

Mills never gets the chance, because once again his time to shine is usurped by an idiot.

Steve Lemieux: Greetings and salutations, friends and fellows! My name is Steve Lemieux, and this is Lemieux’s Clues. With me again is… ummm…

He looks nervously at Mills, then leans in to whisper.

Steve Lemieux: I’m super duper sorry. Can you tell me your name again?

Matt Mills: (stonefaced and deadpan) Matt. Mills.

Steve Lemieux: Right! With me again is Matt Mills. How are you tonight, Matt?

Matt tries to speak, because he hasn’t quite caught on yet that Steve does not understand basic social interaction.

Steve Lemieux: Great! Let’s talk about some topics! Here to talk about some topics with us is Mr. Wade the Alabama Big Dog.

Somewhere from across the whole of space and time, a lone Troy Boy calls out into the night: “Daddy Woof-Woof!”

Y’all had nine months without this nonsense, but it’s back now! And there’s nothing anyone can do about it!

Okay, anyway.

Steve Lemieux: Hi, Wade!

Cheers rise as Daddy Woof-Woof himself steps into camera view, towering over Mr. Beefst. The Bad Dog appears to be chewing something, and in his hand he holds what we can assume to be a roast beef sandwich.

Wade Elliott: (speaking through a mouthful) Evenin’, Steve.

Steve Lemieux: I have a question. It’s been a few weeks but no one will tell me when rehearsals are supposed to be and I was wondering if you knew the answer to that because we’re supposed to go put on a show in a little while but I don’t know what we’re doing yet because I don’t think I’m on the right distribution for the memos and I want to make sure that I get it right because last time all the stunt people went crazy and a big man threw me through a table and I’m pretty sure that I was supposed to hit one of those big air bags but there wasn’t one and then everything hurt for a long time.

Right now you might be thinking, “Punctuation is a thing, you know,” and you would be right, but Steve is just a little ball of nervous energy right now so poor Wade is left to fend off a cannon blast of words.

Matt Mills: I hate to be ‘that guy’, but I’m not sure that was a question.

Steve Lemieux: Oh, sorry. I’m still trying to get the hang of this.

Steve’s face reddens as he withdraws into himself a bit.

Steve Lemieux: My question is when should we rehearse and do we have enough time for rehearsals before the show?

Wade finishes chewing his bite, and then, surprisingly, drapes an arm across Steve’s shoulders.

Wade Elliott: Shit, Steve, I’m sorry ‘bout all that. But son, I was waitin’ fer ya at rehearsals this mornin’ fer ‘bout an hour!

Steve looks up in wide-eyed wonder.

Steve Lemieux: You were? Really and truly?

Wade Elliott: Sure was! Got here at five in the mornin’! Had coffee ready an’ everythin’! Nobody told ya to meet meet me?

Steve Lemieux: Oh, flippity-heck. The runners must not have known to come find me.

Wade Elliott: I’ll talk to Lindsay ‘bout that, she’s real busy.

The Bad Dog takes another bite of his sandwich, and continues speaking through chews. He pulls Steve in tight, maybe a little too tight for Mr. Beefst’s liking.

Wade Elliott: But lissin’, I wanna make sure you git a real good understandin’ve what we do ‘round here, so tell ya what – I’ll show ya th’ropes right there in th’ring!

Steve Lemieux: Buns and beans, are you sure? I’d hate to look like a silly billy goose in front of so many people.

Wade Elliott: It’s alright! Our match is dead in the middle’ve the show, half’ve these fans will be grabbin’ more poutine an’ takin’ a piss. An’ I’ll make sure to go real easy on ya!

Steve Lemieux: Okay, but can you tell me where I find the fake muscl-

Wade Elliott: (interrupting) Sounds like a plan! See ya out there, Steve!

The Bad Dog gives Lemieux a good, solid, hearty, heavy, smack on the back. And just to make sure Steve doesn’t fall over onto his face, he plants the roast beef sandwich against his chest, keeping him upright, and leaving it in Steve’s hands before exiting off screen.

Steve Lemieux: (shouting after Wade) Thank you, Mr. Wade! And I’m sorry in advance if I accidentally miss and end up hitting you for real!

He turns to Mills, who is trying incredibly hard to hold back laughter.

Steve Lemieux: Mr. Wade sure is a great guy. I think he’s going to take real good care of me out there tonight.

Matt Mills: We can only hope.

Matt exits the shot, leaving Steve all alone with the remnants of a sandwich.

Steve Lemieux: Those were some great topics.

We move on.

Nick Stuart: Welcome back, fans! More action on the way as next up, Jackson Cooley meets Asher Creed one on one!

Richard Parker: My boy Jax, takin’ things to the MAX!

Nick Stuart: We’ll be sure to sterilize the canvas after this match. Of note, both the competitors are walking into this contest after having suffered back to back losses. Tonight, something has to give! Let’s go to our man, Vince Howard!

“Lawyers, Guns, and Money” by Warren Zevon plays as 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.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, hailing from Las Vegas, Nevada, and weighing in at one-hundred and ninety-five pounds… please welcome, JACKSON COOLEY!!

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.

Richard Parker: Look at this guy! So cool! So suave! So unflappable!

Nick Stuart: So vomit-inducing, you mean. For a man who has yet to earn his first victory in PRIME, he doesn’t seem to be all that concerned right now.

Richard Parker: Nah, Nick, that’s just confidence you’re seeing! He knows he’s got this in the bag!

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. 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!”

Vince Howard: And the opponent, hailing from Eden, Texas… he weighs in at two-hundred and forty pounds… here is the GUIDING LIGHT… ASHER CREED!!

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 looks to be the absolute picture of focus here tonight! After recent shortcomings, this young premier athlete is hungry for a big win to set his mark here in PRIME!

Richard Parker: He’s got the look, and he’s got the training, and sure, the fans love getting behind a good sucker, but I’m still waiting to see if this “guiding light” is anything more than a short-lived spark.

Nick Stuart: I suppose we’ll see it for ourselves here tonight! You couldn’t find a better pairing of polar opposites than these two opponents!

Presiding official Ashley Barlow directs both competitors to their corners and gives them the final pat-downs. Cooley shares an amusing anecdote with DeSalvo. Creed’s eyes never leave his opponent.

Moments later, with everything in order, Ashley cues for the bell.

DING DING

Wasting no time, Creed comes out of his corner and crosses the ring. Cooley raises his fists to meet him, but before he can swing, Asher bursts forward and seizes the collar-and-elbow.

Nick Stuart: Asher Creed off to a hot start here, going right into the lock-up before Cooley can get a hit in!

For a few moments, their bodies twist and turn in a struggle for leverage, until Jackson’s back finds a set of corner turnbuckles. Creed presses his forearm into his face, milking every second of Ashley Barlow’s four count before making the break. As he backs up to the center of the ring, Cooley smirks, rubs a hand around his jaw, and comes out of the corner to meet him.

Nick Stuart: Back into the lock-up… Creed is now trying to hook those legs to get a takedown, but Jackson Cooley stays on his toes!

Richard Parker: He may not have the pedigree, but he certainly knows how to handle himself in a scrap.

Creed dips low, burying his shoulder into Cooley’s gut and attempting to utilize his weight to lift him off of his feet. Perhaps sensing the battle isn’t going his way, Jackson intentionally backs himself into another corner, prompting another break from the official. This time, the second Asher pulls back…

SLAP.

“OOOOOOHHH!!”

Jackson gives him the ol’ pancake handshake.

Nick Stuart: Uh oh…

Asher’s face is initially vacant. Then the shock of what just happened wears off, and his eyes fill with rage.

Richard Parker: That probably wasn’t a very wise move…

The smirk on Cooley’s face suddenly disappears when Creed’s hands overtake his head. In quick succession, Asher mercilessly yanks him straight into a knee lift to double him over, hooks his arms around the waist to lift him into a gutwrench suplex, and pivots into an elbow drop over the neck on the way down!

Nick Stuart: Asher Creed, with a quick combination of moves, unceremoniously DRILLS Jackson Cooley into the mat! Now he hooks the legs for the pin!

One!

Two!

Cooley kicks out!

The Guiding Light rolls off of Cooley and quickly pops up to his feet, tagging his face with a low kick the minute Jackson sits up. Cooley falls back to the mat clutching his nose, while Creed sees the chance to shoot himself into the ropes. By the time Jackson sits up again, he unwittingly puts himself right into a position for a picture perfect running blockbuster by Asher!

“RRRAAAAAAAAAHHH!!”

Nick Stuart: Creed with the GUIDING STAR! Now he rolls back over and goes for the pin again!

One!

Two!

NO! Cooley gets the shoulder up once more!

Creed shoves Cooley back onto the mat and straddles his chest, grabbing a handful of hair with one hand and giving him twenty-five across the eyes.

SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!

Nick Stuart: Asher Creed is making Jackson Cooley pay his receipts, and then some!

Richard Parker: I’m going to have to make a special mental note to never piss this guy off…

Nick Stuart: NO! Cooley with a desperate thumb to the eye! I don’t think Barlow saw it, because she was busy reprimanding Asher over the hair pulling!

Richard Parker: Sounds like the two cancel each other out, then!

Asher rolls away, clutching his eye socket. With his face still red and eyes looking empty from repeated slaps to the face, Cooley suddenly sits up like a slasher movie villain returning to life and grasps Creed into a rear naked choke.

Nick Stuart: Cooley with the choke now applied, falling onto his back and pulling Creed down with him!

Richard Parker: And a bodyscissor to boot! Beginning to think that getting Creed hot and angry might have been part of a master plan!

Nick Stuart: Or maybe he’s just wildly successful at jumping on opportunities. Be as it may, Jackson has Asher Creed in a precarious position here!

Creed’s arm is extended, still showing life. Barlow leans in close to check his condition. The grin on Jackson’s face stretches from ear to ear while he digs his wrist deeper into Asher’s neck, pinching off his windpipe. After a few moments, Creed’s eyes begin to roll back.

Richard Parker: I think the Guiding Light is being snuffed out, Nick!

Nick Stuart: Asher Creed may be fading! Barlow raises the arm… it drops!

“ASH-ER!! ASH-ER!! ASH-ER!! ASH-ER!!”

Nick Stuart: The fans are getting behind Creed, but I won’t lie, right now it’s looking bleak! The official raises the arm once more… it drops again!

By now, Creed’s face has turned purple and dark. His body has ceased the struggle to free himself. Through incessant cackles and a string of curses, Cooley taunts him, and orders the ref to “ring the goddamn bell”. Barlow remains fixated on Asher’s condition.

Richard Parker: I think Cooley’s got him!

Nick Stuart: Could it be over for Asher Creed this quickly? Barlow raises the arm for the third and final time…

…

NO!! It stays up!

“RRRAAAAAAAAAHHH!!”

Creed’s arm tremors as he keeps it raised! Cooley shakes his head in disbelief.

Nick Stuart: Asher Creed is still in this fight! The Guiding Light is shining his way through the darkness!

Richard Parker: But he’s still gotta find a way out of this!

Asher twists his body in the attempt to roll over, but finds Jackson to be stubborn in his efforts to keep him pinned down. With nowhere to go except back, Creed uses what freedom he has in his legs to bridge himself off the mat. Cooley, still clinging to his back, finds his shoulders unwittingly rolled onto the canvas.

Nick Stuart: Cooley with his SHOULDERS to the mat!

ONE!

TWO!

THR–ALLLMOST!

Jackson pops his shoulder off the mat. But in doing so, he inadvertently gives Asher the opportunity to free a leg from the bodyscissor. With his lower body now freed, Creed utilizes the extra leverage to push his feet off the mat and roll himself backward!

Nick Stuart: Creed rolls himself FREE from the submission hold! Now he’s got Cooley right where he wants him, pulling off the mat, and–NO!! Jackson with a STUNNER to counter!

Richard Parker: Ha! So much for the heroic comeback!

Creed bumps off the mat and falls into the ropes, both clutching his jaw and gasping for air. Cooley calmly returns to his feet, runs his hands through his hair, and flicks the sweat on his opponent. The fans jeer the show of flagrant disrespect, which he subsequently plays into.

“BOOOOOOOOO!!”

Richard Parker: A real man knows how to command the crowd, Nick!

Nick Stuart: And a real competitor remains focused on the match, instead of shucking and jiving!

Cooley eventually goes to retrieve Creed before he can pull himself to his feet with the aid of the ropes. Taking him by the hair, Jackson scrapes his opponent’s face across the top rope, right before tagging him in the orbital socket with a sharp headbutt! Asher staggers, clutching his face, and Cooley keeps him circling the ring with the occasional jab or kick to keep him reeling off balance.

Nick Stuart: Keeping control of this match, Jackson Cooley is just having his way with Asher Creed right now!

Richard Parker: Where’s all that boldness and bluster from before?

Nick Stuart: Cooley takes a bounce off the ropes now… DROPKICK puts Creed on the mat… and Jackson follows it up with a KNEE drop across the temple! Now he hooks the legs for the cover!

One!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Still smirking, Jackson shakes his head in disbelief. He pulls Asher up by his head and tags him a few times with hard elbows. While Creed continues to wobble on rubber legs, Cooley puts a boot to his gut to double him over and hooks him around the waist.

Nick Stuart: ROLLING PILEDRIVER puts Creed RIGHT DOWN on his head! I think that might be it!

ONE!

TWO!

THR–NO!! CREED KICKS OUT!!

Cooley pops right back to his feet and punishes Asher for his audacity to fight through this with a salvo of angry stomps. When he’s had his fill, he pulls Creed to his feet and deposits him into the nearby corner, where he crushes him against the turnbuckles by way of repeated shoulder blocks to his midsection!

Nick Stuart: Cooley looks to be losing his cool in there!

Richard Parker: Nothing of the sort! He’s only just dialing it up in there!

Barlow’s calls for a break fall on deaf ears, and Cooley eventually scoops Creed out of the corner to set him into the tree of woe! Then he crosses the ring to the opposite corner.

Nick Stuart: Creed’s in a bad position here! Here comes Jackson, charging across the ring…

…

NO!! Creed ROLLS OUT, and that KNEE STRIKE hits NOTHING BUT TURNBUCKLES!

“RRRAAAAAAAAAHHH!!”

Cooley’s face stretches in agony as he stumbles and falls out of the corner, clutching his knee. Creed, meanwhile, recomposes himself and waits for Jackson to recover. As soon as Cooley is up, the Guiding Light goes from zero to a hundred.

Nick Stuart: Here comes CREED… and DOWN GOES JACKSON after a JUMPING KNEE STRIKE!

Richard Parker: WHAT?! That kneepad HAS to be loaded! Barlow must have missed it in the pat-down!

Nick Stuart: Cooley, scrambling back to his feet… but here comes Asher, springboarding off the ropes–and NEARLY TAKES JACKSON’S HEAD OFF with the RADIANT KICK!!

The rebound enzuigiri sends Cooley flipping over onto his back, eyes practically rolling in his head. Creed stands over him, beckoning him back to his feet. Slowly but surely, pushes himself up onto a set of shaky legs, before blindly turning around into a boot to the gut…

Nick Stuart: Creed hoists him up… LUMINOUS DRIVER SHAKES THE RING! He holds on FOR THE PIN!

ONE!

TWO!

THR–NOO!! Somehow, Cooley popped the shoulder!

Richard Parker: Of course he does! He’s the ultimate survivor!

Creed shakes his head, but can feel the energy of the crowd behind him…

“ASH-ER!! ASH-ER!! ASH-ER!! ASH-ER!!”

Nick Stuart: Creed is bringing Cooley up once more! He knows that victory is just within reach! Now he sets Jackson up onto his shoulders… YES! Looking for the CREED COLLAPSE–

Except at the last second, Cooley grabs Barlow by the shirt.

Nick Stuart: Wait a sec… HE HAS AHOLD OF THE OFFICIAL!

Creed tries to put him into motion for the Fireman’s Carry Driver, but finds him unwilling to budge. In the ensuing struggle, Jackson finds the wiggle room to free dislodge himself from Asher’s shoulders, and hooks him by the head and shoulders as he comes swinging down to the mat.

Nick Stuart: NOOO!! COOLEY COUNTERS WITH THE DOUBLE DOWN!!

The double-arm DDT puts Creed into a momentary headstand before his body crumples to the mat. Cooley scrambles as he rolls him over onto his back, curling him up with a handful of tights while Barlow slides around to the other side to make the count.

Nick Stuart: Cooley with the pin…

ONE!!

TWO!!

THREE!!

DING DING DING

“BOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”

Warren Zevon plays over the PA, almost drowned out by the jeers of the audience. Jackson breaks from the pin and scrambles out under the ropes and celebrates at ringside with DeSalvo. Clutching his forehead, Asher rises up onto his knees and glares after him.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of the match, by pinfall… JAAACKSOOON COOOOOOLLEEEYY!!!

Nick Stuart: Well THIS was highway robbery! Jackson Cooley secures the victory, but only after some blatantly underhanded tactics! I can’t believe Ashley Barlow let him get away with putting his hands on the official like that!

Richard Parker: What are you talking about, Nick? He was clearly trying to call her attention to the thumb to the eye Asher gave him earlier!

Nick Stuart: WHAT?! That never happened!

Richard Parker: Well, you say po-tah-to, and I say perestroika! The point is, Creed thought he was down and out, but my boy Jax caught him sleeping!

Nick Stuart: In any case, Asher Creed has nothing to be ashamed of here tonight. “The Guiding Light” put up one hell of a fight here tonight, and could have very easily walked away with the win under different circumstances! But right now, ladies and gentlemen, we have to take a quick commercial break! Don’t go away, because ReVival continues after these messages!

We move on.

Fade in on a still shot of a messy pile of books on the floor.

Many of them are familiar. Some of you may have read them in times where you were feeling lost – disconnected, maybe.

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

Extreme Ownership.

Man’s Search for Meaning.

How To Win Friends and Influence People.

All of the classics.

Someone has been busy trying to figure themselves out. Apparently none of the books laying around this locker room floor were the key.

But who? Who on the PRIME roster would be reading?

Well, based on the subject matter, maybe Tom Battaglia? No, he probably can’t read. Sebastian Gold maybe? He seems like he has big feelings. Doubtful – he is quite sure of himself recently with his Alias title win.

Who could possibly be the owner of this little self help bookstore?

Rob Williams: Hm.

Sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor, a pair of readers hanging at the edge of his nose, Rob Williams sits deeply entrenched in a book. With a deep sigh he tosses the book (Think and Grow Rich) into the heap.

Rob Williams: No, goddamnit. Just more hippie-dippie bullshit.

A knock at the door.

Suddenly Rob is on his feet, hastily stuffing all of the books into his dufflebag. Fortunately for him, the woman who flings the door open is a bit too busy balancing her KNIFE on her fingertip. She carries many things: the KNIFE, the Universal Tag title, a tune.

Anna Daniels: And who are you, the proud jobber said, that I must sell for yooooouuuu? Just a wrestler of a different push, that’s all the truth I know!

Rains of Castamere knockoff aside, Anna seems playful for a moment as she keeps focus on the pointy end threatening to turn her hand into Swiss cheese. Slowly, she lowers the hand until it’s a foot from the ground. Then she thrusts it upward, hard and fast, letting the KNIFE scramble in the air. She digs around in her coat pockets.

Anna Daniels: Bowling ball? No. Rubber duck? No? Bust of Marie Antoinette? Kinky, but no.

Finally, the Muse finds exactly what she’s looking for: a massive wooden block. She sets it just so and the KNIFE sticks the landing onto said block, point side down. Anna glances at Rob with a smile.

Anna Daniels: Hey, Rob. What’s with the glasses?

Fear shoots through Rob. Did he get all the books? Is there a copy of We Who Wrestle With God out there to embarrass him?

Rob Williams: Uh I was looking at porn. On my phone. You know, small screen.

Crisis averted. Proud of his quick thinking, Rob smirks. They ain’t found a way to kill him yet.

Rob Williams: So, uh, what’s up?

There’s an eyebrow raise from Anna. Here’s a man who can tell you several ways you can go fuck yourself in wild detail that just barely stops himself from bumbling all over his words with a simple question. It’s a bit odd. He wouldn’t be lying about some more bullshit, right? The cancer thing was shitty enough but…

And then came a memory screaming from the back of her head. Her eyes grew wide as she grabs him by the shirt. Voice lowers to a stage whisper while also raising to a slight panic.

Anna Daniels: Rob. Were you watching ours and Jacky’s sex tape? Because we can explain!

Of course he’s lying. You know how you can tell if Rob Williams is lying? His lips are moving. But this is different.

Rob Williams: No of course – wait… what would you need to explain?

Rob thinks of Jacky’s funny accent and all the sinew.

Rob Williams: You know what, let’s just not. Anyways… look I owe you, well, a lot. I truly believe the universe or god or whatever is punishing me. You’re just caught in the crosshairs.

He senses her about to wave it off and holds a hand up. he gonna cry? Of course he is.

Rob Williams: No, I need this. I  just feel like… you remember those old Prozac commercials? That little ball has the clots following him and shit. I’m that little ball. We should have won. The Glues shouldn’t have even been there. I been learning about karmic balance and I think I’ve tipped the scales way in the wrong direction. I’m resolved to setting things right. So, I’m asking you, how can I make what I’ve done right by you?

An Anna without a knife would’ve just let it pass. An Anna without a knife would reassure him. The Anna with a knife does the same as she puts a hand on Rob’s shoulder.

Anna Daniels: You…have absolutely nothing to make up for because it has nothing to do with your ****karma. We are the target here. We have been getting screwed long before you got here for no reason and we know exactly who’s to blame for it.

Oh, don’t get this twisted. She’s pissed off. Eternally pissed off. But there isn’t a point in wasting good venom on those that don’t deserve it. And with that, she plucks the KNIFE from its block and immediately reaches into her pockets to find exactly what she’s searching for.

A net gun.

Rob Williams: What the fuck?

Something inside of her is trying not to have that manic grin on her face, but the struggle isn’t going very well. She rolls her neck while she opens the door.

Anna Daniels: First thing’s first though. We’re hunting FlamJoes. You coming with or nah?

How much does karma cost?

Anna did help him crucify a preacher that one time. Should’ve used real nails.

In for a penny, in for a pound, he figures. And anyways, they’re ch-ch-chained.

Rob Williams: Uh, sure? Now that you mention it, I saw Fontaine and that fucking French cream puff in catering earlier.

Fuck Your Tag Team stealthily maneuvers to the catering area. Sure enough Joe Fontaine and FLAMBERGE are standing in front of one of the catering tables. Like the suckers they are, they’re standing there completely still. Rob uses a few hand motions to signal Anna. She shakes her head in confusion. With a sigh, Rob leans in and whispers.

Rob Williams: Ok we need to make su…

THWIP

Perhaps her trigger finger is a little too itchy because holy shit, the net came out of that gun fast! Anna looks at it, confused.

Anna Daniels: Huh. A premature ejaculation. Good thing we’re not a guy.

Both tag partners look to where the gun launched, just outside the doorway.

Someone is inside it.

Or…something?

I dunno, man, what the hell would you call a fabby?

Rob Williams: Aw shit.

Not only is it Fabby, but upon inspection the Whoresmen (Whorespeople?) find that it was not actually FLAMBERGE and Joe Fontaine.

Rob Williams: It’s just the cutouts. Fooled again.

Anna Daniels: How in the hell can you not tell the difference?

Upon watching fabby scramble around like a fish on deck and the blank eyes of the cardboard (glueboard) duo, she smirks as she looks back to Rob.

Anna Daniels: Ya know, we can make this work.

It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.

We move on.

On the heels of that light fabbynapping, we’re taken to the Boss’s Office, where Lindsay Troy has been watching the previous segment’s proceedings unfold on a wall-mounted television. She shakes her head in disappointment and sighs.

Lindsay Troy: (muttering) Fucking fabby.

The Queen swivels her Championship Throne around (did you know it did that? Neither did I until just this second) to return to some paperwork when, beyond the Steel Door O’Doom, there’s loud shouting coming from the hallway, followed by banging on the door.

Rexton William Bader: Lindsay! Lindsay! Ms. Troy, one of the greatest professional wrestlers in the history of the sport–almost on my level–and not to mention the most beautiful. It’s me, Rexton.

Troy laughs to herself and gets comfortable.

Lindsay Troy: This ought to be good.

Rexton William Bader: Rexton William Bader. In the wheelchair. I was just telling Snow here how he doesn’t have to worry about a thing as long as Lindsay Troy is in charge, because she’s got things handled. That’s what you do Ms. Troy. You handle business. Of course I have to respect it as someone who handles a fuckload of business himself.

Without waiting to be bade entrance, Bader nudges the door open a bit and pokes his head through before smiling brightly at the sight of the Queen in her chair. Bader opens the door the rest of the way and rolls in. Behind him is Jason Snow, silent as ever.

Rexton William Bader: I was just telling Snow here how he doesn’t have to worry about a thing as long as Lindsay Troy is in charge, because she’s got things handled. That’s what you do Ms. Troy. You handle business. Of course I have to respect it as someone who handles a fuckload of business himself. I was just telling Snow here how–

Lindsay Troy: (amused) You seem to be telling him a lot of things.

Bader chuckles and adjusts the collar of his faded green shirt.

Rexton William Bader: I was just telling him how, as someone who handles business, after I negotiated tonight’s main event against FLAMBERGE for him–we don’t need to get into the details of that–I knew we would have plenty of time to come here and have a little chat between friends about these, you know, these fines from last show…

Lindsay Troy: Ohhh…yes, the fines and the … negotiation. Yes, we wouldn’t want to get into the details about that little coordinated sneak attack of yours last week and how another member of the Glueminati might want a little payback for his buddy. We can save that conversation for another time.

She smiles.

Bader smiles back.

Lindsay Troy: About those fines, though. I have a rule around here, Rexton, and I’m awfully sorry if you weren’t aware of it before you masterminded that little scheme of yours, but if any member of PRIME’s staff gets hurt by a contracted talent then, well, wallets are gonna get opened. You understand, right?

The smile grows wider.

Bader’s smile begins to fade.

Lindsay Troy: Because if you don’t, and if you think you were about to come in here and sweet talk your way out of paying because, by the way, I still don’t have your share yet, then I’d be more than happy to make you understand.

Bader gives his wheels half a turn backward, toward Jason Snow, who’s been watching this interaction as if it applies to him not in the least. Bader’s smile is all the way gone now, leaving his fleshy face with nothing but a scowl.

Rexton William Bader: See, Snow? See this? What’d I tell you? This woman couldn’t run a FUCKIN’ LEMONADE STAND and she’s trying–and failing, might I add–to run the biggest wrestling company in the history of the sport. Fifteen THOUSAND dollars!? Fifteen THOUSAND!? Are you God damn nuts or is this–Oh. Oh, I ain’t even gonna make that joke because it ain’t politically correct and you’d probably fine my client here ANOTHER fifteen grand. See this, Snow? See this? I’m keeping my mouth shut here because I don’t want you getting in any more trouble. But mark my words…

He points at Lindsay Troy.

Rexton William Bader: …Mark my fucking [fahkin] words, Troy. This shit ain’t over. You’re lucky I’m trying to keep my client’s best interests at heart here, or I’d tell you exactly what I think about you, Troy! Who the fuck brings a wrestling show to EDMONTON, first off? That’s like bringing PRIME to Canada and then running your show in the country’s fucking sewer. Have you seen these people? Jesus Christ it’s like diabetes had a gang bang with Syphilis and the babies all smell like shit! But sure, sure. Yeah. Run a fucking wrestling show here. See if I care. Come on, Snow!

Bader spins the chair around and starts to leave, but then he spins it back.

Rexton William Bader: And ANOTHER thing! I’m not gonna wait much longer for you to get some God damn wheelchair ramps installed in these rings! I’m telling you–I’M WARNING YOU–I take one tumble getting into one of these death traps and it’s gonna be ME running PRIME, not you! And I promise when that day comes we ain’t never gonna run a town like fucking Edmonton. Fucking incompetence. I’m gonna be doing laundry for a FUCKING WEEK just to get the smell out. SNOW! Didn’t I tell you to come on? We’re fuckin’ [fahkin] LEAVIIIIING!

Half a shriek. He spins around again and wheels himself out into the hallway. Snow, slowly, begins to follow.

Lindsay Troy: Jason.

The Original Villain turns around to see the Queen of the Ring walking toward him, her jovial demeanor having disappeared.

Lindsay Troy: I know you don’t need South Boston’s shittiest deadbeat uncle managing you, and this no-talking thing definitely isn’t you. What’s really going on here?

Snow looks out the door where Bader is rolling furiously down the hallway. He’s still yelling, but the words are lost in the ambient noise.

Jason Snow: …

But the look he gives Lindsay might be interpreted by a small majority of viewers to say, “It’s okay. I know what I’m doing.”

Lindsay furrows her brow. Eventually, she sighs.

Lindsay Troy: Don’t forget what I told you.

Snow takes a second, and then he nods. And before we know it, Bader is back at the door.

Rexton William Bader: What the fuck are you doing? I said let’s go before this walking personality disorder takes more money from us. Jesus Christ, you. It’s like you’re asking for it half the time. We got a match to prepare for. LET’S GO.

Snow nods again at Lindsay Troy. And then he follows Bader out into the hallway and shuts the door behind him.

We move on.

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. They begin a slow walk down to the ring.

Vince Howard: Our first combatant, weighing in at 135 pounds! “The Time Lord”, ANNA DAAAAAAAANIEEEEEEEELS!

Anna hops up onto the apron, wiping off their boots. They stare a hole through Elvis Nixon before finally stepping into the ring.

Nick Stuart: Anna’s never been one to hide their distaste for Elvis, Richard.

Richard Parker: Well, that makes two of us.

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

LEEEET’S GET READY TO RUUUMMMBLE

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

Vince Howard: And their opponent… Weighing in at 238 pounds. THE HOT DOG theirO… CRAAAASHHHH!!! JAAAAACKSOOOONN!!!

FEEL THE FIRE, HE’S ENTERING THE RING

HIS MINDSET KNOWS ONLY HOW TO WIIIIIIIN

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

UNLEASHING HIS HELL

YOU WON’T EVEN HEAR THE BELL

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

FEEL THE POWER OF THE WAAAAARRIOOOOR!

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

FIGHT!

FIGHT!

FIGHT!

FIGHT!

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

LET’S GET READY TO RUUUUMBLE

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

FIGHT!

FIGHT!

FIGHT!

FIGHT!

The music begins to die out as Crash locks in on his opponent with an alarming stare, holding a violent gaze and snarl that raises red flags all over the place.

Nick Stuart: Richard, get your head off the desk.

Richard Parker: I’m sorry. I’m just like, the boredest I’ve ever been in my life.

Nick Stuart: Are you kidding me? With these two, that ring is a powder keg right now!

DING! DING!

Crash Jackson charges across the ring but Anna Daniels heads him off at the pass, meeting him with a flurry of strikes and kicks that sends Jackson reeling back towards the turnbuckles. A big roundhouse kick from Anna to Crash Jackson’s temple, followed by a roaring elbow into his chest and neck region, crumple him down to the mat, slumps him against the turnbuckles.

And Anna Daniels starts stomping a mudhole right in the middle of that boy’s sternum. Crash wisely slips under the bottom rope and out of the ring.

Nick Stuart: Crash taking a moment to readjust here…

Richard Parker: Well he doesn’t have TOO MUCH TIME OH MY GAWD!!!

Nick Stuart: GOOD LORD!!!

What happened you ask? Well, Anna Daniels, lord of time, decided that Crash didn’t need too much time to relax outside of the ring. So they’d climbed to the top turnbuckle, prayed to no one, and FLEW THROUGH THE AIR

…Right into a moonsault dropkick from Crash, which landed flush with their jaw.

Which is how we got wtheire we are right now.

Nick Stuart: A high risk maneuver from Anna and the risk did NOT pay off.

Richard Parker: How is their chin still attached to their face?

Nick Stuart: I have no idea.

And yet, it is.

Anna writhes, slowly, on the floor outside the ring. Crash, ever the absolute ham, looks wide-eyed out at the crowd. They cheer him on and that inspires him to climb back up on the ring apron.

Nick Stuart: Crash Jackson’s special relationship with our audience on full display theire.

Richard Parker: Crash is trash.

Nick Stuart: The fans adore him!

Richard Parker: The fans are trash!

Nick Stuart: YOU’RE TRASH!

Crash stands on the apron, his hands positioned on the top rope. He uses it for extra springiness as he leaps onto the second rope!

SPRINGBOARD MOONSAULT BY CRASH!

CRACK!

NO!!! INTERROBANG RIGHT TO THE UPSIDE DOWN EXPOSED FACE OF CRASH ON THE WAY DOWN!!!

Crash lands awkwardly as shit on the floor.

Nick Stuart: Bet you aren’t bored now you jackass.

Richard Parker: Honestly? You need to reevaluate how you treat people. You’re such a bully, Nick. And it hurts.

Anna Daniels pulls Crash up to his knees and heaves him the rest of the way into the ring. They quickly pursue behind him, roll him onto his back, and hook the leg!

ONE!

TWO!

THREEEE– NO!!! KICK OUT!!!

Nick Stuart: You have to believe that if that Interrobang from Anna Daniels happened in the ring, this match would be over.

Anna looks at Elvis and he already knows what their complaint is. But as far as Anna goes, their suspicions are not unfounded. Elvis has priors in their eyes.

Nonetheless, the match continues.

Anna helps Jackson up to his feet and whips him into the ropes. He bounces off and ducks a vicious knife edged chop from Anna. They spin around just in time for Crash to bounce off the opposite set of the ropes, leap in the air,

AND DROP ANNA DANIELS’ ASS WITH A JUMP SWINGING DDT!!

Anna’s legs stick straight up in the air as he plants their head into the mat! This time it’s Crash who makes the cover! He hooks the leg!

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

KICKOUT by Anna Daniels!

But Crash stands to his feet and quickly drops a leg across Daniels’ chest. And now that it’s time to escalate the action?

He only knows one direction.

Up.

Crash moves to the nearest set of turnbuckles and leaps to the top. He gains his balance and looks down at Anna Daniels, then he looks out at the crowd.

Crash Jackson: BROS?!?!

If he was asking them if he should, the answer is a resounding, “Yes!”

🤙🤙🤙

CRASH!

DOT!

COM!

THE CORKSCREW SHOOTING STAR PRESS….

Nick Stuart: NO!!! ANNA ROLLS OUT OF THE WAY, AND CRASH JACKSON CRASH LANDS ON THE MAT

Richard Parker: All that showing off. Meanwhile, the Whoresman looks to take advantage!

Nick Stuart: Always found it difficult calling Anna a whoresman.

Richard Parker: That’s because you’re backwards, and have backwards ways, Nick.

Be that as it may, Anna does in fact take the advantage. They quickly move down to Crash’s legs, locking them in a Cloverleaf.

Then Anna elevates his legs such that his head and neck are the only body parts he has left still touching the mat.

Finally, Anna Daniels ever so s l o w l y turns him over.

The Wheel of Morality. The Liontamer/Cloverleaf Hybrid.

Nick Stuart: This is a move Anna Daniels has in their back pocket and boy, does it look painful.

Richard Parker: I am literally about to call my chiropractor.

And indeed, if Crash doesn’t have a chiropractor, he’s absolutely going to need one! Crash cries out in pain as his spine is bent unnaturally back, applying pressure to his neck that few men have ever felt, and already, the hold has his hand hovering above the mat, on the verge of tapping.

Anna, meanwhile, is utterly wrenching those legs back. They can taste the delicious flavor of Elvis Nixon being forced against his will to raise their hand in victory. The entirety of the multitudes work with this single goal in mind. And with every single sound of pain Crash makes, with every attempt to claw and scrape away from the inescapability of this hold, only encourages their to apply the move tighter.

Crash is withstanding a not-withstandable amount of pain. He’s liable to tap at any moment.

But suddenly…

Fans Across the Arena: BRO! BRO! BRO! BRO! BRO! BRO! BRO!

Nick Stuart: Listen to these fans, Richard! You wish you had love in your life like this.

Richard Parker: I absolutely don’t. I hate these people. I hate Crash Jackson. I don’t even like you that much, Nick. TAP OUT CRASH, YOU BUM!

Fans Across the Arena: BRO! BRO! BRO! BRO! BRO! BRO! BRO! BRO! BRO! BRO!

And fueled by the love of all the millions and millions of Hotdog Maniacs, Crash does something incredible.

First, he does a push up, and keeps his arms extended, relieving some of the pressure of that hold from Anna. Then, he pulls the weight of his legs forward and rolls, simultaneously, which sends Anna off their balance just enough to let go of his legs!

The fans roar as Crash escapes certain defeat! He scrambles up to his feet, arching his back in pain, but meets Anna in the middle of the ring with a stiff forearm shot to the head! Another! Another! Another! Anoth– NO, Anna ducks it, and sidekicks him in the hip, then follows it up with a knee to the gut!

ANNA UNDERHOOKS CRASH JACKSON AND LIFTS HIM IN THE AIR!!!

Nick Stuart: DOUBLE UNDERHOOK BRAINBUSTER!!! THE ONCOMING STORM!!!

The air leaves the arena and the whole place deflates. Jeers fill the arena as Anna makes the cover, hooking both legs!

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

THREEEEEEEEE!!!

“A Darkness In My Soul” by Solid Space hits the speakers.

Vince Howard: HERE IS YOUR WINNER… THE MUSE, ANNAAAAAAAAAA DANIELLLLSSSSSS!!!

Anna stands up in the center of the ring. They force Elvis Nixon to raise their hand in victory.

We move on.

We go backstage, where Angelica Brooks is standing by at the designated interview station.

The crowd roars in approval. Angelica Brooks? We love her!

Angelica Brooks: Hello, PRIME faithful! Angelica Brooks here, with breaking news! It seems a PRIME legend is in talks for an in-ring return!

Another roar from the crowd. A returning legend? We love those too!

Angelica Brooks: And lucky me, I have the exclusive interview! Let me welcome at this time–

SUDDENLY!

The background behind Angie is torn down, revealing a white wall, some supports that were holding up the background…and two large men in black trunks, black boots, and gray-and-black masks. They look like they just arrived from the 1980s and don’t remember where they parked Anna Daniels’ time machine.

Intruder #1: WE ARE LEGENDS YET TO BE WRITTEN!

Intruder #2: WE RETURN TO A PLACE WE HAVE NEVER BEEN!

Intruder #1: YOU DO NOT LIKE US! YOU DO NOT WANT US! YOU DO NOT WELCOME US!

Intruder #2: WE ARE DESTINED TO BE HERE! FOR WE ARE…THE INTRUDERS!

Intruder #1: AND WHETHER YOU WANT IT OR NOT, WE ARE COMING IN!

Angelica Brooks: There’s no way that catchphrase will fly with HR.

Intruder #2: WE FEAR NO HR! HANK RICHARDS, HOWARD ROSENBOOM, HAMSTER RESCUE, YOU ARE ALL AT OUR MERCY…AND WE HAVE NONE!

Intruder #1: WE HAVE ONLY DOOM! DOOM FOR PRIME AND ITS TAG TEAMS!

Intruder #2: AAAAAAAAAAH!

Intruder #1: AAAAAAAAAAH!

They continue screaming as they stomp down the hall. Angie looks on in utter confusion.

Angelica Brooks: …what just happened?

We may never know.

We move on.

EARLIER TODAY

The camera flickers to life, focusing on a crimson backdrop with gold hammers and sickles evenly spaced across it. The room, typically used for postgame press conferences after Edmonton Oilers games, is empty.

Bryan Dawkins is sitting solemnly at the front behind a table. Next to him, a large object sits, covered by a black cloth. Dawkins lightly rests his hand on the object.

Bryan Dawkins: Today was supposed to be a day of celebration. Instead of gathering a who’s who list of PRIME media personalities, I sit here alone. According to Alexei, billions of comrades from across the globe were set to tune in to see me-

The feed blips, the audio skips

Bryan Dawkins: …return bzzzt true bzzzt champi-

Suddenly, the screen goes black. Lines of noise cut across the screen as it re-adjusts…to Sebastian Gold in an offsite location, adjusting a knob on an old-fashioned tv.

Sebstian Gold: There we go! I pushed the right button.

Action Bastian flashes his trademark smile to the camera. It’s almost as bright as the polished Alias belt sitting on his shoulder.

Sebastian Gold: Sorry to interrupt the Hour of Hate, but I figured I’d give ya’ll someone actually worth listening to.

He hits the top of the TV, and it flashes to Bryan Dawkins winning the Alias title, smiling and overwhelmed with emotion.

Sebastian Gold: Look at this guy. A true champ, a journeyman who worked his entire career for this moment-

He hits the TV again to show Gold pinning Dawkins as Max Kael looks on.

Sebastian Gold: Only to throw it away. Who knows, Bruh. Maybe you couda won against me if you’d picked a fair stip and stuck to your morals, but you didn’t! I did. Maybe you woulda won the Belmont back in the day! But from what I hear, you didn’t make the cut. I did.

He slams the TV. It’s now Sebastian holding the Belmont high, tears in his eyes.

Sebastian Gold: So go on bruh, do what you want with that Trophy. It’s…it’s just a Cup…doesn’t matter to me!

His voice trembles on that last line, some vulnerability creeping in. He does care, and it creeps through.

Sebastian Gold: At the end of the day, everyone knows who the real champ is. The only man whose legacy you’re rewriting, Dawkins, is yours.

He slams the TV one last time to show Ivan pinning a lying down Dawkins at Manhunt. He points to it.

Sebastian Gold: Take a good, long look, Bruh. This is your legacy now. This is now the end of your highlight reel. There ain’t any Cup or Belt in the world that’s gonna change that.

Sebastian gives one last smirk and puts on his shades.

Sebastian Gold: No more questions.

The screen blinks to static once more.  We see a few flashes of Dawkins’ face.

We move on.

Some individuals have preferences for their dressing room ambiance, like maintaining a specific temperature or having a particular brand of water ready in the fridge when they arrive. However, former two-time Universal Champion Ivan Stanislav has a different requirement: his desk. This massive, sturdy piece of furniture mirrors his own formidable presence.

Why does Stanislav insist on having his entourage not only bring this reliable desk but also an assortment of Soviet and Russian memorabilia? The reason is straightforward: it evokes a sense of home for him. It’s an imposing reminder of a regime that, at least to the average PRIME viewer, Stanislav seems to embody.

As Ivan sits behind his desk, ready for his upcoming battle with Scott Hunter later tonight, he examines several file folders through his trifocal glasses. Arina Timofeyevna stands just to the side of his desk, while Russian and Soviet military marches play—not from an old radio, but from a Russian imitation of an iPod, which is about four times larger and likely just as heavy.

Then. Something miraculous happens.

A knock resounds.

At Ivan Stanislav’s door.

Remember, Ivan usually knows where every member of The Red army is at nearly all times. Those who might need to knock have been instructed to leave him be.

Alexei never knocks, but he’s on a special assignment tonight.

Therefore, there’s no reason for anyone to be knocking on The Russian Bear’s door.

Well, almost no reason.

There is one exception.

Ivan glances up from his documents and exchanges a look with Arina, who seems just as surprised and… excited? She moves to the door and opens it.

And there she is, the visitor of the moment. At least, for this segment.

Ivan rises slowly from his desk, his suspenders stretching as his broad shoulders expand, pulling the waist of his dark pants higher along his powerful frame. He suddenly recalls he’s wearing his glasses, which magnify his eyes, and quickly removes them, hooking them onto the neck of his shirt.

He growls a greeting, but it comes with a rare, warm smile.

Ivan Stanislav: Mrs. Daniels…

Arina gives a polite smile and nods to none other than Anna Daniels, who is now revealed in the doorway. Timofeyevna turns to Ivan, her broken English plodding through her thick Russian accent.

Arina Timofeyevna: Starshy Praporshchik. Mrs. Anna Daniels.

Anna Daniels: Arina. Ivan. How ya going?

The informality of her greetings aside, Anna knows that she isn’t just here to say hello. Fresh from her match with Crash, the Muse has barely allowed herself a moment to clean up for this meeting lest things around here begin to blow up. The hair is already tossled but there was an attempt to wrangle the curls to their proper glory. A slight whiff of perfume to cover any unseemly odors. The makeup washed off and kept to a minimum. Beyond this, however, Anna remains Anna.

With a smile for the both of them, she steps inside the home away from home of the dreaded Russian Bear. Arina shuts the door gently as Anna begins to stroll up to Ivan’s desk, looking at the stark surroundings.

Anna Daniels: Nice place you got here. Very minimalist.

Except for the memorabilia hanging around. But who is she to judge? Sharing a locker room with misfits causes one to not flinch so much at others’ decorative choices. Her head bops to the music instinctively as she grabs a chair to sit on. A thought strikes her suddenly.

Anna Daniels: Ah, damn. We forgot the vodka. We did say we would resupply you last time.

Stanislav watches The Muse’s actions with a moment of intrigue. There are few people who willingly knock, enter, and then shut the door and trap themselves in Ivan Stanislav’s sanctum. Yet she does. Not pressed into service. Not tricked into enlistment. Not beaten into submission.

For a moment, perhaps he reflects on a strange circumstance: Anna Daniels might just be a friend.

He snaps out of it though and back to the present. He motions to the chair Anna holds.

Ivan Stanislav: Oh! Please… sit my dear Mrs. Daniels. Rest assured, no self-respecting Russian ever needs resupplied with vodka. However, that does not mean I will not hold you to your promise still, if for no other reason than to have you back! Arina, if you please?

Arina is quick to move to a nearby refrigerator and pull out a frosty bottle of vodka. She produces two shot glasses, large enough to certainly hold more than one shot per serving, and returns to the desk, placing one for Anna and one for Ivan. Stanislav chuckles playfully. She pours the shots for Ivan and Anna, in that order, but Ivan nods to her and speaks in Russian.

Ivan Stanislav: Ty tozhe etogo zasluzhivayesh’, Arina Rakhila.

Arina smiles politely and nods, returning to the rear of the office to pour her own. Ivan lifts his shot glass and grins.

Ivan Stanislav: I take it you received my note, Anna? And if so, I am flattered that you have found time to pay me visit, considering how busy you seem to have been this night?

Ivan grins crookedly at the implications of not just her match, but also, let’s just say, shenanigans.

Anna Daniels: We wouldn’t be ripping you away from your work otherwise. We know you’re also a busy man with the whole leading the Red Army and being poster boy for Mother Russia thing.

Honestly, it was damn near a miracle seeing that note attached to the Whorehouse considering all the thrashing about of her newfound prey. Rob might’ve burned it if he wasn’t so mopey tonight. For a moment, her thoughts turn to “what in the hell is wrong with that man now?”

Then she shakes her head and refocused towards the present with a smile. Following Ivan’s lead, she raises her glass with a nod to the…comrades?

Anna Daniels: Here’s hoping this little meeting goes swimmingly, eh?

A few glass clicks later, Anna sips at her drink fondly. Ivan nods his head as he downs his drink, and Arina barely makes it back in time, but does, drinking the booze like a true Russian. Ivan places his glass down on his desk while Arina starts to refill. Ivan places his hands on his hips.

Ivan Stanislav: Now then, Anna, I am sure you are wondering just why I had asked to see you this evening.

The Russian Bear waggles a sausage sized finger in the air as he brings one hand behind his back.

Ivan Stanislav: I wanted to tell you, my dear, your message at last ReVival was, to put lightly, inspiring to me. And let Ivan Sergeiovich be first one to tell you that very rarely does someone outside of Russia inspire me.

He walks, because of course he does, taking a few long strides away from his desk, towards a picture of Vladimir Putin hanging on the far wall.

Ivan Stanislav: Yes, dear Anna, it inspired me indeed. And Alexei. And rest of Red Army. This… roughshod booking and handing-out that Lindsay Troy feeds to any and everyone who disagrees with her becomes more and more bold by the day.

He turns on his bootheel, with a screech.

Ivan Stanislav: It is not something I take idly. And I know you do not either. Nor do rest of your band of… Whoring Men. Yes?

Not to be outdone, Anna downs her drink. She takes a moment to think.

Anna Daniels: We’ll put it this way. The boys may not see it exactly our way, much like your Red Army may not see it your way. But as a collective, the Whoresmen have a couple things in common. Number one: we’re very outspoken about what we like and what we don’t like. And number two: we don’t like being screwed unless the act is mutual.

Arina’s face turns… well, red even as she refills the glass and digests The New Era’s words. The Time Lord looks over at her apologetic.

Anna Daniels: Sorry. Considering who we’re talking about, we couldn’t help the innuendo.

Slowly, she stands and walks over to Ivan with considerably smaller strides. But from the attitude of it, she seems to act just as tall.

Anna Daniels: We have a problem when it comes to Lindsay Troy, Ivan. As a person, she seems halfway decent. It was because of that decency that we have tried and failed to keep some sort of peace. To point out the problems without blaming her for them. We forgot that in the end, we are an employee. We’re one of her little toys. A misfit toy that she would rather not deal with. We got too caught up in her humanity that we tried to ignore exactly what she is.

Anna cranes her neck up to meet his glance.

Anna Daniels: We’re willing to bet you’ve been having the same issues. And it has to be extremely frustrating.

The Russian Bear looks down at Daniels and squints one eye thoughtfully before nodding. Arina glances between the two of them from afar.

Ivan Stanislav: Mmm… she is complex figure. Strong, capable, yet blinded by her own biases. We are pillars, Anna, not pawns. Words and loyalty have not taught this lesson. So actions must.

Ivan pauses and tightens his jaw.

Ivan Stanislav: I propose a Pact, Anna Daniels. You and I have always gotten along and have, more or less, been of the same mind. I may not understand your boys, but I trust your judgment. There’s no need for potential conflict between us, whether it be Red Army or Whoresemen. My focus is not on titles or victories anymore; it is about Lindsay Troy achieving clarity. I am committed to supporting you and your boys, if you are willing to do the same.

The strangeness of the Whoresmen being called “her boys” aside, the idea of a pact is interesting to Anna. Not like she’d tell him that though. Can’t act too eager in these types of matters.

Anna Daniels: So in essence, we stay out of your way and you stay out of ours.

There’s a look on her face that suggests she’s thinking this over. She takes a moment to examine Ivan’s stature and his seriousness on the matter, before strolling away a bit to contemplate. In spite of the differences between the two groups, there are similarities. The headstrongness. The seemingly chaotic members at first glance. Crazy as it is, there are some ties to communist parties amongst the Whoresmen. She stops in front of Arina and smiles at her.

Anna Daniels: Are you okay with this? You’re not quite as attached to the situation as us and Ivan are. We want your unfiltered take on this little…thing.

Stanislav’s assistant blinks as she stares at Anna for a moment, as if processing that she was being asked her opinion on such an important matter. She glances across the room at Ivan, who stares at her flatly, and immediately looks back at Anna.

Arina Timofeyevna: I believe in Starshy Praporshchik idea.

There’s another quick glance from her to Ivan, then back at Anna.

The Muse nods.

Anna Daniels: Kinda figured you’d say that. But it’s nice to have your opinion. Thank you, Ms. Timofeyevna.

And just like that, she does a heel spin all militant-like towards Ivan. The smile never leaves her face.

Anna Daniels: At the risk of being yelled at by at least one of our own, we accept your terms wholeheartedly and will do our best to keep the boys in check.

A beat.

Anna Daniels: Normally, we’d offer a handshake. But we already have one Daniels with a broken hand so…probably going to forego that.

Ivan’s grin is wide while he looks down at Anna. His triumphant laugh shakes the room.

Ivan Stanislav: DYAAHAAHAA!! That is good! You know what Russians say: A comrade with broken hand is like rivet without steel!

Arina blinks curiously in the background.

Ivan Stanislav: Fair enough, comrade Daniels! Then we shall drink to this agreement and call it…

Ivan pauses.

Ivan Stanislav: …call it… er…

Arina slides up to the duo, carrying three refilled shot glasses. She offers one to Ivan, and one to Anna, and looks up at Ivan.

Arina Timofeyevna: The Whoresaw Pact?

It takes a moment for Ivan to process it, before The Russian Bear offers an incredibly wide, toothy grin.

Ivan Stanislav: Da! To the Whoresaw Pact!

He raises his glass high, and then realizes his hand is near the ceiling. He lowers his glass to chest height for a proper toast.

Anna Daniels: Nice pun. To the Whoresaw Pact, za zdorovye, and all that good stuff!

So it begins, the genesis of a beautiful friendship with another clink of glass and laughter from all.

We move on.

Southern twang, and a steady drum. The crowd begins to rise as the music picks up The PRIME*View snaps to life with an aerial view, following a large, black pickup barreling down a dirt road, throwing up a cloud of dust in its wake.

The entrance strobes as “Step Up (I’m On It) by Maylene and the Sons of Disaster wails away, the camera panning to the front of the pickup, zooming in close on an Alabama license plate, and revealing just two words:

BAD DOG

“Too long, and too little,

Tell me when you gonna bring it on.

Small fights, and big stages,

Never terrified enough to run.”

Vince Howard: From Pine Ridge, Alabama!!

A big frame in a wide-brimmed drifter’s hat hides in the strobe lights, that hat tilted down a touch, the fans bellowing in the arena.

Vince Howard: Standing six feet! Four inches tall! Weighing in at two-hundred and fifty-four pounds!

The smoke starts settling, the lights start trailing.

Vince Howard: A former PRIME Intense Champion!!

The chorus hits, and the Son of a Bitch himself strolls out to the top of the ramp, one fist in the air.

Vince Howard: THE BAD DOG!!!!! WADE!!! ELLLIOTTTT!!!!!

RUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!

The Blue Collar Brawler takes it in for a moment before making his way to the ring, the arena going absolutely ape-shit for the Southern Sparkplug’s arrival. Meanhile, the music rises as Wade climbs the far turnbuckle. He removes his hat, holding it high in the air as the chorus hits heavy.

“ALLLL LIIIINED UP AND BUILT FOR PRESSURE!

(STEP UP! I’M ON IT!)

SAAYY YOOOUUUR PEACE LIKE IT’S THE END!!

(STAND BACK! WE’RE MOVIN’!!)”

He drops to the floor, tossing his hat ringside. Next to go is his gray t-shirt, revealing the tattoo of Angus the Bluetick Hound on his left pec. The music trails, and he takes place in his corner.

Vince Howard: And his opponent…

Brace yourselves, guys, gals, and nonbinary pals. It’s about to get real dumb.

Did you know that “Sandstorm” by Darude had lyrics? No, neither did I. And I bet the band would be very surprised to learn that someone had taken their dancehall hit and added words to it. Imagine their shocked expressions as they realized that those lyrics were just a name repeated in time with the synth beat.

Le-le-le-lemieux

STEVE Le-le-le-lemieux

Le-le-le-lemieux

Le-le-le-lemieux

Le-le-le-lemieux

Le-le-le-lemieux

Le-le-le-le-MUH-MUH-MUH-MUH-le-le-muh MUH-MUH-MUH-MUH-MUH-lemieux

Le-le-le-le-le-lemieux

Le-muh-le-muh-muh-lemieux

It goes on like this for a while.

Vince Howard: From Peoria, Illinois he weighs in tonight at 183 pounds…

There is no crowd reaction for any of this, by the way. No cheers. No boos. Not a goddamn peep. It’s quiet enough that you can hear a single cough.

Vince Howard: He is “Mister Beefst”… STEEEEEEEEVE LEMIIIEEEEEUUUUUXXX!!

Total fucking crickets time out here in the arena.

Steve stumbles out through the curtain dressed like a man who’s ready to clock in for his shift at the local Geek Squad. He’s wearing a pair of khakis, a white polo shirt tucked into those very pants, with some knee pads on the outside of his clothes and – for reasons that probably make a great deal of sense to him – swimming floaties on his upper arms. Oh, and let’s not forget the red, white, and blue sweatband and the well-loved pair of New Balance sneakers.

Steve makes his way to the ring, and almost trips over his own feet trying to ascend the ring steps. Things don’t get any better when he’s on the apron, as after around thirty seconds of trying to figure out the best way through the ropes it’s left to Vince Howard to hold them open so Steve doesn’t get stuck.

Richard Parker: So, Nick.

Nick Stuart: What’s up?

Richard Parker: What the hell are we about to watch?

A murder.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: There’s the bell, and it looks like Wade is going to give Steve a free shot to kick things off.

Richard Parker: Wonder if it’s because he knows it’s the only shot Lemieux’s going to get.

Nick Stuart: I know that this man doesn’t look like your typical wrestler, but looks can be deceiving, Richard.

Richard Parker: You were with me at the Manhunt, Nick. You saw the same match that I did. Unless you’re aware of some secret soundstage “the moon landing is fake” front office conspiracy then I’m pretty sure we know everything that this dork can do.

Lemieux, looking very happy but also a little confused, glances at Wade with raised eyebrows. The Bad Dog offers a nod, and then Steve steps forward.

Okay, so have you ever seen a little kid get really mad and try to fight something? Doesn’t have to be another person. Could be literally anything. Kids are weird like that. You know how they wind up like they’re in the middle of a game 7 no-hitter? Both feet firmly planted. One arm just kind of out to the side. The other arm raised up, bent at the elbow, and reaching waaaaaay back? Great! Now imagine your out-of-shape uncle doing the same thing.

Needless to say, it does no damage to the Blue Collar Brawler, and not because Steve is pulling his strikes because he doesn’t want to hit Wade for real.

Nick Stuart: Ummm.

Richard Parker: Wow.

Nick Stuart: That was…

Richard Parker: Wow.

Nick Stuart: Something.

And then there’s referee Jimmy Turnbull, a man whose career trajectory went from presiding over a tag division full of berries, powerbombs, Survivor challenges, powerbombs, Mushigihara, and powerbombs, to officiating this.

**Jimmy Turnbull: *(*giggling) C’mon, Steve. Watch the closed fists!

Steve offers a quick thumbs-up, and then goes back to his blistering strike combo. One very mechanical looking slap approaches Wade, pulls up, and then lightly taps him on the cheek. Another one offers a gentle pat on the right pec. A front-kick – complete with a monotone “Hi-YA!” – barely grazes Elliott’s abdomen.

Richard Parker: What the hell is this?

Nick Stuart: Oh god.

Richard Parker: It’s like watching tai chi for robots!

Nick Stuart: If Steve Lemieux thinks he’s toying with Wade Elliott then he’s got another thing coming.

Richard Parker: Is this… Are… Are we part of some Andy Kaufman shit right now? Is that what’s happening?

After a solid minute of Wade putting on a masterclass in patience, The ‘Bama Bruiser finally reaches out and gingerly plucks the glasses from Steve’s face. For a moment Lemieux is confused, but then the camera catches him in a moment of epiphany as he nods and mouths the words, “Oh, for the realism.”

Wade hands the glasses to referee Turnbull, who very quickly brings them to the ropes and hands them to the timekeeper.

Richard Parker: Nick, I think this is about to…

Wade effortlessly closes the distance.

Richard Parker: Oh.

Scoop.

Richard Parker: Yep.

Slam.

Richard Parker: He’s dead now.

Lemieux impacts the mat hard enough that all four of his limbs go stiff and stick directly up into the air for eight whole seconds (the internet will keep a record of this) before flatting out onto the canvas.

Steve rolls onto his chest and army-crawls towards Jimmy Turnbull, hoping to use the referee as a human-shaped collection of handles with which to pull himself up. All the while he’s asking Turnbull whether what just happened was in the script.

Nick Stuart: Looks Lemieux is a little unsure of what just happened there.

Richard Parker: You ever try to teach a dog math, Nick?

Nick Stuart: N-no?

Richard Parker: Yeah, me neither. I just wonder if this is what it would be like to watch someone doing that.

Whether or not all of Steve’s questions are answered will remain a mystery, because the sandwich man turns around into a running clothesline. The impact and velocity of the move causes Lemieux to cartwheel in the air, and the momentum is enough to send his right sneaker flying off of his body and into the crowd.

Nick Stuart: Steve Lemieux has been clotheslined out of his clothes!

Richard Parker: Usually that costs extra.

Nick Stuart: …

Richard Parker: You heard me.

Steve manages to stumble back up to his feet, but he’s incredibly unsteady. Just as it looks like he’s about to fall back down on his own, Wade Elliott is there to help him with another massive clothesline.

The other one of Steve’s shoes – and this time the sock that goes with it – sails straight up in the air only to be caught by the referee.

Nick Stuart: Steve Lemieux rolling out of the ring. A smart strategy for the newcomer.

Richard Parker: Smart strategy? A smart strategy would have been staying back home in Illinois. Forever.

Nick Stuart: Meanwhile back in the ring, the hall of famer Elliott is standing by to see what his opponent does next.

Richard Parker: I think the answer to that is “explode into a thousand tiny sandwiches,” Nick.

Wade leans against the ropes watching as his opponent tries to crawl under the ring to hide.

Jimmy Turnbull: Got to get back in here, Steve.

But Steve does not get back in there. Unable to move the ladders and production equipment out of his way from under the ring, Steve instead turns around and crawls to the broadcast desk.

Nick Stuart: Fans, Steve Lemieux is out here trying to hide, and now Wade Elliott is giving chase.

Richard Parker: Hey… hey!

There are shuffling noises coming from the broadcast table as Richard appears to be involved in something.

The Bad Dog hops down from the ring apron. What the on-the-floor sees is him reach down behind the announce desk and emerge with a leg in his hands, albeit a shoeless one that is desperately trying to kick itself free. Wade is forced to adjust his grip, but he gives a heavy tug. Steve doesn’t budge, but his pants are a different story.

RIchard Parker: Great. His glasses, both shoes, and now his pants. Can we stop this now before anyone gets any more naked?

Nick Stuart: I think for his next match Lemieux should invest in a belt.

Richard Parker: *(slightly muffled) *****You hear that, Steve? Buy a belt if you do this again.

Wade takes hold of Steve again, this time by both ankles, and begins dragging him out from behind the table.

Richard Parker: Hey!!!

But Lemieux has wrapped his arms tight around Richard Parker’s legs, so when Steve gets dragged out of his hiding spot he ends up bringing Richard with him.

Nick Stuart: Fans, I believe we have a bit of commotion here at the desk…

Richard Parker: Get this guy off of me! He smells like fry oil and desperation.

Finally, Wade locks both hands around Steve’s waist and hoists him up like a sack of grain that he heaves back into the ring under the bottom rope. The hall of famer follows suit, this time pulling Steve right up to his feet.

Richard Parker: I think this is where the lesson begins, Nick. We’ve heard Lemieux talking about rehearsals for weeks now, and I think Wade is about to show the sandwich man how really real this is.

Nick Stuart: Elliott with the Irish whip into the ropes…

And all at once the crowd goes:

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHH!!!

Because that’s the sound everyone makes when Lemieux runs chest-first into a big boot.

Nick Stuart: Wade Elliott with a heavy kick to the chest, but Lemieux is back on his-

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHH!!!

Nick Stuart: -wait nope nevermind that didn’t last very long.

It’s true that Steve did get to his feet, stumbling and staggering like a drunken foal, but then he was sawed clean in half by a spear by Elliott. True to form, a series of mounted punches by the ‘Bama Bruiser follow.

It’s up to Jimmy Turnbull to offer a warning about closed fists, only this time he means it. Wade relents, putting his hands up and backing away. There’s a brief chat between the two men as Steve slithers to the ropes. He manages to pull himself up to his feet, but it’s clear he’s got no legs under him.

Nick Stuart: Steve Lemieux trying to fight back here, but I don’t think it’s having any effect.

Of course not, Nick. We’ve already established that Steve throws the goofy punches.

Richard Parker: You know that expression “couldn’t hurt a fly”? Well I don’t think Steve Lemieux could give a ladybug whiplash.

Nick Stuart: I feel like you’re really stretching with that one.

Richard Parker: Look, it’s been a very traumatic few minutes for me.

Nick Stuart: Because Steve grabbed your legs?

Richard Parker: No, because he tucks his shirt into his tighty-whities. I don’t need to see that, Nick.

Steve takes another swing, this one with even less gas on it than the first. None of them are having any effect on Wade, who just continues to stand there and let it happen.

Until he doesn’t.

Jimmy Turnbull: Steve, I told you to watch the-

Scoop.

CRASH!!!

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHH!!!

Dead.

Nick Stuart: ROUGHNECK!! Roughneck by Wade Elliott and Steve Lemieux is down and down hard!!

Richard Parker: Hope he’s got a big spatula in that restaurant. We’re going to need it to scrape him off the canvas.

Referee Turnbull gets down to make the count.

ONE!!

TWO!!

THREE!!!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: The winner of this match… WAAAAADE ELLLLLLLLLIIOTTTTT!!

“Step Up (I’m On It)” hits the speakers again as Wade rises to a resounding cheer from the crowd.

Nick Stuart: Wade Elliott picks up a win here tonight over the very… umm…

Richard Parker: Bad and awful Steve Lemieux. Don’t sugarcoat it, Nick.

Nick Stuart: We’re going to take a quick commercial break, but don’t go anywhere, fans, because we’ve got more action coming up after these messages.

We move on.

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.

Well this isn’t like that, because clearly this is not an Italian restaurant. Clearly.

This place looks like it’s aiming for a friendly lodge theme, with lots of natural wood fixtures, some oil lanterns that have been wired for electricity, and a mounted moose head that looks like it’s bursting through a chocolate bar. There’s a photo of Wayne Gretzky in a turtleneck. A Tragically Hip album. A pair of criss crossed lacrosse sticks.

It’s like someone watched one episode of Letterkenny, ate a fistful of DMT, and then went full-ass Property Brothers on a TGI Friday’s.

This is probably a good time to drop the name of this “fine” establishment:

POUTINE PAIL

by Sketti Bucket

And now comes the voiceover. Based on the inflections added to certain words, the VO is probably named Doug.

Voiceover: Hot, crispy french fries. Rich, creamy gravy. Luxurious cheese curds. When you put them together you have a dish that is so hot even the humidex can’t track it.

It’s here where we get our first glimpse of what everyone seems to be enjoying at this fine establishment, as every patron is shovel deep inside their own personal bucket of french fries. If you expected a restaurant with the name “Poutine Pail” to be anything other than slop in a plastic beach pail, then honestly I don’t even know what to tell you, because that’s exactly what this is.

Also the plastic pails have smiling maple leaves on them, because of course they do.

Voiceover: Poutine Pail. It’s the comfort food you can carry!

Stepping out into view in front of the restaurant scene is an older woman who looks like a horny wolffish. She’s wearing a toque with a red, white, and black checker pattern, like her hat is cosplaying a Pizza Hut tablecloth from 1992. You know, back when Pizza Hut was still good. Her name is Dolores Merriweather Pepperidge-Pembroke, and she is the owner of the Sketti Bucket – and now apparently Poutine Pail – franchises.

Dolores Merriweather Pepperidge-Pembroke: At Sketti Bucket we want your family to feel like our family, and that’s why we’re proud to announce the grand opening of our first ever Canadian specialty restaurant – Poutine Pail.

Her smile is unsettling, an animatronic just starting its descent into the uncanny valley.

Dolores Merriweather Pepperidge-Pembroke: And to help with this announcement we’ve recruited our newest spokesperson, the pride of Canada himself, Kenny Canuck!

As the camera pans over we see a skinny man dressed head-to-toe in what can only be described as a Canadian Luchadour outfit. He stands wearing a red and white spandex suit featuring a giant maple leaf on the chest and a red mask that looks like a melted Fruit Roll-Up melted on his face.

Kenny Canuck: Ooooo CANADA! YEAAAAH! Lookin’ like a real beaut!

“Kenny” holds out a glistening basket of steaming poutine gravy dripping from the sides and clearly turning the man’s hands as red as the maple leaf on his suit.

Kenny Cancuk: As a legitimate, totally naturally-born Canadian, there are only two things that matter to me in a restaurant: Polite service and poutine on the menu and, doncha know that Poutine Pail has, possibly, one of those things at any given time.

Delores gives Kenny the side eye as he reaches into the mound of poutine, grabbing a handful and shoving it in his face, gravy dripping down his mouth and chin as he lets out a satisfied gasp and throws the remaining poutine on the ground with a splat as he points to the camera.

Kenny Canuck: Look. I understand. Things are cheesed in the world right now; I know it – and so do all the little Canuckamaniacs back in Saskatoon, in Brockville, in Kaloomps, in St. Albert, in Thunder Bay, and yes, even in Latchford. But there is only one remedy to this kerfuffle!

Kenny raises his arms, gesturing wildly toward the camera.

Kenny Canuck: You gotta get nice! Bleed maple syrup! Drink your Timmies! And EAT AT POUTINE PAIL! And that’s not just what’s written on my cue cards, it’s a guarantee from the CANUCKSTER!

An energized Kenny just stands there, innocent for a bit, but smiling as he looks over at Dolores who shrugs. Kenny escalates the situation by points dramatically first at Dolores, then at a server carrying a poutine platter, and then at the ceiling before screaming and running out of frame – his voice slowly trailing as he gets out of range.

Kenny Canuck: YOUUUUU BETCHAaaaaaaa!

We fade on the face of Dolores, that lusty, busty warthog of a woman. But that’s not the end. Oh no, no. We still have a jingle to play.

🎵 It’s a bowl of gravy, cheese curds, and the crispiest fries

🎵 It’s the northern taste sensation that goes right to your thighs

🎵 If you try to cross the border you might end up in jail

🎵 So instead come to Poutine Pail

And once again, the voiceover.

Voiceover: Come join us at the grand opening of Poutine Pail at 12pm on April 28th at 12707 170 St NW in Edmonton!

Sorry not sorry.

“WHEN MY BACK’S TO THE WALLLL!!!!”

I!!

WILL!

CON!!

QUER!!

“Daggers” hits, and the patrons of Rogers Place in Edmonton let him have it. The Intense Champion is not well received in Canada.

But judging by his the grin spread wide underneath the ‘stache, we can assume the Comeback Kid is just freakin’ loving it.

Sauntering down the ramp while his music batters their eardrums, Hayes Hanlon takes his sweet time. The Intense belt hanging over his neck and shoulders like a towel, hands gripping the straps, swaggering down to the steps.

Nick Stuart: Welcome back to ReVival 66, ladies and gentlemen! And if The Event Horizon is still licking any wounds from his brawl two weeks ago, you certainly wouldn’t be able to tell.

Richard Parker: That’s because he’s a pro, Nick! A champion worthy of that belt! Tough as they come! Home Run Hayes isn’t afraid to take on Jason Snow, especially after defeating him at Culture Shock!

Nick Stuart: I hope he’s not afraid for his bank account, either, because that little incident at the end of ReVival 65 cost Hanlon, Snow, AND Rexton William Bader a cool fifteen grand each in fines.

Meanwhile, Hammerin’ Hayes has made way into the ring, mic in hand, his belt shifted over to one shoulder. He turns 360 degrees, one arm extended out, a bright white smile shining for the booing crowd.

Hayes Hanlon: Hey Canada! Jason Snow attacked me two weeks ago unprovoked and Lindsay Troy fined me fifteen thousand dollars for defending myself!! Let’s give her a hand for that fine display of leadership!!

Hands claps his hands sarcastically, sending thuds through the PA system as he strikes the microphone. Edmonton, however, rises with cheers for the Queen of the Ring. He lowers his hands, queuing the crowd to quiet down.

Hayes Hanlon: But that’s fine, it really is. I know that money is going to a good place. Our Queen did the right thing by poor, poor Phoebe Gaskins.

PHOE-BE GASKINS! clap clap clapclapclap PHOE-BE GASKINS! clap clap clapclapclap

A smirk behind the ‘stache, and the shake of the head.

Hayes Hanlon: Welcome to PRIME, sweetheart. But hey, aren’t we all just a little worried? Word has it Nate Colton swung by the hospital to say hi. Are we really to expect he didn’t show hog while he was there?

BOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Hayes Hanlon: It’s friggin’ gross, man! You’re better than that, Nate!

The Event Horizon wanders the ring, finding himself leaning against the ropes as they rain down their boos, chuckling to himself.

Hayes Hanlon: But hey, you gotta admit, you can’t take this one away from me.

He takes a look at his Intense Belt, admiring its polish. FLAMBERGE had a lot of good tips to share earlier.

Hayes Hanlon: Jason Snow gave me the silent treatment, so I gave him another notch in the loss column, and added another belt to my name. I AM SO BACK!!!

Another wave of boos as Hayes pushes off the ropes, backing back to the center of the ring.

Hayes Hanlon: Of all the belts, I didn’t think I’d ever get my hands on this one. It’s ehhh, not exactly my style. Guess I was wrong, though, huh? Wasn’t I? WASN’T I??

He’s getting all wound up now, pushing his hand back through his dark hair.

Hayes Hanlon: The Original Villain couldn’t kill me at Culture Shock; not with weapons, and not with the help of his buddy Bader. And clearly that’s got him all pissy, because two weeks ago he showed he just can’t get enough of me! Well, Mr. 407, there’s a LOT of me to go arou–

Voice: What you need to do, right now, is SHUT… THE FUCK… UP!

For a brief moment the Canadian audience cheers, only to find themselves cheering for the absurd-looking wheelchair-bound man at the top of the ramp. Rexton William Bader, with his ever-unused oxygen tank strapped to his chair, stares coldly down at the ring. Behind him stands, apparently, Jason Snow, all in white with a hood drawn to hide his face.

Rexton William Bader: You’re lucky–LUCKY–that this arena doesn’t have the compassion to equip its ring with a wheelchair ramp, or I’d roll down there right now and KICK YOUR ASS, Hayes Hanlon! Yes I would!

Hanlon, while seeming somewhat amused, seems also to be staring past Bader, and at Snow.

Bader begins the slow roll down the ramp. Snow follows.

Rexton William Bader: As for last week, I don’t wanna hear one more fucking word about poor Phoebe Gaskins, after she THREW HERSELF into harm’s way and cost my client THIRTY THOUSAND DOLLARS! That was some bullshit!

Nick Stuart: Did he just say…

They’re roughly halfway to the ring now.

Rexton William Bader: But what’s to be expected with the current state of PRIME? With current PRIME management. With Lindsay Troy. I mean, who in the fuck thought it was a good idea to run a wrestling show in Edmonton? Every inch of this place smells just like shit. That’s right. That’s right. I’m just tellin’ it like it is, fat asses. Just tellin’ it like it is.

The audience reacts exactly how you’d expect.

Rexton William Bader: And you…

Bader points at Hayes Hanlon.

Snow, meanwhile, has taken the lead on their near-completed trek to the ring, and hops up onto the apron. Hanlon stands tall in the ring, eyes locked on Snow, ready for whatever may come.

Rexton William Bader: If you don’t think Jason Snow will finish what he started at Culture Shock, and continued at ReVival 65, right here and right now, just because he’s got a main event match later tonight, then there must be paint fumes in that moustache. This is a war, Hayes. You’ve gone to war. With a killer. You’ve gone to war with the greatest athlete in the history of professional sports.

Snow steps through the ropes and stalks the ring’s edge, he and Hanlon keeping a distance while watching each other closely. Bader remains outside, blabbering on…

Rexton William Bader: This is not a man you can beat, Hanlon. Because as long as he’s breathing, he’s coming back for you. As long as he’s breathing, Hanlon, you ain’t nothin’ but prey. You think you won at Culture Shock? No. All you did was start a fight. And there’s no end to this fight that doesn’t leave you destroyed, Hanlon, because this man, THIS MAN, does not stop until he conquers. He doesn’t know how. Check his fuckin’ history. He just pushes forward and forward and forward until–

“Until an innocent person gets hurt.”

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!

The crowd doesn’t even know who they’re cheering for at first; they just know it’s not one of the assholes currently in or around the ring. Then a figure steps out through the curtain and it doesn’t take long for recognition to hit.

Just a look at that blue satin jacket.

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!!

Nick Stuart: Nate Colton is here–and it sounds like he’s ready to lay down the law!

Richard Parker: Good luck with that! This thing is already a powderkeg; adding Colton might as well be lighting a match!

Indeed, the New Diamond’s face already has a tinge of red to it as he steps up to the edge of the entrance ramp. He’s trying to contain his fury…but not very well. And probably not for very long, either.

Nate Colton: You two seem dead set on killing each other…and honestly, I wish I could let you. This roster’s got so many assholes; we wouldn’t even miss you.

He plants a shoe onto the incline of the ramp (oh shit, are those customs? Nice.) The other foot quickly follows, as Colton begins the long trek toward the ring. The Comeback Kid and the Original Villain both turn an eye toward the New Diamond…but their primary focus is still each other.

Nate Colton: But no. You idiots had to injure someone. A goddamn kid. Minding her business, doing her job. Shoulda been the safest thing in the world…if either one of you had an ounce of self-control.

It takes Colton about twenty seconds to reach ringside, driven by purpose and carried by long strides. He spares a moment to look at Rexton Bader as he gets closer to the ring, and…ooh, that’s some impressive stinkeye. You can practically smell it at home.

Nate Colton: And now, Hayes…you’re gonna stand there and drop her name like that, just so you can score points or piss off the crowd or whatever dumbass reason? And you, Bader…you’re gonna say it was her fault? Screw you–all of you. This ends, now.

Now he’s at the ring steps. Now he’s ascending them, one by one. Now he’s stepping through the ropes. As The New Diamond steps into the ring, Hanlon lets loose a short chuckle, followed by some outright laughter. With one eye on Snow, he points a lazy finger toward Nate.

Hayes Hanlon: Is that how you think this works, buddy? Youngblood tucks tail to lick his wounds and you become sheriff or some shit? You?

Hayes pivots toward the stalking Snow, just to keep him honest, backpedaling around toward Nate.

Hayes Hanlon: You got a shiny badge to go with all that harsh, heroic criticism? Or is it lodged so far up your ass that it’s crowding that silver spoon?

Pleased with himself, Hayes offers another chuckle.

Hayes Hanlon: You don’t want any part of this, man. Trust me. 2024 wasn’t my best year, but I still whipped your ass, didn’t I?

Nate didn’t like that one. Not one bit.

Hayes Hanlon: So do everyone a favor: walk that bleached asshole back up the ramp and let me deal with the Has-Been-Villain. Or do I need to start whistling real loud to get you to fuck off?

Hanlon’s previous laughter is long gone; his vicious tone taking over, darting his eyes back and forth between The New Diamond and the Silent Snow.

Nate Colton: You absolute fucking moron! You think this is about the scoreboard? You think I’m here because of wins and losses? Like this is some kind of goddamn game?!

The camera, at this point, just so happens to catch Bader’s expression outside the ring before cutting to a closer, better shot. He calls up to Snow.

Rexton William Bader: What the fahk are you doing?

Snow looks outside at Bader.

Bader shrugs like he can’t believe the violence has yet to begin.

Rexton William Bader: Just fucking kill this asshole already.

But Hayes Hanlon is one step ahead. With Colton’s attention on Bader, and Snow’s attention turning to Colton, Hanlon has taken the split second opportunity to close the gap and blast the closest man to him–it turns out to be Nate Colton–in the face with his Intense title. Colton falls back into the ropes and tries to get his hands up because here comes Snow, raining down elbows. Hayes throwing punches. And now somehow Snow and Hayes, the most bitter of enemies, are teaming up to pour punishment down on Colton. …Until they realize they have teamed up, at which point, almost simultaneously, they turn their barrage on each other.

Nick Stuart: Absolute chaos has broken out!

Rexton William Bader: Snow! Snow that’s it! Get out! You’ve got a main event tonight!

But Snow isn’t listening. Nor are the other two. Colton has recovered enough to hold his own now, and is landing the odd shot, and the crowd begins to swell in support. Colton tags Snow with a good right hand, catches Hanlon with a knee to the gut, turns back to Snow and nails Snow with a clothesline that puts the Original Villain on the canvas. Snow pops up quick but gets drilled by a left-right by Hayes Hanlon, but then Hanlon gets tackled by Nate Colton!

Nick Stuart: This is getting out of hand! Somebody already got hurt at our last show and it doesn’t appear anybody’s learned their lesson!

Hanlon and Colton fight for only a second on the mat before Hanlon manages to roll Colton onto his back. But then when Hanlon uses the advantage to push himself back up to his feet–

Nick Stuart: OXYGEN TANK TO THE HEAD! OH GOD!

Somewhere in the confusion, Rexton Bader tossed Jason Snow his oxygen tank and, yet again, Hayes Hanlon finds himself flattened by it.

There’s blood.

There’s a lot of blood.

Rexton William Bader: Get out! Get out of there!

Colton makes a move toward Snow, but Snow warns him off with the tank. Now Hanlon is back up to a knee and crawling Snow’s way but first he gets to Nate Colton and grabs him by the legs to take him down.

Colton scampers back and away and hesitates to respond. Just an obscene amount of blood. It’s all over the ring, all over Colton’s legs, and Hayes Hanlon is an absolute mess.

Jason Snow has finally followed orders and rolled out of the ring. He’s backing up the ramp, tank still in hand. Rexton William Bader is barking orders but he’s no longer in possession of a microphone.

Hayes Hanlon makes another grab at Nate Colton, but Colton steps away. Hayes is still too disoriented–and probably can’t see through all the blood in his eyes–to force Colton to keep up the fight. Try as he might.

Nick Stuart: Oh my God, this has gone too far. Hayes Hanlon’s going to need medical attention. I hope somebody’s on top of that backstage.

Nate Colton bails out of the ring and gets a good look at himself, smeared and stained with Hayes Hanlon’s blood. Hanlon’s still coming forward toward the edge of the ring like a wounded zombie.

And there, in the center of the ring, is the Intense Title. Like everything else, it’s spattered by Hanlon’s blood. Fitting.

Nick Stuart: We need to go elsewhere. This is too much.

We fade out as The New Diamond looks between the Original Villain, tank in hand, and the bloodied Hanlon, seething with his hands on the ropes.

The Three Heroes are putting their heads together backstage.

Sebastian is angry-pacing.

Sebastian Gold: Dawkins thinks he can get under my skin with the Belmont? It’s just a thing, right?? I don’t care!!

He very calmly kicks a chair, sending it crashing into the wall. He turns to TAL and Crash.

Sebastian Gold: See!? We got more important business to address. Kael’s back. What are we gonna do about it?

Crash: I say we go find the slithering snake and separate his head from the body. Everyone cool with that?

Sebastian Gold: I’m tuned up for a fight.  Ultraviolence comes early this year!

The Hot Dog Hero glances to VP, somehow fitting herself into one of their wooden lockers with wide eyes and quivering. He recognizes the fear as it sends a slight shudder through his soul. Something he knows Max doesn’t have. He waves his hotdog at the thought of putting his crosshairs again.

Crash: But… now that I think about the brotality of it all… it makes more sense to focus on Ivan and his gaggle of giveafucks, right?

The Luchador looks up. The opportunity ahead of the Mask is bigger than a grudge. These two will get it someday but right now, it makes the most sense to stay out of harm’s way.

Right?

TAL: I know you guys have revenge on the brain, and trust me, I honestly don’t think I can give back what I owe that chucklefuck and his lapdog in 100 lifetimes…

Crash doesn’t even give TAL the chance to pause as he awaits the “but.” He heads straight for the door while Sebastian’s shoulders turn.

TAL: …but…

There it is. The fucking “but.” It’s enough to stop Gold as Crash is ready to turn the knob. They share an exchange before looking back at their veteran compadre.

TAL: We are in the middle of pure chaos. We go charging right after the Army, we leave ourselves open from the sides. I’m not sure the Glueminati or the Bandits are keeping their eyes off us even as they have sights on each other. And that’s not even speaking to the fact that with Kael back, we have to keep watching every side we can’t see

Sebastian nods. He knows it’s only a matter of time before Dawkins leads him down a dark alley for an ambush. Crash rolls his eyes, ready to take the fight beyond his status and skill. Crash grips the knob tighter before looking Gold in the eyes again. His elbow flexes as the Luchador stands up.

TAL: My point is that we might be better laying low, at least until more of this chaos settles down.

That notion that they shouldn’t put Looch Bro in harm’s way is generally receptive. Then the knob turns as Crash winks at the room.

Crash: You guys sit tight then. I’m gonna go lay low.

The door swings open, and Crash’s first nightmare is on the other side. Now face to face with the Devil, his eyes narrow as his fists ball up. The other Heroes lay their eyes on the person at their doorstep before scrambling to stop their bro from going super psycho.

Max Kael: Whoops, wrong locker room heh-heh!

Kael’s shadow twitches and withdraws from the threshold, revealing Maximillian Wilhelm Kael in his repulsive wickedness tucked neatly into that black three piece suit. Silvery metal teeth glimmer between thin, stretched lips. His eyes linger on Crash for a moment, his brow quicking up.

Max Kael: Say, I think I remember you. Did I maim someone you care about? It’s hard to keep track of all the people I’ve helped out here in PRIME… Crash! Say, how is Violent Purple these days?

BAM

The Anglo Luchador super kicks the door shut as Gold does his best to restrain his Bro. TAL turns back, doing his best to help, before Crash separates from their hold and turns his back to them, pacing, and roaring for retribution.

We move on.

We are in the pit (not to be confused with The Pit, obvs) of Lindsay Troy’s office where the Queen is currently suffering in silence. She sits at her office desk, doing her best to concentrate on the papers in front of her, but the man in front of her, resting in the plush visitor seat, swings his legs freely like a kid waiting for his lollipop after the dentist confirmed he did not have any cavities – a first. Since, you know, this guy likes to eat a lot of sugar.

The guy? Conor Fuse, of course. Gamer. Lover. Totally just uploaded a speedrun stream where he beat Mario Bros. 2, the REAL Mario Bros. 2: The Lost Levels, in a world record:

7 Minutes, 49 Seconds.

Boom.

That’s TWO seconds better than Username: Niftski from his video upload on YouTube two years ago-

Actually, narration shouldn’t be saying this. Conor Fuse is saying it himself!

Conor Fuse: Yeah, so I found the video, right? I, like, didn’t even know this guy uploaded and I’m totally, PFFFT, I can beat that score. Everyone in his comment section is like “bro, you’re insane” and I’m sitting here thinking, “Niftski? I don’t even know this guy! Or gal!” Like this person has no other speedrun records on vintage stuff and I’m totally “I HAVE SPEEDRUN records”! I’m more insane than Niftski, too, because I am also a wrestler – little known fact. I jump off high shit and do crazy stuff! I’m totally fit and decent looking for a guy who does the awesomeness I do…

It’s clear Lindsay Troy has tuned him out completely. And as the camera pans, there’s another person sitting beside Conor, in the second visitor chair.

Clay Byrd.

Clay has an Xbox controller in his hands, carefully fidgeting with the joycons and pressing buttons. The Texan is captivated.

This isn’t just any Xbox controller, mind you. It’s the one Conor Fuse gifted him as a peace offering last ReVival.

So anyway, Conor carelessly swings his feet back and forth, even though one of his feet is a walking boot (due to a DEFIANCE injury he suffered last week). He blabbers on about speedruns and Mario and how he’s the king. Conor is also sporting an Ivan Stanislav PRIME branded t-shirt, “OUR Russian Bear,” with an image of Stanislav standing over numerous dead jobber bodies amidst the Russian flag proudly in the background. He didn’t have it on earlier during Belle Dean’s entrance, so it’s safe to say he changed into it far, far away from where Cancer Jiles could get ahold of him.

Troy has “finished” her “paperwork.”

And finished her patience.

She slowly, painfully, glances up from her desk, staring at the two of them. Clay – who continues to fiddle around with the controller, and Conor – totally fucking oblivious to the fact he’s way, way, waaaaay past owl meme responses. But bless his heart, he doesn’t know. That smile on his face and carefree demeanor, it looks like Fuse could be crushed over the head with a vintage console and he’d still be laughing and giggling about it. Case and point, that walking boot injury. Doesn’t even reference it.

Conor Fuse: So I says to Mable I says-

Thank god for Conor’s sake, it looks like he finally gets it.

Conor Fuse: Okay, okay. Listen.

He leans forward, putting on a more serious face.

Conor Fuse: We’ve had differences, but we’ve also been friends!

Conor looks around the room.

Conor Fuse: I know I’m not, like, “officially” on the roster, but I am a Bandit!

Conor starts nodding empathically, as he builds his own momentum.

Conor Fuse: And we’re also in CANADA ATM, yay!

The gamer gives himself a round of applause.

Conor Fuse: But I won’t go out there, I won’t take up valued in-ring time from your incredible roster of amazing talent! I have self control!

More intense nodding.

Lindsay Troy: What’s Pizmo gonna think of that?

After finally being able to get a word in, she points to cOnOr’s t-shirt.

Lindsay Troy: Can’t see him being too thrilled with you sporting an Ivan t-shirt instead of literally anything Bandit-related.

From the Carton, a man yelling Stanislob! rings out to correct his eGG Queen.

Conor Fuse: Hey, noted. Defo. But I’m just a big fanboy of everyone here! Fred is funny, lol. He’s like a big, sluggish, lesser talented Clay!

Conor leans forward, like he’s gonna tell LT a secret.

Conor Fuse: Besides, Cancer knows I haven’t 100% bought into his nonsense yet so I can find my own path.

Lindsay Troy: I’d tell you to let me know how that works out for you, but I don’t care.

Looking to change course, the lightbulb goes off in Fuse’s head.

Conor Fuse: Anywayzzzz, I gots something for you. Bygones be bygones and we can be cool again. I sometimes show up here and there in PRIME okay? But when I do, I will stay in my lane! And this is proof to you, dearest Lindsay, as to why I’m a man of my word!

Conor sticks his left index finger in the air, as if to ask Troy to waste more time and wait for him, and with his right hand, he starts digging under his chair for whatever this “gift” is. Clay, meanwhile, continues to click away at the Xbox controller, he’s now found the right and left bumper triggers and realizes they are awfully amusing to press.

Finally, Conor pulls the gift out but he needs both hands to do so. This is a process because every few seconds he feels the need to still bring his left hand forward and put his index finger in the air, asking LT for more patience.

PHEW! Conor reveals a brand new Nintendo Switch console, boxed and all!

But this isn’t just any Switch.

Conor Fuse: Gal, I gots you a Nintendo Switch 2, TWO MONTHS earlier than the official sales date! I know peeps, I have the hookups…

Conor stands, places the Switch 2 on the table and slides it over to LT.

Lindsay looks at the Switch 2, then back at Conor’s grinning annoying little face, he’s so proud. She looks at the Switch, then at Fuse. Switch. Fuse. Switch. Fuse.

Lindsay Troy: What am I going to do with this?

Conor’s face lights up once more!

Conor Fuse: To play games! See, I even got you a bundle which comes with Mario Kart World, isn’t that neat?!

PRIME’s Final Boss stares at The Video Game Kid in bewilderment.

Lindsay Troy: cOnOr, what makes you think I have time to play games?

If only something, ANYTHING, could interject right now and save the poor boy’s life-

Well, lucky for Conor it sounds like there is a little scraping at the office door.

Conor stands again, grabs the handle and yanks the door back as hard as he can.

Vickie Hall comes BURSTING into the room, a flood of tears, agony and anger all at once. Of course, she was never going to barge in herself. The thought of having the power and strength to move anything, let alone LINDSAY TORY’S office door-

Vickie Hall: MY MAN GOT SCREWED!!!! AAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!! LIKE HOW CAN YOU BOOK THAT DRIBBLE AFTER HE WON MANHUNT!?

Conor is shocked as he stumbles backwards, Lindsay hasn’t budged and Clay is still occupied with the controller.

Vickie Hall: I DEMAND A RECOUNT. A REMATCH. THIS IS SO UNFAIRRRRR!!!!

Vickie stomps and storms toward Lindsay’s desk. She screams again, an ear piercing cry, while pulling her hair in the process.

Vickie Hall: AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!

She brushes all of Troy’s papers to the floor, continuing to scream like Regina George after finding out Kälteen Bars make her gain weight. Next goes the Queen’s phone and briefcase. Vickie very nearly throws the Switch 2 against the wall, but Troy has the presence of mind to grab it out of her hands. Vickie looks at Lindsay and screams even louder.

Vickie Hall: AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!

Lindsay Troy: OH MY GOD, SHUT UP!

The Queen, having finally lost her patience, puts a hand over Vickie’s mouth. Pretty Pink continues screaming behind it, but at least it’s muffled now.

Lindsay Troy: No, you’re actually going to shut up, or else I’m going to take this thing (holds up the Switch box) and hit you over the head with it until you do.

The screaming slowly dies off.

There’s booing from inside Rogers Place for no Vickie Hall murder.

Lindsay Troy: Now. Listen to me very carefully, Vickie. There will be no recounts. I’m not rebooking shit. Pizmo lost. Because of you. Okay? It’s time you wake up from your little pink fantasy and accept that. And also accept that, even though I have no earthly idea why the two of you did what you did to Jonathan-Christopher in the first place or even how you managed to last as long as you did, this “thing” of yours is thankfully, mercifully over.

Big cheers from the PRIMEates for that.

Lindsay Troy: Now. I’m going to take my hand away. And you’re going to leave. Quietly. Understood?

Vickie nods. Lindsay removes her hand.

Vickie Hall: What. The. Actual. FUCCCCK!

Vickie stares at Conor, as if she demands the same outrage response from him. She doesn’t receive it.

Vickie Hall: Unbelievable. Bloody unbelievable. I’m surrounded by narcissists again. I’ll have you know, Jonathan-Christopher was the biggest.

Pause for dramatic effect.

Vickie Hall: Until now.

The Queen doesn’t say anything. She simply turns Vickie around, shoves her into the hall, and slams the Steel Door O’Doom.

Fuse’s jaw is on the floor. Look, he’s an idiot. But he’s not full blown. He does know NOW is not a good time to push buttons.

Although he looks over at the Switch 2.

Conor Fuse: Were you- were you really gonna hit her with it?

Lindsay Troy: Maybe you’d like to take her place and find out.

Conor Fuse: No, umm…that’s OK.

Conor nods, salutes to LT and makes his exit.

Conor Fuse: I’ll go try and calm her down.

Conor hobbles out of the room. When Lindsay walks back to her desk, she glares at Clay, still fiddling away with the controller.

Lindsay Troy: Thanks for offering to help, by the way.

Clay Byrd: Huh… wha? Something happened?

The Boss closes her eyes and takes a deep, calming breath.

And then, we go to ringside.

The lights dim. Not all the way. Softly. What light remains casts a gentle, yellow-orange hue around the arena as the jingle-jangling guitar of “Cigarette Daydreams” by Cage The Elephant hits the speakers.

Did you stand there all alone?

Oh, I cannot explain what’s goin’ down

I can see you standin’ next to me

In and out somewhere else right now

And out steps two young men, not even old enough to drink, in tweed suits you’ll never be able to afford, led by DOCTOR Ned Reform. Handsome bone structure, classic haircuts, it’s all very academic, in an elite prep school way. In another life, the pair would be the worst characters in a Fitzgerald novel. Hugo Vale, old American money reincarnated as a smug, brash asshole, and Daniel Green, a battle-tested gentleman who has made the most of his ample opportunities.

You sigh, look away

I can see it clear as day

Close your eyes, so afraid

Hide behind that baby face

Do-do-do

Do-do-do

Vince Howard: “Making his way to the ring, accompanied by Doctor Ned Reform and his partner Daniel Green, hailing from Newport Rhode Island… HUgo VAAALE!!”

They are imminently easy to hate, the way their childish hearts allow them to wrap their arms around each other’s shoulders, and sing their own theme music like drunk lads at a bar together, just as the bass and drum touch the track.

You can drive all night

Lookin’ for the answers in the pourin’ rain

You wanna find peace of mind

Lookin’ for the answer

Ned allows them to enjoy the moment, though his face conveys the concern a father might have when his children are being mildly embarrassing. Hugo and Daniel are in their own privileged, youthful world as they almost dance together down to the ring, a giggliness to their behavior that betrays the kind of carefree attitude that most people can’t afford.They glide up the stairs and walk to either side of the apron, before stepping through the ropes in unison.

Hugo and Daniel meet Ned Reform in the center of the squared circle. There, in front of the hoi polloi that is the PRIME fanbase, they pose, and soak in the jeers. Ned exchanges handshakes with both Daniel and Hugo. Daniel daps up Hugo before he and Reform exit the ring. Hugo moves to his corner as the building is plunged into darkness…

The lights go out in the arena to a flurry of excited whoops and cheers from the audience. A few seconds pass before the air fills with the rumbling of drums and a visceral guitar tone. White light fills the mouth of the entranceway suddenly, pulsing rhythmically in time to the drumbeat and illuminating thick plumes of fog pouring down to the floor and spilling across the stage.

YYEEAAHHH!!

As Lemmy belts out a mechanical roar two silhouettes appear in the ether, one massive and one much smaller, and the cheers become frenzied throughout the arena. “Kingdom of the Worm” by Motörhead kicks everyone’s lungs right in the balls for several seconds before the looming figures start to shift, growing both larger and smaller in the entranceway as the house lights begin flashing electric blue.

You remember, You remember me, yes,

I remember what we are, I remember only scars,

I remember only stars, I remember hell and mother,

I have seen the eye of god, Youth trust gone forever.

The cameraman on stage gets down low, aiming the shot high towards the great shade as it bleeds through the smoke out onto the stage proper, gazing hypnotically at the ring whilst softly mouthing the lyrics as wisps of smoke dissipate around him. The crowd erupts at the sight of the giant, drawing his gaze as he stops at the top of the ramp and looks the audience over while Vince Howard’s voice cuts clear through the noise, prompting him to close his eyes, bow his head and splay his hands out before him. By his side, the dwarven figure draws the hood of his cloak to reveal a mischievous purple grin.

Vince Howard: “His opponent, accompanied by MINION THE IMP! Standing seven feet two inches tall and weighing in at three hundred and seventy pounds, he is the former two-time Universal Champion and the twentieth inductee into the PRIME Hall of Fame…the Murder Show… HHHEEEEEEEEEEEESSSIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAANNNN!!”

The giant raises his hands up and clenches them into fists, thrusting both arms down with a breaking gesture as he snaps his head back and unleashes a guttural roar met with equal passion from the fans. He stares a hole into Hugo’s eyes from outside the ring, as the latter hypes himself up inside the squared circle, keeping a safe distance. Hessian tenses his thick, flaccid neck and arms and they bulge taut with solid muscle and ropey veins until he relaxes and starts pacing down the ramp towards the ring while the electric storm continues to broil around the darkened arena.

See only the master, risen, risen,

After all the silence, all of him laughing

After all the strangers, beaten, driven,

Try to place all things, in a certain rhythm

Do as the book told you see the pages torn,

Make the spell upon them, in human form,

So we come to call it, the great & awesome dance,

Do you see before you, the Kingdom of Romance.

Hessian stops at the foot of the ring as Ned and Daniel part the seas on either side of him, then he grabs the top rope and pulls himself up onto the apron as Minion hovers around ringside, jaw-jacking Hugo’s entourage. Hessian takes a stoic glance at Hugo before wiping his feet and flinging one leg after the other over into the ring. A large spotlight finds the giant as he enters with a stomp that continues across the ring toward his opponent, who flees to the outside, then he raises both arms and leans into the ropes on the opposite side, bellowing back out at the crowd with wide wild eyes.

You remember, You remember his face,

You remember what I am, I remember only weeping,

I remember only sleeping, I remember tearing flesh,

I can only taste the devil, Your tears when you cry,

Hessian paces around the ring presenting himself to the fans on each side with a roar and a double arm raise before turning to hardcam and approaching the centre of the ring. A wide shot smoothly closes in on the cold mean gaze of the Murder Show as he locks eyes on everyone watching at home and throws his arms up, roaring right down the camera and into homes around the world as we zoom out with an added rippling shockwave effect. “Kingdom of the Worm” cuts off early with the closing line:

ALL MEN MUST SUFFER!

Multiple spotlights cut through the darkness in that moment, all across the stage, ramp and ring. Countless beams projecting the outlines of human bodies in light form dazzlingly strewn all around the Murder Show. The crowd echo the line back with thunderous applause as the corpse-lights fade out and the house lights return to normal.

Meanwhile, Hugo, Daniel, and Ned huddle on the outside, apparently game planning to take down this giant together. As Hessian turns his back to head to his corner, Hugo slides into the ring and darts at the big man before the bell even rings—

DOUBLE AXE HANDLE SMASH TO THE BACK OF HESSIAN!

Nick Stuart: Hey! The match hasn’t even started yet!

Richard Parker: Let’s try to be bipartisan here, Nick.

Hessian slowly turns around, eyes wide and red, seemingly unhurt but obviously pissed off by Hugo’s cheap shot, and towers above the poor young lad.

Referee Ashley Barlow doesn’t even bother reprimanding Hugo and instead opts to merely signal for the bell.

DING DING!

Even someone sitting in the very back row of the building could see Hugo gulp as Hessian charges at him—

SHORT-ARM LARIAT!

DUCKED BY HUGO!

Hugo elbows Hessian in the flank and in retaliation Hessian throws another wild lariat that Hugo also evades as he drops to the mat, barely enveloping both of Hessian’s tree trunk legs between his own legs. Hugo twists—

DOUBLE LEG TAKEDOWN!

Nick Stuart: I’m not sure that’s going to work right now.

Richard Parker: Let the kid Dream for heavens sake, Nick!

Like a marble statue, Hessian stands tall and stares down in disbelief at Hugo who looks like a bewildered spider monkey, before grabbing both lapels of Hugo’s tweed jacket and deadlift yanking him up a good foot and a half off the mat, Hugo’s feet dangling like a toddler’s as Hessian glares a hole into his soul, face-to-face with one another for once.

“Hey, ya big dummy— over here!”

The distraction from Daniel Green on the far apron was just enough to take Hessian’s eyes off the prize, allowing his partner a moment to capitalize as Ref Barlow’s vision was also focused elsewhere—

DOUBLE EYE POKE BY HUGO!

Hessian’s roar brings the ref’s focus back to the competitors, missing Hugo’s foul play, but Hessian’s still holding Hugo up by the lapels!

DOUBLE EAR CLAP BY HUGO, FOLLOWED BY A HEADBUTT THAT LOOSENS HESSIAN’S GRIP!

Hugo regains his footing as Hessian staggers a moment, vision presumably blurry, and then wallops the hunched over big man in the temple while Daniel cheers him on.

“I taught him that one!” Daniel declares to the crowd as Ned rolls his eyes, focusing his attention on Hugo, whose ego and confidence have visibly grown to the size of his massive opponent within a matter of the past twenty or so seconds. Hugo jabs at Hessian again, connecting square on the chin, then pulls off a dance move before brushing off his bilateral lapels—

AND ROCKS HESSIAN WITH AN UPPERCRUST UPPERCUT!

Hessian is still wobbly but on his feet, and Hugo hits the ropes before rebounding at Hessian, hopping up, landing his knees into Hessian’s chest and taking ahold of his shoulders…

MONKEY FLIP—

BUT HESSIAN IS STILL ON HIS FEET!

Nick Stuart: Hugo’s in big trouble here.

Richard Parker: Give the kid a chance, Nick.

Hessian lifts Hugo up high, higher than this young man has ever been in a non-spiritual way, to a place where blind men see into a gorilla press—

HESSIAN IS MILITARY PRESSING HUGO! THE CROWD COUNTS ALONG WITH HIM—

“…FIVE! SIX! SEVEN! EIGHT! NINE! TEN!”

And with that, Hessian aggressively slams Hugo down to the mat to the crowd’s delight!

Nick Stuart: This might be a short night for Hugo if he doesn’t turn things around soon.

Richard Parker: Hugo’s here for a good time, not a long time.

Nick Stuart: As much as I hate you saying that, this could indeed be the case.

Hugo scrambles to the ropes as Hessian rubs his eyes, and now with his vision back and in tact Hessian is in pursuit of his cocky, smaller opponent. Hessian grabs Hugo by his hair and yanks him back towards himself—

SHORT-ARM LARIAT CONNECTS!

Hugo violently hits the mat and pops back up like a freshly popped kernel right into Hessian’s waiting arms. Hessian grasps Hugo’s head into a vice, and squeeeeezes.

“AaaaaAAAAHHHH!” Hugo screams, this pitch of his voice escalating with the increasing force that Hessian applies, eventually hitting a falsetto that would make Brendan Urie blush.

Ref Barlow leans in to check on Hugo, whose eyes are bulging and looking around in terror as he’s flails his arms for any kind of relief nearby. Ned, from the outside, is urging Hugo move to the ropes. Meanwhile, Daniel is a bit more frantic, hopping up on the apron, begging Ashley to break the hold “for safety’s sake.” Hessian just smiles before sweeping his head back—

CRACK!

MASSIVE HEADBUTT TO HUGO DROPS HIM LIKE A SACK OF BENJAMINS!

Hessian covers—

ONE!

TWO!!

KICKOUT BY HUGO!!

Now Hugo is crawling like a wounded animal to nowhere in particular, half attempting to come back to his senses and half attempting to create some space between himself and his larger, angrier opponent.

Richard Parker: If nothing else, the kid’s  showing he has guts, Nick!

Nick Stuart: Guts? Maybe so. But brains? That’s debatable.

Richard Parker: Regardless, I have a good feeling about Hugo’s chances tonight, Nick!

Nick Stuart: …

At this point it’s apparent that Hugo is in over his head, which is palpable to both the opponents, the ref, everyone on the outside, and everyone in attendance. And right on cue, Hessian snatches Hugo up and literally rips his blazer and shirt off him in one impressive motion before propping up Hugo against the ropes right in front of Daniel and Ned. He effortlessly wedges Hugo’s arms between the middle and top ropes, then holds a finger up to his lips to cue the audience to hush…

The only sounds one can hear in the building are Daniel and Ned pleading with Hessian just before the Murder Show rears his hand back—

CHOP!

The crowd oooh’s as a red hand imprint begin to appear on Hugo’s chest—

CHOP!!

Nick Stuart: Still feeling good about this, Richard?

Hessian connects again to more oooh’s from the crowd—

CHOP! CHOP!! CHOP!!!

The fifth chop’s force knocks Hugo loose from the ropes and he flops face-first onto the mat. The camera man captures a close-up of Hugo’s face as he gasps for air, pushing himself up off the mat, and then everyone sees his raw, bloody chest on the big screen, which elicits an even bigger oooh from the crowd and a couple of concerned looks on two people’s faces in particular on the outside.

Richard Parker: Let’s go Hugo! I have $500 riding on this!

Nick Stuart: I’m sorry, what about bipartisanship??

But Hessian wastes no time following up here, as he shoves Hugo’s head between his legs, puts his arms out to the side to pose for the audience before putting out two cigars on either side of Hugo’s back, and then lifts Hugo, whose face could paint a thousand words, up to what looks like the rafters into a crucifix before suddenly and violently jerking him back down—

RELEASE CRUCIFIX JACKKNIFE POWERBOMB!!

BALLISTA!!

Hugo lands in a thunderous heap, his body contorting and twisting in ways it definitely shouldn’t, before coming to a dramatic stop in motion in front of Daniel who’s screaming in agony. Hessian cooly flips Hugo, who appears out of it, over with a flick of his foot, and covers with a lateral press—

ONE!

TWO!!

HUGO ISN’T MOVING!!

…

THERE’S A FOOT ON THE BOTTOM ROPE!!

Ref Barlow points to the rope break and holds up two fingers before making a puzzling face and shifting her focus to one Doctor Ned Reform, who guiltily throws his hands up in innocence as Barlow leans through the ropes to argue with him. Meanwhile, perhaps out of frustration, Hessian inadvertently jolts Hugo back to life by smacking the mat near his head, and Hugo attempts to pull himself up by the ropes, which Hessian easily intercepts, and he then wraps his big arms around Hugo’s head and neck into a sleeper hold, and lifts—

HALLELUJAH MOUNTAINS!!

Richard Parker: Would somebody help that poor boy out!?

The crowd is going nuts as Hessian swings Hugo back and forth, messing up the pretty boy’s hair to be all out of place all the while to show off for them!

…HUGO IS TAPPING!!!

Nick Stuart: Ring the bell, ref, this one’s in the books. And so is your money, Richard!

HUGO IS TAPPING OUT, SMACKING HESSIAN’S BIG ARMS—

BUT THE REF IS TOO BUSY ARGUING WITH NED!!!

Meanwhile, Daniel has hit the ring—

HAYMAKER TO HESSIAN!

…

Hessian continues the sleeper on Hugo for a moment as he glares at Daniel, seeing red, and then drops Hugo like a sack of shit and bolts towards Daniel, who flees the ring faster than he’s ever moved before in his life, and now Hessian is chasing Daniel around the ring while Ned orders Hugo to wake up, yelling instructions at him while the ref realizes what is transpiring…

Richard Parker: This ain’t over yet, Nick!

Nick Stuart: Daniel and Ned have kept things close for Hugo so far, but how long until the jig is up?

After a full two round trips, Daniel slides back into the ring, with Hessian close behind, and as Daniel darts through the opposite ropes, Hugo manages to muster up enough energy to clip Hessian at the knees!

Richard Parker: Big tree fall hard!

Hessian is finally down, and with encouragement Hugo begins to frantically go to work on Hessian’s right knee with stomps, kicks, falling knees and anything else that will prevent him from getting to a vertical base. Hugo Hits the ropes and on the rebound jumps high in the air above Hessian’s knee—

BIG LEGDROP TO HESSIAN’S KNEE!

Hessian’s now writhing in pain and Hugo knows he has to follow up the only way he can. With every ounce of strength, Hugo picks Hessian’s right leg up, and slowly, with a growl straight from the depths of hell, twists with his whole body—

STUMP PULLER!!

Barlow slides down next to Hessian’s face, asking him if he wants to submit—

NO! HE REFUSES!

But in the meantime, Hugo reaches back towards the ropes where Daniel stands on the apron, and clasps hands with him as Daniel leans back off the apron, where Ned is pulling his body back, creating a chain of might necessary to combat someone of Hessian’s strength!

HESSIAN YELPS OUT IN PAIN!

BARLOW ASKS AGAIN IF HE WISHES TO SUBMIT—

…

HESSIAN SCREAMS NO AGAIN!!

Richard Parker: TAP HESSIAN, TAP!

But now he’s lifting his arm up as he grimaces…

Nick Stuart: Is this actually going to happen? Could Hugo take down such a big favorite in Hessian?

BUT THE REF NOTICES THE HUGO-DANIEL-NED CHAIN!!

Nick Stuart: The jig may be up!

Barlow walks over to them, admonishes them, and orders Hugo let go of Daniel, which he refuses to do. And in a moment of passion, Barlow high kicks Hugo and Daniel’s hands apart, sending Daniel crashing off the apron onto Ned on the outside, and Hugo getting flung across the ring! But Hessian is in a bad way with his knee all tightened up, so as he attempts to roll off his back Hugo springboards off the middle rope—

LET THEM EAT CAKE!!!

Richard Parker: Eat it, big dog! ARF ARF!!

BUT THE SPRINGBOARD GUILLOTINE LEG DROP GETS NOTHING BUT CANVAS!!!

Hugo sits stark upright, mouth agape, and Hessian is upright firing up the coal, charging up the train as he honks the horn—

TOOT TOOT!

RUNNING BODY BLOCK—

HESS EXPRESS TO DANIEL, KNOCKING HIM OFF THE APRON!

The ref finally threatens to eject Danny Boy and doesn’t see Ned slide a steel chair to Hugo, who brazenly charges Hessian—

THUNK!!

HESSIAN CAUGHT THE CHAIR!!

Nick Stuart: The jig may really be up this time.

He shakes his head and shoves Hugo into the ropes, and on Hugo’s rebound he finally releases his frustrations and swings—

THWACK!!

HESSIAN BRAINED HUGO!!

Richard Parker: AAAAAaaahhhhhh!!!

DING DING DING!!!

Barlow turned around just in time to witness Hessian lose his cool and had no choice to call for the bell!

Vince Howard: “Ladies and gentlemen… as a result of a disqualification, your winner— HUgo VAAALE!!”

Hessian, devastated after all the shenanigans he put up with, slams the chair into the canvas and barges up to the dazed but conscious Hugo as the ref raises his arm in victory…

Nick Stuart: The match may be over, but these two don’t look finished with each other just yet!

Richard Parker: Get out of there Hugo!

But Hugo isn’t getting out of there. Hugo stands toe to toe with Hessian, who grabs him by the throat!

Nick Stuart: This is not going to end well for –

CRACK!!!

Hessian’s back arches even as he stands.

CRACK!!!

And Hessian drops to the ring mat.

There, standing over him, are Ned Reform and Daniel Green – two steel chairs in their hands.

Hugo grins and daps up Daniel. Ned Reform lifts the chair over his head and

CRACK!!!

Brings it down right on the small of Hessian’s back.

CRACK!!!

Then Daniel Green does it.

CRACK!!!

Then Ned Reform does it.

CRACK!!!

Then Daniel.

CRACK!!!

Then Ned.

Nick Stuart: Damn it, this has to stop! Can we get some Enemigos out here for God’s sake!?

Almost as if on cue, a band of enemigos rushes the ring. A tall, lanky enemigo and his rotund compatriot begin prying the steel chairs out of Reform’s and Green’s respective hands.

Hugo pushes back against the interference, getting up in the faces of the masked security detail. As Hugo shoves the muscular enemigo holding Daniel’s chair, another whips him around. Hugo lowers his gaze to meet the eyeholes of a much shorter enemigo, and laughs snidely as an accusing finger is jabbed into his chest. Curling his lip disapprovingly, Hugo whacks the little enemigo upside the head with an open hand.

Nick Stuart: Hugo showing absolutely no respect for the law! He’s lucky Dam isn’t out here!

The short enemigo holds his head, staggered by the slap. To Hugo’s surprise, the masked man fixes him with what can only be assumed is a menacing glare as he makes a show of rubbing his sore head to conceal the movement of his other arm to his back.

Hugo mimics the enemigo’s pained gesture, tapping his own head and pouting his lip, when all of a sudden the little enemigo violently swings his arm around and PLASTERS Hugo in the face, a pair of brass knuckles on his fist!

Richard Parker: What the hell???

Ned Reform immediately exits the ring upon seeing Hugo go down. Daniel is still arguing with enemigos about the steel chair when–

SMACK!!! The little enemigo decks him with the brass knuckles too!

The little enemigo, chest heaving, pulls off his enemigo mask.

Nick Stuart: That’s not an enemigo. That’s a Grinemigo!

It’s Tony.

Fucking.

Gamble.

Blood trickles from the respective foreheads of Hugo and Daniel, but Gamble isn’t done. He mounts Hugo and delivers some vicious brass knuckle shots to him until Reform grabs Hugo by the legs from outside the ring and, with Tony scrambling to fire off as many shots as he can, pulls him out of the ring. Daniel Green has wisely made his escape as well.

Blood pours from Hugo’s forehead as GVG walks backwards up the ramp, yelling insults at the Bandits.

Gamble returns fire, shouting all manner of obscenities at the Gang until they’ve reached the stage. With the trio far enough away, Gamble turns to his fallen comrade, still clutching his back on the mat, and goes to check on him. The Murder Show’s jaw is clenched tight and his teeth bared as his fellow Bandit helps him to his feet. Hessian leans on Gamble for support as both men stare daggers up the ramp. As the GVG disappear behind the curtain, Gamble and Hessian look very pleased with themselves despite the bruises and bloody welts.

We cut elsewhere.

Camera up annnnnd…we’re live.

WHOOOOOOOO!

Right on the platinum kisser of the Model Citizen.

Chandler Tsonda: No, just keep the zoom right here and then hold the cue card with your other hand. God, it’s like you’ve never taken a selfie while preening with the other hand.

Chandler is addressing the cameraperson who, by their nature, is off camera.

Cameraman: (muffled) Like this?

The shot zooms out, and captures more of the full resplendence of the Hall of Famer. Given that his match is on deck, he’s in ring gear. There’s a bit of a glisten on him where he’s very organically worked up a lather during warmups, and definitely not because he used a lovely organic rosehip oil with a dab of coconut oil for that camera-ready S H I N E.

Chandler Tsonda: Camera shot is better, but you really need to project your voice. Like this. (at high volume) A GREAT BOOMING AMPLIFICATION, SUCH AS THIS.

Cameraman: (maybe four percent less muffled) What about this?

Chandler Tsonda: Dude, I am trying to practice radical empathy here, but I am also telling you that we are simply not going to have a pre-match promo that sounds like it was recorded on a Microsoft Zune inside of a rain boot.

The proverbial lightbulb can be seen over the Viet Viper’s head as his eyes sparkle with inspiration.

Chandler Tsonda: Actually, don’t even worry about it. Interview questions are passé. Interview questions don’t get aggregated. Interview answers drive clicks, eyes, merch, the lot of it. (points at camera, then up to his face) So you just keep that locked on this mug right here.

To the question of whether this means Chandler is going to interview himself, the audience immediately has their answer.

Chandler Tsonda (as interviewer): Chan, you’re about to go toe-to-toe with Max Kael. Looking great, by the way, hombre. What goes through your head when you head into one of these titanic showdowns?

He’s not quite doing the “shift his physical position to the side so he seems like a different guy” thing, but the cameraman is playing along now, and shifts to a slightly different angle with a quick cut, so that it seems like a slightly different Tsonda is responding to the interviewer’s question.

Chandler Tsonda: A phenomenal question. And right back at you, paco; you are looking positively smoldering yourself. I gave a podcast interview earlier this week where I said my piece about Max, and almost every word I said was in praise of him. He’s dangerous, he’s relentless, he can win in multiple ways, and the average wrestler would have to have a healthy fear of what he can do in and out of the ring.

Camera cut back to the “interviewer.” You’re starting to get the picture.

Chandler Tsonda (as interviewer): But you’re no average wrestler, my dude.

Chandler Tsonda: No, babe, I’m not. I think it’s wonderful for ace-level talent like Max to come back to PRIME and get a hero’s return. Hell, I did it myself in January. And it’s probably “best for business” for a big returning name to come in like a house on fire and get a win or two, really build that momentum. Just one problem.

No cut this time. Just a big meaty pregnant pause, as Chandler (the one being interviewed) feigns thinking long and hard.

Chandler Tsonda: Surprise: It’s me, I’m the problem. Max’s rise back to the top will be a nice narrative…when it starts in his next match. Right now, there’s only one story in PRIME that will be remembered long down the road. It’s the guy who just finished top five in the Manhunt, the guy who’s got two straight wins under the Gucci belt, and the guy who’s headed towards putting a sizeable dent in the Cybertruck that is Ivan Stanislav’s legacy.

Chandler Tsonda (as interviewer): Now that is a spicy bowl of borscht, amigo! Tell us more about what’s going on between you and Ivan. We haven’t seen you two in the same place since you swan-dived his, pardon the journalistic jargon, bitch ass through a table that looked like it belonged in a Saw movie.

Chandler Tsonda: Keen observation, mon ami. And have I mentioned that you’re looking radiant? Poreless and peerless, I need the skincare routine when we’re done here. You asked about Ivan.

As if a switch has turned, the bits end, and Tsonda now turns straight to camera with a hardened look.

Chandler Tsonda: Ivan is a bully and a mongrel. He’s a lesion on the body of PRIME. A weeping pustule of a man. I proved once before that I would put my body on the line, even to the point of giving up a chance to win the Manhunt and a chance at glory, if it meant that I could stop him from having it.

The Model Citizen cracks his knuckles, and then stretches his neck from side-to-side. A fighter’s stance.

Chandler Tsonda: Last week, Ivan, you said you didn’t care about titles anymore, and you said you were going to bury me at UltraViolence. I’m not keeping you in suspense: you got a match. The fans can wait for Troy to make it official and make the buyrate machine go brrr, but you can bet every ruble that in fifty-six nights’ time, I’m gonna be ready with every molecule of my being to live up to the name of UltraViolence.

A little shadow-boxing. It’s almost time to exit stage right for Argyle.

Chandler Tsonda: And I should probably expect any minute now to be blindsided by one of the mangy dogs you keep around to feed table scraps, but I know you want, more than anything, to say that you and you alone etched the tombstone of Chandler Tsonda’s career. You don’t want to share that glory with a jackal like Alexei Ruslan, do you big bub?

The Sultan of Style wags a finger and tsk tsks to answer his own question.

Chandler Tsonda: So I dare you to, for once, keep it in the ring. Just meet me in fifty-six nights. We can talk—me, better than anyone on the planet, you, yeah just fine—and circle each other like prize fighters, because goddamn if this isn’t gonna be one of the biggest matches in our careers, and an eye-popping holy-shit-get-to-the-TV moment if ever I’ve seen one. But I dare you, whether you want to make war on PRIME in your free time or not, to meet me, man to man, in the ring. No Red Army, no personal bullshit, nobody else. Just two old rams battering their heads against one another until something gives or a skull caves in.

Point to the camera. It’s money time now.

Chandler Tsonda: I’ll see you soon, ugly. Watch what I do to your old pal Max. Fifty-six nights and counting.

And after all that, Tsonda and the cameraman are in perfect harmony. There’s a perfect clean cut, a location shift, and the sight of a man whose name was mentioned but a mere sixty seconds ago.

We move on.

Yep, Alexei Ruslan sits, quietly in the Red Army locker room. Stanislav, Arina, and Anna Daniels have long since left after the triumphant ratification of the Whoresaw Pact. He’s just listened to Chandler Tsonda’s fiery, not-so-nice words about him and Ivan Stanislav. And it makes sense. Two legendary wrestlers. A match for the ages. One on one. Man to man. There’s no reason to make it personal. No reason to draw the focus anywhere else but inside that very ring.

There’s a slight wriggle of Ruslan’s mustache, and the faint sound of voices speaking in a rhythmic way…

“Don’t provoke and getcha team smoke (Word)

Don’t provoke and getcha team smoke (Word)

Don’t provoke and getcha team smoke (Word)

Don’t provoke and getcha team smoke (Word)…”

Speedy Riggs, donning sleek sunglasses that reflect the light, strides into view from off-camera, carrying the source of the animated voices—a boombox that looks like it was plucked straight from Soviet Russia.

The vintage device rests comfortably on his shoulder. Riggs positions himself at a distance behind Alexei, who is seated across the spacious room. Despite the music’s pulsating beat, Alexei remains unresponsive, mulling Chandler Tsonda’s words. Riggs, undeterred, simply stands there, an enigmatic figure silhouetted against the backdrop, silently observing Alexei.

“–voke and getcha, –voke and getcha, –voke and getcha

–voke and getcha, –voke and getcha, –voke and getcha, –voke and getcha…”

Ruslan mechanically stands, a marionette brought to life, tilting his head to the side as if listening to an unheard whisper. He blinks once, twice…

…and suddenly bursts into exuberant dance as “Weapon of Choice” by Fatboy Slim officially pulses through the air. The rhythm is infectious. Speedy Riggs bobs his head in time to the beat, his movements smooth and fluid. Meanwhile, Alexei shuffles to the right with precise, deliberate steps, three in total, before seamlessly shifting his weight and shuffling back to the left, another three steps. A smirk plays across his lips, his eyes sparkling with unrestrained joy as he shuffles toward the camera, his movements light and playful, before disappearing off-screen…

…but his performance is far from over. We transition down the hallway. Rose stands, a stone faced sentry, in front of the Red Army locker room door. She opens the door while Alexei glides through the doorway with effortless grace. She watches him impassively as he advances with a slow, steady focus on the camera ahead.

A technician at the far end of the hallway stands frozen, captivated by the unexpected spectacle, while Riggs emerges from the locker room shortly after and Rose shuts the door behind him.

Speedy remains just close enough to Alexei to keep the music’s vibrant energy alive, the beat echoing through the corridor.

Alexei twirls with the grace of a seasoned dancer, executing fluid spins, shuffles, and even launching into a few high kicks, all while maintaining that infuriatingly charming, mischievous grin plastered across his face. His energy is infectious, yet puzzling, as he glides past various crew members who exchange looks of bewilderment and amusement while they watch the spectacle unfold. Our hero doesn’t miss a single beat, his feet barely touching the ground as he twirls three graceful rotations through yet another doorway…

…and into the bustling catering area. Here, several PRIME superstars sit around tables, savoring their meals amidst the inviting aroma of freshly prepared food. Ruslan sweeps through the room with effortless elegance, weaving between tables adorned with an array of snacks and drinks.

In one swift motion, he snatches an apple from a bowl, takes a crisp bite, and then nonchalantly tosses it over his shoulder, never once interrupting the flawless rhythm of his dance. Meanwhile, Speedy maintains a cautious yet rhythmic distance from Ruslan, his body swaying and jiving to the infectious beat that pulses from the jambox perched on his shoulder.

Ruslan side-shuffles past the buffet, his movements smooth and playful, as he playfully mimics shooting finger guns at the inviting spread of food. The creamy mashed potatoes, the gooey macaroni and cheese, a mysterious purple pulpy dish, and a bowl of vibrant punch all receive his playful attention. With a cheeky wink, he brings his imaginary gun barrels to his lips and blows them out with exaggerated flair.

The catering staff stands by, their hands gripping ladles and spatulas, nervous smiles on their faces as they watch the spectacle unfold. Meanwhile, Alexei glides backward with effortless grace, his body swaying rhythmically as he moves toward a steel door marked by a glowing exit sign above it…

…and disappears into the backstage garage.

The area is cluttered with parked cars and equipment scattered everywhere, yet nothing deters the determined member of The Red Army. With the grace of a feline, Alexei springs onto the hood of a Ford Focus, his feet tapping a lively rhythm that leaves a pattern of dents across the metal surface. With a light-hearted leap, he ascends to the roof before vaulting from the roof onto the concrete floor below, landing with a sharp squeak. He pauses momentarily, a grimace crossing his face as he feels a twinge in his back, perhaps a disc straining under the impact…

…but he regains his momentum without missing a beat. He deftly maneuvers through a maze of vehicles and crates, each step as fluid as a dancer’s. Spinning around, he suddenly finds himself staring directly at a looming forklift, wagging a playful ‘no no’ with his finger in mock disapproval. He pirouettes on his right heel once, twice, then a third time before propelling himself through an open doorway…

…and into another corridor.

“You can blow with this

Or you can blow with that

You can blow with this

Or you can blow with that

You can blow with this

Or you can blow with that

Or you can blow with us”

He almost collides with a towering figure, a living mountain of a man, his comrade in arms, Ivan Stanislav. Ivan, with his broad shoulders and imposing stature, blinks in bewilderment, his expression a mix of confusion and curiosity as he observes the scene unfolding before him.

Ruslan, with a rhythmic blend of marching and dancing, circles around Ivan twice, his movements a curious mix of precision and whimsy, before continuing his path forward. Riggs, with agile steps and fluid motions, shucks and jives past the immovable presence of The Russian Bear, who remains silently rooted in the background, an unspoken sentinel observing the bizarre choreography.

Ruslan twists into a side door with swift agility, and we find ourselves…

…in a dimly lit stairwell. The air is cool and echoes with the distant thumping of music. Alexei descends the stairs with precision, each footfall landing in perfect harmony with the pulsating rhythm of the music. At the bottom, he executes a quick, fluid spin, then begins to dance backwards with effortless grace, retracing his steps all the way up the stairs. At the top, Riggs stands poised, his hips swaying rhythmically to the beat, as if caught in a trance, while Alexei nimbly slips through the door and reemerges into…

…the hallway. Ivan still stands far in the background with his head cocked to one side, gawking. He shakes his head, covers his face, and walks away.

Ruslan maintains his brisk pace, never faltering for a moment. With a playful expression, he feigns surprise, his eyes widening as he covers his mouth with a hand, peering mysteriously towards something far off in the distance that remains just beyond our sight.

Where exactly is Alexei Ruslan heading? What could possibly be the destination he’s dancing toward with such enthusiasm?

With a playful flair, he thrusts a finger skyward and begins to Charleston his way forward, his shoulders bouncing rhythmically with each step. The lively dance propels him along, full of energy and spirit.

Miraculously, Speedy Riggs is now leaning against the wall in front of Alexei, next to a door. His ever-present sunglasses glint under the lights, and his trusty boombox continues to pump out the beat of “Weapon of Choice.” Ruslan’s face contorts into a mock expression of surprise as his eyes fall upon the door beside which Riggs stands.

It’s a dressing room door, a name emblazoned on it in bold letters:

CHANDLER TSONDA

“Be careful, we don’t know them (Don’t provoke and getcha team smoke)

Be careful, we don’t know them (Don’t provoke and getcha team smoke)

Be careful, we don’t know them (Don’t provoke and getcha team smoke)

Be careful, we don’t know them (Don’t provoke and getcha team smoke)”

Alexei executes a graceful spin, his movements fluid and precise. As he completes the turn, Riggs deftly produces a file folder, positioning it with impeccable timing. The folder hovers momentarily in the air, perfectly aligned for Ruslan to seize it with ease as he comes to a halt. Boldly emblazoned on the cover, for anyone nearby to notice, is the following:

“To: Chandler Tsonda

From: Alexei and The Red Army”

Ruslan leaps into the air with a graceful arc, but lands heavily on his knees, a sharp wince crossing his face as the impact sends a jolt of pain. Despite the discomfort, determination flares in his eyes, refusing to let it deter him. Now positioned lower, near the bottom of the door, he carefully places the file folder on the polished floor and skillfully uses two fingers to slide it beneath the door’s gap. Rising back onto his feet, he performs an exaggerated pantomime of crying to the beat of the music.

Riggs pushes out his lips and smirks, rounding behind Alexei so he can start dancing back down the hallway. Ruslan, meanwhile, infuses his movements with the spirited energy of a traditional Russian dance. His high knee lifts and vigorous kicks echo the dynamic style of the Cossacks, as he gracefully navigates around a corner and continues down…

…another hallway. In a smooth transition, Ruslan moonwalks away from the camera, which tracks his every move with unwavering focus. As he glides past a water station, he deftly plucks a bottle of water from its resting place, unscrews the cap with a flourish, and takes a theatrical swig.

With a mischievous gleam in his eye, he sprays a fine mist into the air, where it catches the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights, creating a dazzling, shimmering spectacle. Spinning and twirling with abandon, he sends the droplets scattering, each one gleaming like a tiny star as they descend back to the ground.

He turns down another hallway, and it dawns on us that we must have looped back to the original corridor where we began. Yes, Alexei could have walked there in under thirty seconds. Rose is still there, standing guard.

Also, standing in the hallway, is the ever-reticent Arina, clutching a briefcase tightly to her side. Her eyes widen in astonishment as she witnesses Alexei’s unusually flamboyant display. With a dramatic flourish, he dances up to her, executes a graceful spin, and strikes an exaggerated pose. He extends his hand toward her, inviting her to join in.

She shakes her head no, a rosy blush spreading across her cheeks.

“You can blow with this

Or you can blow with that

You can blow with this

Or you can blow with that”

He gently takes her hand, his fingers lightly brushing against her skin, and twirls her around with a graceful spin before letting go. His feet continue to glide effortlessly down the hallway. Arina stands frozen, clutching the worn leather briefcase tightly, a nervous smile creeping across her face as she watches Alexei dance away, his movements fluid and carefree.

Riggs passes by Arina in a lively march-dance, his footsteps echoing off the walls, while Ruslan executes a series of elaborate, well-rehearsed dance moves, his body twisting and turning with the rhythm. He finally arrives back at The Red Army’s locker room door, his breath quickened from the exertion.

Rose throws the door open, her expression as unyielding as marble. Alexei, unfazed, pops the collar of his overcoat with a flourish, winks at her, and stomps inside the room. Rose scowls at him and then stares at the camera, helplessly.

“Don’t provoke and getcha team smoke (Word)

Don’t provoke and getcha team smoke (Word)

Don’t provoke and getcha team smoke (Word)

Don’t provoke and getcha team smoke (Word)

Break it down, down, down

Break it down, down, down

Break it down, down, down

Break it down, down, down”

He returns to his original chair, giving it a quick spin before plopping down. His breath comes in short, sharp gasps, and a sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead. His mustache, slightly more floofy than usual. He glances up at the camera, a broad, Grinch-like grin spreading across his face, and caps it off with a playful wink, before returning to exactly the same position he was in when all of… this… happened.

This might have just gotten real personal, real quick.

We move on.

The lights at Rogers Place cut out leaving the murmuring crowd in complete darkness.

Richard Parker: You know what this means, don’t you Stuart?!

Nick Stuart: I… (sigh) I have an idea.

Richard Parker: MAX IS BA…

Before Parker can finish he’s cut-off as a single pillar of light shines down on the stage. A figure shifts from the darkness around it before a man steps into the light. He’s a middle aged man with short, dark hair dressed like a father from the 1950ies. A white Panama Jack hat sits tilted on the crown of his head.

Flashing a smile that looks to be filled with too many teeth, he raises a microphone to his lips.

Snark Darkly: Ladies, gentlemen and everything in between and out, I am Snark Darkly and it is my distinct privilege and pleasure to introduce my client at this time.

Lowering the microphone, the sound of a steel being drawn across a knife cuts through the sound system. A sinister, creeping noise growls out over the sound system as the PRIME stage fills with roiling smoke. Gotta get the use out of all those smoke machines. Elephant Gun Riot’s cover of “You Should See Me In A Crown” begins to play.

“Bite my tongue, bide my time

Wearing a warning sign

Wait ‘til the world is mine

Visions I vandalize

Cold in my kingdom size

Fell for these ocean eyes…”

The single pillar of light surrounding Snark Darkly vanishes leaving the stage once again in darkness.

“You should see me in a CROWN!”

The pillar returns though Darkly has vanished, replaced by the Lord of Kaelsalvania, Prime Minster of Maxopotamia, PRIME’s Perfect Predator, Maximillian Wilhelm Kael dressed in his ring gear with a crown sitting lazily atop his head. The fans jeer and boo while Max slowly raises both of his arms.

“I’m gonna run this nothing town,

Watch me make’em bow

One by One by… ONE

One by one by…”

Max half saunters, half dance’s his way to the ring in rhythm with the song paying little to no attention to the PRIME audience. Lost in his own mad vision of the world around him, Max moves to the angry words of the music.

Vince Howard: Hailing from Arkham, Massachusetts… standing at six-foot-four-inches and weighing two-hundred-fifty-five pounds…

Reaching the edge of the ring, Max moves to the steps before climbing them slowly. Reaching the top, he climbs the outside of the turnbuckle and once again raises both of his hands slowly into the air.

Vince Howard: …..MAAAAAAAAAAXIMILLIAN WILHELM KAAAAAAAAAEL!

“You should see me in a CROWN!

Your silence is my favorite sound

Watch me make’em bow

One by one by ONE

One by one by oooone!”

Slithering down the turnbuckle and into the ring, Max slinks to the center of the ring where he slowly removes his crown, holding it high above his head before moving back to his corner. The music slowly fades out as Kael readies himself for Chandler Tsonda with an arrogant smirk on his face.

“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: And his opponent, from San Diego, California by way of Hanoi, Vietnam…

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, smirk painted across his face.

Vince Howard: Weighing in at one hundred, eighty seven pounds…

Amidst the haze of pyro, smoke, and green & gold lights, Tsonda sprints to the ring, slides in under the bottom rope, and finally acknowledges his opponent. Tsonda bounces on his toes, mouthing something that’s inaudible to anyone but him.

Vince Howard: THE MODEL CITIZEEEENNN…. CHHHAAAANNNDDDLLLEEEERRRRR TTTTTTTTTSSSSSSOOOOOOONNNDDDDDDDAAAAA!

Nick Stuart: This one has all the ingredients for a classic folks.

Richard Parker: BACK!

Nick Stuart: What?

Richard Parker: Max… he’s BACK!

Nick Stuart: Where would we be without your insight Rich?

DING DING

Elvis Nixon calls for the bell to begin the contest. There is no feeling each other out for this pair, both competitors race to the centre of the ring and begin trading heavy blows. With no love lost between them, neither man is holding back.

Nick Stuart: It’s not often we see punches from Chandler but he seems happy to trade them with Max this evening.

Right hand after right hand finds their mark in the opening exchange. With no clear advantage swinging either way, it’s Tsonda who makes the first move to try and shake things up. The Viet Viper manages to avoid the latest incoming shot from Kael, ducking under and emerging behind the former Commissar of the Red Army.

With this fortunate positioning in mind, Tsonda tries to apply his version of the Cobra Clutch; Breathtaker. However Max allows the momentum of his swing and miss to carry him through, spinning around before Chandler can lock in the hold, unloading a stiff forearm shot which staggers Tsonda.

Nick Stuart: Great counter from Max.

Richard Parker: MAX IS BACK!

Nick Stuart: Yeah, you mentioned that already Rich.

An arrogant smile flashes across Max’s face as he grabs the left arm of his stumbling opponent, he wrenches the arm and pulls Tsonda back towards him and connects with a Short Arm Clothesline.

Wasting no time in pressing the advantage, Kael repositions himself at Tsonda’s side. Grabbing and keeping hold of the left arm again he throws himself over Chandler, on to his own back. The momentum brings Tsonda up on his knees, however his arm and now his head have been locked into the Triangle Choke. Elbow strike after elbow strike connects with the Model Citizen’s face.

Richard Parker: The Trotsky Choke!

Nick Stuart: Are we sure he is still calling it that?

Richard Parker: Why wouldn’t he be?

Nick Stuart: Well, you know who Trotsky was right?

Richard Parker: The guy who invented this move, obviously!

Nick Stuart: Umm okay, Sure thing…

CRACK!

The last elbow catches Chandler square on the mouth and busts his lip. Blood drips steadily down onto Max below – he seems delighted.

What isn’t delighting him however is that Tsonda shows no signs of tapping out to the Triangle Choke – Clearly it’s time for a little improvisation. Without releasing the hold, Kael darts his hand in under Tsonda’s throat and locates the sweet spot he’s aiming for and applies a Tongan Death Grip for good measure.

Nick Stuart: Max using a combination of the Trotsky Choke and the Arkham Death Grip, very innovative.

Richard Parker: MAX IS BACK BABY!

Seeing his peril, fight or flight instincts kick-in for Tsonda. His incredible athleticism somehow allows him to wriggle free and leave a stunned Max on his back. Chandler wastes no time and charges forward, planting both feet on Kael’s chest, driving the air out of him.

Kael, a little shaken up, climbs up on one knee as he tries to get back to his feet.

BAM!

A Roundhouse Kick from Tsonda connects, Kael’s eyes bulge from the impact.

BAM!

BAM!

BAM!

Three more kicks connect, all in rapid succession. Max looks like he is seeing stars for a brief second, before falling flat on his face.

Chandler rolls Kael onto his stomach and hooks the leg. Elvis Nixon drops into position and begins the count.

ONE

TW-No! Kick-out!

Disappointed with the kick-out, Tsonda rolls Kael over on to his back once more and then climbs into a rear mounted position. He hooks both of Kael’s arms behind his back at the elbow joints. He rises to one knee, then the other and in doing so manages to bring Max to his feet whilst maintaining the grip. Giving it everything he’s got he pulls backwards, executing a Tiger Suplex.

Kael’s significant height and weight advantage work in his favour though – although he was unable to avoid the suplex, executing it on the bigger man has cost Tsonda, who immediately reaches for his lower back.

Nick Stuart: We’d normally see Chandler release on a Tiger Suplex, certainly if he was executing the Guerrilla Plex ’69, but it doesn’t look like he was able to do so on this occasion.

Richard Parker: That’s what happens when you play outside your playbook. Why is Tsonda even trying to overpower Max?

Nick Stuart: Well, this is a different Chandler Tsonda we’ve seen since his return. There seems to be a more, dare I say, savage side to him.

Richard Parker: (in a low gravelly voice) OHHHH YEEEEEEAAAAHHH!

Nick Stuart: What was that?

Richard Parker: Honestly? I have no idea; it just came out of me.

As neither man is quick to get back to their feet, Elvis Nixon takes the opportunity to check on them both. When the time comes, it is indeed Kael who manages to pull himself upright first, just slightly ahead of Tsonda. The two men stare daggers at each other from across the ring. Then without wasting any more time, Max charges forward.

Kael attempts the Lariat, but ready for him Tsonda catches the arm and locks it down at his side. Max grins that deliciously unhinged grin of his, a quick twist of his right arm locks Tsonda’s left at his side.

Richard Parker: They’ve decided to hug it out.

Nick Stuart: No, I doubt it.

With arms locked at their sides and unable to break away from the other, Max sinks his forehead into Chandler’s face, again and again. When he finally stops and releases his grip, letting Tsonda fall flat on his back – both of their faces are covered in the blood from Tsonda’s already bleeding lip, and another cut which has opened above his right eye from the headbutts.

Elvis Nixon berates Max, for refusing his instructions to break the grip earlier. If one was to look up the term psychopath in the dictionary, one may in fact find a photograph of Maximillian Wilhelm Kael covered in blood. Words can’t do it justice.

Laughing to himself, Kael picks Chandler up on to his feet and delivers a series of chops to the sternum. Each chop is met with a chorus of “Boo’s” and Woo’s” from the crowd, split between their disdain for Max and their desire to be involved in the show.

Kael then connects with a Rising Knee Strike, which doubles Chandler over. Not wanting to waste the invitation, Max hooks Chandler’s arms at the elbows in the same style that he was thrown himself a few minutes earlier. From this position it’s not a Tiger Suplex, but a Tiger Driver that’s on the menu – the 1991 variant to be exact. Or as Max likes to call it…

Nick Stuart: The Weapon of Max Destruction!

Richard Parker: It’s over, ring the bell.

Nick Stuart: Apparently not…

But Kael doesn’t seem to share the opinion that it’s over just yet. He pulls Tsonda back to his feet once more. And without any warning, he plants his index and middle fingers into Chandler’s eyes. An involuntary scream of pain escapes the Sultan of Style and Elvis Nixon once more begins a tirade aimed at Kael.

Max doesn’t care though, he’s not evening listening. No sooner had he gouged the eyes, than he set off at a dead sprint. Rebounding off one set of ring ropes, then again off the opposite set, he arrives with serious momentum behind Chandler. Using every bit of that momentum he swings around and plants his elbow squarely into the back of Tsonda’s neck and head.

Nick Stuart: And now he connects with the Reality Bending Elbow! Max is leaving nothing to chance.

Richard Parker: MAX IS BACK BAYBAY!

Tsonda falls forward, almost before he hits the canvas Max is in position to sweep the leg and make the cover. Still shaking his head, Elvis Nixon drops down to make the count.

ONE

TWO

THREE

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: The winner of this match, MAAAAAAAAAAXIMILLIAN WILHELM KAAAAAAAAAEL!

Elvis Nixon checks on Tsonda as Kael rolls off and immediately rolls out of the ring, not even waiting to have his hand raised in victory.

Richard Parker: MAX IS BACK!

Nick Stuart: Yes he is.

ReVival moves on.

“I’ve paid my dues

Time after time

I’ve done my sentence

But committed no crime

And bad mistakes

I’ve made a few

I’ve had my share of sand

Kicked in my face

But I’ve come through

And we mean to go on and on and on and on,”

The Curtain flies open, and Ellis Jackson emerges holding the Five Star Championship above his head. His shit eating grin would make you want to punch every tooth out of his mouth and go through the trouble of selling them to a cheesy tooth man.

Nick Stuart: Well, here is Ellis Jackson…who is not the Five Star Champion.

Richard Parker: Pfft, without his training that title would still be with Vickie!

“We are the champions, my friends

And we’ll keep on fighting till the end

We are the champions

We are the champions

No time for losers

Cause we are the champions of the World,”

As “We are the Champions,” by Queen continues     to blast through the Rodgers Arena.

Ellis turns and motions behind him. The curtain flies open again, and Steve Harrison flanked with Octopus members William Morris and Dmytro step out. Steve starts talking to Ellis with an annoyed look on his face.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think Steve approved the music change tonight.

Richard Parker: This isn’t about him, it is about the man who made it all happen, Ellis Jackson!

Harrison shrugs and gives Ellis a half smile. Ellis turns and starts yelling out at the crowd as he sings, we are the champions to them. Harrison follows behind him with his other allies just behind him. All three try to ignore Ellis being obnoxious as they continue to walk. They freeze for a second and then walk around Ellis. Steve stops and grabs a mic from the announcer’s table.

Richard Parker: My guess, he’s keeping it warm for Ellis.

Nick Stuart: Come on, we both know who should be talking right now, Ol’ Banditsbane Steve Harrison.

The Immortal Jellyfish enters the ring followed by William Morris and Dmytro as Ellis stills runs around the ring holding the Five Star Title and sneering at the crowd who continue to boo him. Harrison pats the mic, and the noise gets Ellis’s attention. Ellis flips off a few fans and then enters the ring and starts holding the title above his head as if he owned the very belt in his hand.

Steve Harrison: Alright, alright…let’s calm down now.

Harrison moves the palms of his hand down in a motion for everyone in the crowd and in the ring to calm down.

Steve Harrison: Hah, it has been a long time since I have come to the ring for anything like this.

The crowd pops but then begin booing again when Ellis holds the title out to the crowd again.

Steve Harrison: I wish I had been told about the music change today (looks at Ellis. Ellis shrugs and points to the title) Yes, WE are the champions—of course. This is a night of celebration, not just for ME but for all The Octopus and of course the number one trainer: Ellis Jackson. This is why the left side of the Octopus is all here tonight, Ellis. We decided that through all the annoyances you put us through that in the end you did everything for the family.

Ellis nods along with what Steve is saying of course agreeing to the kind words and shrugging like a clown when annoyances was said. The crowd starts booing even more towards Ellis who soaks it in like tonight is all about him. William Morris and Dmytro have taken up leaning positions in different corners. Each are just looking at Ellis and Steve. Ellis leans in on the mic.

Ellis Jackson: Just give me the word and I will defend the title.

Harrison pulls the mic away from Ellis and gives him a laugh where he doesn’t smile at all. Ellis pats Steve on the shoulder and gives him a ‘just kidding look.’

Steve Harrison: Tonight, we have put together a thank you video just for you…Sea…Roach. (Ellis gives Steve a sharp look. Steve smirks back.) Oh, its all love in The Family, uncle. Now without further ado let’s get this EYE opening video running.

Harrison points to the jumbotron and Ellis turns to look at it. Harrison stares at the back of the head of Ellis as the remaining members of The Octopus look at both.

The video begins to play and shows Ellis Jackson pulling Rebecca Hines’s right arm and then losing his grip and Rebecca falling down the small flight of stairs on the porch outside the farmhouse and landing directly on her head. The video keeps looping over and over as the entire arena has gone quiet. Ellis’s face has gone pale as he mumbles to himself on what happened and trying to think of excuses that can save him in that moment.

There are none.

Ellis turns slowly to see Steve Harrison standing in the middle of the ring with his thumb down. Ellis puts his hands together as he pray-begs towards The Miracle Man but that lasts less then a second when out of no where William Morris clothesline Ellis in the side of the head. He drops the title to the mat. Ellis wobbles to the side and hits the ropes. He sluggishly moves back and then William picks him up and powerbombs him right on top of the Five Star Title he had dropped.

The crowd erupts into cheers as they see the comeuppance that has transpired towards the Sea Roach.

Steve Harrison: (deadpan delivery) I can see clearly now, the rain is gone.

He begins to laugh.

Steve Harrison: There are lines you never cross and then there are lines you shouldn’t even come close to seeing.

Steve walks over and looks down at the squirming Ellis. He motions for them to pick him up. They comply and then Harrison goes off the ropes and hits Enlightenment to the near unconscious Ellis. He drops like a sack of bricks in the ocean. The Suplex Saint casually grabs his title and then swings it down at the back of the prone Ellis.

SMACK

Steve Harrison: I do have to thank you, uncle. Your selfishness, your greed, your need to be seen has helped me see the truth about my place. I realized that…

SMACK

Steve Harrison: …What I have been doing has not been working. The fans…

Crowd begins to cheer for Steve. Harrison pauses and scoffs at what he is hearing.

Steve Harrison: …Can lick my taint.

Crowd goes quiet and then begins to boo the new Five Star Champion. Harrison closes his eyes and nods.

Steve Harrison: Christ, I feel nostalgic about getting booed…haha, what’s that say about me?

SMACK

Steve Harrison: It means I have been wasting my time for years now. All that time spent on trying to be a better person. Trying to get my redemption I called it, right? Nothing I ever did could get that for me. You peasants, in knock off clothes and hand me downs have done nothing to help me. I tried so hard to find forgiveness and all that was handed back to me was indifference.

SMACK

Steve Harrison: But you woke me up Ellis. If a family member can act like you towards an actual family member, then what would these faceless blobs of poutine do to just get an autograph. Animals, you are all animals with your short attention spans and herd mentalities.

SMACK

Steve Harrison: The only thing that matters is your family (Harrison points at William and Dmytro and to where the video had been playing indicating Rebecca). You did cross the line though, uncle. (He laughs manically) You can’t blame me for leaving you unconscious seeing as Rebecca is now in A COMA BECAUSE OF YOU!

SMACK

Steve Harrison: Don’t worry about me, Ellis. In case you have forgotten, nobody likes you. It took all of five minutes and a drink at dinner for these two to eagerly agree to leave you in a puddle of your own piss and blood.

Harrison takes a break from whipping Ellis with the title and instead kicks him in the ribs. He crouches down and gets within inches of a bloody Ellis.

Steve Harrison: We are the Champions…how delusional are you? I am the one who beat Cancer Jiles and held off that tramp Vickie Hall. You helped me remember who I really am though, and I am thankful for that, but I won’t ever forgive you. You are now a pariah in your own family, but you aren’t kicked out. I will make sure The Octopus understands, and you will be well taken care of because…

The Beautiful Bald Man Champion picks the title back up and then lightly lays it across Ellis Jackson.

Steve Harrison: I will always need someone to…

Clean.

The.

Fucking.

Belt.

Harrison stands back up and walks to each of his Octopus allies and pats each on the shoulder. They each nod at him and give him a grin.

Steve Harrison: Let’s get him up and get that title around his waist guys. Need him to wake up and get at cleaning the eggs and, ahem…bodily fluids off my new prized possession.

William and Dmytro strap the title around Ellis’s waist and stand him up.

Steve Harrison: Now get that piece of shit out of my ring.

They roll him under the ring and carry him to the back as the Five Star Jellyfish begins to pace back and forth inside the ring.

Steve Harrison: It takes some failure, some doubt, some trauma to make you realize what really matters. What REALLY matters is the health and well being of my family and when I say my family…I mean those I have trust in. Those I have love for. Those that always have my back. May they be blood related—or not, it doesn’t mean a damn thing to me…now.

Harrison stops pacing and takes a deep breath and stares upwards at the lights in the Rodgers Arena. He smiles and then stares back at the mic.

Steve Harrison: I have just felt the taste of success again. I will not allow anyone to steal off my plate anymore. I will do whatever it takes to live in this spotlight because I know how hard it is to get it back after it stops shining on you. This is a new chapter and don’t think it is going to be a quiet one. I just got my fucking voice back…you know?

Steve tosses the mic to the mat and leaves the ring as the crowd begin to boo and call him horrible names like “baldy bastard,” and other ignorant things stupid wrestling fans say. He pays them no mind, but his smirk loses to it and becomes a sneer as he gets to the curtain and disappears.

We move on.

The scene switches to backstage as an aimless Jonathan-Christopher Hall sheepishly works his way inside Rogers Place. He wears faded blue jeans and a battered white t-shirt, covered by an off-gray puffy winter coat twice his size, looking something like a divorced Milhouse’s Dad, hitting the hard road and unable to rebound.

Hall scans locker room sign after locker room sign, ensuring he walks past the more “problematic” zones rather quickly. Finally, at the end of the hallway, he reaches the desired location.

Well, not so much desired, just the only place that will accept him.

Well, not so much accept him, as tolerate him.

Well, not so much tolerate him, as use him.

Well, not so much use him, as abuse him.

Well, they probably don’t even want to abuse him anymore to be honest.

Well, then again maybe they do. It’s an easy thing to do.

Well-

Jonathan-Christopher Hall’s hands tremble but he reaches up and goes for the door handle. The camera swings around to show a “RED ARMY” label on the gate to hell. Hall closes his eyes, swings the handle back-

And Rose appears immediately thereafter, almost like she was waiting for this to happen, perfectly, seamlessly, between the door swinging open and no further space granted.

Right on cue.

She stares at him, in her obvious pissed off, take-no-shit manner. Her arms are crossed. She barely blinks.

Probably doesn’t blink.

JCH, meanwhile, merely stands there. He sinks his neck and head into his coat. Initially, he tried to look past her, hoping to see Ivan Stanislav or, better yet, Kenny Freeman in the far distance.

No such thing, Rose blocks the entire pathway.

Hall isn’t stupid. Yes, he has no balls, but he knows what’s going on.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I- I- I-… I didn’t know where else to go.

Hall looks to his left and then to his right.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: No one will take me in.

The brass on JCH. He actually tries to take a step forward. Granted, it’s a small step. It’s retracted almost ASAP thereafter.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I told Ivan I would be willing to do anything.

It looks like JCH is on the verge of tears.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: (Starts mumbling to himself in a rather unstable manner) Bandits. Bandits did this. Bandits did this. Bandits have to pay. Pay. Pay. PAY.

Hall looks up and suddenly stands a little less bitchfully.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I can help.

As he and the PRIMEIVERSE (I can hear the owls now) look on, there’s something colder about Rose. Not that she is a usual warm and bubbly individual normally, but there’s something even more sinister about her. Having left right after Culture Shock, the Second Coming hasn’t been seen on PRIME television until… now.

Rose: Fuck off.

Even her tone is cold and distant, not her usual witty self filled with inflection and words that usually cut across. She’s direct, to the point, almost closed off.

Rose: Fuck off, now.

Hall places his hands in his pockets and lowers his head. He’s about to step away…

But his feet don’t take him anywhere.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Please, Rose.

He tries to look past her again.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Please, I am begging you!

His hands are now pressed together, pointed in her direction.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I am lost and I need help getting back at the Bandits.

Hall is shaking from head to toe after the word “Bandits”.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Ivan and I have worked together for a while. I will always do what I’m told. What-whatever he needs!

Once more, trying to look past Rose. Yet can’t.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Anything you want. I’ll do anything you guys want!

Her eyes close. Her fingers move to the bridge of her nose. A sigh slips through her lips. A migraine might be building behind her eyes. It’s the look a mother might have after dealing with her children yelling in the car for the better part of twelve hours. It’s certainly the look Lindsay Troy has when dealing with, well, everyone on the PRIME roster.

Then her eyes immediately open and you could be excused for thinking her eyes have turned red, much like her father’s used to. She’s borderline at the point of lasers shooting out of her eyes ala Superman and burning a hole through Hall’s skull.

It’s her voice though that does the damage.

Rose: FUCK THE FUCK OFF RIGHT FUCKING NOW, FUCKFACE!

Flames might be behind her words. It’s hard to tell. Hall’s face though gives the impression there was.

JCH gulps. MASSIVE gulp. If not for a millisecond, he tries looking past her once more. He 100% can’t-

And SPRINTS away, like he’s gotta rock a mad piss and it’s leaking down his leg at this exact second. He’s gone.

Rose closes the door. ReVival goes elsewhere.

The live feed jumps backstage, where we find PRIME’s faithful boy in blue.

Simon Tillier: Hey, what’s up, PRIME-timers? Me again.

Simon is still rocking his blue denim battlevest covered in patches of unreadable band logos. His blonde hair remains spiked up. Apparently, he hasn’t quite moved on from his punk rock phase.

Given the state of the world, can we honestly blame him?

Looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, doing anything else, the junior reporter thumbs over his shoulder to an ominous set of large, heavy iron double doors of doom.

Simon Tillier: As you smart, savvy people have no doubt deduced using those big brains of yours, yours truly is back here, standing outside the private dressing room belonging to Vae Victis. Against my better judgment, some might say, given what happened two weeks ago. Doing much better now, I’m happy to announce, because I know so many of you were concerned for my well being…

He rolls his eyes.

Simon Tillier: Management even offered to give me the night off. To “ease tensions”, as they put it. But you know what I said?

Suddenly flaring up with anger, Tillier points down at the camera.

Simon Tillier: I said, “Hell NO! You put me right back into the jaws of death!” Because true journalism doesn’t give in to fear! It doesn’t give in to acts of terrorism! True journalism perseveres in the face of tyranny! So whatever happens, I’m willing to take it! Besides, I’ve taken worse hits in the pit…

Simon turns toward the double doors, raises his hand to knock, and…

Simon Tillier: …you know what? Screw it.

Rather than announcing himself with a knock, Tillier brazenly kicks the doors open and goes right in.

Simon Tillier: So here we are, in the infamous VVIP room. Or is it the Vaenctum Victorum? I can’t remember which, to be honest. Also, not sure how this room seems to magically end up inside every arena we’ve been to, but whatever, here we are again.

The camera follows Simon through the luxury lounge furniture encircled within an array of columns, cogwork, and a gratuitous amount of customized works of art.

Simon Tillier: Hoity-toity, as always. I just hope the guys in bird masks aren’t used as slave labor, because, you know,  that’d be kind of messed up.

He walks along a row of statues featuring the likenesses of various members of Vae Victis in states of Lindsay Troy, with Athena perched on her arm, standing tall and triumphant upon a pile of skulls and championship belts. Henry Keyes, alongside the tiger Helen, Clay Byrd, shirtless and mastodonic in size, seizing a bull with Fred Dick’s face by the horns with his bare hands and bringing it to the ground. Kerry Kuroyama, in his gear, standing focused and ready, staring into the void like a man preparing for the battle to come…

Oh wait sec, that’s no statue–that’s just the ACTUAL Kerry Kuroyama!

Simon Tillier: Oh, hey Kerry. Didn’t see you standing there, giving off all those surrious-as-a-statue vibes.

The Emerald Apex gives the junior reporter a brief lookover.

Kerry Kuroyama; Hello, Simon. Still doing the punk rock thing?

Simon Tillier: (shrugs) I wouldn’t know. I don’t restrain my professional autonomy to the concept of labels. Anyway, we doing this or what? What’s the word on tonight, Kerry? It’s Colton versus Kuroyama II, or so they’re calling it. And I think the question that’s burning on everyone’s mind is… what makes you guys so special that you get the sequel treatment?

Kuroyama squints at him in confusion.

Simon Tillier: I mean, does anybody even remember the first match you two had back at Colossus 2023? And like, why not go all in on it, and give it some sort of corny tag line? Like Colton vs. Kuroyama II: The Revenge? Or Colton vs. Kuroyama II: Judgment Day? Or how about 2 Nate 2 Kerrious? I mean, I’m no producer, but common sense would dictate that if you get the sequel greenlit, you naturally try to set up the whole trilogy. On that note, please TELL ME that when you get there, you call it Colton vs. Kuroyama 3-D.

Kerry Kuroyama: Umm…

Simon Tillier: Also, is that koala over there smoking a bong?

We pan back over to the statue of Clay Byrd standing a few feet away, where Kerry Koalayama is perched upon the Cowboy Colossus’ broad shoulders, snug in his “Eucalyze Legalyptus” t-shirt. Sure enough, his two opposable thumbs are fumbling at a lighter while he attempts to hold the water pipe steady.

Then, he slowly looks over to the nearby interviewer and interviewee with an expression that seems to say, “What? You guys never seen a koala smoke eucalyptus out of a bong before?”

The camera sweeps back up to Kerry and Simon, the former scratching his chin, looking guilty and perplexed, and absolutely unsure of how to respond. This wasn’t quite how he expected the interview to go.

He’s saved by the sudden emergence of Scott Hunter, coming out of the dressing room area. The Wingman’s appearance prompts a very loud pop from the Edmonton faithful watching along out in the arena.

When the reality of his appearance starts to settle in, the crowd’s reaction immediately sours. Scott is wearing the classic red, white, and blue Creed boxers from the Rocky series, as well as a Stars and Stripes top hat, and for some reason, boxing gloves. He bounces around both Kerry and Simon, shadow boxing.

Simon Tillier: Hm, imagine that. The guy who assaults reporters is representing the good ol’ U-S-of-A. How apropos.

Kerry Kuroyama: Points for the reference, Scott, but… I’m not sure the crowd here is into that kind of thing right now.

Scott Hunter: Not now, Ker-bear old pal, I’m in the zone.

Kerry Kuroyama: Uhh, I’m just saying, we’re in Canada, Scott. Maybe this isn’t the best… you know… outfit choice.

Scott stops in place. Something suddenly dawns on him, a realization easily readable on his face.

Scott Hunter: Oh, right. The United States has recently started taxing maple syrup, lumber, and hockey jerseys. Good call. I’ll be right back.

Scott dashes from view like a sprinter taking off from the blocks.

Simon Tillier: Real winner, that one…

The reporter’s sarcastic tone draws a reproachful glare from Kerry.

Kerry Kuroyama: I wouldn’t be so quick to write him off, Simon. I’ve been with Scott through PRIME since the day I arrived, and I can tell you now with all confidence that I’ve never seen him quite as focused and driven as he has been lately. Ivan Stanislav might be a two-time Universal Champion and one of the most feared men in PRIME, but I guarantee you he doesn’t have half the heart that Scott does. He knows that tonight is his opportunity to leave the world stunned. To do something only a precious few have ever accomplished in this company. And I, for one, believe he can do it.

Tillier begrudgingly concedes to Kuroyama’s point with a nod.

Simon Tillier: Sure, sure… gotta root for the little guy, and all that. Let’s just hope he keeps the aggression focused on the bad guys, and not, you know, members of the press. Anyway, on the topic of former Universal Champions, how’s business going with PRIME’s biggest sell-out, Erik Black?

Again, Glarey Kerry gives him the look.

Kerry Kuroyama: It’s not, Simon. I don’t do business with assholes.

Simon Tillier: That so? Because I heard–

Kerry Kuroyama: Forget what you heard. Whatever dealings I might have had with that moron Raisin are over and done. He’s gone. For good.

Simon Tillier: PffffFFFHAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Without warning, the junior reporter is overwhelmed by a sudden outburst of laughter. He cackles so hard he has to grab Kerry by the shoulder to keep from falling over.

It takes several moments for him to recompose himself. Finally, wiping the tears from his eyes, he raises the mic.

Simon Tillier: (continuing to stifle laughter) Sorry… sorry… it’s just really, really cute that you think he’s “gone for good”, and all that. Yeah, right! Because knowing the former Rezin like I do, I’m sure that’s the last we’ll ever see of him. Yep. No disputing that.

Kerry squints critically at Simon, but the two are suddenly approached by one of the many plague doctors in Henry Keyes’ employ, who gestures to the Emerald Apex.

Kerry Kuroyama: Is it time? Okay then…

Kuroyama turns his attention back to Simon.

Kerry Kuroyama: You want to know why Nate and I really get the sequel treatment, Simon? Maybe it’s because we’re two of the purest wrestlers in PRIME. And when the two of us step into the ring, we remind the world why this company is the home of the best wrestling on the planet.

Glarey Kerry turns to the camera.

Kerry Kuroyama: Nate… Colossus 2023 was your night. And you earned it. But back then, we fought over nothing more than bragging rights. Here and now? This isn’t about handshakes or sportsmanship. Tonight, I’m going in there to even to score. To overtake you on the ladder. Because Seattle’s BEAST is hungry, and he’s already got a taste for diamonds…

In the background, we start to see Scott Hunter dash by, boxing gloves still on his hands, in and out of frame like a Benny Hill closing segment. Kerry and Simon ignore this as the interview continues. Scott runs through from left to right, then right to left, then left to right, then… You guessed it, right to left. Suddenly, something catches Kerry Kuroyama’s eye.

Kerry Kuroyama: What the… are you chasing a chicken?

The camera pans back a little bit to show that Scott is indeed chasing a chicken back and forth through the background of the scene.

WHOOOOOOSH!!!!!

Scott Hunter: I’m gonna eat chicken and crap tenders!!!

WHOOOOOOSH!!!!!

Scott Hunter: I’m gonna eat a two piece and crap two sides and a biscuit!!

Kerry Kuroyama: SCOTT!!

Scott stops, absent-mindedly wiping his chin with the back of one of his gloved hands.

Scott Hunter: Yes?

Kerry Kuroyama: You might want to save some of your energy for Ivan.

Scott’s eyes go wide, then suddenly to more of a squint and a knowing nod.

Scott Hunter: Riiiiight. Shrewd thinking.

Kerry sighs.

Kerry Kuroyama: And what are you doing with those gloves on anyway?

Scott Hunter: What, these? Only this!!

Scott spins, lunges, and screams out at the top of his lungs “SHORYUKEN!!!!” then blasts Simon with an uppercut that sends him at least three feet up into the air and then sprawling onto his back, once again knocked senseless.

Scott holds an uppercut pose, staring at a forty-five degree angle up toward the heavens.

Kerry Kuroyama: (apathetically looking down at Simon) Whelp… guess that interview’s over. Wish me luck, Scott.

Scott Hunter: COME KERRY KOALAYAMA!!! WE MUST CHEER ON OUR BEST FRIEND AND THEN COMPLETE OUR PREPARATIONS!!!!

And with that, the very high little Koala scurries down from atop Clay Byrd’s stone(d) head and hops down onto Scott’s shoulder.

Kerry bumps his fist into Scott’s glove as he goes to the door, heading for the ring.

Scott smiles up at his little furry friend.

Scott Hunter: Ivan Stanislyzbornak won’t know what hit ‘im!

We move on.

Nick Stuart: “Sometimes, a match is about rankings. Sometimes, it’s about proving who’s better. And sometimes, like tonight, it’s about something deeper.”

Richard Parker: “Something darker, you mean. Kuroyama and Colton, both said it themselves, this isn’t just a contest. This is a reckoning.”

Nick Stuart: “Nearly a year and a half ago, Nate Colton eked out a narrow win against Kerry Kuroyama at COLOSSUS. There was respect. A handshake. But a lot has changed since then.”

Richard Parker: “Kuroyama’s done playing nice. No more smiles, no more partnerships, no more apologies. He’s cutting ties and taking heads, and tonight, Nate Colton’s first in line.”

Nick Stuart: “And for Nate…this may be the most personal match of his career. He’s been holding it together for a long time, but if you read between the lines of his words this week…there’s a wire starting to fray.”

Richard Parker: “You think this is a wrestling match? I think it’s a test of survival. And I don’t think either of them comes out the same.”

Lights fade.

A tempest rumbles through the darkness.

The sounds of howling wind and pouring rain.

Verdant storm clouds fill the PRIME view.

A flash of lighting.

A deafening crack of thunder.

And without warning, “Blouses Blue” by Konrad OldMoney and Sleep Steady suddenly THUMPS through the PA.

The stage lights up. Flashing strobes. Smokescreen. Green lasers.

A silhouette appears and marches forth from the haze, stopping at the head of the ramp.

The spotlight hits, revealing Kerry Kuroyama, clad in his emerald and silver robe. Eyes forward. Arms up. Knuckles touching, to form a peak over his head.

Rows of white and green fountain pyros erupt at his flanks.

The lyrics kick in.

Focused and fearless, Kuroyama strides down the ramp.

His gaze never leaves the ring.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, hailing from Seattle, Washington, and weighing in at two-hundred and fifty-four pounds, please welcome… the Emerald Apex, KERRY KUROYAMA!!

Kuroyama arrives at ringside. He climbs the stairs, steps through the ropes, and occupies the center of the ring.

He faces away from the hard camera, waiting for his music to build to its climax.

When it does, he tears off his robe in a single, swift motion and tosses it aside, gifting the camera a good look at a green storm dragon tattooed across his sculpted back.

Then he twirls around to face the camera

His clenched fist proudly held up.

His defiant eyes are full of conviction.

The storm has arrived.

Nick Stuart: “There he stands, the Emerald Apex. Focused. Unflinching. And maybe…unfinished. Because for Kerry Kuroyama, this match isn’t just about redemption. It’s about resolution.”

Richard Parker: “He’s not out here for second chances or sympathy, Nick. He’s out here to break the man who beat him. And after everything Kerry’s been through since Tokyo? I wouldn’t bet against him.”

The arena’s lights go out, and the fans erupt in anticipation. Soon their energy is rewarded as the PRIMEView springs to life. On a field of white, three words appear:

THE

NEW

DIAMOND

These fade away, replaced by a logo. It’s the letter C in the shape of a diamond, with a smaller N inside. The logo is framed by the name.

NATE

COLTON

A classic rock riff signals the beginning of “Tryin’” by the Eagles, and the fans give out a raucous cheer. Moments later, Nate Colton emerges from the curtain. He holds his arms up high, showing off his blue satin jacket–his family name emblazoned on the back; his first name stitched on the front.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nate walks quickly to the ring, stopping periodically to point at groups of cheering fans, or waving his arms to hype up the crowd. His excited actions are an interesting contrast to the stern look on his face.

Nick Stuart: It’s strange not to see Colton more excited as he comes to the ring. Especially considering where we are; Bodukon Hall is hallowed ground in wrestling, and Nate has made no secret of how much he loves performing in Japan.

Richard Parker: It’s because he’s given into the hate, Nick. That’s why he brutalized that lovable scamp Fred Dick in Sydney! There was no reason for him to do what he did!

Nick Stuart: Yeah, it’s not like he cheated his ass off the whole match. Or tried to set RIA on fire.

Richard Parker: I don’t remember any of that. You must be watching a different show.

He climbs the steps, ducks between the top and middle ropes, and enters the ring. He heads directly to his corner and undoes his jacket, showing off his gear–white trunks that reach his upper thigh with a blue stripe down the side, white boots with blue trim, white MMA gloves, and blue elbow and knee pads.

Colton hands his jacket to an attendant, then takes his corner and waits for Ashley Barlow’s instructions

Richard Parker: I just hope he doesn’t do anything unspeakable to another lovable scamp tonight.

Nick Stuart: Surely you don’t mean Kenny Freeman.

Richard Parker: What? God, no. He’s annoying as hell. I meant Randall Schwartz.

Nick Stuart: …

Richard Parker: PROTECT RANDALL AT ALL COSTS!

Nick Stuart: …okay.

DING DING DING

Nick Stuart: “There’s the bell, and after everything these two have said, after all the changes they’ve been through, this isn’t just a rematch. This is a reckoning.”

The noise in Rogers Place rumbles, low and electric, as Nate Colton and Kerry Kuroyama approach the center of the ring.

Colton’s hand rises slowly—steady, respectful. He’s not naïve. He knows what Kerry has become. But somewhere in him…he still wants to believe in who Kerry was.

The handshake hangs there, between them. Kerry glances down at the hand. Then up into Nate’s eyes. For a half-second…a flicker. A twitch of the lip, almost a smirk.

He reaches out.

Nick Stuart: “Colton…offering the handshake. One last spark of respect between two warriors.”

Richard Parker: “And here comes the fire extinguisher.”

Kerry grips Nate’s hand. Then yanks him forward into a short-arm forearm shot to the collarbone.

The crowd gasps.

Nate stumbles backward. Kerry charges in to follow up, but Nate plants his back foot and snaps off an arm drag that sends Kerry to the mat. Kerry rolls through, pops to a knee, only for Nate to step in with a side headlock takeover, grinding him to the canvas.

Nick Stuart: “Kuroyama went for the cheap shot, but Colton didn’t fold. He regrouped, recovered, and brought this back to level ground.”

Richard Parker: “I guess I’ll give it to Colton. That was quick thinking. Maybe HE learned something since COLOSSUS.”

On the mat, Kerry shifts his hips and floats through, he escapes the headlock and gets a waistlock from behind. Nate fights up to a base, peels the hands off, transitions into a wristlock, but Kerry cartwheels out, counters the pressure, and reverses with a grounded hammerlock.

Nate rolls to break the pressure, both men pop to their feet, and square up once again.

Standoff. The crowd applauds.

Nick Stuart: “These two know each other so well, neither one wants to blink first.”

Richard Parker: “Kerry tried to exploit Colton’s better nature, and it nearly cost him early. That won’t happen again.”

They circle once more. This time, Nate fakes high, shoots low, Kerry sprawls! Nate shifts, lifts, classic fireman’s carry takedown! Smooth. Crisp. Nate controls the pace now, riding Kerry down into another headlock.

Kerry tries to slip out again, but Nate grapevines a leg just long enough to control the position and keep him grounded.

Kerry eventually fights to his knees and hits a body shot, Colton disengages, backs up.

They reset. But now it’s clear: The cheap shot didn’t rattle Colton.

It just woke him up.

They meet in the center again. A collar-and-elbow tie-up. This time? Pure technique. They push. Shift. Pressure. Kerry slips around for a go-behind. Nate reverses. Kerry rolls through, Nate grabs the wrist; Kerry goes to the ropes to force the break. Nate releases at two.

Kerry scowls, not from pain. From irritation. He’s not getting under Nate’s skin like he thought he would. They lock up once more. Kerry overhooks the arm and turns into a standing keylock, but Nate immediately drops low, slips the hold, and transitions to a backslide attempt!

ONE

TWO

Kickout!

Kerry scrambles to his feet, Nate’s already up. They stare each other down, both breathing steady. No panic. No wasted movement.

And for just a moment…

A beat of mutual recognition.

Nick Stuart: “We’ve got ourselves a stalemate, partner. You wanted iron sharpening iron? You’re looking at it.”

Richard Parker: “Yeah, well don’t blink, Nick. It won’t stay even for long.”

The two circle again. Slower this time. Not out of caution, but out of calculation.

Kerry suddenly surges forward, feinting a tie-up, but drops low and shoots in hard, driving his shoulder into Nate’s gut with a single-leg lift. In one smooth motion, he scoops Nate off the mat, transitions the grip…

GOURDBUSTER!

Colton’s ribs bounce hard off the canvas.

Nick Stuart: “That’s not just a throw; that’s a shot across the bow. Kuroyama wants Colton breathing heavy.”

Richard Parker: “And if he’s not, Kerry’ll knock the wind out of him himself.”

Kerry stalks forward as Nate pushes up to all fours. Without hesitation, Kerry drops a knee across the spine, driving him back to the mat.

Nate rolls to his back, wincing, Kerry follows with a jumping knee drop right to the sternum.

Kerry covers.

One

TWO

Kickout!

Kuroyama grabs the wrist and yanks Nate violently to his feet. He hooks both arms…

BLACK TAHOMA BREAKER!!

Double-underhook backbreaker snaps Colton across Kerry’s knee. He doesn’t go for the pin this time. Instead, he keeps a wrist. He pulls Nate in again.

Nick Stuart: “Kuroyama is chaining damage. This isn’t just punishment, it’s planning. He’s dragging Colton deep into the red.”

Colton stumbles upright..

CRACK! OPEN-PALM SLAP across the jaw echoes through Rogers Place.

The crowd groans. Nate’s head whips to the side, but he doesn’t drop. He steps forward.

Kerry answers with another slap, harder. Nate fires back with a forearm. Another. And another!

The crowd roars!

Kerry absorbs it, spins, and BLASTS Nate with a SQUALL LINE LARIAT!

Nick Stuart: “Good LORD what impact! That’s the one you don’t get up from in the indies.”

Richard Parker: “This ain’t the indies, but that’ll still knock you into next week.”

Kerry drops into a cover.

One

TWO

Kickout, just barely.

Colton rolls to his stomach. Kuroyama crouches low, eyes locked. Measured breath. Pokerface cracked just enough to show that now, it’s time to end this phase. He hauls Nate up into a fireman’s carry.

Nick Stuart: “Oh no. Is he going for it this early?!”

Richard Parker: “Kuroyama Driver II incoming!”

But Nate fights! Elbows! One. Two. Three. he slips out the back, Pushes Kerry into the ropes, Kerry bounces back and…

SNAP DRAGON SUPLEX!!

Colton hits the mat hard on his neck and shoulders. Kerry doesn’t even let go. He deadlifts him back up from behind.

RELEASED TIGER SUPLEX!!

Nate flips over in mid-air, landing on his stomach with a thunderous crash.

The crowd groans in awe.

Kerry crawls into the cover, hooking both legs deep.

One

TWO

T—NO!!”

Colton kicks out! Barely. But he kicks out.

Nick Stuart: “Colton’s in deep trouble now. Kerry’s pulling out high-level bombs and he’s not even winded.”

Richard Parker: “Honestly? This is clinical. I don’t think Colton’s gonna get the space to breathe, let alone rally.”

Kerry rises slowly, no wasted motion. He paces in a tight circle, staring down at Nate. Then he points at him. Not out of taunt. Out of finality. He drags Nate up, locks the arms… Lifts..

JUDGMENT BOLT BOMB!!!

Gutwrench Sitout Powerbomb and Kuroyama spikes him.

One

TWO

T—KICKOUT!

A shoulder shoots off the mat! Kerry sits up slowly. Still calm. But the eyes flash, just once. He rips Nate off the mat, dragging him by the wrist, then yanks him into a front facelock and drives him backward into the corner.

Nick Stuart: “This isn’t frustration, it’s escalation. Kuroyama is methodical. He’s doing what Kerry always does, picking a target and breaking it apart piece by piece.”

Richard Parker: “And right now, that target is Nate Colton’s spine.”

With Colton slumped in the corner, Kuroyama backs up… Measures the angle…

YAKUZA KICK TO THE FACE!!

Colton’s head snaps back, But somehow, he doesn’t fall. He grabs the top rope, pulls himself forward, wobbling on unsteady legs. And stares at Kerry. Half out of it. But still here.

Nick Stuart: “Kerry’s thrown suplexes, bombs, and lariats… and Colton still won’t stay down.”

Richard Parker: “At this point, it’s not heart. It’s masochism.”

Kuroyama lifts Colton to his knees. His breath is measured. Cold. He steps behind, snatches Nate around the waist, he’s going for the Derechoplex. That devastating spin-out backdrop driver.

But as he hoists Colton, Nate shifts his weight mid-air, and FLIPS over the back, landing on his feet behind him! Kerry turns,

SNAP!

Running forearm strike by Colton! Kerry staggers, another one! And a third! Colton bounces off the ropes…

DROP TOE HOLD INTO A REAR CHINLOCK!

Nick Stuart: “Nate Colton showing ring awareness here, he’s not going for a kill, he’s trying to slow the beast!”

Kerry fights to his feet quickly, but Nate shifts…

SNAPMARE!

Kerry lands seated, Nate bounces off the ropes into a RUNNING NECKBREAKER!

Kuroyama hits the canvas hard! Colton doesn’t cover, he knows it’s not enough. He pulls Kerry up, flips him into a hammerlock, transitions into a waistlock bridges

SUPLEX!

Nick Stuart: “And here we go! Nate Colton! Grinding back into this match with precision and power!”

Richard Parker: “That was a lucky slip! Don’t celebrate yet, he just poked the bear.”

Colton grabs the wrist again, this time transitioning into a short-arm shoulder breaker. Kuroyama grunts, holding his arm. Nate keeps hold, spins behind, cobra clutch cinched in!

Nick Stuart: “The family grip! That Colton Clutch has been passed down a generation!”

Richard Parker: “And now he’s got it in deep, but too early for a finish.”

Kerry fights wildly, elbows out of it, but Nate shifts the hold…

INVERTED SUPLEX!!

Kuroyama slams chest-first into the canvas.

Nick Stuart: “COLTON HAS FLIPPED THE SCRIPT!”

Nate stands tall for the first time in minutes. He paces backward, measuring Kerry now.

Nick Stuart: “You can feel it. You can feel that tide turning. This is where Nate’s going to test how much punishment Kerry can take.”

Kerry pushes up to a knee, Nate surges in…

EXPLODER SUPLEX!!!

Kuroyama bounces off the mat, rolling into the corner! Nate doesn’t let him breathe. He hauls Kerry up the ropes, climbs to the second rope, grabs the wrist.

Nick Stuart: “He’s going for it, he’s going BIG…”

SUPERPLEX!!!

BOOM.

The ring shakes. Nate floats over for the first big cover of the match.

One

TWO

Kerry kicks out. But he’s reeling.

Nick Stuart: “The Emerald Apex has been rocked. And the Next Diamond is shining.”

Richard Parker: “He’s got a little sparkle, sure. But diamonds can still crack. Let’s see if he can finish.”

Both men are down. Rogers Place is on fire. The match has taken everything out of them. Sweat. Breath. Maybe blood. But Nate Colton, heart on his sleeve, pushes to his feet first, fired up. He pulls Kerry off the mat, goes for the cobra clutch grip…

Nick Stuart: “He’s going for the Colton Clutch ‘24! This could be it!”

Kerry drops to a knee. Spins through, grabs the wrist, But Nate tightens the hold, spins out of Kerry’s reversal…

DRAGON SLEEPER TRANSITION INVERTED SUPLEX!!

WHAM! Kerry hits hard. Colton holds the wrist. He’s dialing it in. The crowd surges with energy. The entire arena knows what’s next. He hooks the arm; he’s locking in the STF variation.

Richard Parker: “He’s got him! He’s… no, wait!!”

As Nate drops to the mat, Kerry suddenly shifts his hips, twists through the arm, and rolls Nate forward

CRUCIFIX PIN!!!

The entire crowd leaps to their feet.

Nick Stuart: “WAIT A SECOND—WAIT A SECOND!!!”

Jimmy Turnbull drops—

ONE!

TWO!!

THREE!!!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: “Here is your winner… THE EMERALD APEX… KERRRRRYYYYYYYY… KUROOOOOOYAMAAAAAAA!!!”

Nick Stuart:  “Kerry Kuroyama does it again, steals it, just like he said he would. A masterclass in precision, power… and maybe a little cold calculation.”

Richard Parker: “Steals it? No, no, no! He earned it. That wasn’t luck, Nick, that was brilliance. That was strategy. That crucifix came out of nowhere like a freight train with an MBA.”

Nick Stuart: “Colton had him reeling. One more second and we were looking at a Colton Clutch ‘24. You can’t tell me this doesn’t sting.”

Richard Parker: “It should sting. That’s what happens when you give someone like Kerry an inch. He doesn’t take a mile, he takes your air, your spine, and your pride. And I’m here for it!”

As is often the case, ReVival, the television show that is airing on the ACE Network at this very moment, so much so that you are actually watching it right now, finds itself in the backstage area of the arena.

Yes indeed, nothing quite like hallways and cameras to get the ole blood bumping on a fine Alberta day. Well not that fine, it’s a bit rainy and more cold than you’d like it, but it’s perfectly adequate really, brimming over with adequenceaquacity.

Why are backstage? Well, you’ll never guess what, the bloody Universal Champion is joyfully roaming around the corridors of Rogers Place, whistling a happy tune to himself, it’s as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Cecilworth Farthington, not scheduled for competition this evening, has the PRIME Universal Championship slung over his shoulder, and that shoulder is wearing a section of the cream coloured suit that the champion has elected to wear on this fine day. The champion is looking fresh, as if he just got a haircut he is very satisfied with, and that’s because that’s exactly what happened.

As if in the manner of a children’s television show host, he pretends he doesn’t see the camera, until he does. Then he asks mildly surprised.

Cecilworth Farthington: Oh wow, I didn’t see you there! Hello! It’s is me, The Farthington, your champion… actually scratch that, I don’t like what I just said, apart from the bit where we acknowledge that I am the champion of all the universe.

Cecilworth taps his foot, impatient at himself, as he gathers his thoughts.

Cecilworth Farthington: Nope, got it this time, I’m going to nail it.

Somewhere, a faint voice of a man in some kind of hat is imagined to have muttered “we’re live, pal”.

Cecilworth Farthington: Hello! It’s me, your pal, Cecilworth Farthington, and boy, last week a lot of people wanted to come out to the ring and say words during my scheduled time to say words. Then after they all went blah blah blah, I thought the whole thing was done, but instead an old Russian man burst into my dear friend LT’s office and spread a bunch of misinformation and lies because he was sad that someone planned for his bullshit for a change. Still, we must never grumble, it could be worse, I could be The Anglo Luchador, who I think must have gone through a traumatic brain injury during Manhunt…

As if he had casted a summoning spell that summons one of the people you’ve just mentioned right in front of you, The Anglo Luchador was now right in front of the Universal Champion, which was rather disappointing to the Universal Champion who normally likes to ramble at the camera uninterrupted thank you very much.

TAL: ‘Sup, British.

Farhthington sighs heavily in disappointment. Before he can retort, the Luchador speaks up again.

TAL: Look, I get it, for you, denial isn’t just a river in Egypt, and deflection is a pretty common tactic for one as…

The Luchador looks the Champion up and down.

TAL: You know what, I don’t even have it in my heart to insult you. I mean, you beat Ivan at Culture Shock, and I still kinda owe you for doing Arena Mexico for me last year. It would be sour grapes to return hostilities just because you think low of me, which, to be fair, you pretty much do the same for the entire roster.

Cecilworth Farthington: Thinking low of you is taking a great deal of presumption that I think of you at all.

TAL: I walked right into that one. Either way, no matter what you think in that head of yours, I did pin you during Manhunt. You. The Universal Champion.

Farthington rolls his eyes, shakes his head, and then motions with his hand for The Luchador to get to the point.

TAL: Generally speaking, Cece, where I’m from, that means that as a gentleman, and I am sure you consider yourself one even if you won’t admit it, you should give me a lil’ crack at that title. Y’know, unless you think you’d be embarrassed if little old me with a TBI might keep the hot streak going?

Cecilworth Farthington: Are we now in week four of a victory lap of managing to pin me in the fifty ninth minute of a chaotic battle that came twenty four hours after I already broke my body to claim the title you are chasing after?

Farthington seems less annoyed and more irritated at this point in the proceedings.

Cecilworth Farthington: For two years, my masked friend, I had to scratch and claw my way to even getting a shot at this title. Two. Years. I spent so long almost tasting it, I almost won the Almasy, but funnily enough lost to a shit ton of interference. I led a rag tag team that no one believed could do it to War Games victory. I tried to avenge my mentor against Cancer Jiles to launch my next challenge and oop, there’s that interference again. Of course that’s not forgetting I was in midst of SOMEONE TRYING TO MURDER ME.

Now it’s good ole TAL wondering where this is going.

Cecilworth Farthington: In every single one of those matches, I tried to stand alone, I tried to show the world that pure wrestling would always win out over gonzo bullshit. Curiously, you didn’t seem very up in arms about any of that, did you? Too busy hanging around with scum and pretending to be friends. You should thank FLAMBERGE by the way for doing you a massive favour.

TAL is likely less than satisfied with these remarks.

Cecilworth Farthington: I’m glad you’re here though because I’ve been hoping to expose the true you for a while. I loathe you not because you see the world is terms of a cartoon for toddlers, it’s because you don’t really believe in anything Mr. English Luchador. You’re a human weathervane and now the winds have blown enough to let you convince yourself that you’re a special boy who deserves treats because you pinned a broken man.

Cecilworth looks at the Universal Championship and back at TAL again.

Cecilworth Farthington: But here’s the good news. You didn’t have to swagger in here with bravado, because when I look at Manhunt, when I look at the score sheet, I was two people away from perfection. Total and utter perfection. You see, something dear got ripped away from me by Ivan and he has already been punished for it. You, Mr. Luchador, and our former belt spunking Five Star friend stopped me from finishing that job. So, how about next week, both of us healthy, both of us at our peaks, we step into that ring and I start correcting the universe.

The Luchador looks dead serious for a moment, like he’s about to allow Farthington’s words to make him do something he probably would regret five or so seconds afterwards. But then his facade cracks, and he breaks into laughter.

TAL: Oh man, you really are a pill, aren’t you? All you had to do was say “okay” and go back to tapping on your phone! Jesus tittyfucking Christ, there’s something wrong with all of you Glueboiz.

He belly-laughs again, much to the chagrin of the reigning and defending Universal Champion.

TAL: So I guess I’ll see you next week.

The Luchador turns to walk off but turns around, Columbo-style.

TAL: Just one more thing. I don’t know, or care to know, how Fabby is when the cameras aren’t rolling. But I think he’s a bit misunderstood, from the five minutes I had talking to, uh…

The Luchador backs up his thoughts for a moment.

TAL: …well, more like at him at the corgi pageant last year. Not gonna ask you to be nicer to him, but maybe he wouldn’t be so much of a nuisance if you got him a dog?

Farthington looks at TAL with confusion on who he is even talking about. After muttering “who’s Fabby?” under his breath, it finally clicks with him that he means fabby.

TAL: Just a thought. I’ll leave you to whatever it is you’re doing.

The Luchador walks off with a spring in his step. Cecilworth doesn’t really know what he was doing to be left to it. He rarely does.

ReVival moves on.

Nick Stuart: We’ve got a fight on our hands.

Richard Parker: And considering The Whoresmen and Red Army have decided to look out for each other on this show, I don’t think we’ll be seeing much of Hunter and his chances in this match.

Nick Stuart: We’ve seen others stand up to The Russian Bear, even when the odds are against them. I have no doubt Scott is going to be at his best.

Richard Parker: Five minutes, tops. Pack it up, pack it in, let me begin.

Nick Stuart: Since when do you listen to House of Pain?

Richard Parker: (Clearly not getting it) Listen to what now? I’m sorry?

Nick Stuart: (Sighing) Let’s go to ringside.

Vince Howard is there and waiting.

Vince Howard: This match. IS. FOR.

The long pause.

Vince Howard: ONE FALL!!!!!!!!!!!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Vince Howard: Introducing first… from Miami, Florida… weighing two-hundred-forty-five pounds… SCOTT HUNTER!

“Burning Hearts” by Survivor plays as Scott Hunter slowly strolls out, wearing his blue and yellow gear, with a tiny hint of pink on his wristbands, Vae Victis forever. As real as possible, he seems focused and determined. He slowly takes a deep breath and makes his way down the ramp.

Nick Stuart: Big match for Hunter. I don’t want to say “biggest”, I don’t like undermining anyone else on this roster. The truth is, from A-Z, anyone in PRIME can beat each other. However, Ivan Stanislav is a TWO time Universal Champion. Scott would be an idiot to think-

Richard Parker: Scott IS an idiot, Nick.

Nick Stuart: We’re going to see about that.

Hunter is near the apron, as he rolls under the bottom rope. There are no frills, he’s ready to go and waits in a corner.

“The Soviet National Anthem” by the Russian Red Army Choir roars through the soundsystem as the ring is enveloped in crimson.

Vince Howard: And his opponent… from Arkhangelsk, Russia.. he is a two-time Universal Title Champion and Leader of The Red Army! Standing 7’1” tall and weighing four-hundred pounds… IVAAAAANNNNN STANISSSSSLAAAAAVVVV!!!

Pyro erupts from the entryway, but there’s a massive shadow of motion behind the flames and smoke as The Russian Bear storms through the smoke and flame, blasting gouts of steam from his nostrils. The pyro and fireworks continue behind him, while Alexei Ruslan rushes behind Ivan to catch up.

Nick Stuart: You know, both Ivan and Alexei were in pretty good moods earlier this night, I wonder why he’s in such a rage now?

Richard Parker: I’m pretty sure this is just Ivan not being in a good mood, but also not in a bad mood. I think this is just what I’d call “resting Ivan” from now on.

Stanislav doesn’t bother taking his time to the ring like he normally does. There’s no taunting the fans, or walking around ringside. Ruslan doesn’t have time to goad the masses or sing Ivan’s praises.

Instead, Ivan storms the ring, leaping up onto the apron and literally rolling over the top rope along his huge back, landing on his huge feet in a seamless display that tells of a man who knows the wrestling ring like the back of his hand. There’s no time for a bell, no time for theatrics.

No. The Russian Bear charges directly at Hunter, fully intent on complete and utter destruction.

THUMP, THUMP, THUMP.

Nick Stuart: And Ivan Stanislav is already all over Scott Hunter with forearm smashes!

DING DING

Nick Stuart: Ashley Barlow is “late” with the bell but we are off!

Richard Parker: She’s “late” with the bell because there’s no way she’s going to get Ivan to back away.

Nick Stuart: I’m aware, I wasn’t saying it as a shot.

Stanislav seemingly bites Hunter in the right shoulder as pummels the man with blows at the same time. Next, Stanislav HURLS Hunter into a corner. Scott meets the pad so hard he flips up and on top of the ropes. Ivan screams as he comes roaring in and throws his entire body into Scott, knocking him off the buckle, out of the ring and onto the floor below altogether.

Nick Stuart: That wasn’t a wrestling move, instead that was a reckless attempt to destroy another human being!

Richard Parker: It worked, didn’t it? Hunter is a heap on the outside. I, for one, like a solid brawl.

Nick Stuart: I thought you appreciate good wrestling?

Richard Parker: A man can have many tastes, partner.

Ivan steps over the top rope and off the apron, as he lumbers towards the fallen Scott Hunter. He merely plucks Hunter off the floor and whips him into the ring post!

WHAM!

Hunter meets it head-first and stumbles onto his hands and knees. He crawls around, reaching out for the apron, hoping to pull himself up.

Nope.

Instead, however, Scott Hunter has found the legs of Alexei Ruslan. The evil manager (because of course he is evil), allows Hunter to try crawling up his leg before backing away at the command of referee Ashley Barlow. It looks like Hunter has gained a second wind, but Ivan Stanislav comes racing in. For as quickly as the Russian Bear can, he PUNTS Hunter in the stomach. Hunter leaves his hands and feet and SLAMS back down, like a pancake, on the floor.

Ivan points at Ashley Barlow, taking the attention away from Ruslan.

Everyone knows what’s coming.

Ruslan stomps relentlessly while the ref ain’t looking. They are pure shit stomps, mind you. But that’s kinda the point. The crowd is worked up and Hunter can only lay there and take them.

Ivan is done bitching and moaning about how useless Lindsay Troy is or whatever else he was rambling on about – most of it was in Russian anyway – and goes back to his opponent.

Ivan approaches Scott. The giant smirks. He leans down and snatches Hunter off the ground again.

Slinging him into the steel steps across the way.

Nick Stuart: LOOK OUT!

CRASH!

Scott Hunter goes KNEES FIRST into the steps, flipping completely over them, to the other side. The cameraman catches up and behind the steel steps, Scott Hunter looks DOA. Holding both knees, his face is in agony and he barely moves.

Ivan Stanislav marches towards the VVingman while Ashley Barlow is at a count of FIVE.

The giant is now in place to see Scott Hunter at the other side of the steps. It’s almost like, if not for a split second, Stanislav’s heart grows, like the Grinch. Except this isn’t a growth of love, friendship and sympathy. It’s more of the opposite. He’s happy, thrilled, if not elated to see Scott Hunter fucking dead at the soles of his feet.

Ivan leans down-

WHAP!

And the crowd comes ALIVE as Scott Hunter pumps a right fist into the bridge of Ivan’s nose, staggering the big man back.

Nick Stuart: I don’t care how big you are, a bullet straight into your nose hurts!

Yeah, Hunter is struggling. Oh he’s having issues trying to stand. He wasn’t playing possum, his knees took the brunt of the damage on the steps and he’s having a difficult time walking. But he hasn’t blown out both knees, he’s not there yet. With help from the apron, he stands and marches over to Stanislav.

WHAM, WHAM, WHAM!

Hunter with stiff-as-shit shots into the side of Ivan’s temple. He takes hold of the Russian’s head-

IMPLANT DDT!

Nick Stuart: Wow! Ivan ATE the mat!

It’s shocking to see the behemoth’s face stuck on the ground, while on his knees, completely frozen in time. Meanwhile, Scott Hunter takes a few steps away. It looks like Alexei wants to get involved but doesn’t, as Hunter charges.

MISSILE DROPKICK!

Aimed straight into Ivan’s face.

Hunter glances up, he sees Ashley Barlow making the EIGHT count, so Hunter limps over and rolls into the ring.

Then rolls back out.

Nick Stuart: I applaud this and so do the fans! A count out is not the way to win!

Richard Parker: Who says Ivan wouldn’t have made it back!? You announcers are SO biased!

Stuart lets the comment roll past him as Hunter is trying his best to pull Stanislav off the ground.

Nick Stuart: Scott Hunter is no small man himself. Two-forty-five, six-foot-three. He has power.

And that power is on display, because Hunter steers Ivan into the ring and then slips inside, too.

WAIT A SECOND – ALEXEI REACHES OUT AND TRIPS HUNTER FOR A SPLIT SECOND!!!

Knee drop, Ivan to Scott.

Elbow into the side of the forehead, Ivan to Scott.

Richard Parker: I told you! No way Ivan would’ve been counted out. Implant DDT or not, he’s back!

Nick Stuart: He had help!

Ivan roars upright and whips his opponent into the ropes-

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!

But the PRIMATES come alive as Scott Hunter DESTROYS Ivan’s face with a FLYING FOREARM!

Commence stomps. Lots and lots of stomps. To Ivan Stanislav’s legs.

Nick Stuart: I think we’ve moved from the opening stages here – where both men are trying to gain any advantage they can, to what we are seeing now. It’s a smart play to attack the base of Ivan, his legs. Therefore keeping him grounded.

You can see Scott cringe through the boots he delivers, still nowhere near 100% from almost blowing out his knees against the steel steps. However, the boots are going down hard and fast into Ivan Stanislav’s legs, while the Russian is trying to cover up, or shoo Hunter away, but can’t.

Hunter drops an elbow into Stanislav’s right knee. He pulls himself up… and drops another. Although the former champion has worked his way into the ropes, Hunter doesn’t care. He hangs Ivan’s right leg on the bottom rope and then hoists himself up in the air via the top rope, crashing his entire body weight down on the right knee.

Richard Parker: (Just clued in) Perfect set-up for the figure four!

Nick Stuart: You don’t say!

Three more times, Hunter hangs his opponent’s leg on the bottom rope and crashes his body through it. He drags Stanislav towards the center of the ring and tries for the figure four-

NO!

Ivan kicks Scott into a corner of the ring. Just as Hunter gains his balance and spins back around, Stanislav is aiming to get on his feet.

Hunter screams a blood thirsty cry as he runs across the mat, looking for perhaps another missile dropkick to the face.

SWOOSH!

Stanislav moves at the last second!

Ivan stumbles upright. He CRACKS Hunter in the ribs with a wicked right hand, peeling Scott off the mat and TOSSING, HURLING, THROWING Hunter right out of the ring!

The crowd boos as Ivan Stanislav stands, he has killed the annoying-

RRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!

Nick Stuart: OH MY GOD!

Scott Hunter, seething, hurting, nearly dying… is STANDING AT THE APRON and GOING BACK INTO THE RING.

Stanislav is furious. He charges at Hunter but Hunter low bridges the ropes and now both men are on the apron. Hunter completes a headbutt to Ivan, then takes the Russian by the head and dives off the apron and onto the floor.

THUMP!!!!!

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

Nick Stuart: SCOTT HUNTER- MY GOD! HE CONNECTS WITH A BULLDOG ALL THE WAY TO THE FLOOR!

Ivan Stanislav is D-O-FUCKING-A! For a brief second, it looks like Scott Hunter can’t believe what he accomplished! Hunter rolls to his knees, pounds his chest, and tries working the giant back into the ring for what might be a clear three count.

Oh, it’s a challenge alright. Yeah, Hunter is big and strong enough to move Ivan, but he’s also taken a beating-

BBBBBBBBBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Barlow misses it but Ruslan sneaks up behind Hunter and delivers a low blow! He was using the apron to hide behind and shield himself from view.

Cheers, however, soon follow.

Kerry Kuroyama has seen enough!! He’s marching down the rampway, pointing directly at Alexei, who has now quivered and backtracked far, far away from Hunter and Stanislav.

Nick Stuart: Kerry has come to even the odds!

Richard Parker: Some friend Kuroyama is, he wasn’t even out here until now!

Nick Stuart: I would say that is a friend, Richard. Kerry didn’t want to be involved. Instead, now he HAS to be based off what he’s witnessing. A good friend, whether you like it or not, will sometimes let a man stand on his own and that’s what Kerry was doing until now.

Richard Parker: The Moral Police, Nick Stuart.

Ivan Stanislav sees what’s going on. He’s come to, he’s upright, and limping. Needless to say, however, he is pissed off. He lifts the fallen Scott Hunter off the ground and with Hunter across his tree trunk arms, Ivan bellows a loud cry and RUNS both of them towards the ring post, with Hunter’s body held out in front.

SPLATTTTT!!

Nick Stuart: DAMMIT what a shot! Dammit to hell!

Richard Parker: So Scott probably broke his back. Big deal.

Ivan Stanislav, indeed, held Hunter’s body in his arms and totally crushed the guy in-between himself and the ring post!

To add insult to injury, Stanislav drops Hunter like a sack of potatoes and rolls into the ring. He demands Ashley Barlow keep her TEN count going. She’s at SIX.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think Ivan wants to win this way, to be honest with you. But with Kerry down at ringside now and checking on his Wingman, I’m sure strategy plays a role. The last thing Ivan Stanislav wants is this match to be thrown out. The damage is done.

Barlow is at EIGHT. Kuroyama’s on a knee, trying to console his teammate. Trying to see if there’s any life left…

Barlow reaches NINE. Scott Hunter is toast.

Barlow shouts TEN. It’s over.

…

…

…

So why didn’t the bell sound?

And why is the ENTIRE CROWD ON THEIR FEET!?!?

Nick Stuart: Edmonton, Alberta, Canada has WOKEN UP! Scott Hunter slid into the ring at the last possible second! He’s on his hands and knees, folks, but he’s in there!

The crowd is rallying TF around Scott Hunter as Ivan Stanislav stands across from him. The Russian can’t believe it! The former champion is irate. He’s about to blow a gasket!

Hunter shakes his hands up and down, feeding off the crowd. Is the VVingman becoming the hero PRIME needs?

Maybe.

Ivan BOOMS forward, looking to take down Scott Hunter once and for all.

WHAP!

Nick Stuart: KNEE-TO-FACE BUSTER! Hunter gets all of it!

However, it does NOT send the big man down.

The next move does.

Hunter bounces off the ropes and throws his entire body, like a hockey puck, a mad hockey puck through hell (because no doubt any supporter of Scott Hunter would know all about hockey and – WE’RE IN FUCKING CANADA, EH. Go Oilers go!) Anyway, Hunter hurls his whole body at the legs of Ivan Stanislav.

Like cutting down a large oak tree, or even a MAPLE SYRUP TREE, Stanislav starts to tumble.

Stanislav starts to fall!!

Hunter takes hold of Ivan’s legs…

Nick Stuart: There’s no way he does this… right? RIGHT!?

Even Richard Parker is getting worked up.

Richard Parker: SCOTT’S GOING FOR THE FIGURE FOUR!

And…

AND…

AND!!!

Nick Stuart: He’s got it locked in!

The Canadian crowd is ROARING, because everyone hates Russians and communism and all that shit. Needless to say, Scott Hunter has Ivan Bloody Stanislav in a figure four in the middle of the squared circle!

Kerry Kuroyama has his hands on his head! He’s bouncing around on the outside of the ring, super intensely. The roles have changed, he’s the VVingman now. He watches with pure focus, wondering if Ivan Stanislav is going to tap.

Ivan raises his hand.

And the crowd goes ballistic with boos because Alexei Ruslan is on the apron and wants to enter the ring!

Barlow is a damn good referee, though. She shouts at Alexei to get away but keeps her eyes on the figure four.

It doesn’t matter.

More boos roll into the stadium as the Red Army are making their way down. Dawkins, Freeman, Rose. Rose points at Kuroyama, as if Dawkins and Freeman needed direction on where to go. Kerry shoots up the rampway, ready to fight ‘em all.

While inside the ring, the crowd has worked into a frenzy, regardless… unfortunately for Scott Hunter, there is life left inside the Russian Empire.

Stanislav leans forward and on his last gasp, he clubs Hunter’s legs over and over and over, while also moving towards the ropes. However, Scott shows he’s crafty himself, he shouldn’t be outsmarted. He drops the figure four before Ivan can put his hands on the ropes (Stanislav was almost there anyway), sprints across and drops an elbow into the side of Stanislav’s temple.

WHAP!

Alexei Ruslan with a swift blow to Hunter from the outside, Barlow didn’t see it.

Ivan stands. It takes the man a while and damn, his legs are hurting. He’s walking with a limp but he is seething. He peels Hunter off the canvas and has him in a fireman’s carry.

Without a second though, he sends Scott Hunter OVER the ropes and into the Red Army crowd + Kerry Kuroyama!

Kerry and Scott are outnumbered, three-to-two on the outside, even though all five men are recovering, the writing is on the wall-

Clay Byrd.

No longer fiddling with the Xbox controller he was gifted, the Texan is ready to go.

Oh wait, he still has the controller.

SMACK!

He smashes Kenny Freeman in the head with it!

Holy shit, it’s pretty durable.

SMACK!

Clay levels Dawkins!

Totally durable! Where do they make these things? America? China? Hope there’s no tariffs.

SMACK!

…is the sound the controller would’ve made on Rose but she’s scrappy and fighting back. Clay missed his shot.

The Whoresmen are on their way! Dick, Daytona, Daniels, marching down the rampway to get in on the “fun”.

Scott Hunter is trying to make his way, throughout the madness, back to the ring. He limps towards the ropes… when Ivan Stanislav snatches him by the neck, pulls him up and over the top rope and clubs Hunter in the chest so bloody hard, everyone can hear it even though Clay and Kerry are trying to fight two different groups and six different wrestlers.

Ivan isn’t laughing. He’s not amused.

This is a message.

He peels Hunter from the canvas. You can see Scott wants to keep fighting but his eyes tell him he’s in trouble now.

Big trouble.

WHAP!

WHAP! WHAP! WHAPPPPPPPP!

Nick Stuart: Man, those are wicked blows!

Hunter receives a swelling of cheers. He refuses to stay down, despite his body language suggesting he’s been quite overwhelmed in the last thirty seconds.

Outside the ring, it’s clear the number’s game has caught up to Vae Victis. Inside the ring, too, offers little hope.

Stanislav drags Hunter upright. A huge palm crack across the chest is incoming and Ivan is going to love delivering the message.

…

There’s no message. Scott Hunter moves out of the way, hits the ropes and throws himself at Stanislav’s legs once more. The giant falls backwards and rumbles into the ropes, the only reason he’s still on his feet because the ropes were there. Hunter pulls himself together. He charges at Ivan once more…

They both fall out of the ring as Hunter crashes into Stanislav and the force sends them through the ropes.

The Russian is up. So is Hunter. Whatever’s going to happen to them is slowly taken over by two members of Vae Victis trying to battle Red Army Whores.

Security comes racing out. Kenny Freeman is being held back by one of them, likely allowing it to happen. And yet, this all out brawl has worked its way directly beside the ring.

And now inside it.

DING DING DING

The crowd boos as Barlow calls for the bell. Either she administered a ten count, or there was just too much going on. Ivan and Scott were caught in the action and catching strays.

The end result, though, appears to be the Whoresmen and Red Army have worked the three VV men down, while security tries for more separation.

Vince Howard: I’m being told this match has been ruled NO CONTEST!

Boos. Loud and clear.

Nick Stuart: Scott Hunter held his own, there’s no doubt about that!

Richard Parker: And yet give Ivan two more minutes in the ring and he was going to finish it off.

ReVival heads to commercial break as the chaos tries to simmer.

Outside a door in a hall in a backstage corridor of Rogers Place. We briefly see a sign on the door marked “Guite Gloffice Gluem Glest Guite” before the door itself opens and the PRIME Tag Team Champions emerge.

FLAMBERGE and Joe Fontaine. Two resplendent boys. Two jolf enthusiasts. Two dudes who went to Church’s Chicken and had a bit of a brain melt before fighting some Russians that one time. If not for professional wrestling – if not for PRIME – perhaps they would have never crossed paths. Thank goodness they did.

FLAMBERGE is in his standard teal and copper ring gear, as we’re mere minutes away from tonight’s main event. Joe is not, and that’s fine.

Joe Fontaine: …you ready?

FLAMBERGE: Ouais, I am ready. Are you ready?

Joe Fontaine: What am I supposed to be ready for again?

FLAMBERGE: Oh! Sorry, I thought you had a thing.

Joe Fontaine: No, no “thing”, not that I remember anyway.

FLAMBERGE: Oh.

Joe Fontaine: Cool.

FLAMBERGE rubs his hands to his arms a bit – not quite an expression of feeling cold, but feeling like there’s some sort of existential itch that he can’t quite place his finger on, but that he knows must be scratched. Joe studies his friend’s lowered face as best he can and comes up with a diagnosis pretty quickly.

Joe Fontaine: …you’re thinking about jolfing right now, aren’t you?

FLAMBERGE: Well! You are the one who made me addicted, non? C’est le stress relief, and I am the very stress…

Joe Fontaine: Ah, there it is – I knew something was up. You’re stressed out about facing Jason Snow, aren’t you?

FLAMBERGE: …non?

Joe Fontaine: C’mon, buddy…

Joe takes two steps back, re-entering the door frame of the Guite.

Joe Fontaine: This is a safe space to talk.

FLAMBERGE: Ouais, fine, you caught me, ok? Yes, I want to bash the shit out of the things with the jolf clubs to calm the nerves. But you heard the rumor too, non? About Jason Snow? About certain…crimes…he may or may not be committing?

Joe Fontaine: Listen FLAMBO, I get it, ok? And I’m in a unique position here to ease your fears, so let me be the one to reassure you. Let Papa Joe help.

Joe takes a short breath and paces a hand on FLAMBO’s shoulder.

Joe Fontaine: I’ve been around this stuff a lot, ok? As someone who was murdered once, and as someone who did a revenge murder too that wasn’t even that long ago but now somehow my murder victim is not only totally fine but he also just fought in a match earlier tonight and what’s up with that – the rumors are NOT true about Jason Snow, ok?

FLAMBERGE lifts his head to look squarely in Joe’s eyes.

Joe Fontaine: Jason Snow is not Andy Culture from WhatMurray under an assumed identity.

The Frenchman takes a deep breath and sighs. The words are indeed reassuring.

FLAMBERGE: …I guess you are right.

His arms are still a bit tense, and Joe can see that he’s only partially gotten through to his best bud.

Joe Fontaine: …it’s the jolfing, isn’t it?

FLAMBERGE: …

Joe Fontaine: Look, I don’t think we can squeeze in a round right now, but how about this – tonight, after your match, win or lose and as long as you’re not in the hospital, we’ll hit the links, ok? JNJ, Jlate Night Jolf, you and me.

FLAMBERGE: …you really mean it?

Joe Fontaine: Anything for my bro! We’re in Canada, there’s plenty of open space around here, we can definitely make it work.

The knowledge that the sport of Violently-Modified Chair Swinging is on the horizon pleases the Lizard King, and he stops involuntarily clutching at his arms. He even stands up a bit straighter and taller, and looks every bit the Neck Collector we all know and…love? Hate? Guess it depends a bit.

FLAMBERGE: You better not take the practice swings before my match is done, ok?

Joe Fontaine: Well, you better choke out Andy M…rrrJason Snow pretty quickly then, or I’m going to be the warmdest’d upped man you’ve ever seen!

FLAMBERGE’s face is puzzled for a half second – some of that wasn’t any English he’s aware of – but he lets it go before smirking at his tag team partner and making his way down the hall towards the ring. Joe watches from the Guite doorway.

Joe Fontaine: …better make sure our clubs are ready to go. fabby?

Joe turns and re-enters the Guite in earnest. He looks at all the places he normally remembers furniture to be – in corners, along walls, with plenty of space for walking around. He even starts looking beneath some of the furniture, which is wild when you consider how few couches are found beneath other couches. No luck finding fabby.

Joe Fontaine: Where is that stupid fabby?…ugh, where the HELL.

Joe begins searching a bit more frantically, opening and shutting cabinets, rifling through this that and the other, opening one of Hayes Hanlon’s gin bottles and peering inside. Still no luck.

Joe Fontaine: fabby! Bark twice if you hear me!

Joe continues the search that everyone paying attention at home knows will be fruitless as we cut away.

We move on.

Back at ringside, one man stands in the center of the ring with the spotlight upon him. That man is Vince Howard.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, it is now time for the MAIN EVENT OF THIS EVENING!

RAHHHHHHHHH!!!

There is no music or anything to herald what comes next.

Brace yourselves, because it’s…

The Most Obnoxious Voice You’ve Ever Heard, Complete With New England-ish Accent: Now what I need right now, is for everybody in this frozen hell of a third rate piece of shit arena, to SHUT… THE FUCK… UP!!!

Nick Stuart: Oh no.

Richard Parker: I think you need to follow directions.

Nobody in the building follows the directions.

At the top of the ramp we find Mr. Hell on Wheels himself, Rexton William Bader, microphone in hand, leading the one and only Jason Snow to the ring. Bader looks pretty much like a chair-bound Tony Clifton in army greens and a stars-and-stripes bandana. And of course, strapped to his chair, is the oxygen tank he never seems to use for anything but cheap shots. Even from our distant view, we can see a couple of dents reflecting light.

Jason Snow, meanwhile, is all business, as has been the case these past few months. He’s dressed in a white track suit with its hood up, his head down, which makes him look like some strange new age druid.

No music.

Just Bader.

Rexton William Bader: Yeah, sure, boo. Gah head. Gah head. Boo. Show your stupidity live on television, immortalized on YouTube and wherever the fuck else. Boo the greatest physical specimen this sport has ever seen–a multi-time CHAMPION, a multi-time HALL OF FAMER–and then go home and eat Spaghettios and jerk off while your cat watches. Gah head.

Nick Stuart: Not exactly making friends with Snow’s home country, with Snow about to take on FLAMBERGE in our main event tonight. I promise, folks, if you can just tolerate this for a few more minutes, we have a great match in store for you.

Bader’s rolling along slowly.

Rexton William Bader: You know since we landed in this frozen shit hole of a city two days ago I’ve been tryin’ to figure out who farted, but the only conceivable answer is FUCKING EVERYBODY! ALL AT ONCE! ALL THE TIME!

BOOOO!

Richard Parker: You’re lying if you don’t think he has a point.

Nick Stuart: I can’t even…

Rexton William Bader: Now. Now, look at this. Jason Snow. Right here.

Jason Snow slides into the ring, pops up, and, calmly, begins removing layers to get down to his no-nonsense ring gear. Just another fight. Bader remains outside, rolling a around the ring apron, singing his praises.

Rexton William Bader: The Apex predator. The single greatest professional athlete you will ever be lucky enough to witness with your own personal eyes. And let’s hope to God this is the last time you ever get to witness him because if I ever have to fly back to this shit hole, I’m gonna demand more money for my client here. Let me make this clear, you fat fucks, YOU DO NOT DESERVE THIS! YOU, yes you, ARE UNWORTHY OF WITNESSING THE GREATNESS THAT’S ABOUT TO UNFOLD IN FRONT OF YOU! You’re about to see the best that this sport has to offer work his motherfuckin’ wonders. So once again…

Nick Stuart: Oh God.

Rexton William Bader: …You should all just SHUT… THE FUCK… UP!

Someone at the PA system does not get the memo, because…

♫…

BOOORAHHHBOOOOO!!!!!!!

♫, ♫

♫…♫, ♫

♫…♫, ♫

♫…oh, shit.

“OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI

OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI

OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI

OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI”

As “ooh la la” by Run The Jewels featuring DJ Premier & Greg Nice blares through the speakers, teal and copper sparks shoot out around the stage. A series of nicknames flash across the screen:

PRIME WRESTLER OF THE YEAR 2023

THE BEARDED DRAGON

THE LIZARD KING

LE PROTAGONISTE

GRAND SLAM CHAMPION

THE YOUNGEST LEGEND ALIVE

THE NECK COLLECTOR

F L A M B E R G E

Blindingly bright and freshly polished Tag Team Championship around his waist, the Frenchman soaks in the loud negative-skewing reception from the crowd and confidently takes a lap around the ring.

Vince Howard: INTRODUCING! From Strasbourg, France, weighing in at 206 pounds…he is one half of the PRIME Tag Team Champions…representing the Glueminati…FLAAAAAAMBERRRRRRRGE!

Nick Stuart: Every member of the Glueminati continues to ride high following the events of Culture Shock, and FLAMBERGE enters tonight’s main event undefeated in 2025.

Richard Parker: I’ll tell you right now, if 2025 turns into another 2023 for this kid, the whole roster is in BIG trouble. I’ve heard from a very serious source that the Glueminati takes odd years very seriously.

Nick Stuart: Was the source

(Nick and Richard in unison): Joe Fontaine?

Richard Parker: Yes, ok, maybe it was Joe Fontaine, but still – the proof is in the pudding!

FLAMBERGE stomps to the top of the ring steps. With one foot on the bottom rope, he unstraps his championship and holds it aloft to a fresh chorus of 70/30 boos/cheers, before finally entering the ring and handing his championship to Elvis Nixon. The two legends of PRIME head to opposite corners.

DING DING

Snow circles, both men choose to stalk their prey in the early going as FLAMBERGE meets his pace. Snow starts to close the gap and steps towards the middle of the ring. He starts to step forward and lets loose a big overhand right, but FLAMBERGE dances away with a smirk on his face.

Nick Stuart: Not going to connect with FLAMBERGE like that.

Richard Parker: No, not at all.

FLAMBERGE mouths ‘no’ to Snow and smirks a bit more. The arrogance oozes from FLAMBERGE as Snow comes back in. A workman’s like pace, left hand high, right hand locked and loaded. The death circles continue, FLAMBERGE picks up the pace by a hair, causing Snow to pivot quicker. The Frenchman changes direction and half lunges at Snow. Jason rips off a knee but FLAMBERGE dances away, the youngster’s very punchable smirk still there.

Nick Stuart: Gamble doesn’t pay off for either man, and we reset.

Snow comes to the center of the ring, and FLAMBERGE continues his circling dance. A little jog to pick up the pace and back Snow out of the center. Flambo takes a step in with a thunderous kick to Snow’s leg. Snow flinches from the smack, but doesn’t back down. The lizard king fires another vicious whip of his leg, like an iguana striking with his tail. Snow flinches again, but this time steps forward with a stumbling right hand. Flambo dances away, the punishment delivered.

Richard Parker: That leg kick is going to hurt tomorrow.

Nick Stuart: For the next week.

Snow looks down and snarls at the welts forming across his shin and steps back to the center. His left hand up and marching towards FLAMBERGE. The tag team champion lets him come, Snow is more cautious. The right hand stays back, but FLAMBERGE’s right leg flicks forward into Snow’s thigh just above the knee. Snow grimaces, the blow hyper-extends his knee backwards slightly, but Snow still comes forward. He rips a jab that FLAMBERGE dances backwards from. The perfectly technical one-two follows, the overhand right rips forward and FLAMBERGE ducks underneath. He lets rip a left hook that smashes into Snow’s ribcage. Snow winces but brings his right knee up at FLAMBERGE, the intent is connecting with brain matter but FLAMBERGE manages to shift his head at the last second. The knee dancing off the lizard’s shoulder as he trots back from the exchange, having gotten the better of Snow for a second time.

Richard Parker: Snow looks a hair slow.

Nick Stuart: I think FLAMBERGE just has him timed.

On the outside, Fontaine can be heard shouting nonsense like ‘Punch him in the dick!’ and Bader is clapping and shouting to Snow. Neither combatant acknowledges the corner, and the two men collide again. FLAMBERGE toys with Snow with a jab. Snow fires one back and FLAMBERGE manages to let it glance off of his cheek. He pulls his left hand back from the jab, but only partially, he twists and puts his body behind the short rabbit left hook and it staggers Snow. Jason rips a left hook to the body of FLAMBERGE, the blow is stunted by The Lizard King throwing a downward right that smashes into Snow’s neck at the same time.

Richard Parker: Ouch.

Snow throws a big uppercut, but FLAMBERGE backs away from a fellow universal champion, leaving Snow to find brisk Canadian air. Flambo keeps the smirk but this time Snow follows. The overhand right is unleashed again, FLAMBERGE manages to Matrix step it at the last second, the blow glancing off of the tip of his nose. FLAMBERGE spins and cuts off the pressure with a kick to the side of Snow’s knee. Jason flinches and backs out of range a step.

Nick Stuart: If these two are going to do it like this, Snow’s going to need to learn how to check a leg kick at some point.

Richard Parker: You’re telling me, he’s letting them get chopped up.

Snow resets his stance and comes back forward. FLAMBERGE dances to his right, but Snow anticipates it and cuts him off with a half thrown side kick. FLAMBERGE takes the bait and changes direction. The feint a success, Snow gets his in an instant and once again fires the overhand right. This time the blow glances off of Flambo’s collar bone and skips into his jaw. FLAMBERGE is floored in an instant. He hits the mat and rolls onto his backside, he looks at Snow, the smirk is gone, a brief moment of shock and he scoots backwards as Snow tries to pursue the downed dragon.

Nick Stuart: Big right hand for Snow!

Richard Parker: Ouch! FLAMBERGE deflected that off of his shoulder and that right hand still almost took his head off.

Nick Stuart: Snow’s had it loaded up all night, he’s been looking for it, and FLAMBERGE finally stepped into it.

A cornered animal is dangerous though and the lizard king lashes out, springing upwards with menace and slams the oncoming Snow in the chest with a rising knee. Snow whips his head away from the danger but the blow to the chest stops Snow’s murderous pursuit. Flambo’s attack is relentless though, a low kick stabs at Snow’s calf, and a spinning backfist forces Snow to scramble before he’s ready. He backs away from the blow, and now it’s FLAMBERGE’s pursuit. Snow is less effective at dancing away, and has to block a right hand with a shell defense that leaves his midsection open for a crippling left roundhouse kick to the liver.

Richard Parker: He’s not going to shit right for a month.

Nick Stuart: That liver kick is dangerous!

Snow’s body shudders for a second, almost shutting down. But his innate fight or flight programming takes over in an instant and Snow blasts FLAMBERGE with a straight right hand that connects with the lizard’s cheek and slows his pace for a moment allowing Snow to regain his composure. Bader takes a brief swing at FLAMBERGE’s legs that reminds the tag team champion of his existence. FLAMBERGE barks something to the old man and turns back around into a left jab from Snow.

Nick Stuart: That loud mouthed son of a…

Richard Parker: Great tactics there from Bader!

The blow staggers the frenchman and Snow comes in with a left hook to the body! Fontaine begins coming around the ring, shouting at Bader menacingly with a trusty jolf club. Bader throws his hands up and begins shouting more at FLAMBERGE. Inside the ring the combat continues. The left hook smashes FLAMBERGE’s ribs and the overhand right is a heat seeking missile that the tag team champion has to put his hands up for. The blow glances off his forearm and he flails a straight right of his own forward that jabs Snow just below the jaw and into his chest. The length of FLAMBERGE’s arm and the stiffness of the blow is enough to keep Snow far enough away that Flambo can pivot off of his right foot and smashes Snow in the midsection with a kick that is mostly shin and knee to Snow’s rib cage.

Nick Stuart: Another big connection for FLAMBERGE, but it looked desperate.

Richard Parker: Of course it was desperate, he’s dealing with a big mean man swinging his big mean fists at him.

The kick is enough to stop Snow, and the lizard king is back on the offensive. A left hand darts in that backs Snow up, followed by a straight right kick to the midsection, the blow only connects with the toes and Snow continues his retreat. FLAMBERGE faints a left hook and spins with a right backfist, trying to catch Snow circling, but Snow ducks under and returns fire with a right hook to the midsection and rushes forward with a knee that takes the air away from the Frenchman’s lungs.

Nick Stuart: Right to the diaphragm.

Richard Parker: He’s looking for air that isn’t there, Nick.

The tag team champion tries to dance backward but his body doesn’t move like it did before and Snow’s straight left smashes him in the jaw. FLAMBERGE’s momentum backwards is fueled from the blow and Snow is forced to follow. He swings a wild right, but it smacks FLAMBERGE in the chest, and FLAMBERGE is able to stab him with a jab to the mouth. The blow busts Snow’s lip open, the blow snaps Snow’s head backwards but Snow pushes forward, looking to impose his will on FLAMBERGE. The frenchman and Snow clinch up, and Flamberge is quick to look for a second hand behind Snow’s head, but Snow steps forward with a jab to Flambo’s ribs. FLAMBERGE ignores the blow, seeing a chance to try to claim his prize.

Nick Stuart: Snow’s busted open…

He yanks Snow’s head down and lets his left arm slide around the side of Snow’s head. He thrusts his forearm under Snow’s chin and reaches with his right hand for the choke. Snow manages to rip at FLAMBERGE’s hand and yank his head free. The sweat and blood make Snow slick, and he comes up from the choke attempt with a clubbing right hand that smashes a darting FLAMBERGE in the shoulder, and he brings a left hook that dashes across FLAMBERGE’s temple and the blow glances across, skipping above FLAMBERGE’s eyebrow.

Richard Parker: FLAMBO’S OPEN!

Snow’s knuckles skip above FLAMBERGE’s eye and open a gash above the brow. Flambo keeps flowing backwards and away from Snow to the center of the ring. The blood flies across the canvas and Snow marches forward towards FLAMBERGE. FLAMBERGE continues backwards and Snow descends on the tag team champion. Flambo backs his way into the corner, and snow brings a body shot. Flambo manages to get his arms down to his sides to block Snow throws a right hook, but FLAMBERGE manages to kick outwards and smash Snow in the chest. The blow knocks Snow back, but Jason responds with a diving punch that connects across Flambo’s face in the corner. FLAMBERGE’s head shoots backwards and Snow lays the arm across the neck of the tag team champion and drives body shots into Flambo’s stomach.

Nick Stuart: Flambo’s on the ropes!

Richard Parker: Snow’s got him!

Bader is shouting at Snow, Fontaine looks horrified in the corner and is waving his arms like a bird, I guess trying to get the crowd to do something! They are doing something, shouting with oohs as Snow fires away into the tag team champions stomach. FLAMBERGE slumps in the corner as Nixon finally jumps in and separates the two, he was counting behind Snow, but nobody really noticed. Snow backs off as FLAMBERGE takes a moment to collect himself.

Nick Stuart: Snow hurt him!

Richard Parker: Don’t take your eyes off him!

Snow darts in again past Nixon and throws FLAMBERGE down the length of the rope. Flambo half bounces, half rolls. Jason brings a right hand to the back of Flambo’s head, FLAMBERGE tries to scramble away and Bader takes another swipe with his oxygen tank. Flambo scrambles away and into an oncoming Snow boot to the midsection. Nixon turns and shouts at Bader as Fontaine begins to scramble around the ring shouting.

Nick Stuart: Bader again!

Richard Parker: Snow with that boot! Caught the kid between a rock and a hard thing.

Flambo rolls away from Snow on the defensive. Snow follows Flambo down to the ground, he grabs the rolling Frenchmen around the waist. Flambo manages to spin and drop to his back. Snow falls into Flambo’s guard and the frenchman goes to work quickly. His legs flash up quickly, and he tries to triangle choke Snow, Jason pushes himself forward and brings a forearm down that pulls the legs back. Snow lunges again, and the lizard king manages to rotate his hips and puts Snow on his face.

Nick Stuart: Big swing from Snow and it doesn’t pay off!

Richard Parker: Flambo’s agility makes him deadly on the ground.

FLAMBERGE has Snow’s back and begins looking for a rear naked choke. Snow fights Flambo’s hands expertly and he manages to keep the choke from being locked in. Snow manages to claw his way up to his feet during Flambo’s neck perversion. Once to his feet, Snow rotates with an elbow that catches the lizard king across the jaw. FLAMBERGE stumbles back and Snow keeps coming. On the outside…

Nick Stuart: Dangerous situation for Snow, but he stayed calm and cool.

Outside of the ring, Rexton William Bader is wheeling around furiously. Perhaps he’s waiting for another opportunity to strike down a Glueboi with his trusty oxygen tank. Perhaps he’s looking to yell at someone else.

Unbeknownst to him, though, a shadow lurks behind him.

This shadow wears green, looks kinda like a douchebag, and he’s missing a key part of the Glueminati’s furniture. Where’s his fabby at? Who knows!

Nick Stuart: What is this… What is Joe Fontaine doing?

Richard Parker: Imbecile things.

He taps Bader on his left shoulder and then ducks right when he turns to see who did that. Bader quickly turns to see Joe Fontaine dabbing in front of him. He doesn’t like it. He goes to deal with the idiot before him and… He can’t move.

The imbecile jammed what appears to be the 4-iron – the chair on a chain – into the wheels of his chair. Oh, how he fumes. He fumes more when Joe Fontaine does a literal moonwalk away from Bader and back towards the Glueminati side of the ring.

Richard Parker: …What.

Nick Stuart: He neutralized Bader!

Richard Parker: Are you implying Fontaine isn’t an idiot?

Inside the ring Snow charges forward. He looks for a double leg takedown, and FLAMBERGE strikes like a cobra. He springs forward and wraps his legs around Snow’s torso. His arm wraps around Snow’s neck. Snow tries to tuck his chin, but it’s too late. He reaches for FLAMBERGE’s hands, but the grip is already made. The lizard king yanks at Snow’s neck furiously. His eyes are wide and he’s yanking back, arching his back for leverage. Snow holds for a moment. On the outside, Bader is furiously waiving his oxygen tank, three feet from the ring.

Richard Parker: The blood and sweat! It’s making Snow slippery!

Snow tries to yank his head out, the back of his head starts to slide, but Flamberge slides a leg down and kicks at Snow’s thigh. Snow wobbles and falls to a knee, the pressure is too much and FLAMBERGE yanks him to the ground and begins to roll furiously. Snow taps during the roll and Nixon calls for the bell and begins to pull FLAMBERGE away.

DING DING DING

Nick Stuart: Flamberge, even on the retreat is a dangerous man!

Richard Parker: I think Snow’s beard kept him from getting out of that.

Nick Stuart: Could have been… What a fight though, my word.

Richard Parker: Absolutely brutal.

Snow rolls to the outside clutching his neck as Fontaine slides into the ring and wraps the PRIME tag team championship around his waist. Nixon raises FLAMBERGE’s hand.

Vince Howard: Your winner by submission… FLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMBERGEEEEEEE!

Snow snarls back into the ring, an opportunity lost as FLAMBERGE’s music hits.

FADE. 

TO.

GLUE.