Ghosts, bro.

Have you ever seen a ghost?

I see one every day, bro.

A brohst, if you will.

Mine looks just like me if he were on top and had babes flanking him by the tens on each side, knowwhaddamsayyyiiin’?

He’s got bling, bro, and a belt, double belt bro, and such a fuckin’ sweet merch line they sell it on Amazon at full fuckin’ price, bro!

He’s not real. He’s what could have been. He’s the bro I wish… I want to be.

The Broiest bro ever to bro in the big bad business of brofessional body launching.

He’s the bro who could go straight to those pearly gates, brosiah…

But that bro… he’s a ghost.

Man in the mirror knows there’s certain sins to commit before the hourglass runs out.

There’s a coldness to a ticking clock, bro.

Most people would take it as a slight, a cut off, or a limit to what they can do, hotdog.

Truth is… it’s a fuckin’ chance to make your mark.

An opportunity to turn it all around and make… one… mark… on this world.

I don’t know if this is that moment but it’s certainly a chance to show London who fucks and who don’t. It’s been a minute since I had a chance to show people what the King Kong Hot Dog can do.

Guess I do have to get down and do some dirty work…

First job is takin’ Fred Dick to fuckin’ the dumpster, bro.

- - - - -

Crash sits awkwardly close to the side of the plane and stares out the window like a real life child. He abruptly changes his gaze toward the other passengers of this private HOTDOGS plane. Nobody seems to care when he jams his finger into the plane window plastic thing.

“That’s Big Ben, bro!”

This is nuts, dude. How much is Mr. Brozarian spending on this fighter jet?

“Hey…”

Big Ben speeds by the Bro like a sneeze. He watches as the clouds get heavier and the plane seems to go…

“Up?”

This is when our hero turns to the guide on his quest to glory. The redheaded vixen beast lady who stomps people but also won his heart with a right hook.

How Cupid’s arrow soars, my bro.

“So there is a sexy time romantic layover after all, Purps! You naught-”

“Nooooo. No, no, no.”

Violent Purple is already preparing her rebuttal with a device. The same device she’s held for a few days forehand. The type that makes everything seem ominous. Crash looks back over his shoulder.

“Don’t look at me. I’m just ‘ere for ze show.”

Broque LaRoque shrugs, passing attention to his brother, Jacque. He’s lounging back, steering the plane with a serious amount of indifference as he sips his espresso. Pinky Up.

“Two ‘ours until touchdown.”

Violent Purple seems to be the only one alert on this mission. Her mission. It becomes extremely evident that she’s got a lot more at stake than anyone else inside this flying tin can.

“Look, fuckface one, two, and three. I didn’t want to be here. I certainly did not ask for… this.”

The eyeroll she sends Crash’s way is so over the top he can’t help but grin, like an idiot.

“The fact is… you’re the only ones who can help me.”

Purps… girl?

“I haven’t heard from my aunt… since… jesus.”

VP breaks down a little. So little that it’s really a lot. She’s the toughest lady Crash’s ever been punched in the face by. She stole his heart in one swing. The Hot Dog Hero reaches out to do his best attempt to console Violent but she kicks up, swiping his hand away like a Serena backhand.

“Look. It’s not a pity party. I… I just can’t do this alone. I need to find my aunt…”

Crash can’t help that feeling he got when he found Fred Dick in the locker rooms, trying to steal from children before professing his love for bumpers. He knows that the swelling up isn’t a cry, or a tear, but being presented with the choice to do the right thing or the wrong thing.

“Just want to throw this out there, Purps…”

Another nod over his shoulder brought Broque LaRoque into this while he flips through the pages of Airplanes Quarterly. His reaction suggests he’s not entirely on board with what’s about to come out of Crash’s pretty face.

“Couth is a bitch, bro.”

Jacque falls back in his chair but somehow keeps control of the plane.

“Mon dieu! ‘Ave zome respect! Zis lady’s aunt may be in danger!”

Violent somehow holds back her nerves to glare at Crash. He shrugs apologetically before standing to her attention. With wide open arms, Crash gestures toward the entirety of the plane.

“What’s the plan, gang gang?”

VP begrudgingly stops her scowling to display her phone. It’s got a big green dot on it. She taps it with a “LOOK AT THIS FUCKFACE!” amount of force. Crash’s expression goes from curious to one with a good amount of concern.

“This says… she’s here.”

Crash’s eyes drift up from her super glorious bosom to her actual eyeballs and sees something he hasn’t seen in a long time. It’s not dependence. It certainly isn’t attraction. It’s not even kindness. It's a threat level midnight concern.

“Jacque…”

Crash spins, nodding to Broque and grabbing the leather chairs like only Shatner can do it. There’s a significant pause, where everyone turns and stares at Crash, who is apparently taking on the charge of leading this group of mashed up misfits.

It’s not Baltimore… not Bangkok….

“We’re goin’ to… Belgium, bro!”

“Belarus, idiot.”

Whiff, broooo

Violent slaps Crash’s shoulder, for once, with a playful amount of energy before remembering he’s not as cute as he is at this moment and feels the pain of not knowing where her aunt is or is she’s even fucking safe. She cracks him with a rapid left jab that stings like a bee. He legit fucked up though so quickly pivots in cadence and brushes it off.

I’m okay… I’m a big tough boy…

“Jacque…”

Crash offers a fist bump to Broque and a wink to VP. so cool that she wonders if that jab actually hurt him and then thinks back to the focus of the mission. She jerks her hand up, giving the Northern Light room to reveal the new flight plan.

“Turn this bird around! We’re goin’ to Belarus.”

There’s no love in this room. It’s dark as fuck. Crash only knows this because he’s under the lone light and sitting in a chair in his ring attire.

- - - - - - -

Do I have a match, bro?

There’s footsteps in the distance. Multiple pairs, if sounds mean things, and it’s confusing for our intrepid hero. He stands up but is quickly cut off by a screeching sound, prompting him to sit back down with the screech cutting off.

“Do you really think you’re going to be here… at the end?”

Whoa, bro. Is this an Inside Pitch close up? Get off my di-

“Crash, he’s using you.”

From behind, or above, or wherever, the seductive voice from the darkness changes. That’s comforting for a split second before Buffalo’s Finest thinks about the actual words just spoken into his earholes.

What can I even be used for? I have one win. That’s a single digit, bro. One finger.

Crash kips up, noticing that the familiar voice means he might not be in Hell after all. It’s not as sarcastic as normal but it’s fuckin’ the same seductive, sexy voice he’s had in his head for months.

Which are years for this dog, dawwwwwgggg

“But we are friends, Crash Jackson…”

That creeping tone comes back into play.

My friends call me Crash… It’s a TRAP!

“Bro, we are the best bros!”

The darkness shudders, causing Crash to shudder, and he sits back down with caution. The wind, or whispers, or whatever the fuck is going on makes this clear that the end is not near to this… experience?

Whatever the hell this is…

“You think Max cares about you?”

The blurry yet clear image of Max sending Crash on that Nashville Hot Chicken story plays through magic visions. The Northern Light stomps his foot, slamming his fist.

“I need that recipe, bro!”

Is it the buttermilk marinade? I do that and the pickle juice already!

Crash can finally stand on his own two feet. He doesn’t know for sure he’s in a safe environment but looks toward the latest voice he’s heard.

“Can I go now, bro?”

The voices don’t subside.

“He’s evil… dark one, is in his soul…”

Crash can leave, he’s free of constraints. His focus darts around like a goldfish. There’s another magic vision that stops him in his tracks.

“You will find this truth….”

The display of Max, rubbing his hands together, and that grim fuckin’ grin flows overhead through more of this dark wizardry. It prompts His Crashness to narrow his focus beyond and into the darkness. The footsteps seem to stop just before they breach into the light.

“Pain will guide you.”

Pain? I’m not sure I wanna do tha-

BZZT BZZT BZZT BZZT BZZT

The alarm goes off, jarring the Hot Dog Hero from yet another fuckin’ strange dream. A lot like his last one, it felt as real as a jamming his finger and gave him an uneasy feeling. He tries to push all other thoughts aside and focus on beating Fred Dick.

That was fuckin… woof. I think I need a hot dog.

Darting out of bed with emphasis in the middle of the night, Crash goes to fight the scaredy cats away with a healthy half-dozen doggies to get him ready for sleepies again.

- - - - - - -

WELCOME TO Puhpfenbergen

The sign is clear as day in the dark of night. The four passengers inside this rental van share a look of concern towards one another, the best they can. Jacque steers through muddy backroads of this seemingly desolate Eastern European plot of the past. Broque cradles his sturdy frame on a handle in the back, leaning toward the copilot, Violent Purple.

“Miz Violent, per’aps we pull over to-”

The phone bings. Violent Purple can’t help but elbow poor HOTDOGS security guy in the face. She points.

“Left here.”

Jacque is a bit offended by the look on his face. He’s the pilot and the driver and all the things in charge of things with wheels and joysticks and all that fancy language.

“Madmoisellse, if you don’t stop putt-”

“There.”

The sight was breathtaking. Not in all the same ways you might think of but in grief. The former MEAT? Factory was gone. In it’s stead was a pile of burnt bricks, broken glass, and a once-important yellow tape that denied entry.

“Brooo…”

Why would Couth be here? This place is… deader than dead, bro.

The small dots of flashlights didn’t do the atrocity in front of Crash, Violent Purple, and his HOTDOGS entourage justice. Departing from the cargo van, Broque and Jacque LaRoque share another glance of concern.

“Zis is not safe.”

Jacque looks at his brother with hopes of agreement. Broque simply shrugs with forward pace. Violent Purple is already on the charge, leading Crash by the wrist.

“We ‘ave to make zis quick.”

VP and Crash get close enough to get eyeballs the once active MEAT? factory. The foundation is in ruins. The innards of the brick building, burnt out and broken, leave a mess for anyone daring to get into the thick of it.

Max does the MEAT?...

“But Purps…”

She pulls up her phone before looking back at the burnt brick, rusted iron, and shattered glass for a longing moment. VP turns her watery eyes toward Crash, displaying her phone tracker once again.

“She’s down… there.”

No, bro… this is Max’s place…

Without a beat, Violent hops down at the most available spot. She’s gone. Crash looks back at Broque, knowing he said something about ‘make it quick’ and simply gets a tap on his wrist.

“‘Urry ze fuck up!”

- - - - - - -

Dickenstein Frederickson, bro!

I was hoping I would run into you, my brodacious bag of shit skittles.

I’ve been keeping up with Kimberly and Mrs. Moynihan. They say you haven’t settled up on that cancer scam so…

I’ve been really lookin’ forward to catchin’ up, bro.

Don’t worry, it’s just bad news for you.

Thing is, I've been rethinking our encounter and I think it was a beautiful blessing, bro!

I think you helped me understand doing this wrestling thing… and doing the right thing.

You helped me realize how good it feels to put a schmuck like you in his place. A guy who preys on an easy money game over hard work. A guy who thinks there’s an… easy way out.

So now we get to dance inside the ropes, Dumbellina.

Don’t worry…

I’ll take the lead.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

The walls?

Blown out, bro.

The floor?

Shaky brochitecture, at best.

The goal?

Fuck, man.

“She’s… here.”

Violent Purple didn’t look at Crash and he didn’t look back. They both know what this means, be it on different scales of life. For Violent, her aunt is dead, in the ground, and a victim. Crash feels the same realization but also…

Max had a hand in this…

Before the Hot Dog Hero can see whats going on, Violent Purple is chucking bricks and digging for her aunt. Crash tries to stop her, hoping to talk some sense into her. He smiles.

“Hey, Purps, I’m supposed to be the one makin’ this place fall down.”

She digs deeper, finding the one, lone remaining metal bulk MEAT? Container. Its glass encompassing was broken to bits. The control panel as well. Crash brushes away the dust and debris. Violent slumps back on her dismay. She looks at her phone for a while. She looks at Crash.

“Open it.”

No, bro. This is gonna be grooooossssss

“Purps… you don’t wanna see this.”

A jackrabbit kick to the ribs isn’t enough to stop Crash from giving in. He shakes his head. VP glares at him stubbornly before wrenching herself up to do it herself.

“You wanna see what your friend Max does to people?”

Violent kicks her foot out and pops the chamber open. It’s unfortunate because it’s been a few days, maybe weeks, and the mix of stenches and gasses is unbearable. Violent Purple is very much too close and gets the whole treatment. Crash bounces back with a gag before VP pukes without a flinch.

Fuckin’ nightmare fuel. Full brorror mode, bro.

Crash’s attention shifts from his greatest 'scary shit' brain folder to VP. Her eyes, watery. Her lips, pursed. Her shift in demeanor goes from sad to violently fucking angry. She darts her gaze to her nearest target and maybe hopefully closest ally.

“I don’t…”

You don’t have the words, bromeo.

“I’m... sorry, Purps.”

Her chest heaves up then down, over and over, with a burning rage that isn’t just starting to burn. It's been burning for a long, long time. Crash leans backward, trying to process all of this nasty shit that’s unfolding before him. He falls through what he thought was going to serve as a burning brick stool that crumbles to bits under his massive ass.

“You fuckin’ moron…”

The ground begins to shake, dust beginning to sprinkle down like a light dusting of snow. Crash looks up from his back, noticing he definitely jinxed them on the way in, and gets to his feet as fast as possible right before they both notice a brick fall at their feet. VP wastes no time, pulling her phone out, and begins taking pictures. Another brick falls right next to Crash, his eyes blowing open.

“Purps, we gotta boogie, babe.”

The incessant clicks of photos being taken is enough to drown out reason. VP’s expression continuously shifts from sad to mad to fuckin’ pissed in repitition with each click. Like twenty per second. Thankfully, for everyone, it’s only ten seconds before shit begins to go downhill, and fast.

“Ze building is coming down, monsieur! Get ze fuck out of zere!”

Broque shines some more reason on the situation while sporting a headlamp and fingerless gloves. He waves at Crash, who turns toward VP, and freezes.

Her aunt… this is fucked, bro.

Violent Purple can't see the danger that’s literally falling down upon them. He grabs her by the wrist. She locks eyes with the Hot Dog Hero and snarls, clicking away. His eyes stop her in her tracks for a second, starting those watery eyeballs again. His grip isn’t firm. It’s full of purpose.

Max did this. He… killed Couth, bro.

“Justice isn’t down here, Purps…”

What the fuck!? If he killed her… 

“We gotta go.”

VP knows it and they were already wasting so much time. She finally notices the headlamp man and then also notices the dust intensifying around him. He extends his arm while gripping what is a hopefully sturdy pillar of burnt bricks. She reaches out but we find out it’s not sturdy at all. Broque LaRoque falls down by their side. The bricks, falling, pick up pace as well.

That is not a great sign, my guy.

It’s just then they see red lights above. A rope drops down. It’s Jacque LaRoque and his savvy vehicular knowledge and amateur rope knowledge coming into play.

“Grab on!”

The other LaRoque twin jumps into the driver’s seat before moderately pulling all three of the people in this story out of the crumbling building seconds before it all caves in and leaves a cloud of brick matter and murder in it’s stead. VP stares at the site of her aunt’s death in shambles.

That was too close, brotatoes. I need a Hot Dog… or five.

The four curious cats sit outside the murder zone, asking a lot of questions. Crash might not have the most, he might have the most important though.

Why would Max team me up with Purps… then kill her aunt?

VP stands up, holding her phone for dear life, and taps Crash, much to his surprise. He looks up, questions still on his brain, noticing she’s pointing to the East.

“Let’s go get that fucker.”

- - - - - - - - -

I fuckin’ love Fred Dick, dawg. 

Not like… I’m in love with him. 

The first time we met, backstage... 

WE HAD A BLAST! 

I did my best to find out why he was bein’ a scumbro, he thought he could skirt the fact, and we just had a ton of fun. 

He tried to fight me. 

I definitely fought him, a bunch, bro. 

Then this guy takes a whoopin’ and goes out and meet-cutes the love of his life. He found a bumper to hump like Thumper at the Hotel Dumpster. 

 So, it’s not the love he has for the bumper but it’s a love I can’t deny, my guy.

So when they tell me I get to do it again with Big Dick in front of the Brits inside the ropes?

The love I feel becomes so real, bro.

I wanna think I taught Fred Dick a lesson, bro.

Truth is… he taught me.

I was set on getting the wins, escaping the losses, and peaking for the title shots.

Then I got my hands on Fred and that…

Felt so fuckin’ good, bro.

It gave me a taste of what doin’ the right thing feels like. A glimpse into what it actually takes to balance the scales of Lady Justice. The tough part about recognizing the good versus the bad and, honestly, how to handle it, bro.

I’m not sure but this might call for a samurai-style haiku to reflect the actual importance of what this battle ensues…

Maybe.

THE WORK WE DO, NOW

HERE, AS UNKNOWN WARRIORS

RISE AND LIGHT THE NIGHT

I fuckin’ like it.

A lot, bro.

Why would I ever do anything else? 

LIGHT THE NIGHT