Newton's 3rd Law of Brotion

Friends.

Seems like you have some good ones, Kenny.

Randy, always havin’ your back.

Ivan…

Dude fuckin’ scares me, son.

I bet you guys are cute at home though, bro.

Alexei? 

Seems like a weasel or a… what are Russian weasels called?

Broligarchs, that’s right.

But the other one…

That’s the one you’re gonna have to answer for, friend.

We could be friends.

Seems like Max treats us the same way, for that matter.

Not enough to stop me from slammin’ your ass when I get the chance.

I wish you bein’ a goof was enough to stop me from goofin’ on you and all your friends, dude.

Again… not enough.

You put your name in the hat of names I’m gonna seek out and beat up the minute you let Max into your ranks. I know there’s more than just you so…

Warn them too, dude.

I’m not gonna slow down until you throw that clown out and let me have him for myself.

It’s time for y’all to start understanding that every action has an equal and opposite reaction, especially in PRIME.

Not familiar with that one, Kenny?

You can call me Isaac, motherfucker. 

I’ll be teaching the class at ReVival 58, bro.

🌭🌭

“Where in the Hell is he?”

Greg storms through the hotel suite in a dress shirt. His tie says that something important is supposed to happen soon. Raffi looks at his watch, realizing that whatever is about to happen is minutes away, and leaps to his feet. Jacque and Broque continue playing ping pong. Greg points toward Crash’s room.

“He’s in there, isn’t he?”

Greg bends his arm, smashes through the frail door with his mighty elbow, and spots his charge. Raffi is quick to follow but bounces back by the Ego, standing in place, like a statue. Raffi takes two seconds to mouth ‘THE FUCK?’ but notices Greg staring at Crash. Raffi looks over Greg’s shoulder to notice the PRIME underdog hard at work.

“Sorry I couldn’t answer, I’m hard at work, boys.”

They see that Crash is so hard at work, the previous definition of ‘working hard’ seems like an understatement in comparison to this type of hard work. There’s a Century BOB in the shape of Max on his right. There's pictures of the Red Army all over his hotel room. Extra fuel on the fire is dangling in front of him by strings, delicious looking and ready for the taking - one dozen hotdogs - liken to the infamous Freddy Got Fingered scene.

“We’re supposed to be at the shoot in ten minutes, big bro. We need t-”

The massive thud of a punch on the Max BOB cuts Raffi off. That’s when he goes into a full sprint at them doggies while being anchored to the wall using resistance bands. Still, maintaining full sprint motion, Crash locks eyes with Raffi and then Greg. He spots their dress-formal attire and scowls. Crash notices he’s the one out of place, furthering his speed forward while simultaneously punching the Max BOB when his right fist comes up.

“I’m gonna get a drink.””

Greg pats Raffi on the back, nodding to him that he’s pretty sure they’re not gonna make the promotional party for ReVival 58. Raffi just looks at Jason, sort of pissed, but very upset they’re gonna miss the chance to build the hype even more. Crash lunges forward, resistance bands pulling him back, and leaves his feet for just a little too long, trying to snag one of the closest hotdogs. His eyes go wide before slingshotting backward, right into the wall, and collapses into a heap with one arm reaching forward. He’s clearly been pushing himself to the point of exhaustion.

Humiliation?

No, bro.

“Big Jay, don't sweat it, big bro.”

Crash looks up from defeat and reaches for the best hotdog he's ever seen. Raffi turns to Greg, who takes a sip from his newfound cocktail while rolling his eyes. Crash’s gaze holds that look of acceptance, maybe even reward, but only gets a shrug from the former fWo Cruiserweight legend.

“You done, kid?””

Crash leaps forward, no longer holding concern for his resistance bands but looking for a chance to prove himself, but gets yanked backward yet again. The loud thud of the Hot Dog Hero causes Raffi to hold his head in hand briefly. The Ego takes a few slow strides forward.

“Alright, alright…”

Greg puts his hand on Jason’s shoulder. Raffi watches on with concern of the success of his endeavor but shakes that thought away, reaching for the minibar to settle him down. Greg looks at New York’s Finest after holding his shoulder for a few, stern seconds.

“Take a break and… come with me.”

🌭🌭🌭

Crash runs through wintery woodlands, full speed, hoping to get to his checkpoint before chaos breaks out. Wearing a heavy red and yellow jacket, pants, and boots, he runs through brush and branches with extreme haste. Finally, he comes to a crest in the landscape and rushes to the ridge before dropping down to remain unseen.

Stay frosty, bro. Real frosty.

He rolls onto his back, pulling out a pair of binoculars and then rolls back onto his stomach. He peers through the lens to spot his target.

The Red Army.

The scene is an industrial Soviet military complex in the middle of some sort of ceremony. Thousands of Kenny Freemans, Randall Schwartzes, and like three Alexei Ruslans fill out the battalions marching around to the tune of Russian military songs. After scanning over the sea of Masters, Crash locks onto the giant balcony with many high-rank officials waiting for their mighty Russian Bear. Instead, the man who comes out is the man Crash is hoping to find.

The Minister.

Ivan comes behind Max, waving his arms for everyone to clap and cheer for the newest Red Asshole. That’s when Crash goes to his knees.

That fuckin’ guy.

Just as Crash thinks that shit, every Kenny, Randall, and Russian military asset - Ivan included - spots him. A horn sounds. They all begin to charge the ridge. Crash’s eyes go wide, knowing that this will not end well for anyone, let alone a guy that one of their guys wants to destroy. His last glimpse through the ‘nocs are of Max Kael, pointing toward Crash, screaming to ‘Fuck him up, comrades!’

That’s his cue to run, run, and fuckin’ run. 

Problem is, Crash finds himself stuck in the ground. His feet won’t move.

Not because they can’t.

Because they don’t want to.

They’re sick of running.

They’re definitely sick of staying in one place.

And they’re really, really sick of not standing up for the right thing to do.

His eyes narrow, his nostrils flare as the first battalions of Kenny Freemans begin to close in. He balls his fists, shows his teeth, and finally breaks free from his foothold when he does the unthinkable.

Like glass, the ice around Crash’s feet shatters with dramatic effect when he charges forward, into war.

Let’s fuckin’ go.

🌭🌭🌭🌭

Crash unclips the resistance bands, finally getting to his feet with some deep breaths. He grabs a water bottle and slams it down like an animal, letting it fall down his face and cool him off at the same time. Next he snags a towel, wiping off the sweat and freshly distributed water. Greg steps towards the open door of the hotel balcony, looking off into the Reno nighttime skyline.

Crash follows, ripping down one of the hotdogs that’s been taunting him for what seems like months. It’s probably only been an hour or two. He takes a big ole chomp before taking his place at Greg’s side. The Ego takes another, shorter sip before gesturing to the Biggest Little City in the World with his glass.

“You see that, Crash?”

The Buffalo Kid takes two big chomps, chewing, and looking out into the night’s sky. A few seconds go by before he looks over to get the answer and notices Greg’s been looking at him the whole time.

Whoa, bro!

“The casino?”

A smirk passes over Greg’s face before he shakes his head side to side. He points with his free hand to beyond the lights of downtown Reno. Both their eyes wander to spot the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range. The Ego nods.

“You ever climb any mountains, kid?”

I’m gonna guess there’s one of the oldtimer metaphors comin’ here, bro?

“Haven’t had the actual chance yet, old man. Tellin’ me you have?”

Crash watches his head bounce up and down. No words, just nods, and keeps his eyes toward the awe inspiring beauty of nature. The positivity of the sight fades from his face, clearly starting to remember that said beauty comes with an equal amount of danger.

“A few, actually… long time ago.”

Greg turns toward Greg with an honest glimmer in his eyes and a playful sway. He offers up a soft smile to show, right now, he’s just Greg Davis shooting the shit with Jason Jackson.

“Think if I tried any of that today, my heart would give out before I got my boots on.”

That draws a smile from Jason, unsure if he can laugh but feeling the vibe and seeing that they can throw out self deprecating without fear of one going in on the other.

“Shit, bro. I’m still figuring the boots thing out.”

Greg lets out an audible chuckle with a sigh. They both look out into the scenery in front of them as the moonlight beams down. That’s when the elder grappler looks over at Crash, knowing it’s time to get to business. Jason looks at Greg, again unaware of how long he’s been staring at him with this strange, corner smile and glimmer in his eye.

Dude… is he… proud of me, bro?

“Fact is, kid… you’re not that green anymore.”

Shit, bro! He is! 

Eat it, Mom.

Crash steps back, trying to stifle his smile now, and shrugs.

“What? You drunk, Greggo? Drop the hammer already.”

Greg folds his lips downward and shrugs. He raises his glass to the sky and takes a stern sip. OH, it just so happens that raising the glass gesture was the sign for Broque to deliver his next one. However, in honor of the moment, Greg smiles, nods, and takes another solid pull from his glass.

“No, really, kid. You’ve come a long way. Most people, like you, that were around in my day… They quit. Washed out. Gave up.”

Greg lets out a sigh for the ones he didn’t want to lose back then. He’s quick to forget that negative shit and looks back to Crash with that same, proud grin on his face. He tips his head forward.

“Not you.”

Damn, bro…

Crash sends a soft fist into Greg’s shoulder with appreciation behind it. They don’t need to say the ‘Thank you’ and ‘You’re welcome’ because they both know there’s bigger shit to address.

“So when you said you haven’t had the chance to climb a mountain? You have, kid. Anyone who gets into a situation like you did and walks away without goin’ down, that’s one of the biggest mountains in life. Learning how to keep climbing.”

The Ego shifts to fully facing his student slash protege. This is also when Broque brings a Blue Light twelve pack for Crash to imbibe should he desire to. Crash cracks two, filling both hands, as he begins to gesture talk with his cans of beer in between gulps.

“Dude… I don’t know… if you’ve noticed… but I’m just kind of… wingin’ it, bro.”

Greg nods.

“Oh, I’ve noticed. And you have to ask yourself, what am I willing to do to get to the top of the mountain? Scratch? Claw? Crush? … Kill?”

The fuck are you on, dawg!

“What!?”

The Ego’s quick to pacify.

“You wanna mix it up with Max? You’re in it now. We both know what he’s capable of and… now he’s got an army on his side.”

Please don’t remind me, bro. Now right now. We’re havin’ such a cute moment. Save the bromance!

“Dude…”

Crash stops to collect his thoughts and the words to say them good. This is a good time to kill one of his beers.

I need to do words good here, bro.

“I don’t really want to hurt anyone…”

Except Max… now.

Greg, in mid sip, turns his eyes to Crash. The Northern Light gets a little frazzled so he heads back into his bedroom before emerging with one less can of beer and two more hotdogs, in the same hand. He takes a bite out of both at once and stress chews quietly for a good beat.

“I just hate fuckin’ bad guys, bro.”

Crash bites again, this time violently thrusting his dogs and beer into the air, tossing about liquids and meat juices all willy nilly. He doesn’t even take the time to fuckin chew, the savage.

“And if I have to take on somebody who is ready to be at Max’s side, knowing the kind of monster he fuckin' is? Then I’m gonna be right there, smashin’ their ass all over the mat and bangin’ their mug on all three rungs, son.”

Nice rhymes, bro.

Greg shoots Crash a grin but also heavy side eyes,

“You mean to do that?”

Crash shrugs, more chewing, and grins with hotdogs spilling out. It’s a good time to intake some liquids to help them go down before choking traumatically and dying before he can deliver retribution to the Minister.

“I don’t expect a fair fight against Kenny. Absolutely not, bro. In fact, that’s why I’m here instead of goin’ to that dumb event tonight, dude. I’ve got a feeling, each and every one of those Red Army assholes are gonna march down and try to take me out. So I’m gettin’ ready for the fight of my life. I don’t even think a win is the goal here, Greg.”

The Ego nods and drops the grin. He knows the situation, the stakes, and the players on the other side as well. The fact that Crash sees it… That’s a promising sign.

“Just need to get out in one piece.”

The Northern Light lets the words sink in. He downs the end of his beer, still working on the two hotdogs in one hand, and takes a second to burn those words into his gameplan for ReVival 58.

Whoop Kenny Freeman’s ass, bro. 

Whoop on every ass I have to.

Just don’t die doin’ it…

Not yet.

🌭🌭🌭🌭🌭

Jacque and Broque LaRoque are having a great day. They’re both wearing really nice clothes and sunglasses and have already been to the gym five times. Now it’s time for lunch. Broque swipes the keys off the counter of the hotel suite and points to Jacque.

“I’ll grab ze auto, mon frere.”

Jacque stops in his tracks.

“Should I zee if Crash wants to come? I ‘aven’t zeen ‘im in a few hours.”

Broque nods, shrugs, and basically says whatever with his body. Jacque waves off Broque’s indifference and remembers that, when the going gets tough, they’re all there for each other. Ever since the factory situation, it’s been a close-knit crew, minus the one who nobody wants to talk about.

“Crash? Bro, ze LaRoque boys want to take you to lunch. ‘Ungry?”

He leans into the door but doesn’t hear anything. Out of concern, he tries the handle and it’s surprisingly unlocked. When he opens it, he sees Crash, sitting on the bed facing the balcony, sitting elbows on his knees.

“Bonjour, bro. I was-”

He steps into the room and finally discovers that Crash isn’t just sitting there, he’s holding something in his hand. Upon further inspection, it’s a Polaroid of him and Violent Purple in Belarus getting off the plane. Jacque immediately turns back toward the door.

“I know she’s out there somewhere, Jacque…”

Behavioral analysts will say Jacque’s type of body language means ‘Shit, I can’t leave now.’ His shoulders drop before putting on a fake smile and turning back to the Heartbroken Hero.

“Well, when you love zomet-”

Crash lets out an abrupt, loud sigh that pretty much means ‘lots less talking, much more listening.’

“No, bro. I just mean… she’s not here. The shitty part?”

Jacque can’t help but feel for one of his best bros. He knows the bonds they all made together and the fact that, especially with the recent successes Crash has had, the fact that VP’s not here stings so much more. That’s when Jacque knows a comforting hand on Crash’s back will let him know that, even though she’s not, he and all of the DOGterouge are.

“There’s nothin’ I can do to change it.”

New York’s Finest finally makes eye contact, slightly watery, but also very comfortable with the situation. He takes the picture, opens the suitcase near the bed, and stuffs it somewhere towards the bottom. Jacque nods understandingly.

“I think it’s time, Crash… time to let her go, bro.”

You said it, Jacquie.

Crash stands to his feet and throws on a decent shirt. He slaps a hearty open hand on Jacque’s back and smiles. A few seconds of silence pass by before his smile drops but he nods with his heart.

“I needed to hear that, bud. Let’s go get some doggies.”

Broque, now standing in the doorway, lets his head fall with sadness. Jacque chuckles uncomfortably and shrugs.

“We were zinking somet’ing like Mexican today? We really ‘aven’t ‘ad anty’ing other zan hotdogs in a few days so…”

Crash laughs.

“Good one, bro.”

🌭🌭🌭🌭🌭🌭

Raffi sits back as Greg leans forward. We seem to have found these two mid conversation but it’s an easy pick up.

“I’m not sure about this.”

Greg inhales deeply through his nose, taking some time to address Raffi’s concerns.

“He’s ready, Raff. A win here, a few losses there… that’s nothin’ compared to what he can do.”

Greg glances at his watch. Raffi takes a swig from his Perrier and shrugs.

“What the fuck does that mean, G? I need specifics, bro. We are wasting time here and we need t-”

Greg holds up his finger, watching a few birds flap their wings overhead. He looks back at Raffi with a stern look in his eye.

“Wasting time? Heh.”

Greg chuckles, reaching for his afternoon cocktail, and laughs again while taking a drink.

“The only thing wasted here is… everyone in Crash’s path.”

Raffi shoots to his feet, clearly ready to debate their perspective on Crash Jackson’s career trajectory. Greg admires Raffi finally being able to have him look up at him but simply chuckles. Raffi can’t help but slam his palms on the railing and glare at Greg.

“He’s walking into the fuckin’ bear’s den, bro. Kenny Freeman or Schwartz… they’re not going to let them lose against our boy, bro.”

Greg registers the comment but really could give a fuck less because, judging by his body language, he knows something they don’t. Raffi can’t help his intrigue and turns, now leaning against the railing and folds his arms and waits for an explanation. Greg smirks, knowing Raffi’s hanging on the next words he has to say.

“I don’t think they have a fuckin’ choice, Raffi.”

With a tip of his glass, Greg smiles and takes a silent sip. They both know what Crash is capable of, they both also know Crash is prone to coming up short. That’s when what Greg knows creeps into Raffi’s head and it starts to make more sense than before.

Max dragging Crash through Hell at Tropical Turmoil is about as far down as you can go in this game. Coming back from that is almost as hard. Then getting the chance to put one of his newfound friend’s head on a pike?

That’s something Crash Jackson isn’t going to pass up, motherfucker.

🌭🌭🌭🌭🌭🌭🌭

The friend of my enemy is… my friend, bro?

Nah.

More like my foe, yo.

I don’t think that’s right though, bromrade.

Thing is?

I don’t give a flyin’ fuck, son.

Friend of my enemy?

Definitely my fuckin' enemy.

You stand next to giants… and monsters… and think I’m not gonna deliver some flush fuckin’ justice, bro?

I’ll never deny Max beat me. Fact is, though… he didn’t put me down, dawg.

Touchin’ death gives you a different perspective, bro. 

Wanna touch it? 

Let’s fuckin’ touch it together, K-Free.

You wanna help that… thing… out? You wanna be played to the point that goblin faced fuck poisons everything you love from the inside out?

You remember how you sold out your heritage and jumped ship to that Red… fuckin’... Army?

You wanna fuck around, bro?

I do.

As a wise man once said…

“So I here I go, it’s my shot, feet fail me not, this may be the only opportunity I got”

Truth is…

I’m gonna have a fuck ton more, man.

Come and get it.