Broing Hard, Not Broing Home

Black Sheep, bro.

A role I know so well.

Somethin’ about Chippewa Street does that to us, cuz.

I have a Dad who wants me to join the family business. My Mom hasn't even realized I've been here, in PRIME, for over a year.

So I'm gonna make the folks who run the show know what it takes to hold the gold, bro.

The hard way.

I've had everything I want put on my plate, fork in hand, homie.

Girl of my dreams… stolen away.

Friendship… fed to the sharks, Sheep.

A Gold strap dangled in front of my face… no teeth when the time came.

So don't hold it against me.

I’m gonna come at you with everything I’ve got, kid.

Dios de Gen Z ain’t gonna get free from me.

Let's give the PRIMEates one of those battles that they’ll be remembering for years to come, son.

🌭

Crash looks up to notice the rising Strasbourg sun, wearing his now torn to shit tuxedo, and smiling like the luckiest dumbass ever to play undercover with a sexy redhead. A successful mission and spending some extra credit quality time with the lady he’s grown fond of calls for a feast. That’s when he twirls around, holding an armful of six glorious looking hotdogs with luxury topping such as ketchup and mustard and some have onions and a few even have Michigan meat sauce on ‘em.

Hot damn, hot dog! I didn’t think I’d find these delicious lookin’ doggies in France at Five in the morning. What a wonderful series of events I am having, homie.

There’s the fleeting feeling of doom flowing through his body but, right now, there’s no place he would rather be than right here, right now.

Marv would be proud of my application of his infamous wisdom here, for sure.

His stride has bounce, his shoulders are back, his head is high, and his mouth is full with literal joy while he sings to himself…

“Ain’t nobody gonna break-a my stride, ain’t nobody gonna hold me down. Oh no! I got to keep on mooovin’...”

In that instant, as brief as it is, the sun blacks out. Crash stops but everything is normal. He looks around, checking for signs that something actually did just happen, regardless of the explanation as to what. Unbeknownst to him, however, that the difference exists in the form of a six foot four inch shadow of death standing yards behind him.

The fuck was that?

The Hot Dog Hero looks down, still looking for confirmation something strange just happened, before taking a seat next to Violent Purple. She’s dressed exactly the way Crash knows she should be, in a glorious dress, like the ones she’ll wear to all his PRIME awards ceremonies. That’s when she lifts her gaze towards him, batting her breathtaking green eyes at him a few times, and everything makes his heart bloom.

“I traded my fancy shoes for these hotdogs. You should eat, Purps.”

Chivalry lesson… always offer up food, like DiCapribro.

She looks at his hotdogs and then sends darts into his eyeballs. Not real darts but like soft-tip style, compared to the darts she could be throwing. Anyway, Crash fidgets a bit but VP’s deescalating smirk changes the vibes.

“I can see if he wants my pants…”

VP reaches for a mildly condimented hotdog. Crash’s eyes blow up at the sight of her doing something she always told him she would never do.

Women… fascinating creatures.

Her smirk forms into a smile before she takes a small, timid bite. The former friend of Kael and hopeful lover of VP looks around, hoping to find a witness before she finishes her teeny tiny bite.

“I thought you didn’t…”

Violent Purple kips her head to the side and smirks. She clearly doesn’t understand hotdog eating basics though so, because he’s a gentleman, Crash helps her clear the corners of her mouth and wipes the obligatory ketchup and mustard off of her face. They share a charged moment, a sincere one, without any of the other bullshit before she looks off into the sunrise.

“I guess I do now.”

Brooooo

The light goes out again but this time it’s long enough that Crash knows it’s real and comes with a hiss that surrounds him. He looks around but can only see black. Crash then is shaken and the sunlight comes back to illuminate Strasbourg under the rising sun.

What was that sound? What the Hell is happening right now?

In that moment he feels something that he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. He looks down to see VP’s hand clutching him tenderly. Not sure which phenomenon to focus on, his head loses to his heart as he returns the grip. That’s when the Northern Light checks for eye contact.

Check

Crash can’t help but take pause over this because, after all, VP has punched him in the face before and it would be awfully embarrassing to misread signals that bad, twice. Fairly certain this isn’t that type of situation, he checks for the next sign, a gentle smile.

Oh shit. She’s battin’ her eyes, too.

Crash wraps his fingers around her hand. They share a moment without words, or thoughts, or even the fear of what Max Kael is gonna do to them after the shit they just pulled off. Crash leans in and closes his eyes. Nothing happens though so he pulls back to open his optical orbs and find the long, gangly fingers of Max’s spider-leg-like fingers wrapping around her face and pulling her back into the darkness. His jaw drops as he reaches out for her but can’t produce any sound or words.

Just like that, darkness surrounded Crash once again.

BZZT

BZZZT

BZZZZT

Fuckin’ alarm…

🌭🌭

Jacque and Broque Laroque (pronounced La-rock, for those following along at home) enter their Long Beach AirBnB in similar outfits and sunglasses with many coffees for delivery. Jacque strolls in ready to relax while Broque tosses the car keys on the counter. Instead of the sound of hitting the counter, however, there’s the weird sound of somebody catching them mid-air.

“No. We’re going to find her, bro.”

There’s a slump in Broque’s shoulders and a collective sigh of not just Jacque but also Raffi and Greg. They’ve been waiting for the Buffalo Kid to emerge from his room and stop making loud, audible groans and screams between every 13 minutes.

“No.”

Greg’s voice booms from the balcony, Mai Tai in hand and wearing the casual Hawaiian shirt he’s come to wear all the time. The former fWo champion steps into the room, sipping his drink, and looks at all the parties in the room.

“Last I checked, you put this chick in this past and weren't lookin’ back.”

There's a collective pause around the room before The Ego continues.

“Then you won your last match, Jack.”

Fuck you, Greg. Your washed up drunk ass doesn't get it. 

“That was before I had a lead, old bro.”

Raffi steps forward with palms up at Greg and the visibly upset Crash who is, for lesser words, ready to explode. Jacque sips his caramel Machiatto and tries to pass Crash his triple espresso Iced coffee but the Hot Dog Hero doesn’t acknowledge the placating gesture. Greg downs his drink and gestures to the room in a wild arm motion.

Jesus, bro… it’s 9:45… AM…

“So what have you got, Dick Tracy?”

In a previous life Crash might have let this slide but today he’s ready for war. He’s got a battle against one of the hottest, young PRIME stars in Black Sheep Baez in 6 days. He’s got a former-bro being a real dick and not sure what to do about it. Then, in the back of his head, he knows that he can find VP.

“She’s the only one who ever believed in me, bro.”

The bass and sincerity in Crash’s voice resonates through the house. And these guys are just standing around in one room. Raffi sits down, ready to engulf what he’s about to hear. Greg’s pouring his second Mai Tai.

Always on vacation, that guy.

The LaRoques sip their coffees, waiting for this interaction to either involve them or make them bust out with joy.

“Every week… you, and Raff, and my boys… you don’t think I can do this.”

Crash sends his arm flying toward the open skies of Long Beach.

“She knew I had her corner every night and, when it came down to it, she had mine.”

So I need to know, bro…

Crash pauses, looking off into said sky he just pointed at with vigor and love and hate and all those emotions you get when you lose something and it was so fuckin’ close to being something fuckin’ real and lovely.

Why me?

“I need to find her.”

🌭🌭🌭

Does the saying, ‘Check your shit at the door’ mean anything to you, BSB?

I get what it means.

I should just come out and give you the match you deserve, showcase more of the young talent PRIME has incoming, and be professional about this, right?

Well I’m not gonna do that, dude.

The fact is I’ve got a lot of shit to check these days.

First and foremost, instead of walkin’ into Colossus a contender, I’m just prayin’ to get on the card. That’s all on me. That’s because…

No matter how fuckin’ hard I try…

I can’t seem to get out of my own way.

I lost sight earlier, gettin’ wrapped up in the wrong things, and paid the fuckin’ price for that. Then, when I hit that point, I felt like… deep down… it gave me the strength to push on.

I learned that there is so much worth fightin’ for, fella. So many good things to protect from the dark elements working among us. That’s when I knew it wasn’t about the winning, or the losing, or the titles.

All that will come in time. Before anyone can accomplish the great feats in this world, we need to understand how to be true to ourselves and embrace what we really are.

I find myself figurin’ it out, learnin’ how to be successful in PRIME, and puttin’ myself in a good place outside of the ring. But there’s a dark force here… 

A few actually.

One of ‘em goes by the name of Max Kael, kid.

Stear fuckin’ clear.

That’s not a threat, like I’m savin’ him for myself, but instead it’s a warning.

🌭🌭🌭🌭

Crash sits up, slamming the alarm clock, before turning on the lamp next to his bed in the room he’s sequestered to in his Long Beach temporary residence. The clock says enough.

5:39AM

I don’t think this is gonna work, bro…

Crash pulls out his phone. Nothing important. Just a reminder that in a little over two hours, he’s expected to be ready for another round of training and coaching with Jacque, Broque, and Greg. Screen side down, Crash puts it carelessly on the bed and heads for the kitchen. His attention drifts for a moment though. He looks back to his suitcase and remembers what’s sitting inside, at the bottom, buried to keep from distracting him.

Too fuckin’ late for that, bud.

Sporting just a pair of New York Knicks white game shorts, the Buffalo Kid pulls the suitcase and props it on the bed. He eagerly rifles through his gear before emerging with the picture he told himself he wouldn’t need to look at ever again. That changed last week though, when somebody basically sent up a flare, screaming ‘HEY CRASH! I KNOW WHERE VP IS AND YOU DON’T, DUMMY!’

So we’re gonna do this.

Crash sticks the picture of Violent Purple and him, under the rising sun in Strasbourg, in the corner of the bedroom mirror. His eyes don’t move from it, studying every single pixel around Purps. His eyes narrow with focus.

Somebody knows what happened to you. I’ll find ‘em…

The task is a tall one. A confusing one in itself as well. First part will be to not overlook the young upstart Black Sheep Baez at ReVival Sixty. Put all the extra curricular considerations aside, this kid has a pedigree in professional wrestling and he’s got as much of a chance as anyone else when he steps between the ropes.

I don’t care how far down the rabbit hole I have to go down…

The next piece of the puzzle to figure out what Dawkins gets out of this. The only way to figure that out is to get some facetime with Bruh and see why he’s protecting these shitheel Heralds. Given that they are typically influenced by the Minister, who now reports to the Red Army and Ivan, means that this could get reeeeeal bad before any type of good comes out of it. So until he can get to that point of the pyramid, Crash knows he’ll have to bide his time, gather the facts, and keep grinding through whatever wall that gets in between him and closure.

I’m doin’ this… all of this… for you, Purps.

The different challenges ahead are enough to break the best men down into becoming the very thing they’re fighting against. Sure, this quest starts when a noble, good man goes trying to right the wrongs in the world. But what happens when the wrongs are stronger, deadlier, and more evil than he is good? Is the price to win the war worth sacrificing every single thing a person stands for? It won’t be right away but, eventually, that line between right and wrong will become blurred enough to shatter the foundation of what right and wrong mean anymore.

I’m comin’ for you, girl.

Crash presses his lips to his fingers. He follows that gesture up by pressing those same fingers against the picture of Violent Purple and her intoxicating green eyes. He looks at the clock, noticing it’s nowhere near his scheduled start time, but says fuck it and starts changing into his workout gear. He heads for the door and looks back at the picture one more time before turning out the lights.

The fire’s been lit yet again.

🌭🌭🌭🌭🌭

Greg rolls his eyes as eye rollers do. Jacque and Broque start mentally preparing their disguises for stakeouts and recon missions. Raffi stands up and looks Crash dead in the eye.

“Mr. Azarian…”

He’s gonna make me say it, bro…

“Whatever it is you and the old guy want me to do… whatever you think I can do… that woman knows I can. We’ve been through it. Mostly thick, a little thin. And if she believes in me enough to protect me, then I want to know why.”

I want to hear her say it. 

So bad.

“I don’t know if it’s love, or envy, or just mutually high respect. All I know is when I think about her… my fuckin’ heart swells, bromeo.”

Greg steps up and engages Crash in a stare down. Like two seconds go by before Greg turns to Raffi.

“He's not lyin’. He's just stupid.”

Thefuckdidhejussayskibbidyrizzler!?

“Better choose your next words carefully, has-been bro.”

Greg finally takes a seat and waves it at Crash, looking at Raffi and sometimes Jacque or Broque but they just brush it off and ignore the engagement. Greg starts with Raffi.

“Clearly, our kid here thinks he's gonna find true love with a woman who left him for a payout.”

Crash slams his foot on the floor. Greg and Raffi look on with mild concern. There’s an awkward silence that takes place for a few suspenseful seconds before the Northern Light shrugs at his so-called braintrust.

“Tell me, experts, why somebody like my Bruh would be fuckin’ with me, man? I don't buy any of this shit.”

Greg begins to pour his third morning Mai Tai before Broque stops him and removes his drink. He replaces it with a coffee, which the Ego responds surprisingly well to. Crash doesn't care what he's drinking.

“Dawkins wouldn't fuck with me intentionally. That little fuckberry, the Herald, Bentley Tennyson Primrose-fuckin’-Fartington, though? I just know that little shitblister has somethin’ to do with all of these shenanigans.”

Don't look at me like that, gang gang.

“I feel like zat guy's an easy target, mon frere.”

So now you wanna fuckin’ speak up, Jacque?

“Look, boys. I know how it looks. But if I know one thing, it's two things…”

The side eyes emerge from most everyone in the room except for Greg, who has been side-eyeing the whooooole time.

“One, Bruh is a good dude. Two is that whether it’s Bentley, that Basilisk nightmare-beast, the rejuvenated head of Lowell, Secretariat Van der Crush, the Herald’s Herald Giuseppe, or even Charlie Armageddon… they all answer to one person… or whatever the hell he is.”

That's fuckin’ wild to think about, all these Heralds. All carrying out that weasel-demon’s bidding. Dragging the Bruh into it now…

Crash slams his fist into the table.

“That person also happens to be the same motherfucker who gave me this.”

Max Kael’s Tropical Turmoil 2024 victim reminds the room of the part of his forehead where a screwdriver once took a peak behind his skull.

Goddamnit… Max is Maxing again, man.

“Whatever’s goin’ on, Max is pullin’ the puppet strings. I can feel it.”

Shit end of the stick for Baez in this situation though, bro. 

Same could be said for Dawkins because, let’s be real, anyone havin’ to be a placeholder for the Minister when it comes time for Crash to hand out the kind of whoopdown Max deserves… that’s not gonna go well for all parties involved. That’s the kind of thought that brings on a look of desperation in a mix with remorse into his eyes.

“I'm gonna mix it up with the Black Sheep in the Battle of the Buffalo Bros and give the people what they want. Then… “

Jim Kelly, help us.

“We’re gonna go get some fuckin’ answers.”

Crash turns his attention to Raffi. It’s direct and stern and seems like he knows exactly what he’s talking about. It’s hard for anyone other than Crash to buy in one hundred percent because they know how it went the last time he was the fly in Max’s web. Wondering if that’s actually going on in this situation or their boy has officially lost his less-than-firm grip on reality, there’s hardly agreement in the room.

“I once got Violent Purple to eat part of one hotdog.”

The snickers and giggles echo as if to say that is not true. They all know that would be romantic as fuck but there is no chance in Hell that VP would allow herself to ingest such meattubes. Crash darts his gaze around the room, eyes growing with each change in focus.

“That totally happened! You don’t even know, bros.”

🌭🌭🌭🌭🌭🌭

The real conundrum here, my fellow Queen City King, is that it looks like he’s somehow found a way to turn Bryan Dawkins against me, using his little group of pissdribblers… somehow.

I haven’t really figured that part out.

Yet.

Long story short, I’m dealin’ with some shit right now and you’re gonna get the short straw. Because life is the farthest thing from fair, you have to be the one who has to get in front of me when really it should be one of those fools.

I’m just bein’ upfront with you.

I’m definitely gonna take it out on you, dude.

So if you wanna come in here and make your mark with a big one, I’ll be right there with you.

I’ve also been exactly where you are and have learned a few things to get where I am, bromigo.

One thing is that, when you get in the ring with somebody like me, there is no winning or losing. 

There’s just surviving enough to make it to the next match.

Because I’m gonna give you a fight, give the fans a show, and send a message to the people who have made me the way I am. 

That I’m comin’ for their asses with a fuckin’ vengeance.

It’s not the fact that I can eat eight times as many hotdogs as you.

It’s not that I’m stronger.

It’s not what I’ve done.

It’s definitely not that I’m better than you, dude.

It’s because of where my head’s at, Al.

I’ve got nothin’ left to lose.

You won’t understand how dangerous somebody like that can get when they’re standin’ across the ring from you.

I mean total desperation.

That’s me, man.

This really has nothin’ to do with you, Baez.

Or me, even.

It’s just the beauty of battle, baby.

So let’s go give Long Beach a Buffalo fuckin’ show, bro.