All Aboard the Magical Murder Bro Ride

Sitting butt naked at the edge of his bed is where Jason Jackson finds peace right now. All the hot dogs and time away from the ring can’t help remove the sting of his last encounter with the Bruh. Not so much losing the title has him in shambles but more the fact that, yet again, he fell short from getting any traction on bringing Violent Purple back into his life. As far away as that reunion is, the smallest clue would have meant the most to him, and makes the loss even more detrimental. To his mentality. To his motivations. Stifling his hope in and out of the ring.

It’s the hot dog salesmen who suffer, bro.

Hope, as great as it can be, can be paralyzing, like a drug. As Crash has found out, a little bit can take you to Tropical Turmoil with a chance to take down the worst of the worst, but a lot can cloud your judgement and keep you stuck in place. Every decision made matters and tonight in Sydney, Jason Jackson can’t tell if he’s making the right ones anymore.

I’m tryin’ to find Purps… putin’ my life on the line… for what? Startin’ to think she’s just holdin’ me back… but I’ve got a feelin’ it’s not that simple anymore, man.

Crash reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out his wallet. Inside is a piece of paper with two columns of numbers and a list of time zone differences to Buffalo, New York. He knew it would come in handy when he’s not sure if it’s too early or too late to reach out to Ma and Pa. He clicks the green button and puts it on speaker.

Might want to wait to d-

“What’s up, Bud?” his Dad’s voice is sleepy.

Shit.

“Hey Dad,” Crash scrambles on his end unbeknownst to his old man. “Uh, bad time? I can call later.”

Yeah. I’ll call later. I don’t have a match against a PRIME Hall of Famer coming up. My existential crisis can wait until after your nap. I knew I shouldn’t have called.

Some scratching and movement can be heard on the other end before a giant smack and thud. Jason looks around his room in the darkness with some concern but noone to express it to. There’s a long while without any sound.

Crash leans into his phone, “Dad?”

A ping ends the phone call. Jason looks around before clicking on the lamp. He thinks about how half-glad, half-sad he is. Talking to the folks was good for his head but not always left the best. Not even getting that experience?

Well that was kind of shitty.

Crash takes a second to redirect his energy. His eyes drift out of his hotel room balcony door. It’s out there where he wants to be. A PRIME champion. A main eventer. A man with a woman by his side. Not in here, hiding from his blown opportunities, and waiting for his next chance to be live feed for another PRIME superstar. He lights a cigarette and takes a therapeutic drag, stepping to the railing, before his phone buzzes and the screen comes to life

POPS

“Junior?” Jason Jackson Sr coughs. “You there?”

Dad!

“I’m here,” he grins. “You here?”

“Caught me nappin’,” his old man chuckles. “I use my days off wisely.”

That’s enough to draw a smile and wet set of eyes from the Hot Dog Hero. The times as a kid where they’d spend days, snowed in, with the sole intent of getting his father some nap time spring to mind. He remembers those days fondly.

Gimme the chance to go suplex my neighbor into a snow pile!

“As you should, boss,” Jason says that last word emphatically. “Ready for the Broncos?”

Had to do it.

There’s another audible noise from the other end. That’s the sound of his dad getting upright in his chair ready for some real important talk.

“You gonna get to watch it?” his Dad’s concern for his son is a lot. “I was wonderin’ if you’d be able to see it.”

Classic Dad.

“First thing I did when I got here,” only Jason can see the smile he has. “Go Bills.”

Butt naked and talking on the phone a whole world away from your Dad is an odd place to be right now. He’s here though. Jason takes another drag and tries to get back to understanding life.

“Think we got ‘em?” the younger Jackson baits his old man in.

A small pause comes from the other end, “Any time you put those pads on, you got a game to play. Same rules as you, kid.”

Not wrong there.

“How’s that goin’ for ya?” his Dad’s attention shifts.

“Not as good as I was hopin’,” Junior’s throat swells enough to pause. “Wish I knew what to do next.”

“Sounds like you’re doin’ good, bud,” he’s got a pep in his voice. “Had some title chances, been through a tough first year, but you’re well on your way, right?”

Crash thinks about the words and their actual meaning. The journey, highs and lows, with Max and VP. The chances at the Alias Title. His path to get to be in the same ring as Hessian.

Right.

“Shit, kid,” his Dad is jovial. “You’ve got some real fans out there. All the guys do at the shop is ask when you’re gonna crack the big time.”

Yeah. Me too.

“So keep goin’ out there, putin’ on a show, and makin’ people remember who you are,” his Dad says with the utmost support. “You wanna talk to Mom?”

Is she gonna let me talk?

“Yeah, put her on,” Crash winces a little on his end but takes a drag of his smoke to quell the nerves. “I’m sure she has you doin’ chores today.”

His dad and he share a simultaneous laugh.

“Yep, trimming the boxwoods around the garden before I can watch the game tomorrow,” his dad sighs. “Goddamn boxwoods.”

A loud shriek comes from the distance on the other end followed by click clacks from heels. The phone passes hands, as we can only assume, before a hand covers the mouthpiece. Jason Jackson takes in the skyline as he waits for his mother to enter the conversation.

“Jason!” his mom screams into the phone before Junior rapidly taps the lower volume button. “How are yoooouuu?”

“Good Ma,” he tries to counter her screaming with a monotone approach. “Sorry I haven’t called in a while.”

His mom scoffs, “Well, you had your Alias Title matches and… Violence Purples to find…”

Nice try, Dad.

“In the books now,” Crash ends the charade. “I’ve got a match with a guy we used to watch when I was kid next.”

“Oh…” his mother gasps. “Is that safe?”

Probably not for me.

“Yeah,” he tries to get around it. “Super safe.”

There’s a muffled sound from the other end again. Then another false sigh loud enough to be caught on the phone.

“Oh Jason, I have to run,” his Mom sighs again. “We have another meeting at the… office.”

At least she loves me enough to lie to me outright.

“I love you, Mom.” Crash says automatically. “Tell Dad I love him too.”

🌭🌭

One section of the Good Book of Being a Good Wrestler Boy has to do with traveling for shows and living in close quarters with others for an extended amount of time. Some of the unwritten rules, which are in fact written down in this book, should go without mention. Clean up after yourself. Don’t engage in topics that could lead to unnecessary arguments. Try not to make the group uncomfortable. So when Jason Jackson limps into the common area butt naked, double fisting a pair of hotdogs, the general reaction comes with full reason.

Jacque turns away, “Merde. Warn a guy, eh?”

Crash pursues his employer, Raffi Azarian, and chews hastily to make room for words.

“Well let’s think about it, Raff,” Crash comes close to getting enough out of the way to make his point. “I just got my ass handed to me at Colossus. I lost the Alias title, again. And I blew my chance to get a lead on Purps.”

Talk about losing, bro. That was like losin’ the Super Bowl for the fourth straight time on a field goal that goes wide fuckin’ left. Then, after that, proposin’ to a girl and she says no and runs off with the other team’s star quarterback with her panties danglin’ around her ankle… 

“So yes,” Crash shouts. “I’m sad eating!”

“Big bro, all I am saying is…” Raffi turns around, doing his best to not let his eyes drop toward Crash’s corndog. “We have a chance to turn all of this around, main man. New year. New you. New match.”

New Year, New me. How fuckin’ weak. Talk is cheap, motherfucker. 

The thought is nice and they all know it. The new match, however, is against an Egg Bandit and the guy who calls himself the Murder Show. A PRIME Hall of Famer. A two-time Universal Champion. A legend. The lack of conversation in the room is proof that they’re all thinking it. Crash looks around at every silent party, still very much without any cover, and shakes his head.

I’m just the only one who really has to deal with it.

Jacque finally turns to face Crash, “Look, mon frere. Zere’s not’ing we want more zan for you to win zis one. We know you miss Purple. Maybe treat zis as… a chance to take your mind off zat? Focus on beating ze Hessian. Zat’s ze only way you can distract yourself right now.”

Raffi nods, not able to say it any better himself, and joins the Laroques in examining Crash’s reception. He folds his arms over his chest, further thrusting his junk out for all to see, and contemplates the heavy wisdom from the DOGterouge. The silence breaks with the sound of liquid being spit out from just outside the room. All eyes turn to see Greg Davis, holding himself up in the doorway, pointing at Crash’s family jewels.

“Can you put that shit away, kid?” Greg holds his free hand over his face, taking a proper pull from his morning Mai Tai. “I’m already jealous, no need to rub it in.”

“Greg!” Jackson knows he said stuff but is more ready to bring him into this course of action planning. “You always know what to do.”

The Ego does everything he can to avoid making eye contact with any part of Crash and his true form. He heads for a stool at the kitchen counter to keep his back to the group but mostly just his student and his Northern Lights. New York’s Finest points, swaying from one side to the other, and prepares to catch Greg up.

Where do I even start? We all know I lost. Everyone in this room knows just how much I lost. I’m not gonna tell him anything he doesn’t know other than how I’m even more empty inside than I was a month ago? Fuck, bro. What’s the point of sayin’ anything?

The Ego waves it off, “I heard you girls gabbin’ from the other room.”

You don’t get it, Greggo!

“It’s the same thing I’ve been tellin’ you from the day we met,” Greg pauses, wanting Crash to think back and remember, but knows that’s gonna take a while. “The most important match is your next match.”

Jackson slowly nods, knowing the wisdom applies in almost every situation, but stops and locks eyes with Greg; “Then why does it feel like my last match was the most important? Everything… EVERYTHING… was on the line at Colossus. Now…”

“You’re still hung up on the wrong shit, Crash,” Greg’s tone shifts from nonchalant to emphatic. “The girl. That belt. Colossus. None of that matters if you can’t get out of your own head and win when it counts.”

Win when it counts!? Is this guy even listening to me? The Alias title counts. Violent Purple counts. Matches at Colossus on Night One or Night Two, regardless of whatever dipshits argue otherwise… they fuckin’ count.

Crash shifts his hands to his hips, leaning in for full explanation, “Oh, and when is that, Wisest of Wise Wrestler Guys?”

It’s a few seconds but they’re meaningful. No words are said. No sarcastic eye gestures. The only thing Greg does is maintain eye contact with Crash for a number of reasons but the most important being to drive his next point home.

The Ego lets the corner of his mouth kick up, “Where did you get hot dogs?”

Wait, no! Back to the magic secrets, wrestling wizard!

“I brought ‘em from home,” the comment reminds Crash to take another satisfying chomp. “Doubt they have any good dogs ov-”

“Wait…” the math being done by a nearly fifty year old wrestler with an unknown amount of concussions takes a few seconds. “What?”

Crash looks around, still naked, and wonders if he’s not speaking English again. Jacque rolls his eyes, doing his best to remove himself from the situation, as Raffi starts to wonder about the hot dogs origin story himself. The only one who can’t look away is Broque, who has gone pale and looks guilty as fuck.

“We brought, like, two hundred hot dogs over.Cooked ‘em, wrapped ‘em up, put ‘em in that suitcase,” Crash says as if it’s a normal thing. “Gotta keep the fuel up, right?”

Raffi chuckles. Crash eating hot dogs is just ridiculous. Broque does a cheesy grin as Greg looks around the room. The lack of urgency causes him to jump to his feet and rush toward the suitcase in the other room. Mr. Ketchup & Mustard just chomps away before taking a stroll toward another part of the house.

Might as well enjoy this Australian sunshine, bro.

“Jesus Christ,” Greg comes back into the room with wide eyes. “How many of these did he eat?”

The Ego goes around the room for a clue to the answer. Raffi shrugs and glances toward Jacque, who shoots darts at his brother. Broque simply points a finger at himself and repeats the Raffi move.

“I wasn’t watching ‘im,” Broque says softly, looking away to deflect blame. “Only a few?”

That’s the moment in time that Greg looks at Crash. The only problem is that he doesn’t see him. Jacque notices the look on Greg’s face before anyone else in the room has a clue. Raffi cocks his head to the side.

“What’s the problem?” Mr. Azarian’s pretty naive to hot dog science.

“The problem, Raff…” Greg rushes to put on outside clothes. “Is that those things are fuckin’ rotten.”

🌭🌭🌭

Hairs stand ten, nay, twelve feet high as Crash climbs to his feet. He looks around and only sees a gray thickness just beyond his face. Some get in his mouth just before he does that machine gun spitting thing and pulls any long strands out by hand. He finally can see something else that’s red and blue towards Hessian’s face. It just turns out to be Fruity Pebbles bits stuck amidst the burly hairs that are his massive face mop.

Solid choice.

Now is the time where New York’s Finest starts to push ahead and work his way through the beard because, let’s be real; ReVival 61 is right around the corner and he’s got a paycheck to collect. That thought is enough to stop him in place, pondering an alternative way to spin it, and trying to think about things a little differently. A more pragmatic approach.

A check to collect, at the very least.

The gray obstacles cloud his vision yet again when he decides to move forward. It’s with a heavy sound that he trips over something without any type of softening of the blow. It’s not easy traversing a monster’s beard, especially with remnants of his most recent meals laying about. The item he spots, however, is not food debris moreso than it is a food.

“An egg?” Crash doesn’t even want to say it out loud let alone believe it.

“That’s right!” The egg spins around and has a bright smile and cool sunglasses like somebody who closely associates with and around egg-centric individuals. “I’m a fuckin’ egg.”

The logical thing to do is just turn it around, reverse it, and forget this whole psychotic break is happening. That’s not the Hot Dog Hero’s strong suit, though, so he leans down and extends his hand for some good ol’ fashion manners-havin’.

“Well, alfuckinright, egg…” His eyes narrow. “Can I call you egg, bro?”

The egg swivels. “Sure!”

Such a chill little egg bro, yo.

“So how’d you end up here?” Crash looks around for some sort of road or sign to navigate this facial hair forest. “Hessian eat you too?”

Egg Bro follows behind his newfound companion, who safely moves obstacles out of the way.

This is probably really pissing the big guy off…

He thinks about all the pinches and pulls that he himself has experienced with his own beard let alone a really big beard large enough to have travellers and giant food pieces in it. It must be pretty painful. Crash decides to make his movements a little more gentle.

It’s nobody else’s ass on the line at Sixty One.

He turns back to the talking egg, “I’m honestly not sure how I got here, man.”

“That’s an easy one, Crash,” Egg Bro waves a finger matter of factedly. “This is the next part of your journey. Your comeback.”

“Don’t you need to have been before you can come back?” he wonders if he’s misread the saying his entire life.

Egg Bro waves that thought off, “You have been! You’ve been in the ring with a chance at that Alias Championship twice now. You’ve taken on Max Kael and have the scars to prove it. And how many people can say they beat Hessian?”

They exchange an awkward glance. Neither wants to say it. So they don’t.

“So now, you’re right where you’re supposed to be,” Egg Bro does chop motions as if steps on a ladder. “You get a win here, Japan and Ultra Violence are right around the corner. This is a new year, new you, and a new chance to make some waves, baby.

Carpe fuckin’ diem, devil.

“So how do I pull it off, my Bromega 3 wisecrackalier?” Egg Bro’s silence implies Crash’s new nickname landed flat.

“Simple,” the way Egg Bro says it causes Crash to cock his head. “You just gotta believe you can do it, dude.”

The career mapping and forecasting comes to a halt with a snapping sound nearby. Crash stops, eyes wide, and scared as fuck. He lowers his stance, getting as low to the ground as possible before he spots the source of the sound and falls flat on his buttcheeks.

“Tony Gamble!” He can’t help but wonder how they both got in here. “You live in Hessian’s beard, too?”

Tony doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, kind of hunched over, with his hands in front of his midsection like he’s playing some stupid game. The silence makes it stupid because everyone knows Crash would be all about playing fun, audible games in Hessian’s beard if ever given the chance.

Not blowin’ this opportunity, bro.

In a flash, he snatches up Mr. Two Books and darts off into the thicket ahead. Much the same way he’s not going to waste the chance of getting to take on Hessian, Crash goes full send on living this moment up while he can.

“Leeeet’s goooooo, Tooooon!”

With Egg Bro and Tony Gamble under each arm, head down, and a shit-eating smile on his face, the Northern Light smashes and bashes through his bearded surroundings with the snap and crack of every beard fiber in his path. It’s a good, long while before he trips again. It’s a decent landing this time, aside from Egg Bro slipping out of his arms and into the air before sailing away.

“What’re you doin’ talkin’ to a tumbleweed in your willies, mate?” An unknown voice in a super Australian accent cuts through the thicket. “And what’s with the baby roo?”

Must be a local.

🌭🌭🌭🌭

Stryfe. Desade. Connors.

Chainz.

You put your name on this game and won everything there is to win.

Like a real life monster.

Now you’re an Egg Bandit.

Still Hardcore ‘til you die?

Doesn’t matter to me, chief.

Same task is at hand.

Take on the legend who made his name bein’ the nastiest motherfucker in the game.

Hess Express meets the Hot Dog Hero.

Time to go cancel the fuckin’ Murder Show, bro.