My Go-To Tool For Applying Glue to a Child’s Ass (Harder Than You Think)

And just like that, we’re back. Feels almost like I never left.

By the way, I’ve been thinking about this ever since you so graciously bowed back down and kissed my fucking ring - if you’re looking for a “welcome to the family” gift for your brand new #1 fan half-sister, get her dad a little rubber spatula. It’s my go-to tool for applying glue to a child’s ass - and the thought only came up at all because I remember how much you used to shit yourself at the smallest little thought about a childhood, and it’s important to load up on some sort of desiccant, lest yonder butt crack succumbs to rashes. I had to buy the amygdala equivalent of Costco quantities of Boudreaux’s Butt Paste before your match against Stanislav last Colossus…

…oh wait, that’s right, not LAST Colossus. Because last Colossus, you didn’t have a match at all.

Oopsie poopsie. Did someone's wittle adventures in the wilderness leave dem lost in the big bad weeds? You know deep down that in the end, it had to happen…it doesn’t matter how sexy the building is, if the foundation is cracked badly enough, it’s a total tear-down job.

I was actually talking about the Colossus BEFORE that, when I dragged you kicking and screaming to the absolute Pinnacle of All Sprotz, almost against your will, you little shit. I completed the fastest Triple Crown in PRIME history with your dead weight trying to anchor me down like so many children having so many meltdowns in the grocery store, flopping to the ground, dad forced to drag you along by the arm. Imagine how embarrassing that is for you, in hindsight…I mean, I’d be mortified.

I did it anyway, because I’m a real professional, and even at your most internally conflicted, you’re among the most devastating combat sports athletes alive, so…gave me a little buffer, I guess. Even though Stanislav scared the hell out of you, even though you were petrified about your sweet little Hides Important Things Like Your New Half-Sister From You Because She Doesn’t Think You Can Take It mother, Julia…we walked out of Colossus 2023 with the Universal Championship, you walked away with a fat stack of Year End Awards.

Then, over 2024…oh dear.

But ah, just like that, I digress - it feels good to have the space to digress again, though. All the reins, all the brainspace. The whole thing needs a remodel, sure, but the red tape’s finally gone.

Just like that.

The original point was - if you really feel obligated to ship that oh-so-wonderful father of yours something useful, consider the rubber spatula. You have to believe that girl isn’t out of diapers yet, and there’s no reason to believe Henri Lavigne has improved as a man or a father in the 22 years or so that it’s been since you yourself were 2.

And that was the real core of our conflict, wasn’t it? All the times I would tinker and tamper and take little peeks behind the curtain as you rolled around on the ground for a burger or stared at a line of ants, or planked on a row of chairs, or any of your other defense mechanisms, it really wore you down the more and more they involved your childhood. That was just your favorite trigger to curl yourself into a protective little ball, wasn’t it? Henri bad, childhood bad, anxiety, panic, lash out, rahhhhhhh - how mediocre this ambition is. Adam Ellis levels of mediocre ambition (speaking of, hey guess what - only 15-20 years or so and you’ve got two new recruits for your incredible PRIME Children With Daddy Issues school. They can form a stable with Nora and Henriette.)

No, Phil Atken’s ambition has always been loftier. We started together with a cracked foundation, and it needed to be sorted out. After all, you cracked in the face of greatness, not me.

I taught you everything about who you are, how Phil Atken’s vision for the future of professional wrestling could carve itself into the core of the earth permanently with the swing of the FLAMBERGE sword…and you had the audacity to chase “good mental health”, as if I’m so bad and that good versus bad isn’t a false dichotomy anyway.

Rude, is what it is. Plain rude.

It’s good you’ve come to your senses, even if I had to break a few things to do it. It’s better this way, with your full cooperation.

…

It’s good you listened to me and stayed away from Colossus entirely this year. Named to the Hall of Fame, becoming maybe the youngest PRIME Hall of Famer ever, while being demolished in the ring so completely that you’re forced off the match card due to lack of merit - honestly, as someone who mostly paints with the emotional colors of Pat You On The Butt, Then Slap You In The Face, it was a master stroke. It’s really a treat to witness a master lever-puller like Lindsay Troy at work…it was the perfect final act that granted me the space I needed to build our foundation anew.

This Rocky Mountain cabin retreat was a choice, though, wasn’t it - I thought you told everyone you were going to hide in a cave? I guess that’s a little on the nose, isn’t it. Lizard nose. The mlem of it all.

Did you do any fishing? No? Lizards don’t eat - yes, sure, I’m aware most lizards usually don’t eat fish, I would argue that your lack of awareness of the monitor lizard as a species is one of many blind spots I’ll have to walk you through as we build up from this new foundation, but fine. You’re allowed to go fishing without consuming the fish, is the point.

I guess that’s a little butch of a hobby for you, isn’t it? Hey - in fairness, when I became aware of the locale, I was half ready to see you in teal and copper flannel. You know you’d pull it off. I’ve certainly seen you pull off stupider.

Did you do anything in the woods? Hike a trail, see a bear, share some ayahuasca with some soulful mountain person who could Spirit Guide you through some bullshit? No?

You mostly stayed in the cabin. I see. Well.

Isolation. Yeah, that’s the go-to hobby of the Julien Lavigne I know. I hope the burgers out here are worth every roll on the ground you give them.

And hey - lonerism is a powerful tool when you’ve tacitly agreed to total upheaval. You needed to get away, you got away.

But god damn it, FLAMBERGE. You didn’t realize it, but you screwed me here.

I wanted to paint a really nice picture about how you would emerge from the cold cave into the light as a changed lizard or something, is the problem.

I swear I was listening in when you were chatting with Hank - you told Hank to tell people that you were in a cave, and it’s just a much less satisfying thing to be like “...time to leave the Airbnb and catch a shuttle to the airport”. There’s no poetry in it, there’s no wetness to soak in.

“Behold yonder Julien, the youngest legend alive. He withdraws from the world, becomes one once again with the shadows, and prepares to emerge from his cold nest as hungry and as kill-or-be-killed of a ruthless animal as exists in nature, the only thing colder than his mountain cave. The devourer is back, the Neck Collector prowls, France’s most phenomenal wrestler of all time has barely gotten started” - and instead it’s like, “Julien made sure to use the Lysol wipes as a courtesy to his host, and he’s now waiting on Daryl in a white Chevy Suburban, who should arrive in 20 minutes”.

Words are important, FLAMBERGE. I’ll make sure that’s reinforced in the new foundation.

You can’t just tell Hank you’re in a cave and then NOT go to a cave.

…

There will be other opportunities to paint those pictures. Or, there won’t. Revolution means change, it’s not always going to be so pretty or so perfect.

And that’s what Phil Atken promised, FLAMBERGE. Revolution. If not revolution, revolt. If not revolt, hostile takeover.

Our influence might be spreading like a weed here in PRIME - and let’s be clear, by our influence, I mean MY influence - but that’s not enough. Any asshole can be an influencer - this has never been about style points. You are meant to be the new flagbearer of the present and long-term future of professional wrestling, if not sports as a whole - a gluey flag, made of glue and necks and probably wearing a beret.

These people have started to become comfortable with you. With the idea of you. That maybe Julien Lavigne is this nice, approachable guy who can help them out with their spooky family business, as Rose sees you. That maybe Julien Lavigne is just some poor child soldier that could be redeemed if he could just learn to bend over and change everything about himself to fit into someone else’s mold, as Brandon Youngblood sees you. That you’re a little crumb bitch that didn’t have the guts to step up when the Phil Atken attack was fresh, as Cancer Jiles sees you. That you’re eminently beatable, as Nate Colton sees you. That you’re an overhyped one-hit-wonder, as who knows how many of the rest of the roster sees you.

Now that you’ve fully succumbed to my control, I’m so happy. I get to turn their comfort into twice the pain, these happy fucking idiots.

It’s like they all forgot War Games, and who That Guy is.

The Glueminati spent the rest of the year on their back foot, on the defensive, didn’t you?

Well…I can’t speak for Cecilworth, who seemed to pull it together enough in the end to survive another day. I can’t speak for Hayes, who’s always felt a little bit out of place with the crew, hasn’t he?

But I can speak for you, because I literally do speak for you now, in every sense of the fucking word.

Everyone who has the misfortune of finding themselves in your way is cursed.

Sorry, Daytona Diamonds - all that rhinestone cowboy shit looks pretty neat, hollering incoherently and hating preachers with a side of Working Through The Foibles Of Fatherhood is normally the type of branding that would vibe with Glue-related activities, it seems like you could’ve been on the right side of this war in another life, what with glue and cocaine both often sharing something in common (they’re white, I guess?) (I’m trying to throw Daytona a bone here, he just lost the Intense Championship to a fucking Old, which pisses me off more than I can really express) (it earmarked his neck for immediate collection) (I’m left to assume that Daytona was always doomed to the fate of Wrecked By A Cold-Blooded Weapon from the beginning, but the powers that be didn’t want the sheen to be taken off their shiny new toy too soon) (which is fair, tbh) (we’ve broken a lot, A LOT, of toys here)

(Doubleday)

(DJ Tristy Crispy)

(Teefers)

(the list goes on)

(speaking of shiny new toys, I’m putting a pin in the whole Black Sheep Baez/Hayes Hanlon fiasco, because you know you’re going to have to be the one that either shows Baez Phil Atken’s light or takes everything from him)

(or both)

(like every fucking wrestler on the roster, it all depends on whether or not they’re in front of you)

(if they are, well)

(that’s it, isn’t it)

(just like that)

…

Is Daryl here yet?

Few more minutes. Neat. Really adds to the feeling of nature’s majesty that I was chasing ever since you said you were going to be in a cave all winter.

Mountain cave for a lizard, what an idiot…yeah yeah, I promise I’m going to let it go. Not for your sake, though. For mine. If I’m not already used to being disappointed by you by now, then I’ve really become negligent in my duties, haven’t I?

Self-forgiveness can really melt away those burdens, I’ve found. So I’m choosing self-forgiveness.

Brain lizard voice person, fight-or-flight driver of utmost importance, and Julien’s primary benefactor, you are forgiven for thinking that your baby lizard was actually going to be in a cave, and for building up silly hopes for yourself. Just like you would forgive yourself if a puppy tried to run away from home and started peeing the rug once he learned the hard way that he should just stay under your fucking roof…there’s going to be an adjustment period while he’s re-broken.

We’ll make sure to go on plenty of walkies this time, kid. Even if the weather is bad. I’ll even make sure you get treats when you earn them.

…

Oh good, Daryl’s here. Good call going with the private shuttle. Cecilworth warned you what it would be like using a public service and he made poors sound very noisy. You don’t need noise right now. Just me, just like that.

How’s the emotional ass? Dessicated enough? Fantastic, you used the tool.

It’s good that you did, because we’re not pulling over again. Not once. We ride with the vanguard set to change everything about the old ways of professional wrestling, and we ride with the diaper we came in.

It’s going to be harder than you think.

And that’s fine, because you can do hard things, because of me.

I am carrot and stick, I am mother and father, I am customer and delivery driver - and you, my dear FLAMBERGE, you get to come along for the ride.

How absolutely fucking hilarious your career is going to be when it’s all said and done - there’s a temptation to call your meteoric rise to legendary status at such a young age has a Doogie Howser element to it, but that’s a reference that’s so old that the guy who played Doogie was older on the day you were born than you currently are now - is Young Sheldon the appropriate pop culture parlance for your generation? Ew, first off, and time to get off that train of thought, second off.

Point being - imagine how jealous the rest of the roster must be of you. How fucking insignificant it hast to feel to spend years and years - in some cases, decades - chasing heights that they’ll never reach, squandering chances, scratching and clawing for scraps. Hanging their cowboy hats on lofty targets, then giving Fred Dick the fucking time of day, undermining the whole point of their pursuit.

You’re not just capable of climbing every metaphorical mountain on the planet - you can move those mountains, too.

There are plenty of bit players here. Fun ideas with a time and a place and a shelf life, happy to exist in an ecosystem at all - fat, lazy, incapable of discovering new heights.

The burden falls on - ah shit, what does Daryl want?

…he’s asking which airline you’re flying to Sydney. Is he new? International, tell him that. Famously, Sydney is not in America.

…yes, you can confirm that your accent is unique. No, you’re not from Nigeria. Yes, you do know that you almost look like that Nigerian guy in Ted Lasso, but with a beard. No, you don’t know him. Yes, it’s such a good show, we all learned so much about teamwork or whatever.

Is there, like, a button you can press to raise a screen between you and Daryl? If this was a limo, you’d have that option. Don’t burden yourself, I’ll make the mental note for you for next time. I’ll tell you this for free, the Aussies are likely to be just as bad as Americans are about prying into your personal business out of fear of letting silence between strangers happen. They’ll chit chat your ears off if you let them. We won’t let them next time.

Get the hint, Daryl.

…

…

It’s not about how the process is going to be harder than you think.

It’s about GOING harder than you think.

It’s time the Glueminati approached war and murder and conflict proactively.

I’ve got a long-term target for you…well, let’s call it medium-target, I want you to be flexible enough to beat ass at a moment’s notice.

It seems to me like it could possibly be a Hayes project, but you know what? Maybe you could discuss it together! Like friends do. Beautiful friends with magnificent facial hair and a shared desire to throw every single obstinate obstacle holding professional wrestling back through a chipper shredder.

It’s part of the No Gold On Olds thing I threw out before - do you like it? Is it a line that you think people might like to see on a t-shirt?

(if we’re going through with this all, we might as well work all the paying angles while we’re at it)

(we can get some new fixtures for the Drippin’ Room)

(maybe tear down the old neck mantle, rebuild something new)

(something more raw, more guttural, more attuned to nature)

(like a mountain cave would have been)

(airbnb cabin in the Rockies and you don’t even do cool mountain stuff, the future is cursed already, I just want you to be the curse’s author and not its passive recipient)

We’ll see what they have to say in Australia. If anyone’s going to “get it”, it’s going to be Aussies.

They know full well the destructive capabilities of nature in Australia. Everything wants to kill you there, and even the things that don’t actively want to kill you can still find a way to mess you up. It’s a perfect test market.

The most deadly creatures in the world have found their way to Australia; crocodiles, snakes, spiders, box jellyfish…and next, the Neck Collector, your favorite predator’s favorite predator. The one who, on January 17th, will go harder than anyone to make their indelible mark on the present and future of professional wrestling through fantastical acts of human sacrifice…not because Daytona Diamonds deserves it, even if the innumerable sins of his life say he does. Not because Daytona Diamonds is an unworthy competitor or beneath anyone in PRIME in terms of talent and ability, because that’s not true in the slightest.

No. The venomous bite of the Lizard King, the FLAMBERGE sword that will cut this man down more violently than he may deserve, the horrible example that must be put forth on display for the entire PRIME roster to witness…it’s happening to Daytona Diamonds, because Daytona Diamonds is the unlucky son of a bitch who drew life’s shortest straw. In another world, maybe it would have been Don Winters, and Daytona might instead relish in the destruction ReVival 61 will bring to light…but life just isn’t like that.

Life, fate, or cruel karma has doomed Daytona Diamonds. When it’s all said and done, he might blame himself. It’s not our place to say whether or not he should.

No.

Our place is to look back, years from now, at the path carved by our wake. Phil Atken’s wake. The only true thing left in the world.

…

Oh good, Daryl found the right terminal. We made it.

Do you think he knows? Do you think he understands that he just had generational greatness in his SUV?

…

Do you think Daytona knows what’s coming for him? Do you think anyone does?

…

When historians look back on what you’ve done in Australia, will they too require butt paste?