Performance Review

The air is still around the grounds of Farthington Manor. The birds don’t seem to be chirping as loudly as they normally do, all is quiet on the homemade Jolf Course that FLAMBERGE and Joe deemed to design at the back of the manor’s lawn, the hedge maze is hardly burning, only providing a flicker as day turns to dusk (non smoking skull edition).

All is quiet.

But is all well?

Perhaps more of an omen of things to come, the odd and stilted quiet is matched in the conference room area of the manor, the place that tends to be the hub for the running of all Glue related day to day operations and the space that Phil Atken has mostly consumed since that tragic assault that took his Universal Championship away, and then that second kick that put him back in the wheelchair he got out of.

The poor man had not had much luck in terms of avoiding the wheelchair over the past three years, mostly thanks to Cancer Jiles, someone thanks to some kind of squid creature who now serves the Colonel’s Finest.

The long conference table was almost a parody, as if someone was designing a way to mock the world of business, to quite possibly an absurd degree. Some people would swear that it was the length of three football fields, others insisted that it spanned the length of the United Kingdom from John o’ Groats to Lands End. These were of course silly statements made by silly people but the table was still larger than it needed to be.

On one side of the table sit the Founder of all things Glue, the Father of The Glue Factory, the… Pyramid Eyeball??? of the Glueminati, Atken himself. On the other sat the current PRIME Universal Champion and Glue’s money man from day one, Cecilworth Farthington. As if it was Thanksgiving and they needed a delightful centrepiece, PRIME’s Universal Championship sat in the middle of the table, directly in the middle of the two men. We know it’s directly in the middle because Cecilworth had requested Hank to get a bunch of metre sticks out from a nearby shed to ensure pure accuracy for this occasion. He was going to make sure he had some control in the meeting about to happen.

“Well Phil, here we are. I’m going to respect this process of yours. So, hey, “Performance Review” me” giggled Farthington, kind of bemused by the very idea of being called into a Performance Review meeting. We definitely also used air quotes when he uttered the word’s performance review.

The relationship between Phil and Cecilworth had gone through a lot of iterations in the past two years of PRIME. Mutual respect was always present, a shared mission and vision still guided their conversations, but there had certainly been drift when Cecilworth decided to allow Max Kael’s hand to guide a whole year of his life in PRIME, causing a lot of collateral damage to the Glue Boiz in the process. It didn’t help matters much when FLAMBERGE, always seen as the true heir and protege to Atken’s legacy, was the first to actually take matters into his own hands and take the fight to Max directly.

Tensions had simmered somewhat since then, Colossus was the hopeful end of a chapter and the opening of a new beginning, a beginning that the group grasps with both hands and a golden ring to bring in a New Year of PRIME grappling.

“I’m glad you’re respecting the process, and respecting me in the process” muttered Atken, which given the distance between the two at the table, it’s uncertain if Cecilworth even heard him. The former Universal Champion had adorned himself with a small pair of rounded spectacles and was carefully looking over a dossier folder, barely looking up at Cecilworth as he responded. Atken clicked a clicky pen and started scribbling down a few notes in the ole Cecilworth file.

“It’s just nice for us to sit down and do this, we’ve been working very hard for very long, we haven’t had a chance to just sit back and reflect on what has happened since you took over my vision for a better PRIME. Two years, and we’ve barely had a chance to see what we’ve achieved. Whether you won or lost at Culture Shock, it felt like a natural time to call this meeting.”

Cecilworth scoffs, “yeah sure, perfect timing to call a meeting just before one of the most important matches of my career. Wait, no, scratch that, THE most important match of my career.”

Atken scribbles a few more notes in the file, and offers a hearty “glad to know you’re taking this seriously again Conga Crusher.”

Farthington’s irritation is much more demonstrated by this point, his fingers rapidly banging off the edge of the table, his foot tapping at a speed where you’d swear he was trying to dig himself out of the meeting he found himself in.

If you could imagine what a Phil Atken smile looks like, which you can’t, because that’s impossible, but Atken dawns the closest thing adjacent to smile-like action. “Alright, I know you’re a busy man Cecilworth, I won’t draw this out any longer than it needs to be. So, two years of Farthington in PRIME. Why don’t we begin at the beginning, eh? Do you feel that you hit your key performance indicators in that Culture Shock Battle Royal?”

—

That fucking bastard is trying to push my buttons. The Culture Shock Battle Royal? He wants to talk about the bloody Culture Shock Battle Royal?

I’d negotiated myself an angel of a deal, you see, I wasn’t supposed to be back in a ring. I wasn’t planning to wrestle for my living after I took up the Farthington legacy and the fancy lawn-mazed house that came with it. That’s the thing people in PRIME seem to either forget, misunderstand or lack the intellectual curiosity to discover.

I never wanted to be a “Lord”, in fact for my entire career, I shunned the very idea of returning to Farthington Manor. Then I went to live in a pit for three years, and by the end of breathing in all manner of toxins, I had the grappling equivalent of black lung. I’d lost my friends, I’d lost my drive, my body was falling apart, there was nothing left for me to do. There was no future for Cecilworth Farthington in the ring. 

So I did something I never thought I would - I returned home. The spark of passion was fully snuffed out or so I thought. A mundane life of State Dinners and people who laugh by going “haw haw” unironically, as I live in a house that was probably haunted by some many ghosts it was on the verge of collapsing into an external void of woe and despair should one more murder happen on the grounds. 

I’d made my piece, I’d signed the paperwork, it was done, it was over. The candle burned bright and now all that was left was a waxy gooey mess dripping over the kitchen floor. 

That was the thought process, that was the idea, that was what I convinced myself my future held.

Of course, it turns out the candle of passion for graps wasn’t now something that you’d need a shovel to get off the floor, no, it was more one of those trick candles that you get for your birthday, the ones where the bastard never goes out. 

“Just invest in wrestling”, I thought to myself, “you’re not going back in the ring, you’re just supporting the future”. 

And that’s how I became the Financier of The Glue Factory. I knew Phil, I’d known him for a very long time and when I heard what he was trying to achieve in his own return to wrestling… that was the very thing I knew I wanted to toss wads and wads of dollarydoos at. 

Support from the shadows.

Then Phil’s incident happened and suddenly our bright young star FLAMBERGE was out there on his lonesome, waving the flag of Glue, being the single soldier of PRIME’s better future. It just didn’t feel right, and as the man financed the whole shindig, my heart pulled me back to somewhere I never thought I’d be again…

The 41st Entrant Spot came together at the very last minute, sure, I have connections and I’m willing to use them, I can admit that. 

Yet, in some ways, that really didn’t matter all that much. The match didn’t really start until after that point. I still survived thirty nine others to stand across from a child that I had brought into this world. A demon child. An immense evil. An explosion that couldn’t be contained. 

It was just me and him at the end, and I’d taught him everything he knew. My Universal ticket was as good as punched. Who’d even heard of a student bettering their master in the final scene of a brutal war? 

Oh, all the time? It’s a trope? 

No, my mentee fucked me up, he humbled me, he spat in my face and I let him. Fuck, not only did I let him, I tried to adopt him as PRIME family. 

I didn’t deserve a Universal Championship opportunity, I wasn’t ready, if my heartstrings could be manipulated into being a weaker fighter, it certainly wasn’t time for me to be shooting for the top.

I consumed my humble pie and hell, I think I made a damn good Five Star Champion, I definitely bettered a lot of people who stepped in the ring with me. Bettered them so much, a few managed to get their hands on the Big Belt before me.

—

“You know what happened in that match, Phil, you also know what happened next. We don’t need to go over this.”

Farthington’s response was terse, clearly not interested in playing this game, not when he’s got the entire weight of the Universe resting upon his shoulder. Phil seems rather unpeturbed by Farthington’s short response, clicking his lil clicky pen again and scribbling down a few more notes.

“I’ll just record that you got the shit kicked out of you by your supposed mentee at the end of the contest and came in second place, will I?”, it almost felt like there was sheer glee in Atken’s voice as he tried to push Farthington’s buttons. For his part, the Universal Champion curled his lip up and began to bite down on it. It had been quite some time since the thought of Tyler had even entered his brain and it was a thought he would rather quickly forget. To Farthington, he was seconds away from a career defining moment, only for it to be snatched away by a person that the Universal Champion has since described as “an immature little shitehawk.”

“Yeah, second place Phil, that’s what I managed.”

The Founder chuckled to himself, “well, not everyone can manage my perfect record I suppose.”

Farthington, an equal in the operation, decided it was time to lob a volley back over the net. “Yeah, I tried to take down the entire roster for my shot at the Universal Title. How did you earn yours again? Beating a man whose brain was in the middle of self blending?”

Atken, quick to return the ball, “and how was it you earned your shot against Ivan again? Losing a tag team match, if I recall… look, that’s not why we’re here. We’re just trying to learn lessons from your time in PRIME. So, with that in mind, why don’t we discuss the Almasy Final.”

—

Ah, I see how this meeting is going to go now. Poke holes at all my wounds. God, that man truly is a bitter husk whose only joy is in the misery of others.

The Almasy, another 2nd. 

Still, better than my upcoming opponent, eh? Can’t remember how that turned out for him. I heard he went out in the first round to a delightfully handsome fella, who is both cool and rad. 

Yet, Phil’s right to call me out on this one too. The path I took to that final, the legends I had to beat to get there. I pushed myself harder than I ever had in my career to that point. By the time we reached Colossus, I started to view myself as an infallible god. A wrestler like no other. A man who would never be defeated again after his humbling at Culture Shock. 

What kind of idiot knows he’s walking into a trap and just lets it happen? 

Oh, you think you can ignore the big fucking flashing neon sign that declares “THIS IS A TRAP” as the entire Love Convoy surrounds ringside for the Almasy Final and you don’t bring out a single one of your Glue Lads? Fuck, we’d just recruited Hayes too. 

WE HAD THE NUMBERS ADVANTAGE.

But oh no, ole prideful Cecilworth, he can fight the numbers game on his own. He doesn’t need a single ounce of help.

I really thought I was the God of Wrestling walking out there. That nothing would ever be able to strike me down. 

Imagine being tricked by Vickie Hall, DJ Crispy Trispy Glispy and Darin Zion. 

Men have went into a life of solitude in a Buddhist monastery for moments less embarrassing than that. 

—

Click click

Phil, looking down the table at Cecilworth, who had entered something of a period of silence and meditation, offers up a “Will I note that one was being “too arrogant to ask for help?”, I think that’s what I should put it down as.”

Cecilworth foot began to tap fast and fast, the drumming of fingers louder and louder, as he tried to channel all of his energy elsewhere, resisting the urge to leap over the very large table and throttle The Founder of Glue. He knew he was in the middle of a game, and it didn’t do him anything to take the bait.

“Yes, put that down. You know I learned that lesson…” an almost defeated Farthington sighed out.

“But did you learn that lesson? If I remember correctly, I was about to have my glorious return to PRIME at ReVival 50 and someone caught me with a loaded superkick that sent me right back into this chair. Were you not meant to summon the entire power of Glue to avenge me against Cancer Jiles? Was he not meant to suffer for his crimes? I remember that he was supposed to suffer for his crimes.”

Atken, less bemused and certainly heading in the direction of being on tilt, offers up “Should we talk about the Jiles match?”

—

I want to kill Phil. I want to kill Phil for how right he is. 

Not as much as I want to kill Cancer Jiles. Yet I’ve avoided the war for too long. Kept the powder dry. 

I should have had the entire force of Glue out there. That match should have been the Murder of the Coward Jiles by the Cool and Handsome Glue Lads. 

I thought Joe could outnumber Bandit Bullshit.

But Bandit Bullshit is incalculable. 

—

“Will I pencil in a future murder of Cancer Jiles in the calendar? Any date you have in mind?”

All Farthington can muster is a weak “good one” misery chuckle in response.

“Well, I think that concludes all of my questions. It’s clear that you’ve learned a lot of lessons and that’s why this beautiful belt sits once again in the Glue office.” Atken declares, clicking the pen shut once more.

“Gloffice”

“I will not be calling it that.”

Even in his typical bitter Scot way, there was a bit of warmth and acceptance of Glue Lingo, or Glingo if you will.

Atken closes over the folder. “Glue is stronger than it ever has been, and you have some role in that Cecilworth, perhaps not as much as FLAMBERGE, but merit nonetheless. So, you get out to that ring, you face down The Anglo Luchador once more, you show me that you’ve learned what you say you’ve learned and this whole folder hits the shredder. Do you understand?”

—

Of course I understand.

Ivan Stanislav was do or die for me. It was my first shot at the championship, it could have easily been my last. Not many people get a bit at that cherry, and even less go in learning the lessons I had to.

I thank Phil, and I thank Glue for letting me learn those lessons. I thank them for letting me become the man I should have always been. 

Mr. English Luchador, a name by itself that is such a pathetic parody that I don’t know if it verges into racism or not. Definitely cultural appropriation though, right? I dunno, I’m not as read up on these matters as I’d like, I mostly consume the current trends through the background of Hank’s TikTok videos. 

But here you are, at the dance. 

But why are you at the dance?

See, that’s the question that’s been bothering me since your arrogant arse swaggered in with big cock energy at ReVival 65. If you were to be taken at face value, you’d assume that you’d just won the Almasy itself, perhaps Manhunt, maybe even a War Games at a minimum. The sheer hubris… thinking that “doing well” in a match is a Golden Ticket to the Universe.

I know why Phil wanted that Performance Review now. I know exactly why he asked me about those events. The amount of times I came close to earning myself a shot at the very belt that now rest comfortably around my waist.

The amount of times that I was “Mr. 2nd Place”, about to taste the biggest opportunity in the whole Universe, only to slip up. Only to let the confidence in my talents make me miss the bigger picture. 

See, I took time to learn from those experiences, I took time to reflect and realise what it takes to feel like you’ve EARNED a shot at this championship. I turned all my “almosts” and made myself into something quite dangerous. Something capable of driving even monsters into submission… if their dancing moustached friends hadn’t got in the way of the moment…

Something WORTHY of this title I now hold. 

Can you really claim that you’ve done the same?

How was it you got that Intense Championship opportunity again? Surely through your wrestling talents, right? Your skill in the ring? 

What’s that?

You launched a fucking political campaign for a shot at the belt?

Tag Team Champion though, some tough competition there, so I suppose it was tossing away any morals to team with a man like Zapp. Maybe that’s the lesson you learned in your own suffering, to never believe in anything, to throw all of what you state you are out of the window if it gets you an extra five seconds in the spotlight. 

I guess what I’m struggling with, TAL, when I look at you, I just wonder what you’ve learned from your journey because to me eye, it doesn’t seem like you’ve learned anything at all.

I’d say you were a dog chasing a car, but at least that dog typically sticks to one car, and not fifty.

Chasing trends, chasing approval, chasing admiration.

Then the minute you get a whiff that you aren’t maybe as pathetic as your subconscious screams you are, Big Dick Tommy is on campus, eh?

I’ll be honest, when I saw you with Crash and Gold, when I saw you with fire, finally wanting to take the fight to the Red Army, to adopt talent who felt adrift in this new factional landscape of PRIME… I really thought you were becoming a better man. A more rounded man. 

As a father, I thought you saw those guys like they were your own kids. 

Turns out, you’re more of a father in the old Lord Farthington vein - use the children as props to support your own goals. 

You should be thanking me, you should be thanking Glue. We have done your job for you. We helped you beat The Red Army at ReVival 64, we took the Universal Championship away from the evil kidnappers who have caused your friends nothing but suffering. 

We did what you should have done. 

Yet, you didn’t

Because the minute that your failure was better than it had been for a while, you suddenly abandoned this war you’d declare. You left your supposed adopted hero children to their own devices. Crash to suffer with VP, Gold to ruminate on Dawkins.

A father abandoning their children in a time of need. Does it sound familiar to you? It sounds familiar to me.

I broke the curse of becoming my father’s child, I don’t think you can claim the same. 

You let your pride take over.

Time to meet The Fall.