Welcome Back to class!

Salvete, Students!

Our subjects have faced a bit of adversity recently, have they not?

Unexpected Losses.

Early exits.

Tell me, have any of you ever failed a test?

I don't mean an exam, by the way. I mean tests. Real tests. The kinds of tests I'm referring to do not provide a measure of expertise. No, I mean the tests that measure something deeper. Friendship. Mettle. Belief.

Did you know the vast majority of tag teams in professional wrestling end up falling apart? Destroying one another through betrayal and turning one's partner into a ladder toward supremacy. It happens right when the audience suspects it will, usually. The team begins showing they aren't on the same page. Next thing you know, one turns Judas, and a feud the likes of which is very personal and bloody begins.

Why?

Because having failed a test of their ability, their partnership was tested, and they failed that as well.

Given how young our subjects are, and how hungry for success in this industry they happen to be, one might expect that their supposedly inevitable Judas moment is on the horizon, but…

Hugo Vale. Daniel Green. They aren't like other tag teams.

The vast majority of tag teams are formed after two singles wrestlers determine they can find more success together.

Hugo and Daniel came together in friendship long before either of them really saw a wrestling match.

The truth is, unlike most tag teams in professional wrestling, their partnership did not begin with their mutual love of brutality.

Their love of brutality does, however, strengthen their partnership.

And losses?

Somehow, losses strengthen it too.

Let's open our books to the next section, per the syllabus, and explore these ideas further.

📖

CURRENT EVENTS - Reform School

It wasn't easy, the way Ned was drilling Daniel and Hugo. A tag loss, followed by a singles loss, well, it just wasn't something Ned was paid to tolerate. In fact, he was paid – handsomely, one might note – specifically not to tolerate them.

The Vale name was at stake, and Hudson wasn't one to spare expense when it came to legacy.

And so, he drilled them. Exercises, tape review, ring work.

He also drilled them with annoying bits of advice that the boys had little doubt he contrived specifically to annoy them.

Like this one: “‘Tired’ is just a word, gentlemen,” he said as they ran sprints. “I wonder if your opponents know the meaning of the word ‘tired.’ Likely not, as they’ve been able to defeat you so handily lately.”

Or this: “In the ring, your next move must be pure instinct,” he said, while having them practice chain wrestling counters. “Those of us who have internalized this sport need not waste precious time plotting our next move - the muscle memory will save us. You must get there, gentlemen. Become one with the ring.”

And worst of all: “Failure is unacceptable,” he said, while reviewing tape of their losses. “I thought that was clear when we made this arrangement, yes?”

“And I suppose you think we enjoy losing, or something?” Daniel bit back.

Reform adjusted the collar of his shirt, in a relaxed manner of threatening. “Hugo, what was it Daniel told us about his match with Chandler Tsonda?”

The film room they sat in was adjacent to Reform's gym. Through the window you could see the ring, the state of the art exercise equipment, the library of wrestling psychology in shelves along the walls. This room, however, had none of that. Just some chairs, a projector, and a dry erase board.

Hugo looked at Daniel, considered biting his tongue.

“Not to get involved,” Hugo said, choosing not to bite it after all.

“Why?” Reform asked.

“Because he could handle an injured, old buck without reinforcements,” Hugo answered.

Daniel curled his nose as Ned looked him in the eye. His nostrils flared when Ned said, “I admired your gusto, and agreed. I had faith in you. We both did.”

Ned stood to exit the room. He wanted this next line of his to percolate, and he knew it would percolate best if he exited upon its utterance.

“We won't make that mistake again.”

Reform made his exit.

The line did, indeed, percolate.

“Fuck him,” Daniel said. “Old bastard.”

“He's right,” Hugo replied. “You were over-confident. There's power in numbers.”

“I was over-confident?” A vein began protruding on Daniel's forehead. “He was old and beaten up!”

“And still,” Hugo said. “You're not in the tournament.”

Daniel stood up, fully meaning to get in Hugo's face. Hugo didn't mind. He met him halfway.

“You really want to do this?” Hugo asked, a little grin of mischief curling the edges of his lips.

Daniel thought for a moment.

“Yeah.”

Then he socked Hugo right in the jaw. Hugo flailed his arms and spiraled backwards, before returning fire with fists of his own. It wasn't long at all before Daniel scooped Hugo into the air and slammed him onto his back, through his chair and to the floor.

From his back, Hugo sent an elbow right into Daniel's neck, but Daniel took quick control and mounted him.

Then, he began raining fists down at Hugo.

Hugo deflected what he could, but still caught quite a few fists to the jaw.

Not to be outdone, Hugo grabbed Daniel's arm and pulled him forward right into a headbutt that busted open both of their noses.

Daniel rolled off Hugo and the boys writhed around on the floor together, blood pouring like their noses were decorative faucets.

“Fuck you,” Hugo said.

“Fuck you,” Daniel replied.

This scene might trouble you, or bring concern that their friendship is in a fragile state, but fear not.

Because for the entirety of that fight?

They were giggling like kids on a playground, even as they laid there, bleeding.

Outside the door, Ned listened, a sneer on his face.

The line, indeed, percolated.

📖

HISTORY - SOPHOMORE YEAR, FALL SEMESTER

When you don’t have many friends, you grow deeply attached to the ones you do have. It’s human to not want to be alone.

We need our people, flawed as they may be at times.

Over his time at St. George’s, Daniel Green had become close friends with Hugo Vale. He’d never admit it, but he needed him. Hugo made him feel less like an outsider and gave him a sense that anything was possible.

Hugo goes on vacation? Daniel tags along, no questions asked, all expenses paid.

Luxury shopping trips? Hugo’s eye for fashion and limitless bank account made them seamless affairs, the prices irrelevant.

‘Access to capital’ is a phrase you won’t hear from the poor, but when a rich person says it, what they mean is that, even if their cash or credit is tapped out, they can always make a call — no purchase is out of reach with a little lead time.

But as time passed, Daniel started noticing something unsettling:

Hugo was spending more and more time with a new kid that recently transferred to the school – Jeremy. There was an air of mystery surrounding him. His family didn’t appear on any Forbes list, but everyone knew he was loaded and had powerful family connections.

At first, it was small things, like shared conversations between classes or the occasional walk back to the dorm together. But the moments began to add up. And as Hugo's world seemed to expand, Daniel felt his own place in it shrinking. What had always felt like an unspoken pact between them now seemed more transactional. Hugo had been the key to a life Daniel could only dream of, one of wealth and privilege, a sense of belonging.

Daniel couldn't shake the thought that their bond was never as genuine as he’d made himself believe. He wasn’t being ignored or dismissed, not exactly, but for the first time since their friendship began, an outsider had found a way into the space that used to be his alone.

He didn’t stop waiting for Hugo outside class; just became… inconsistent about it.

The cafeteria had no shortage of long tables and open seats. Daniel walked in, picked one, and sat. He didn’t look to see if Hugo was already there.

A light smack landed on his shoulder.

Hugo dropped into the seat beside him, slinging an arm over the back. “Danny Boy, we got this thing later. Jeremy and I’ll grab you ‘round eight.”

Daniel looked at him, stone-faced. Waited just long enough to make it awkward. “Tonight?”

“No, tomorrow,” Hugo said, embellishing an eye-roll. “Of course tonight. Who makes plans for tomorrow?”

He guffawed like it was the dumbest idea he’d ever heard. The only thing Hugo Vale planned in advance involved intercontinental vacations and exclusive resorts, and even then, only because he absolutely had to. It’s awkward showing up at a place, demanding a room, being told they have no vacancy – and catching the likes of George Clooney, Zendaya, and Stephen A. Schwartzman gawking at you like you’re the unreasonable person.

Stephen even made a face.

The same face Hugo made at other people.

Daniel picked up a fry and bit down on it with a forceful chomp. He answered as he chewed: “Already have plans.”

Hugo leaned back. “You have plans?”

Daniel didn’t answer at first. He wiped his fingers on a napkin, then looked at Hugo with the calm detachment of someone pretending not to care. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve got my own thing. Ask me about it later.”

Hugo tilted his head. “A thing,” he repeated.

Daniel stood, lifting his tray. “Just a thing.”

“Oh-ho. Secrets now?” Hugo said, grinning. “Like my thing… but just for you, I guess? What is this, a girl? Some secret society? The Illuminati? Where’s my invite?”

Daniel didn’t bother replying. He walked his tray to the bin, dumped it (the food and the tray itself, because who cares?), and turned toward the exit.

Behind him, Hugo called out, loud enough for a few heads to crane around. “Alright, man. Next time, then. Enjoy your mysterious plans!”

Daniel didn't turn around. If he had, he'd have spotted the smallest hint of a frown on Hugo's face.

📖

PRIMARY SOURCE - HUGO VALE - SOPHOMORE YEAR (CONT.)

It would be a lie to say that it didn't bother me as he walked away. Tried to hide it from my face in case he turned around.

He didn't.

No matter.

Even now, a month later, this is how he behaves.

I understand his frustration. Yes, I have secrets. That doesn't mean he has to have them, too. He's not the one in my precarious predicament.

If Hudson finds out, he'll beat the absolute shit out of me. Worse, he'll disown me.

Daniel is my brother, yes, with bonds stronger than blood.

But my father is so fond of him.

I don't know if I should. I certainly wouldn't recommend it to anyone else in my position.

Jeremy is cute. I like him. He likes me. That's all it is.

Well, it's all it should be, at any rate.

Still, it bothers me.

He stays distant, now. Not like someone who hates me, but like someone who doesn't have time for me. He knows it will piss me off, that's why.

That's why.

Furthermore, I've noticed for the last three Tuesday nights in a row, he's run off campus without me. WITHOUT ME.

A disgrace, to be honest. An utter disgrace.

I've decided. Tonight, I'm following him.

He made it off campus the way I showed him by the way. Out the back of the theater, around the tree line of the lacrosse field. Like a pro. Because he learned from one.

I keep a far enough distance that I don't need to hide the sound of my feet. If he catches me, I'd rather be caught looking cool than on my toes like a creep.

He hops in an Uber.

Over the summer, I had installed a tracker on his phone. It was a covert mission. Not something he needed to know. Something I thought I'd forget about. But then, it was my keen foresight at the time, wasn't it, that I would end up needing it? For times like these, you see. When friends keep secrets.

I eventually reach the outside of campus and summon an Uber of my own. Lux, of course, as though there were any doubts.

When my driver arrives, I check the tracking app. Danny Boy has already arrived at his location.

An American Legion.

I have the driver take me there. Needless to say, we arrive in the first Audi to ever roll into that parking lot. I tip the driver, four star him (too talkative, shut up already), and head inside.

I expect to find some mix of military veterans hanging out, drinking and telling stories. I expect them to turn their heads, see someone who never needed to nor had a desire to serve their country, in clothes they could never afford, with a watch worth more than their cars, and go quiet with envy-fueled anger.

But instead, I walk into a professional wrestling show.

No one turns their head.

A couple of acrobatic fellows in masks duel with a couple of rednecks. The crowd, small but thrilled, in a pond of steel chairs no one sits in. They cheer the masked gentlemen. They jeer the overalls and straw hats.

I'd do the same.

I spot Daniel in the crowd. He watches with keen interest, but doesn't let himself go like the rest of the audience. In his manner of dress and posture, he looks more like a talent scout than a fan.

Soon, I go and make my way next to him. I stare at the action taking place in the ring. He doesn't turn away from it himself, but the harsh exhale through his nose lets me know he's alerted to my presence.

We just… watch the wrestling for a while. It's utterly fascinating, to be sure.

Finally, Daniel says, “I thought you'd think it's lame. Wrestling.”

A masked man flies out of the ring and collides into a redneck.

Everyone cheers, except Daniel and me. We just watch.

“I don't,” I reply. But I understand why he might worry. And I think, maybe he'd understand why I might worry, too, if I were to tell him.

A moment passes. It's on the tip of my tongue. I just can't find a way to spit it out. It won't get out of my fucking mouth.

“Jeremy's gay,” I say, exasperated.

Another moment. Then, “So am I.”

Just the slightest of a head nod and slow blink from Danny Boy.

“I was worried,” I say. “What you'd think. You're my best friend. My only real friend. Ever.”

Another slight nod.

Finally, he shrugs, and says, “I don't really think anything about it.”

We both laugh through our noses, glance away. I imagine we both feel quite silly. I certainly do. It all seems like trivial nonsense, out in the open like this. We're best friends, after all.

The action continues in the ring. Fast paced. Brutal. Incredibly intriguing.

One of the masked men hooks the legs of the redneck and lies on him for three seconds. That constitutes a victory.

When the referee raises the masked men's hands and offers them large, golden cumberbands as a prize, Daniel says, “We should do this.”

I smile, clapping for the victors.

“Wrestling, I mean,” he clarifies.

For the first time that night I look Danny Boy in the eyes. He's really into this. And between the costumes, the pageantry, and the violence?

“We should,” I reply.

📖

FROM THE DESKS OF:

Hugo Vale

&

Daniel Green

To Whom This May Concern,

Salvete! That's Latin. Apologies for the use of a language you definitely don't speak, but have no worries, we won't be using it further. Besides, we know you Hollywood-types only speak one language: money.

Luckily for you, that is a language we are incredibly fluent in.

Ms. Ares, Mr. Edwards, we've come to understand the film you made was a flop. A joke. An absolute botch job. One of those, “so bad it's good” type of films. Like The Room, just not as acclaimed, or nearly as noteworthy.

We believe that, as with most things, good art can only come from a large amount of investment capital.

Truth is, we have enough capital at our disposal to produce movies like Infinity War, Battlefield Earth, and Tron a hundred times over.

You know, good movies.

We also happen to have something you desperately need: a compelling story.

The story… of the Green Vale Gang.

Two young men with immeasurable charisma and an unmatched drive to succeed — who willingly set aside a life of ease and luxury (well, mostly, we’re still very luxurious, and that best be accurately represented in any film portrayal) to tussle with the unwashed, unkempt, and uneducated locker room of PRIME Wrestling.

A duo who could’ve been lounging perpetually on a beach somewhere in the Maldives, kicking their feet up while sipping thousand-dollar cocktails served by a man named Marceau, but instead chose to kick their feet into the yellowed maws of a bunch of snaggle-toothed “pro” wrestlers.

That’s opening-weekend gold. That’s four-quadrant appeal. That’s global distribution rights pending.

TikTok’s panties are already dampening — can you sense it? 

There won’t be a target demo, everyone and their moonfaced cousin will be lining up at the box office to hand over whatever’s left of their most recent government handout, after dropping a few bills on a bag of meth.

Think of those frothy backend points. Think of them…

Don’t anticipate them.

That’s for the Producers.

AKA the Boys.

AKA the GVG.

Not the vocational help standing behind or in front of the camera.

No, you’ll be paid a salary.

A handsome one, but not so handsome that it would turn the head of a New York 9 or a Cali 10.

Maybe next time.

After all, there will be sequels.

As we understand it, one of you is the failed actor and the other is the failed director. Doesn’t matter who’s who, you figure it out.

But if the chick is gonna play one of us, cool, whatever, equality and all that — we’ll pay for the best prosthetics money can buy. Maybe get you on that tren diet for a few months, blow you up, get you some rounded shoulders and a six pack.

And if it’s the dude, same offer applies — as you look like you could use it, too.

We think this could be an opportunity the likes of which the two of you have never experienced.

Tag titles in other promotions? Cool, you've done that.

Film and star in really bad movies that have been forgotten by everyone except online movie shitlords? Checked that box.

But now? Now you can know what it's like to actually have a destiny. To actually have meaning, and purpose. To actually have a friend, a true friend, something far beyond the strictly transactional relationships you Hollywood types have an iPhone full of.

Well, you could at least experience what it would be like, by making our film.

If you aren't interested, that's fine. We'll just get Michael Bay's people on the phone or something.

Actually, nevermind all this.

We're going with Bay.

Best (and by Best we mean us, we're the Best),

The Green Vale Gang