Bro, Do You Even (Scissor) Lift?

It’s a beautiful day.

Birds sing, turtles swim, and two men find themselves stranded at the top of a scissor lift that neither are licensed to operate. What started as a game has become a nightmare, leaving us with one obvious question…

“How did we get here?”

*.*

FLAMBERGE looked down at the sea of misery below them, and he was mildly disassociating. He almost couldn’t believe what Joe had slapped together with a little bit of fabbypower and one scissor lift.

The sea of misery in question was a large oval in the middle of a parking lot to an abandoned mall somewhere in the United States. No, not that one. Different one. The location was clearly picked because the idea of what was about to happen was so rock-stupid that any other adult might have stopped it. The oval was a raised wall about three feet high to prevent anyone from easily walking out of it. Within it were an entire crew of fabbies bought from Temu, dressed in green and blue. In the middle of this crew of Temu fabbies was the genuine fabby dressed in his usual gold.

A sea of misery, a circle of disappointment, and a clear metaphor for an eGG Bandit without its “Captain.” Either of them.

By Joe’s feet was a large sack, full of various pieces of garbage taken from a dumpster like the kind they intended to put the eGG Bandits into soon. By FLAMBERGE’s feet was a similar sack full of similar garbage.

Joe was in the middle of explaining the game to FLAMBERGE, because this was all a part of a game. A new wing of jolf. He called it “Jumpster Jolf,” of course, because Joe Fontaine was all about committing crimes with the letter J, and he won’t stop because he’s a fucking jonster.

“The green ones are worth one point, because they disappoint me and their green color makes me nauseous. The blue ones? Let’s say those are three points. Less disappointing as Temu fabbies go. And the genuine fabby that we all know and loathe, that’s ten big ones.”

As a demonstration, Joe casually tosses an empty bottle of Mountain Dew Baja Blast from the top of the scissor lift. It flew in a beautiful arc, and bounced right off the head of a green fabby. The fabby in question fell to the ground as though he’d been hit with a cannon.

“Like that. One point for yaboi!” Joe said, raising his arms in triumph.

FLAMBERGE was looking down, watching as Temu fabbies scattered in terror. Some tried to jump the three-foot-high wall and found themselves lacking in any kind of athleticism or ability to do so. The ones that did display athleticism beyond “stands around” and “cries helplessly” find themselves stopped by a very large, extremely bald man wielding a pool noodle with the expertise of a man who has trained his whole life for wielding this one specific “weapon.”

As Mr. Dickwood would say, “Let Hank do his thing, he’ll get his pool time after all this is over.”

After a moment, FLAMBERGE took up a piece of trash (a Dasani bottle that was full because everything Dasani belonged in the trash) and said to his tag team partner, “Off the head of the green one, into the face of the fabby.”

FLAMBERGE promptly chucked that thing downward like he was spiking a football, and it flew in much the same way as an anvil did. The woeful bottle of Dasani blasted the green fabby with a concussive force equaling about one point, and then bounced serendipitously into the face of the actual, legitimate ten points of fabby wearing the gold mask.

The green fabby fell to the ground and didn’t move any more, while the legitimate fabby held his face in immense, Dasani-related pain.

Joe was in awe, “Holy shit.”

For the briefest of moments, Joe wondered if FLAMBERGE had actually killed a guy piece of furniture. He considered the notion of notifying a furniture’s family of their murder by Dasani, and thought that would be ridiculous: Furniture didn’t have families. Only neighbors in a catalog.

Joe proceeded to turn his back to the playing field, and he had an action figure package. But not just any action figure. This action figure was from a knockoff line of figures for PRIME. This knockoff line found itself getting creamed by PRIME’s crack team of plague doctor lawyers, and all figures were ordered to be destroyed. Yet, one found its way into the possession of Joe Fontaine.

Neither FLAMBERGE nor Joe knew or cared to know the name of the little wrestler he had in his hands, but the energy of the universe seemed to get sucked into it with every second Joe kept it in his hands. All he knew was that it seemed a lot bigger than the genuine article. After all, if it were to scale with other figures, it’d probably be the size of a LEGO minifigure.

“Behind my back, into the playing field, nothing but fabby.” Joe declared.

Then he let that cheap we-have-Tony Gamble-at-home action figure fly.

Chaos ensued. fabbies scattered, and were then noodled. The larger-than-average action figure flew in a graceful flip, hanging in the air in much the same way trash didn’t.

Beautiful.

Majestic.

…

bomp.

Joe turned back around and was dismayed. Despite all of his preparations, bending plastic-Tony’s knees backwards and positioning his plastic body in a crescent shape for perfect moonsaulting action, the figure landed anticlimatically in the center of the circle. Not a single fabby got touched, as though they were all Novas in disguise.

“Aw, dang it.”

FLAMBERGE looked at Joe with a sympathy-adjacent expression. A poor craftsman blamed the tools and a poor sportsman blamed the ball, but FLAMBERGE didn’t blame Joe. After all, there was more bullshit to throw at the fabbies.

…

—--

And beyond that - he had a sense that there were layers beneath the “Aw, dang it.” Much like Shrek, these layers could be best described as onionesque - unlike Shrek who missed an incredible opportunity at making the kind of observation that would make Smashmouth sit down and shut up, FLAMBERGE had a sense that these were layers and layers of the same thing, one after another, until you reach the core, which is also onion.

Layers of something unspoken between the pair, but something the Frenchman had heard through the grapevine ever since the pair won the PRIME Tag Team Titles.

“...alors, Joe.”

Joe lingered on the busted Anthony Wagers action figure a couple beats before he turned towards FLAMBERGE.

“Get a load of the this shit.”

FLAMBO reached into his bag of trash, rustled around, and then pulled his hand back out - it was empty.

“...ah ouais, I forgot about the Doozer…”

He took another reach, grabbed something that’s actually solid, and then whipped his whole arm up and over his head, chaotically launching a knock-off poorly-constructed Hessian fig that was bizarrely similar to the Tony figure in size.

“My friend, we can never stress too much about the one throw, ouais? In the long run, it will all even itself out.”

He had no sooner finished this thought that the bald bearded bastard of a toy finished its high arc, returning to the oval. Blue and green Temu fabbies did their best to keep their heads safe, though they may have lost the toy in the sky, because the knockoff Hessian figure bounce-bounce-bounce-bounced off of blue, blue, green, and blue masked pieces of furniture.

“Was that thing spring-loaded?” inquired Joe.

No, FLAMBERGE thought to himself. It was regular-type loaded, and ten points, to boot.

“I did not mean to -” started FLAMBERGE, and then he stopped himself. ‘This will not help,’ he thought silently.

“It’s ok, best bud. I’ve accepted the fact that you’re just naturally great at literally everything you do,” Joe offered. It had all the trappings of a best friend pumping up his pal on paper - but there was something behind Joe’s eyes that only a fellow best friend could catch.

That unspoken thing, that onion, that Thing about the team of JoeBERGE that other wrestlers would make jokes about in private, or that they would tag @smoothjoecool about in Jabber.

These tag titles made FLAMBERGE a Grand Slam Champion before turning 25. He went undefeated for a year once. He was a hair’s breath away from finishing the run of a lifetime at this year’s Almasy, he’s had the match of the year - fuck man, he’s a Hall of Famer. How do you become a Hall of Famer this early in your career, before you’ve ostensibly even approached the peak of your powers?

And then there’s Joe - these tag titles made Joe a champion for the first time. If they lose the titles, who’s out there placing bets on a Joe Fontaine singles championship journey?

…

Your 20’s are a time for feeling very strongly about How Things Should Be, and for feeling physical pain or strangeness when things Are Not How They Should Be, especially if you think you’re the reason why that second world exists.

FLAMBERGE very very very badly wanted to win the Almasy this year. He very very very badly wanted to know, to truly know in the way that only combat sports can answer, if he had what it took to be the better man against a demigod in his prime, Cecilworth Farthington. Joe knew that, a lot of people knew that - Cecilworth knew it too, and in typical Glue Boi faction, these conversations were not held between the actual human participants in this elemental tension because all parties already knew the answers to any questions buried in their hearts, and they didn’t really want to talk about it. It’s dangerous ground to tread.

The only thing the collective Glues didn’t know was what would happen after that clash, whether Cecilworth or FLAMBERGE won - and it’s a clash that, as of now, isn’t going to happen.

And now, as two best friends sit aloft in this scissor lift that neither man could guarantee they could lower safely - they’re looking at a Tag Team Title defense.

And the layers of onion peel away to reveal, over and over again, that Joe Fontaine strongly believes he is holding FLAMBERGE back.

Joe pulled out a crumpled poster - we can’t see all of the detail, but we definitely see Nate Colton’s face on it.

“Let’s see - score is 1 to 21, cool cool cool, I definitely have a 20 point throw in me. I’ve got it - one knee.”

“Which knee?”

Joe lowers his left knee, eyes the golden fabby, and throws the wad of Colton trash like a dart - it just whirrs by the golden one, but it does end up connecting with a blue Temu fabby right in the groin.

“Topical,” Joe observes. “Your turn.”

“What should I try?” asked FLAMBO.

Joe pondered for a minute and studied the scene, and then smiled. “I’ve got it. Hey, Hank!”

The bald man who swings the most dangerous pool noodle in the Northern hemisphere cranes his neck up. Joe twirls his hand in a circle above his head a few times, hoping Hank gets the picture - and thankfully, he does. Hank begins to swing the pool noodle around and around, a noodlenado, a swirling vortex of foam and wrath.

“Ok: off the pool noodle, off the base of the scissor lift, off the wall, nothin’ but fabby.”

FLAMBERGE chuckles at this obviously impossible task. He reaches into his bag of trashy tricks and finds half of a broken pair of yellow plastic sunglasses.

“Was this one of my pairs?” asks the Frenchman.

“I was thinking about fixing those, but…nahh, you know?” replied Joe.

“Fair,” said FLAMBO, “fuck Anna Daniels anyway.”

The Neck Collector didn’t want to make it obvious that he wasn’t going to try his very best on this throw by throwing the broken frame in, for example, the opposite direction of Hank; but he didn’t want to run up the score, either. It was an impossible task, anyway - there’s no law of physics FLAMBERGE is aware of that would allow the prescribed series of events to occur. So he just hucked the thing in Hank’s vague direction.

…

THUMP!

It connected with the whirling pool noodle.

clunk.

Off the base of the scissor lift.

scrape.

Off the edge of the wall.

…THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP!

fabby saw the trash heading his way, and he somehow found a path to artfully dodge the incoming plastic. This displeases Hank, who proceeds to whack the hell out of him with the pool noodle over and over again.

FLAMBO’s eyes are wide. Joe’s eyes are wide.

The Frenchman sheepishly turns to his partner.

“...I guess that’s a zerooooo-”

Joe is halfway between stunned, impressed, and distraught. It’s one of those three-way traffic junctions that everyone hates and no one knows which lane should receive the right-of-way when drivers arrive simultaneously. 

THUMP THUMP THUMP!

Hank’s happy, which cheers both scissor-lifted boys up a bit to see.

…and then, violently, like it always does, the lizard takes over.

…

—--

What the fuck are you doing up here, FLAMBO?

Are these the heights that are left to us, now that you failed so extremely? So publicly?

From a chance at the main event of Colossus in what could be the most important match in PRIME’s ReVival era, to - this. Up on a scissor lift, chucking trash at trash.

Cool tag team you have there.

Call it the “backup plan,” why don’t you.

I know that’s what Joe’s feeling. I know that’s what KNIFEY Joe’s feeling, too - I still get the radio station for those scrapes against the walls of his brain. It’s pretty sick, tbh. There’s a lot of murder in that kid that he’s not even aware of. Yet.

…

And that’s where we could leave this, if we wanted. If I wanted. I have long held the belief that this machine breaks but DOES NOT bend, and maybe the finals of the Almasy is where you broke. You didn’t have it then, because you don’t have “it” - not on your own, not right now.

And since you, my weak little lizard-poodle boy, are incapable of achieving the uncharted heights I have preordained for you right now…you better cling onto Joe Fontaine for dear fucking life.

He’s kept your name in golden lights far longer than you’ve deserved them.

I like to tell you that you’re the Glue holding the Glueminati together, but is that true, after all?

I’m beginning to think,

just like you’re beginning to think,

that the only reason

THE ONLY REASON

there has not yet been a Glue Boi Civil War

is because Joe Fontaine is there, keeping the burdens you other titans carry so much lighter than they might be in another world.

Without Joe Fontaine? FLAMBERGE, Farthington, and Hanlon would have eaten each other ALIVE by now. You’d be off on your separate journeys, failing under some other banner.

And don’t get me wrong:

that Glue Boi Civil War…

it may be on its way, one day

months, years from now

whenever you are finally worthy of the seat, alone at the top.

But.

Since you AREN’T ready…

The power is in the numbers.

More glue must be ground, and today, that means grinding together.

…

Glue-to-be, like Hessian.

God damn motherfucking Hessian.

A man who committed one of the biggest fuck-yous in the history of professional wrestling, and he did it to you.

Cast your mind back to that PPV Match of the Year that you like to jerk it to. 2023, Colossus main event, your ultimate triumph complete. Defeating Ivan Stanislav for L’Uni, completing the undefeated year, your ascension complete into the upper echelons of not just modern wrestling, but of HISTORY.

Bodies everywhere. Ring broken. Russians broken. Glues triumphant. I know for a fact that you’ve never been happier than that moment.

And then what?

A stranger’s music hits.

A relic steps onto the stage.

And the last, lingering image that PRIME left the fans with;

after all you did to earn that main event;

after all you did to WIN that main event;

was a bearded fat fuck, raising his arms in the air, yelling nothing particularly smart

and one word, H E S S I A N, spread across every inch of LED in the arena.

…

You’ve never gotten your chance to pay him back for that shit.

Even as you’ve stood in the corner of your fellow Glue Boiz in matches against the Murder Hobo and he put his hands on you, you’ve never gotten to collect that neck.

And now, he stands before you,

the fifth most important Bandit,

slumming it with another relic, who is the sixth most important Bandit,

one you’ve already crushed,

and the chance is there

because of the second biggest fuck-you you’ve received in your career:

The most important Bandit gave them this chance,

a chance that belonged to him,

because that’s how little he thinks of anything that isn’t the Universal Title.

There’s something to be learned there,

and it’s probably unpleasant,

and better saved for a time

when the True Height we so crave

is on the horizon.

…

You can’t do this alone. You can barely do anything alone.

Even as your best friend sits there,

idolizing you,

absolutely certain that you are some kind of magic,

 we both know you’re not

(what magic person would choose to be you).

But Joe might be.

And that’s something to save, here, now,

before it’s too late

and you fuck everything up even worse than you already have.

…

—--

The Frenchman blinks.

“Joe,” says FLAMBERGE with a start.

“What is it, best buddy?”

Neither of them are looking squarely at each other at first - until FLAMBERGE takes his hands and redirects Joe’s face. They lock eyes, and the deep accented cello continues.

“I just need you to know…there is nothing in the world that brings me more joy than hanging out with you.”

Joe is taken aback. “I’ve seen you pretty happy with some other shiny titles before…”

“Ouais, you have. They bring me things, good things. But joy?” He shakes his head. “Only this.”

He smiles at his friend and chucks the whole rest of his bag of trash over the side of the scissor lift. Joe, maybe on instinct, does the same.

Hundreds of points apiece.

…

It’s a beautiful day.

Birds sing, turtles swim, and two men find themselves stranded at the top of a scissor lift that neither are licensed to operate.

And it occurs to them that they don’t know how to get down.

They consider calling down to Hank, but a) why would he know any better, and b) he’s been pretty chuffed with his noodle-swinging tasks tonight.

Joe turns to FLAMBO. “Just push a random button. Knowing you, it’ll work.”

“Non, Joe - you brought us to these great heights, and you will bring us back,” FLAMBERGE responds.

“What if we press some random buttons at the same time?”

“How could that possibly fail?”

Each Glue Boi makes their selection from the complicated-looking panel of buttons and switches and levers, and on the count of three, they each press.

The scissor lift hurks and jerks.

Nothing happens.

What started as a game has become a nightmare, leaving us with one obvious question…

“How did we get here?” - a question asked quite literally by the Frenchman.

“OH,” responds Joe, a lightbulb going off.

He spots the button labeled “UP.” Next to it is another button, labeled “DOWN.”

He presses it, and they descend. They survey the scene around them - an oval of injured furniture and all sorts of rubbish.

“Do we do anything about all - this?” asks FLAMBERGE, gesturing vaguely at the clutter. One of the fabbies moans in agony. No one cares.

“Non,” replies Joe, “the next time we take out the trash is in South Carolina.”