Something About Joe's Birthday or Something and Etc. (Borderline)

I should be the happiest man in the wrestling industry. My hoops should be cock-a as Dirk once told me. There is little need of want, there is little need for me to once again prove myself to myself. For so much of my career, a little evil voice whispered into my ear, it made me feel lesser, yet now those people with spreadsheets and who know how to execute an excel formula assure me that I’ve done a brilliant spanking job with the PRIME Universal Championship, you start to believe it. I’ve spent most of my career with someone in my ear assuring me that any success I achieved was due to my relationship with the owner’s son, or the owner’s undead son, or the undead owner’s son's son, things of this nature.

Yet as I gained victory upon victory with the Universal Championship, I allowed myself to believe, that perhapx, mayhaps, prossibilitty, it was an opportunity to finally absorb that internal sense that I may not have been all that awful in this whole wrestling business. 

I had lived with a big question mark hovering over my head ever since I came in as the backer of Glue. This was never supposed to be my mission, this was just my opportunity to take a step back and wave the flag for the future generation. A backer, not a racer. Yet, I suppose in this world of graps, I was never going to be one left on the bench. Phil always knew that me and FLAMERGE were destined to be the new banner holders at glue.

He knew my loyalty, he knew the BERGE’s desire for purpose.

Phil always had a better sense of these things than I ever did. I can’t say I was as much of a people person as Phil, which considering he was a misanthropic Scot, that says a lot about my own people person skills. 

Then when the manager of the Winds of Change fancied himself as a proper wrestler or something, it became clear to me that Sid and Joe could benefit from a sticky bond that would not fly away.

Which I suppose is why I now find myself in a mixture of tortilla and karaoke hell. Sadly it’s what that little shit wanted. No matter how shiny and green his coat is, it doesn’t lead to a beautiful and sophisticated experience, it just leads to my ears being sentenced to a lifetime of hell, but the kind of hell other people would call “fancy”.

I spent a childhood on the Spanish coast, I know a tourist hell when I see one, and no matter how loud Joe wants to sing, we’re in one right now. Yet, how can you say no to such a punchable face… well probably easily so if you’re some kind of villain, but there is no villain on this beautiful Mexican evening, with Glue as close as ever.

Or I think I did that. I made my best effort to get everyone back into the funtime fuzz category.

That’s the kicker of PRIME declaring you the Stable of the Year, it starts to kickstart desire for victory in your compatriots. I could try and remain the patriarchal figure, but as we all know, all that does is breed further desire.

—

Farthington Manor had been rather quiet during the January season, with most of Glue sentenced to a month of tacos and other stereotypes, there wasn’t much call for hustle nor bustle in the dimension of the office of Atken and Dickwood.

“This might have exceeded our wildest dreams” stated an almost surprised Dirk Dickwood. “We knew FLAMBERGE would take the brand forward but when Cecilworth stepped back in…”

A hacking cough from Atken made it clear that he didn’t want to discuss the matter further.

“No, hang, wait on, we really need to discuss this, Phil.”

Another hacking cough, getting louder and louder in the hopes and dreams of drowning out Dirk DIckwood.

“Phil, cough as much as you want, we both know Cecilworth is starting to age out, we need to start thinking of a future without him.”

More loud coughing, almost loud enough to cause mild ear injuries to the nearby children.

“This isn’t a matter for discussion Dirk, FLAMBERGE will always be the brand’s future, we just need to wait out Cecilworth.”

The callous dismissal of a mutual friend catches Dickwood by surprise.

“Well we can’t ignore the CURRENT Universal Champion, Phil, he’s out there with the joys enjoying himself a spicy Marg.

Atken chuckles to himself, “he knows how spicy he is without the Margs.”

No one questioned how the abbrev of “jolf boys” found its way in, which, if anything, proves Joe Fontaine’s status with the gang.

—

I’m the old man about town at this point. Sure, I’ve stopped some of my elders from laying claim to the Universal Championship, but I do not know if I can claim with my hand upon my heart if I’m trying to see out Phil Atken’s vision for wrestling.

I know FLAMBERGE is. He is a Atken zealot. He didn’t have to live the ups and downs of that man like me and Dirk did. He thinks of Atken as something pure, a force that only came to life during the ReVival era of PRIME. Me and Dirk? We had to be there when he stepped on the rake over and over. 

It’s always easier to be an advocate when you don’t know the full picture, when your “god” exists only in the most perfect form in your head because all you know is the ReVival era of PRIME.

I live to be a protector, to shroud the children of horror and doubt.

It’s wild, isn’t it, I look to Hanlon and I look to FLAMBERGE and they still have this perfect vision in their head. A vision I can’t let them down with.

That’s why I still have the Universal Championship, losing that, that ruins the illusion and I think FLAMBERGE has finally seen how the trick is done.

—

—--

FLAMBERGE and Cecilworth arriving simultaneously at the restaurant one Yelp reviewer described as “the tackiest most Americanized tourist trap bullshit slap in the face to genuine Mexican culture in Monterrey” was no accident. Nor was it an accident that they were a couple hours ahead of the RSVP for tonight’s festivities. 

When you’re named Stable of the Year, when your group went Glue-and-0 at Colossus, and when no one on earth has entered the heart of professional wrestling’s flow state as the Glueminati has, and you’re booked in a main event, a vibe check becomes nigh essential.

No better time than Joe’s birthday shindig.

(He asked it to be called a “shindig” at all times before, during, and after said shindig.)

(No word on whether or not fabby will be asked to attach shovels to his lower legs.)

(But when FLAMBO asked, he was not given a clear “no.”)

(Shindig.)

What’s great and terrible about restaurants like these is the way they absolutely know every single one of their audience’s flashing buttons to press to get them in the door. Here, for instance, there is a “mural” of “luchadors” grappling on one of the walls outside the main door. FLAMBO struggled not to vocally critique the horrible technique of the extremely basic headlock, maybe only because he was still sober.

As he and Cecilworth approached the bar, a colorfully-dressed server with an enormously wide skirt held out a platter with a tower-sized frosty green liquid dispenser and a pair of salt-rimmed glasses with lime wedges.

“Bottomless margaritas?”

The would-be Princes of Glue locked wide eyes and shrugged.

FLAMBERGE turned to the server.

“Ouais.”

—--

The hard things are the things I do not allow myself to say out loud in certain company, and what makes it so hard is that this is the company I care about the very most in the world.

I’ve become…

Is it too much to say anymore?

No. No, it can’t be too much.

“Youngest Legend Alive” was already wild enough, and the trajectory only continues upwards.

It’s an old nickname, but it used to be just a way to get under people’s skin.

Now, it’s kind of real.

I am truly, now, and going forward

Le Protagoniste.

A Hall of Famer before turning 25.

The fastest Triple Crown, the fastest Grand Slam,

an Almasy finalist, and a nearly invincible partner in team matches

who just exiled PRIME’s ultimate egoist, Rose

who has flown the banner of Glue,

Wrestling’s greatest stable,

longer than anyone,

longer than Phil,

who can’t wave a banner

from his wheelchair…

but the belt

L’Uni

the PRIME Universal Championship

rightfully

correctly

is wrapped tightly and polished immaculately

around the waist of a friend

who, by now, knows

how dangerous this borderline is

caught between the now and the future

caught between genuine friendship and genuine purpose

all while

sizzling fajitas,

trays of enchiladas we are pretty sure have sparklers coming off them,

pinatas, etc.

 circle we sweet boys

who could probably have done a lot better in this situation if our fathers were healthy in our presence.

…

What do I do?

How do I honor my dear friend Joe,

my dear friend Hayes,

my dear friend Cecilworth,

and especially again, my dear friend Joe, whomsts day it is,

when everything that drives my heart and my soul tells me

I am

the Guy

and it is all

about me.

—--

What’s great about these tourist traps is that they really know how to entertain their guests.

It’s the immediate liquor, it’s the loud banging music, it’s the deep fried everything, and suddenly you don’t care that your bill is into the triple digits when you probably have had two drinks, chips, and dips.

Food that sucks, by the way. But it looks good. And it’s salty. A perfect pairing for the tequila immediately poisoning the brains of FLAMBO and Cecilworth.

To the point where the Frenchman wondered how his teammate’s name might look in all caps.

CECILWORTH.

No. Not (cecil)worth it.

…

Conversations between any two members of the Glueminati, however cordial, always seemed to come across stunted to the casual observer, which is fair. However, in reality, the four handsome lads that formed the group all had their own multifaceted cues and twinges.

Hayes’s mustache would spin like a windmill when he was genuinely excited. Bet you didn’t know that.

Bet you thought that was just a meme.

Nope.

Windmill mustache.

FLAMBERGE often found himself in physically irrational positions, and Joe Fontaine often found himself dabbing. Cecilworth Farthington, while mostly buried in his smartphone, could genuinely be a major threat on Human Tetris if it came down to it.

So, as FLAMBERGE and Cecilworth downed their third margaritas and as the giant tower of margarita looked to come just past halfway to empty, neither necessarily felt out of place when they locked eyes and found elevated eyebrows, wobbly postures, or the ilk.

Alcohol is only a poison if you view truth-telling as poisonous.

Cecilworth probably wouldn’t say it was

FLAMBERGE had concerns.

…

—-

Do you hear the music playing?

It’s a shitty mariachi band

Oh lord they probably hate that this is their job

Look how many white people are here

Good god

…

Oh, it’s the happy birthday song

Oh shit, that’s Joe

and Hayes

and fabby

and there’s a fat candle on a tres leches cake

…

Wrap your arm around Cecilworth

Bring him in

tight

Don’t worry about what you’ve talked about

Don’t worry about where your head is at

Don’t look at how well he polished that belt

This is for Joe

Your best fr

Your best

Your

Best fr

Your

Best friend

Tag Team of the Year

Best friend

who you jolf with

Best

Your best fr

Joe

He’s

It’s his birthday, it’s Joe

Best friend

He’s

Best friend

Joe

And remember, as you fight alongside Glue

not Joe

not Best friend

Glue Prince

Remember, as you fight alongside Glue Prince

Wrestler of the Year

The finest technician you’ve ever seen in your life You’re celebrating your best friend Joe

Fontaine

Joe Fontaine, you’re celebrating your best friend, and you don’t need to stress yourself about

Collision course

War

Maybe

Could not be, but

Why wouldn’t he

Why wouldn’t he say “war”

Why wouldn’t he look at me

See me for who I am 

Who I’ve been

And not assume

I’m the most dangerous man alive

not just to the Olds

not just to the Reds

but to the foundation of Glue

as its most ardent support

as its most dangerous weirdo

as its most most stationary lizard.

…

Oh.

Happy birthday Joe.

Fuck.

I didn’t order this.

—--

—

I guess the peasant food was Joe’s birthday “want”, I think it was one of those rare times when me and FLAMBERGE were on the same page. Neither one of us appeared to appreciate the current palate experience that the world of Joe and Hanlon had created. 

I guess that’s why he was outside and I was at the doorway. Neither one of us wanted to acknowledge it, but we knew what tagging meant.

The crushing weight of expectation.

PRIME’s Stable of the Year entering their first battle of 2026, and it had to be me and him.

It meant I suppose it should have always been him and me. We were supposed to be the mascots. The visions of a better future.

Yet I could always sense that he saw me as another figure of the past, an encouraging uncle, perhaps, yet never standing in his way for greatness.

When FLAMBERGE felled Ivan at Colossus, and I lost to love, I really felt like the universe had made it known where we stand.

Wait, hang on, what’s all this green stuff on the food, I can’t abide by green stuff.

Well, I guess I didn’t have much say, Hank consumed all of the green stuff.

Yet the break done the job, it stopped the bitter and dangerous game of comparison.

That’s a game no one wins. 

—--

—--

Were there deep conversations between Cecilworth and FLAMBERGE over the course of the evening?

Hard to say.

They’d both probably say there were. They’d both probably be hard-pressed to provide specific details if they were asked to provide them.

The thing is, at a certain point, when your souls align on something, you forget about the words you may have said and you remember the way that the person made you felt.

We may never get the specifics of what Cecilorth and FLAMBERGE said to each other on Joe Fontaine’s Fiesta Mexicana Birthday Fiesta Party. We may never get every piece of detail about the true guttural compass-driver of 2026’s greatest wrestlers in this moment, and thank goodness we don’t, because to look in the abyss is to become one with it. 

One thing that is clear, though.

FLAMBERGE continues to ride dangerously close along a borderline.

Every now and then, he goes a bit too far.

He finds the edge, and he presses it, and his lizard reflexes react.

…

Cecilworth.

He’s up to something, FLAMBERGE figured.

He’s up to something big. Something he could maybe learn from.

Because, surely, dear viewer…

Surely, Cecilworth didn’t do all this

Didn’t carve this path of destruction

Didn’t uphold an Above And Beyond level of excellence

Didn’t retire to the Manor so much

Only in efforts to become the biggest

Most succulent

Most juicy

Savory

Mlemmable L’Uni that could exist

Potatoes drenched in gravy

These horrible restaurant enchiladas covered in cheese

These hangover-inducing glasses covered in salt

These friendly hugs

These knowing looks

These knowing glances that linger a little too long

…

The problem is

Kerry and Scott, they already had their resolution.

They already know who the better man is today, even if it’s ok that one day the roles may reverse. They found their hierarchy, they resolved their drama, they’ve had the chance to clear any and all air about who, today, is the better man.

An incredible luxury.

At the very least, there was some good news about this fight:

Both Cecilworth and FLAMBERGE

were better

than both Kerry and Scott.

FLAMBERGE and Cecilworth are two of the greatest, most celebrated, and most decorated wrestlers in the world today

Hall of Famers, Universal Champions, record-setters, and nigh-invincible as a team…

wait.

The resolution.

We brought it up before. Cecilworth and FLAMBERGE haven’t had it.

And maybe they never will.

…

But,

who gives a shit

when one corner’s existential crisis is about the future of professional wrestling itself

and the other is about a koala

…

—

As the party continues to roar inside the vaguely Pyramid themed building, the two thirstiest but also introvertiest members of Glue find themselves sipping the finest bottles of beer just outside the building where Hayes and Joe were likely about to destroy the building with the Spice Girls medley that they had selected.

FLAMBERGE and Cecilworth nestled upon a nearby wall, thankfully distanced away from the singing disaster that was currently unfolding in the nearby vicinity. Tale be told, many say that it took the entire local police force to bring Joe to a stop. We don’t know for sure because it was his birthday and it is best not to ask these questions.

So opposed to asking such questions, we will rather focus on FLAMBERGE and Farthington enjoying a brewski outside.

Farthington is not oblivious to FLAMERGE’s eye.

“They’re having a good night”, Farthington states, gesturing his beer back to Hanlon and Fontaine.

“Ouais,” FLAMBERGE replies, leaning back deeply to get the last drops out of his bottle.

“And I know what you’re thinking…” Farthington continues to ponder as he looks down low to his beautifully polished Universal Championship.

“I’m just going to say one thing… you saw what the lust of gold did to Hunter and Kerry, Glue wasn’t built to throw each other aside. So if you think it’s Phil’s vision for you to get a shot of this, I won’t stop your desires. In fact I will welcome top tier competition.”

FLAMBERGE can’t help but look at the stunning polish job that’s been done to L’Uni. Good god, it’s immaculate. It’s no wonder why the PRIME Universal Championship is considered wrestling’s premier title.

Cecilworth looks back down to the Universal Championship sitting upon his lap, as he hears Hanlon and Fontaine belt “SATURDAY! SATURDAY!”

“But we don’t do this with venom, those two boys couldn’t take it”, Cecilworth states as he “admires” the songsmithery going on inside the building.

“Hunter and Kerry, they thought they could be above such petty battles, and yet for months, the anger was there, an anger they’re still trying to pretend they’re above.”

Farthington swirls his beer bottle around, the occasional hiccup escaping from him as he looks right into the eyes of FLAMBERGE.

“I just hope this thing doesn’t do the same to us”

Farthington pats the Universal Championship upon his belly.

FLAMBERGE blinks. The blinks have become a matter of concern, so let us make it clear now, that both eyelids closed at the same time, which is almost never a guarantee.

We may have encountered Julien here as a result, rather than the alternative.

We now observe that he is struggling to keep his feet beneath him, many many margaritas and not enough cheese/tortillas/meat/beans in response.

In this weakened state, we see the would-be Neck Collector drape both arms around his tag partner for ReVival 81.

“When I win L’Uni, we’ll be good. I love you.”

He drunkenly drapes over Cecilworth in a hug, as they both soon register that neither of them are huggers. Cecilworth pats Julien on the cheek.

“Love ya too, bruv.”

And they all swarm Joe Fontaine, who has genuinely not been celebrated enough tonight or any other night.

It’s a legendary array of green and magic.