IT'S SOMETHING!

TO: all@prime-wrestling.com

Subject: TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN

TO PRIME,

I AM THE D. I ONLY HAVE A KEYBOARD THAT HAS A CAPS LOCK THAT’S STUCK, BUT I’M NOT TRYING TO SHOUT. Oh, WAIT, i CAN USE A shift KEY?! i’VE HAD WAY TOO MUCH TO DRIKN. Who”s wants to partayyyyyyaSLSSFASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

(insert signature here)

**

It’s the next morning. The D awakens over his slobbered keyboard. Wiping the hardened drool from his cheek, while he knocks over two whisky bottles, the D notices a flashing inbox.

He takes a closer look and blinks.

And blinks again.

There are 95 new messages.

Mostly replies from the PRIME staff and roster. Likely, non courteous.

The D blinks twice again. He clicks all the recent emails, strokes the delete key, and shuts down the computer. “Problem solved.” The D dusts his hands. He then walks off screen. Shortly after, he returns with a hammer, and just smashes his laptop to pieces.

After a moment, the D walks off screen. The shattered laptop remains in the living room.

Then, the D returns with some lighter fluid. He soaks the device, and then strokes a match. He tosses it onto the computer, lighting a blaze.

One that quickly spreads.

“Oh… Oh shit.”

**OUTSIDE, MORNING**

A fiery blaze encompasses the D’s apartment complex. The D stands outside with a single suitcase and a green conjure bird in a cage squawking into his ear. “Well… that’s a morning.”

The D leans into a nearby police officer, and whispers. “Hey, have you ever heard of the wrestling tag team the Lucky Sevens?” The D nods. “I’d look into them.”

The officer stares confused, as the D just walks off without another word.