VICKIE HALL AND CANCER JILES WERE ON THE OCTANE MAKING BABIES AND I SAW ONE OF THE BABIES AND THE BABY LOOKED AT ME

Oh, hey! Didn’t see ya there.

The name’s Conor. Conor Fuse. Lover. Fighter. Really good gamer. But don’t get that muddled.

I also like comic books!

Wrestling’s fun, it’s decent. It’s my third hobby, first in my heart. I enjoy a good ol’ fashioned brewhaha. After all, conflict is what makes the world go ‘round. No one’s gonna tune into PRIME and watch two bros hug it out for thirty minutes.

Maybe Scott Hunter.

I digress. Manhunt sounds like my jam. Tag. Freeze. Red rover, red rover, I call that pudgy irascible communist over!

giggle

He doesn’t know me. Yet. I’m Canadian so to him I guess this means Imma 22 republics, 10 territories, 47 regions kinda guy (super clever topical joke btw). But yeah, I know who Ivan Stanislav is. I know a little about y’all. Give me a couple of weeks, I’ll know everything about everyone. If Fred Dick has hemorrhoids, I’ll know the size, shape and redness.

…So I can kick him in the ass.

Okay, okay, enough of the preamble. I’ve got LT throwing owl glances. You prolly wanna know why I’m here and it would suit me better if I put on my serious face.

Spoiler alert: CAN DO.

Give me, say, approximately 3,500 words, no more, no less, and I’ll tell ya what’s up. In the meantime, I’m itching to manhunt. I gotta lotta of energy waiting to be dispersed, and you, dear reader, have some mild patience to put up with my ADHD, perhaps just this once.

You won’t be bored - trust me.

I won’t steer ya wrong - preach!

I’m the coolest thing going, the most pop’n’fresh guy.

Boom.

And now, with Coral Avalon outta the picture, seemingly everyone is coming to play.

So suit up, dicks out, and chug back a choco milk. Because Conor Fuse isn’t just here to play a game.

Brother, I am it. — — — — — When: A while ago Where: Dunno Why: Dunno

Ugh. Knocked in the side of the head and now I’m sitting in this pitch black room with my hands tied behind my back. I tried to loosen them earlier but whoever put this windsor knot in place has the correct scouting badge.

There’s a black sack over my head, that’s why this room is dark! No wonder it’s a struggle to breathe. Eventually, a light switches on and I can see tiny little rays leaking through. The sound of methodical boot walking follows.

“Listen, if this was about me pirating I Know Who Killed Me, the movie was awful but OG Lindsay Lohan is fiiiiiine.”

The boots get closer.

“Is it regarding my most recent pornography stream? Too late to say I didn’t mean to click the link?”

Errrrrk, sounds of a chair dragged towards me. The boots stop as the person sits down.

Guess it is too late. I’m in deep shit.

“Well,” I slowly begin, knowing once the verbal nonsense starts, it ain’t gonna stop. “If all you’re gonna do is listen, I was playing Pokémon Home on my phone and someone traded me their shiny Poliwrath. I would’ve used it as trade bait to fill out my Kanto dex but once I saw those shiny sparkles, I had to favourite it! A shiny Poliwrath of all things! It’s strong, too, but I desire one with a Torrent ability and higher speed. What do you think? Then again, beggars can’t be choosers when it comes to shiny Pokémon. I will have to lean on its Damp ability, to avoid getting hit with self-destruct, obviously.”

Fuck around, find out - I’ll bore you to death.

More boots. It sounds like there’s a whole slew of them!

And I thought a guy like me was off the radar.

These people, whomever they are, whapped me in the back of the head, threw me into what I can only assume was a white sketchy van and drove to this desolate place, where they proceeded to tie me up, toss a bag over my head and will now either shake me down, use waterboarding tactics, or something even worse.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPP.

OMG, this is some twisted shit alright. Literally. Whoever is standing to my right blew their ass off!

Is this their strategy? Gonna suffocate or gag me to death!?!?

The smell is unbearable!

The smell.

Is.

…familiar?

“Bobby?” I still can’t see but I cock my head to the right, in the direction of this ungodly whiff, the combination of straight up dead rats, rotting flesh and expired eggs.

Eggs.

EGGS.

EGGS!

Yep, it’s Bobby Dean!

“Dude! Bobby! What’s going on, brother? You big and beautiful again or are you skinny and jacked? ‘Member when you went through that ‘fit phase’, lol. I do. What a time indeed. At least give me some warning the next time you decide to unload the biggest bomb in history-”

I hear a scuffle, followed by a very disapproving grumble.

“Gig’s up!” The voice in front of me bellows and the sack is snatched off my head. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. I try to flush the epiphora out of my eye sockets by squinting. Bobby’s shit has me in tears. This strat could get a confession out of Alexei Ruslan!

“Robert, did you eat Little Caesars again? You know that stuff smells the same going in as it does going-”

My rambling comes to a screeching halt. There he is, sitting right in front of me, leaning forward with a scowl on his face.

No, it’s not Bobby.

Definitely ain’t Doozer, I can see this dude loud and clear.

It’s the sworn enemy to yours truly.

Cancer Evelyn Jiles.

If that’s not his middle name, it should be.

He stares at me. His eyes creep around my tied up body.

Sidebar: Cancer and I have never liked each other. He’s such a douchebag. Let’s call spades. I’m annoying and never STFU. Therefore, I totally get why people can only handle me in small doses. Jiles, on the other hand, he’s a one-trick pony. Dipshit is as one-dimensional as Atari 2600. He has only a singular, lethal dose.

Pathetic.

AND ANOTHER THING!, I’ve beaten him like one-hundred times in a row.

“Are we, um, gonna look at each other this entire time? When are you kissing me?”

He simply scowls harder.

Bobby is to my right, which, in fairness, is where the horrid smell came from. Hessian’s on my left and I think that grinning Joker guy is right behind me. I’m sure Tony’s heard it before but give me a break, I’m rusty with my smacktalk.

Either way, I’m not scared of these henchmen. I’m not even worried about their FeArLeSs LeAdEr. He’s been overexposed so many times. Over-easy-exposed.

Ha.

Good one, Conor.

Anyway, PPL say we are similar but I’m more like a cheerier version of Cecilworth Fa-

My thoughts are interrupted, however, as someone else walks into the room.

OMG, Coral Avalon!

He marches through the open space. Without breaking stride, he glances over for a millisecond and nonchalantly shakes his head.

“They captured you too, huh?”

So that’s what this is.

With Coral leaving as quickly as he entered, my attention goes back to the real problem, Mr. Truck Fucking Shitface.

“Look, Jiles,” I say, attempting to bring focus towards my hands and feet. “I’m not gonna superkick you.” I am, tho. “Untie me and I’m sure we can have a grounded conversation.” We totally won’t.

Cancer can’t stop snarling, what a straight-up pencil dick mamma’s boy. Remind me to dig up the whereabouts on Clay Byrd next, because I just looooove interacting with people who I’ve done nothing but pummel on a semi-annual basis.

Jiles looks at Hess, then right back at me. Of course, here it comes. Surprised it took this long. He sucks back that wad of saliva sitting idle in the back of his throat and hurls it forward, straight onto the top of my nifty new Legend of Zelda sneakers.

“Get bent,” I snap back, ‘cause now he’s kinda grinding my Gears of War.

Jiles nods to Mr. Grin before that same black sack is thrown over my head and WHAP, I’m TKO’ed once again.

…But not before Bobby gives a polite little wave while I respond by winking in his general direction. He’s never been my problem.

In fact, his asshole probably saved me.

Funny how that shit works. — — — — — When: Sometime last summer Where: Secret lab in the basement of a comic book store Why: I guess this gives further context?

Not gonna lie, it’s been a bummer of a 2024. DEFIANCE is one thing, I’m happy to wrestle in the same company as my badass older bro Tyler but the reality is I used to have something else to do with my time. My own singular adventure, the trials and tribulations of a funny little gaming scamp, Conor Xavier Fuse.

Hey, it’s a stronger middle name than Evelyn.

I’ll be serious for a moment. I’m not gonna get into things too much, because I like to move forward. I find a healthier way to manage life is in the present. All I see in wrestling… 100% in life… is people who ruminate about what has happened. Some of these clowns don’t STFU about yesteryear. It’s stupid to waste so much energy in the past. Say, for instance, my best friend cranks me with a steel chair. Am I gonna let it affect me for the rest of my days?

Most people would say yes.

That’s where I come in.

I might not be the smartest, sharpest or most put together dude but I move on from problems quickly. A year ago, I walked away from a brutal situation. I fled from guys who I thought were my friends. Most importantly, I left behind someone who really was.

Coles notes: A long time ago I moved into an old age home (reasons don’t need to be disclosed due to time and your ticking patience) and befriended a nice old man named Walter at the ripe age of 92. May we all find someone as loyal as Walter. He could’ve laid in bed and shit in his depends endlessly until he kicked the bucket but no, he would take me aside, give me advice, and spend his final days alive… with me.

The end of this story, unfortunately, is Walter passed and I wasn’t there. I had grown an ego, too obsessed with nonsense and no time for anyone else.

I lost my best friend.

This is what wrestling does, right? It kills friendships; it’s a cut throat industry. Make no mistake, I know what I signed up for. Which is case and point as to why I will never have a connection like that again.

So now, in my spare time, I sit in a homemade basement hideaway, playing video games, reading comic books and watching wrestling.

These are my days, over and over. Sometimes, when I think about my losses, the pit in my stomach sinks to the ground.

And I might spend an hour or two throwing up, for reals. — Juxtaposition there because instead of passing the time doing the same solitaire stuff in my mancave, I now find myself bound to this chair, arms and legs tied, inside a holding cell.

At least they took the bag off my head.

I dunno what Jiles’ endgame is but I’ve put together a couple ideas.

He’s furious.

He isn’t letting me go anytime soon.

And I’m definitely on the USS Octane.

Once I can get my hands free, I’ll find a carrier pigeon or something, put a note in a bottle and call for backup. Only one problem with this plan: I have no friends, Walter is dead.

Click. Click. Click.

The dainty little girl with the disgustingly loud PINK™? clothes speed walks down the corridor.

“That’s Vickie Fucking Hall,” I mumble lightly. I don’t know her middle name but I assume it would be Fucking, as she scoots into the distance, tapping her high heels against the metal ground.

WHAP! Hits me hard. Metaphorically this time.

1.) The video Jonathan-Christopher sent me. +1.) Cancer Jiles taking me hostage. =2.) I’m witnessing full blown adultery!

Fucking is her middle name.

Man, she’s uggo. I’d say Jiles could do better…

“You can say something now,” I mention, seeing him in my peripherals this entire time. The silhouette screams DUMBASS as he emerges from the shadows, chewing on a toothpick buried into the right side of his lip, the scowl still plastered on his face.

“Want me to ramble on about more Pokémon exploits?”

Nevertheless, Jiles looms. I get the sense he wants to say something but he can’t bring himself to do it. I could speculate. The wheels in my head never stop spinning. The Conor Hamster has an incredible physique, pecs of steel and legs of muscle. So needless to say, I am trying to think of every possible reason as to why I’m-

“Join us,” JFC, it took everything in his abilities to say those two words.

“What?” Make no mistake, I heard him. I just wanna hear him say it again. = : )

He doesn’t.

He walks away.

“You’re despicable! A homewrecker! A nipple-faced fuckdome! And worst of all, you know the world around you is crumbling!”

I scream as he disappears into the darkness.

It was nice to get that outta my system. I might hate the guy and while I did lose my best friend in Walter…

It is comforting to know I have bitter enemies who remain alive, too. — — — — — When: Prolly recently Where: The Asylum of Mentally Unstable Wrestlers (A-MUW) Why: You’ll see, this goes full circle

The dirt road is long and winding. The cab driver was nice, I tipped him a solid Canadian $50, even tho our exchange rate is shit ATM.

There I stand, in front of the massive metal doors, a structure so big that as I look up, I can count about forty-five stories high. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and feel the excitement flow through me like a wild electricity I haven’t felt in years.

The sheer joy inside, it’s like I’m on ecstasy even though I’ve never done drugs.

Imagine if I did.

Knock, knock, Rob Williams. Foreshadowing. Winky face.

I digress. I am feeling it so hard and strong that I am as composed and grounded as ever.

“Why it’s nice to see you again, sir,” the guard on my right says, patting me on the shoulder. “I didn’t think you’d come back.”

“That’s what happens when you relocate, Mr. Uhhhh…” I finally pull my eyes down to look at his nametag. “Brock. Took me a while to find your new location, Brock. My subconscious is a vast spectrum to explore, Brock.”

One more look at the incredible edifice a foot away. I give the nod.

“Open the doors, Brock!”

The guard does. He cranks the handle back and the entrance swings sideways. I thank the good guard and tell him I hope his wife is doing well. He says something about Ohio State and the Pittsburgh Penguins or whatever, I dunno, I stopped paying attention.

Through the metal detectors, I’m greeted by more security. Everyone is happy to see my cute and delicious face.

“Never took you for a combat guy,” one of the guards in a thick Scottish/Glasgow accent named Colin tells me, handing over a credential pass.

“Yeah bro, me neither. But looks can deceive. Like Transformers!”

Through the atrium and into the heart of the unit, another guard brings me into the open space - a spiraling staircase going up, up, UP to the top of the ceiling.

“The administration department is hard at work,” the guard says, who suddenly develops a nametag from thin air. Hutchalutch, it reads. Weird name but I’m not here to argue with my stage four REM sleep. “We’re processing new inmates by the second. Immigration is at an all time high!”

“Lovely Hutchalutch, lovely,” I confirm, once again staring at the magnificent staircase. “This is the type of work I would expect from a top notch organization!”

He stands proud.

“Can you take me to the… uh, rivalry wing, please.” I ask with my most polite Canadian voice, as Hutchalutch points me to the spot.

“Right this way.”

We walk down the atrium and he opens a dark door, stepping inside to the most wonderfully dim-lit hallway one could imagine. The lighting creates a sense of awesome uneasiness. To the right and left, padlocked doors and two-way glass.

Dungeons galore.

The doors are locked in five different places to ensure no escape. The two-way glass is thicker than Bobby Dean’s thighs.

The row of cells stretch for miles on end.

HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT

Sorry, I can’t help but fall into giddy mode as I hear the fans scream and shout for MOAR. Hutchalutch remains to my left. He’s a soldier. I can tell he’s standing on command for whatever I need.

I look at the first cell to my right. My eyes focus on the large metal door and a rendering of 8-bit art below its handle.

The image of a lizard.

“Ohhhhh snap!” I can’t help but chuckle.

I challenge myself to see if I can figure out the next holding cell, a little further down the lane, without walking by.

Pretty sure there’s a diamond rendering.

Switching my gaze to the left, an 8-bit black sheep etched into the metal frame.

HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT

Those voices in my head are on overdrive! The hair on my arms stand! This is the type of adrenaline rush Mario Kart stopped giving me years ago!!

“And ‘The Man’…” I begin, looking at Hutchy. “The Man at the End of the Hall?”

The code word for the dungeon often designated to host my most fierce and problematic rival.

My Luthor. Joker. Green Goblin.

Hutchalutch nods with a sinister grin. “We handpicked The Man at the End of the Hall earlier this week. You’ll love him.”

Music to my MFing ears.

“ATTENTION inmates!” I shout into the abyss. “My name is Conor Fuse and I am the most passionate wrestler alive!”

I can sense the pulse of Babel; I can feel the wrath of Khan!

“I have searched far and wide for a game so daunting and a Rogues’ gallery so refined! I have prayed, night after night, to be in a league where I can actually be myself! Where I do not need to subscribe to a fake alias and please a false prophet! For I, The Armlock Aristocrat, am here to show you all what amazing battles can feel like! I will bleed like a stuck pig! I will send receipts harder and stronger than you’d ever imagine! I will never take NO for an answer! I will start-”

My speech is interrupted, as Hutchalutch places a hand on my shoulder.

Brock stands beside me now, too. His arm is out. It’s like he’s asking me to hand over…

My credentials?

“I’m sorry,” Brock says, as Hutchalutch lowers his head in shame. “We got word from Lieutenant Troy. You can’t be here right now.”

Brock reaches around my neck and removes my security pass.

“You don’t have the proper clearance.”

I try running down the hallway. I see Mr. Lizard slithering inside his lair through the two-way glass! I sprint past an angry bull doing lines of cocaine on the bend of a hooker’s knee! I’m trying to reach the end of the hall! I need to see who’s there!

…

A little further!

…

The scene starts to fade away!!

“NOOOOOOO, GOD DAMMIT! LET ME FEEL ALIVE AGAIN!” — — — — — …

I open my eyes, realizing I’m back in my own holding cell within the USS Octane.

WTF have I been doing with myself these past two years? Why am I letting the world wrestle without me?

I’m in my PRIME, no pun intended. A former world champ, a damn good wrestler and, above all else, I just wanna have a super swell time!

“HEY!” I scream into the void of darkness beyond.

My heart is racing.

“HEY JILES, YOU N00B!”

My head is spinning.

“GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE!”

For the first time in years, I’ve got the itch.

“COWARD! SNOB! CUNTAZOID!”

This might do the trick…

“MOTHER FUCKING CRUMB!”

Walter, buddy, I won’t let your death be lost in the void. I’m sorry I took you for granted.

Tap, tap, tap.

Ah, the footsteps are coming back.

If I pride myself to leave issues in the past, what better test than this?

“You dickless pandering schmuck!” I state, while the thoughts of every single wrestler signed to a PRIME contract dance through my head.

“…Let’s work something out.”