Red, White, and Glue

It is mere moments after the cameras have finally shut down during the post-show chaos of ReVival 63. A new Universal Champion has been crowned in what was a digger plunged into the heart of likely every person who had purchased a ticket to Budokan Hall. Coral’s special connection to Japan would very much lead to moments of anguish from the crowd as they had to see their adopted son bow up in the middle of a weird exchange between Cecilworth Farthington and the now Universal Champion, Ivan Stanislav.

Even as Cecilworth Farthington grabbed the house microphone, waiting to unveil the opportunity that he’d had in his back pocket for weeks, he knew that it didn’t feel right, that no matter what he said, it would feel hollow. He’d been dreaming of a special moment in the Tokyo Dome for a long time, a moment to showcase everything that wrestling should be, an era defining, genre defining moment. Cecilworth was supposed to be weeks away from essentially becoming a God in the annals of Japanese wrestling history. He was supposed to slay the Crownless King. He was supposed to wear his own kind of hat fashion to show his superiority over all others.

In the Palace of Wrestlingminister, a new King was due to be crowned. Cecilworth was going to be the one to end Coral Avalon’s career. Cecilworth Farthington would close the coffin of the Avalon legacy, and he’d do it with gusto… but you know, respectful gusto. They may not have ever truly got along, but they had got to the point where both men had come to appreciate what the other was capable of.

Sadly, not all plans can come to be. Not all eras are unleashed.

When he held that microphone in his hand, when he saw Ivan with the belt, he knew that he’d been fucked by one adage more than anything.

Events, dear boy, events.

Cecilworth remained in the middle of his post-show mirror screaming, something that had become a sort of new ritual in his way of dealing with the aforementioned events that did not necessarily go in his favour. The screaming had reached a certain volume that if you were in the room, you’d swear it was vibrating. Thankfully though, this situation was short lived and an extremely Budokan based earthquake was evaded for that particular moment in time.

Knock, knock, knock.

Cecilworth, a bit taken aback by his precious mirror screaming time being interrupted, stops in his tracks and listens carefully, swearing to himself that he definitely didn’t hear the door getting smashed upon. Still, in the post-yelling silence, it happens once more.

Knock, knock, knock.

Cecilworth becomes increasingly aware that the knocking of the door isn’t one of his “moments”, that it’s good, right and proper. It exists in the real, not just the metaphysical. So, being the kind of man he is, he swings that door right open.

If he was still in front of the mirror, what he saw afore him would have likely set off another good seventeen minutes of solid screaming.

No, the last thing he expected that evening was now in his company.

The former Universal Champion, Coral Avalon.

—

Ivan, you took something from me. I just don’t take things all that kindly when I get my precious items ripped away from him, and you might have just done a smash and grab with my life’s greatest moment, my greatest accomplishment… the end of Coral Avalon. 

That was supposed to be for me, Ivan, do you understand? Do you understand that Coral was mine? That he was always supposed to be mine? Why did you even need him? What did you achieve by taking him away? The same thing that happens any time you have a sniff of authority around this place, that you pretend that your claimed motherland gives a singular, solitary shit about you? 

Years, Ivan, year I’ve been waiting for the perfect moment to bring the Coral Avalon’s career to a permanent end. From the moment that Joe and Sid put their trust in me, that these young men put their trust in Glue, well, I had to show them that I could repay the favour, that I could expose the man they had previously put their trust in as a hack. I came real close too, Tropical Turmoil and the Almasy almost finished the job. Twice, I bested him.

Sadly he had fucking respect for me as a talent, so saw those defeats as some sort of motivating factor to cause him to become the greatest God King of this era of PRIME. 

I’d failed the boys Ivan, one, I was never there as Joe and Sid fell apart, I just sorta let it happen, a bit of dumb arrogance on my part, I just thought they’d always be together. 

Two, I thought I’d taken the very essence and soul of Coral Avalon during the Almasy, but that bastard Cancer Jiles and his Bandits… they did something to him. They did something that made him into a conqueror the likes of which we’d never seen before.

I’d let everyone down, Ivan, I’d failed them. I had one mission, to break Coral Avalon, and I only made him stronger. 

So I had to wait, I had to wait patiently. I had to wait until Coral wasn’t just the man at the top of the mountain, I had to wait until he was the fucking mountain itself, and after I got my would-be assassin off my pack, it felt time to chop down that mountain with the edge of my hand.

But you took that from me.

You took that from me so you could fly the flag of Russia atop Osaka-jo Hall. 

Well, I told you it was the “Fuck Around, Find Out” era, did I not, dear Ivan?

You took my era defining reputation away.

How about I respond in kind.

—

As we all clearly know, there’s basically nothing else on the ACE Network apart from wrestling, and whatever television projects that the wrestlers are in the mood to take at any other particular moment in time.

One person who had taken advantage of the “bugger it” approach to making their own products for the ACE Network was Cecilworth Farthington, who had purchased the rights of “The Cecilworth Farthington Mysteries” from a drone stricken strip mall for real bottom dollar.

Cecilworth Farthington had seen that the network could become something of a personal toy to any wrestler with the energy and wherewithal to bend the television network around their own personal will.

So that’s why we are now in a position to have Cecilworth Farthington standing in the centre of a stage full of small chairs and a big screen television with a large red book resting on his left arm. The title of the book is etched in gold, and reads “THIS IS YOUR LIFE”.

As the camera starts to pan around the stage, we see that each chair, excluding two, has a small metal tooth on it. The other two chairs have a water container that inside has a floating Halloween mask of Walt Disney. The other chair has a piece of A4 taped to it, with a note stating “Space reserved for anyone that guest has sexually abused”.

Our host for this event, Cecilworth Farthington presents the big red book in front of the camera as a plastered smile creeps upon his face.

“Welcome to this special PRIME edition of “This Is Your Life”, which tonight will be celebrating someone who is at the very pinnacle of the wrestling industry at this moment in time, a man with big bravado and an even bigger personality… yes, let’s see how I surprised him earlier today.”

The camera feed cuts to some grainy CCTV footage that wouldn’t look out of place in some sort of 90s true crime documentary. We see a scrambled figure in red suspenders be handed the book by Farthington, and it’s almost impossible to make anything else out between the ambient hiss and the warped figures. We see the suspender’d figure hold the book up to the heavens as we return in studio to Cecilworth, once again in the company of several teeth, a Walt Disney head, and what is now an A4 picture of a forklift.

“What fun we have surprising our guests, but I think you all know who I’m about to bring out here tonight. He is the current PRIME Universal Champion, a self-proclaimed leader of the masses, the wearer of the finest suspenders known to man, it gives me great pleasure to say…”

Farthington lifts his head high, one hand extended to the entrance point of the stage.

“... Ivan Stanislav, this is your life…”

The camera cuts to a small plush boy of a bear, which is now seated on a chair, right next to the stage entrance. The bear is, of course, wearing red suspenders, as it is only right to do. Holding the big red book aloft, Cecilworth opens up to the first pages.

“Now Ivan, back in your early days in PRIME, you were quite an intimidating figure and you certainly knew how to try and hit it off with the ladies, did you not?”

The individual teeth start jumping up and down, as if they would be chattering if they were still unified but unfortunately for all of the individual metal teeth, they cannot remain together due to the curse of the Cheese God. The A4 picture on the other chair is turned into a picture of a Back to the Future musical version of Doc Brown, with a scribble underneath reading “the multiverse or some shit.”

“So, Ivan, do you remember this voice…”

The room goes dark as the audio is cued up, all we hear before we reach the point of technical difficulties is “remember when I tried to kill you with a forklift? …”

The static starts to overwhelm the screen, to the point that all is left with is a hiss.

—

You know what Ivan, this is too good for who you are. 

Too classy.

The brows? Heightened to a level that I don’t think is quite appropriate to the sort of fella you are.

No, I need to really show the world who you are. What you are.

I think I’ve got it right this time though.

Enjoy the show.

—

We now have access to another ACE Network exclusive show, one again driven from the wonder, perfect, cromulent mind of Cecilworth Farthington.

The setting is a stark difference from what it was mere moments ago in our collective mind’s eye. This time, there is a full studio audience, that looks like it was filled by a mixture of elderly ladies who were looking for somewhere to go to get a head before their hair rinse, and college age students ready to hoot and holler who were likely on a combination of Miller Lites and Baileys and Coffee since around 6am.

No matter the background, we get to see a beautiful moment of unity, as elderly and college students alike punch their fists into the air, hooting and hollering, as they chant the name “Cecil! Cecil! Cecil!” over and over again.

In the bottom right of the screen, there’s the title of today’s episode, which in this case is “My dad’s brain became dust, now I want to rule an army!”.

Running onto the stage, fist bumping in time to the people chanting his name, is Cecilworth Farthington, enjoying the all age ranges “Cecil!” chant in a way that feels inappropriate. Still, he is the ringleader of the situation and must take charge of the proceedings.Holding a few cue cards above his head, Cecilworth quietens down the braying crowd. “Ladies, gentleman and everything else in the beautiful spectrum inbetween, welcome to the Cecilworth Farthington show, and boy, do we have a topic for you today. On the stage now, we have a young lady that I believe goes by the name Rose, is that correct?”

The camera cuts to the stage for the first time, there’s some individual chairs, five in all, that are evenly spaced. Behind them, a facade of exposed brick work takes the majority of the scenery behind them, while a giant oscillating fan hovers above. The camera zooms in immediately on the centre chair, which has a cut-out of Rose’s scowling face pasted to it. The camera holds on to the scene of the scowling face for a few seconds before it cuts back to Cecilworth, who is presenting his best “being offended” face.

“Wow, Rose, I don’t know if that kind of language is appropriate for television! We run a good, clean show on this network and I would hate to ruin that relationship.” Farthington brays at the scowling mask, that will never not scowl, due to the nature of how printed imaginary works. The camera cuts to the Rose face again, as we see Cecilworth nod sagely in the background.

“I understand, I get that it would be tough if you have to see your own father’s skull turn into its own personal smoke machine with how melted his brain has done got. That sounds like just a terrible thing to be part of.” Cecilworth says, as he pats the corner of the chair with the face of Rose attached to it.  “And I totally get you would want to avenge your father’s memory by wielding an army of weirdos and monsters as if it would fulfill some kind of Rita Repulsa dream for you.” Another assuring stroke of the chair from Farthington follows a crafty smile to the camera. “But I understand that someone wrestled away your dreams of commanding your own army, is that right?”

Cecilworth looks at the mask again, as if it is imparting careful words of wisdom, raising his “concerned” eyebrows a couple of times while he is in the moment.

“Well, dear Rose, the man who forced you into servitude because you couldn’t win his army off him is here tonight, and he wants to have his say!”

A fart trumpet rendition of The Red Flag plays as out onto stage walks Ivan Stanislav, if we are to believe that Ivan is just The Glueminati’s Hank, dressed exactly as he normally is, but with an “Hello, my name is Ivan” sticker planted on his chest.

“Now Ivan, it’s rare these days to force women to be your bidding subjects, due to things like suffrage and human rights, but is it right you can win women in a wrestling match? Because if that’s true, I have new career plans?”

The crowd “ooos” and laughs at Cecilworth’s funny and silly commentary, then quickly pumps their fists in the air and yells “Cecil! Cecil! Cecil” again as the camera cuts between the print out of Rose’s face and Hank, both of whom, surprisingly, are not actually saying anyway.

The crowd’s noise gets louder and louder.

And louder still.

They are now at the level of ear drum destruction.

That’s when the static comes once more.

—

Man, I really thought putting you in a tabloid talk show would feel right. I thought I’d found the right place to explore who you are Ivan, who you truly are. 

See, that’s my special set of skills. It’s probably why you’ve been avoiding me all of these years, isn’t it?

You fear the skill I have.

That I don’t take people for who they say they are, no, I see people for who they truly are, I see them based on the actions they take, not the press they release, not the propaganda that they spread.

I see you for you, Ivan.

And you hate what you are.

Or you have to, right.

Deep down?

—

This time, there is no theme tune, there is no ACE Network show introduction. No, this time we’re introduced to a bunch of cameras that are cutting back and forward between each other around a rooftop bar table. The cameras are all a little shaky, clearly handheld, and very much bunched up closely around the tiny rooftop table of the bar.

The camera immediately catches a shot of a pineapple, sitting in one of the stools at the table, with sunglasses on. There is a glass of wine in front of the pineapple, and through the magic of television, you would swear that that pineapple was downing champagne like it was a beautiful tap of water in the Sahara desert.

It’s just then that Hank, dressed once again in his finest Ivan costume - a name tag that says “Hello I am MAN WHO IS UNIVERSAL CHAMPION” this time, because Hank couldn’t quite remember Ivan’s name, and so there were also 50 name tags that said “HELLO I AM SERGEY” that were also burnt.

Hank growls in the direction of the pineapple that was enjoying their lovely glasses of sparkling wine. The growling is translated underneath as “I had nothing to do with the kidnapping of your wife.”

As if the pineapple had hands of its own, the pineapple’s glass of sparkling wine is thrown in the face of Hank, with the bystanders around the table all looking shocked, as if they couldn’t have predicted this turn of events. The pineapple also shakes in the general direction of Hankislav.

“If you had nothing to do with my wife disappearing, why did you enable the man who did it for so long? How can I trust you when you let him have free reign for so long, including costing me my title?”

There is a warning underneath the pineapple translation stating “Warning: Fictional pineapple may make better life choices than real world alternatives.” and just as you had enough time to read that warning, a glass of wine flies on top of the pineapple with another growl.

“You just gotta trust me bro.” are the departing words of the Hank growl translations before the static starts to grow once more. 

—

I think we finally round the light level, didn’t we Ivan, tabloid slop. That’s what you are, that’s what you provide, am I right, my friend?

I wonder if we will have a “A Real Lives of the Red Army” reunion. That’d be fun, wouldn’t it Ivan? 

I think I can find a charming and charismatic host who has a lot of questions about the way you operate Ivan.

I guess you wouldn’t want the questions though, would you?

No, but this is perfect, I think I’ve finally found out who Ivan Stanislav is.

Thank you.

—

Coral Avalon had long left The Glub House, but Farthington had not yet left the Tokyo Budokan like the rest of the roster. He knew the history of the building, he knew what he wanted to happen, and he knew that his ego had assumed his date with Coral Avalon was ordained by God himself.

A dangerous mix, and one that certainly did not result in anything that Farthington was hoping for that day.

His first ever chance to PRIME’s Universal Championship was supposed to be a very special moment in a young man’s life. One that he could step into the ring and have a proud wrestling boner over. One that got to be legacy defining.

Then the Wrestling Gods of Japan laugh at you, as instead they unfreeze a 1980s stereotype and the Tokyo Dome is a matter of a company’s soul, rather than the future of wrestling.

Man, why is it you have to keep fighting over souls, Cecilworth?

Well, if you gotta fight, you gotta fight.

Don’t scream into the mirror again, it doesn’t help.

—

Do you get it Ivan, do you get what I’m saying?

I know you’re always wondering what my motivations are, they seem to cause you a lot of perplexity and perhaps consternation.

So I think, for a simple man like yourself, I can afford some time to spell it out for you.

You are American, Ivan. You are the very soul of America.

Why, I’d go as far to say that you’re as American as a drone strike on civilians during an Afghan wedding.

…well, I thought “apple pie” was outdated and needed a reboot.

This Red Army thing, why are we even pretending? Sexual assaults, forklift murder attempts, literal murder attempts, multidimensional travel, wife kidnapping, child custody battles… there’s not a bit of tabloid slop that you don’t have your fingers in, Ivan, and that’s not really how I think you want to be seen.

I mean, let’s not even get into that whole thing where you tried to consign JCH to the cuck chair, shall we?

The way you’ve acted in PRIME, well I’d say you’re as Russian as a Venice Beach steroid needle. 

I said I’d take something from you and realised what mattered the most.

Your reputation.

Well, “cowboy”, there’s one thing left to take. That’s the Universal Championship, and that’s at Culture Shock.

Yee haw.