Crash & The Mask Bro To Fuckin' Work

The hottest of the dogs, Mr. Ketchup & Mustard, the Maestro of the Meat Thing, the Captain of Proper Condiments, Crash, sits with the remnants of nearly a hundred delicious doggies before he lets out a rippling belch that has thirty something different pitch changes. He leans forward to grab another celebratory beer before the same sound comes from his seat. His eyes go wide before checking if he needs to relocate but finds he's in the clear.

Nearly lost that gamble, Crashsama.

The Hot Dog Hero rebels against his gastrointestinal discomfort. His eyes widen and then narrow before the full influx of his dietary enemies takes effect at full measure. He jumps up, eyes targeting the bathroom doorway, before taking short, itty bitty choppy steps with little squeakers escaping out with each movement.

“Jesus Christ, Jason,” Tom Battaglia can't help but have an interest in Crash either winning or losing this battle with his bowels. “You’re giving me flashbacks to Bobby Dean on the john in Philly. You need some privacy?”

Crash slowly makes his way to the door, biting his tongue and holding up his finger to seemingly hold the dam together. The Luchador tracks his partner for the upcoming Triple Threat Title match moving across the room before disappearing into the restroom. An audible release of celebration comes from behind the unclosed door before a bowel bomb is dropped. The ceiling tiles ripple, the walls shake, and causes Tom, in a mild state of PTSD flashback, to scan for the nearest exit.

“You do NOT wanna go in there, bro,” Crash announces as he reentered their shared locker space.

“Thanks for the warning,” his partner replies coldly, almost Vulcan in emotionlessness in his tone.

Bro…

“Look man,” the Northern Light feels the temperature of his new partner’s words. “I can always skedaddle if you need me to. I didn’t mean to…”

Crash recalls the act delivered upon the shared bathroom. He nods softly, finally understanding how everyone on the planet might be offended to be in the same room during said behavior.

“Oh, no, no, it actually doesn’t smell that bad, to be honest. Let’s soak it in, alright? We got a big couple of nights back in Tokyo that we gotta prepare for, y’know?”

Tom recoils preemptively, expecting the backlash of a former partner, a ghost who disappeared in the mist like out of a Dickensian tale of the cure for greed.

“Yeah dude, that sounds sick. I’m so stoked to get in there with you against those jackwagons.”

The arrow doesn’t. Oh, he thinks, Zapp was gone. Things were going to change.

But he can’t shake the feeling that the bottom was about to fall out. The same one he had from the moment Zapp signed them up for the Tag League through the end of Colossus, the champagne and Dean Martin blaring out of the speakers in their locker room. Only this feeling digs deeper, causes even more vertigo.

Because Crash does not at all seem like the betraying kind.

Been through this dance a few times now, bro…

Jason Jackson notices Tom’s stoic exterior and can only assume there’s more going on beneath the surface. His own thoughts begin to wander in every direction possible much the same way.

Never ends well. 

Crash turns his head, getting a reassuring look at Violent Purple, to make sure she's still there. She crouches in the corner of the room, outside of the light, as Crash examines her different appearance.

I have my friends to thank for this…

Max. Dawkins. Two turncoat allies that left a lifelong mark on the Northern Light’s heart. Fucked VP’s entire world up. Sent Crash reeling to the point he shouldn't trust anyone.

This feels a lot fuckin’ different, dude.

“So…” Crash breaks the ice. “Big show in Tokyo, Tommy B! Got any pointers ya think I should know, bro?”

“Well, there are gonna be two teams in there. You ever hear of the three-body problem?”

“Yeah bro, I heard it was a sick-ass show, but I got nailed on password sharing so I don’t get Netflix anymore.”

Tom groans slightly.

“No, it’s not about a show, it’s a thing about how you can predict how two things will interact with each other, but if you add a third, it becomes chaotic. It’s like a science thing with math or at least that’s what Ayame says, but it works in wrestling too.”

Crash gives a knowing nod.

“Like, we can prepare for the Glue morons alone. I’ve been in the ring with FLAMBERGE before, and Joe, well, whatever I don’t know about him in the ring I can make up for with sheer determination to make him swallow his own teeth.”

“I feel you, man. He’s weird as fuck, son.”

Tom squints his eyebrows.

He’s agreeing with me without any pushback? What is this, a fucking prank?

“Yeah. And then me and Zapp have two wins over the Whoresmen, one time in a three-way match. But that was with the…”

Tom furrows his brow again, counts on his fingers, and is generally flummoxed because Fuck Your Tag Team weren’t Whoresmen when they fought, and the other team absolutely were Whoresmen in the form of Fred Dick and STRONK.

“...other Whoresmen?”

He does not sound so sure.

“One thing about all these wrestlers thrown in like salad is every sitch is different. So you can’t prepare for FLAMBERGE and Fontaine without accounting for the Whoresmen, but we can’t know for sure because Williams and Daniels hate everyone but each other, so we don’t know if they’ll have more shots for temporary alliances with us or with them or if it’s a free for all and I just don’t know what the fuck is going on but we need to find a way…”

“Broseph, chill! You’re wigging the fuck out over here. You know what always calms me down?”

Tom wants to snark back, but his brain is too fried.

“A hot dog, bro! And not just any hot dog. You know they got them fancy wagyu beef dogs over here?”

The hot dog has to be poisoned, right, Tom thinks to himself. Maybe not poisoned. But Crash definitely is going to put a condiment he doesn’t like on it, like sauerkraut. This is how it always happens. Not just with Zapp, but with Ivan. Even with Youngblood at Wrestle House in Wisconsin. And with every other tag team partner he’s ever had. Names fly into his brain like intrusive thoughts. Liquid Snake. Pom Shinjoku. Garry Ray-Ray [REDACTED]. Timo [ALSO REDACTED].

“Thanks, bud,” Tom speaks up finally. “But I’m not really that hungry. I think I just need some air.”

He expects the lash-out to happen now.

“Oh, okay bro, or maybe I can come to where you’re staying. What hotel is that again?”

Tom turns around as he puts on his Eagles hoodie.

“Not a hotel. Pom Academy. In Kanagawa.”

Before Crash can answer, Tom is already at the door. Jackson watches as he grips the knob.

Given what’s at stake now… I gotta tell him, bro.

“Look Tom,” the Hot Dog Hero stands and takes a few steps as the Luchador simply turns his head. “I've never had anything like this before. A team, a partner, so… I don't wanna waste it, bro. Whatever you need from me, you're gonna get it. Right now we’ve got every jerkoff and jackass in PRIME with us in their sights. It's gonna be tough to shut ‘em all up.”

Tom turns and makes eye contact again.

“I’m just lookin’ forward to doin’ the work with ya, dude.”

Tom nods as he walks out. 👺 The backstage corridors of Osaka-jo are empty and calm. Some laborers remain breaking down sets, moving the ring in its piecemeal form, and some PRIME folks are there to make sure things make it into their designated trucks. It’s relatively quiet. Tom can think, but thinking has seemed like a risky proposition lately the way that his sleep schedule and frazzled mind have been working co-conspiratorially lately.

I’ve never known a partner in this industry who has been this… eager, he thinks.

Everyone’s out for themselves in this business.

…

Even me?

He stops in his tracks. There have been times where he’s acted in his own self-interest with exacting prejudice. Not proud of those days. Some of them have been in PRIME, and he thought he was past them.

But Zapp gave him more pause than anyone else because he put all of his relationships into focus. One-sided in terms of giving. Zapp was just naked about little he gave and how much he seemed to think he did in stark contrast. Everyone else hid it.

Is Crash hiding it?

No, he can’t be hiding his shittiness. If it were Bash, maybe. He likes Sebastian Gold, but the Hollywood shine always raises suspicion.

Crash reminds him more of the townies in the deep heart of Mexico, from his days on C-tours, paying dues, making the towns in lucha libre before becoming the name he is now in Mexico, in Japan, across the world. They were free with their tortillas and their pollo guisado to the luchadores staying in hostels because there were no hotels.

But no one that pure could exist in wrestling, right?

When did I become this cynical? He thinks.

“Fuck.”

Tom turns around to head back from whence he came. 🌭 Tom returns, turning the knob and tells himself Calm down before fully opening the door. His eyes nor his brain are sure what he sees in what used to be the shared locker room.

In front of him now is a glamorous Hibachi style set up with two of Japan’s finest chefs. Tom double checks the sign door before he looks back, both chef’s looking up and bowing in unison before going back to chopping and focusing on their craft.

…the fuck is happening right now? he thinks.

Billie Eilish’s soft, melodic “Birds of a Feather” plays in the background as Tom scans the room for an explanation. He finds one in the embodiment of nonsense with red hair and a scar on his forehead. He's dancing and singing his fuckin’ heart out. His eyes are closed, arms wide open, and twirls like four times before opening his eyes.

“Oh shit, bro,” Crash doesn't stop dancing. “I didn’t hear you come in, TB!”

He reaches in his pocket and pulls out his phone before the music drops to a reasonable volume. He looks back to the Luchador with a bright smile.

“What're you doing?” Tom asks. “What are those two doing?’

“Bro, first…” Crash backs up, holding his finger up “Check this out. Shokunin! Hit me again!”

PING

With a flick of the wrist, one of the chefs sends a piece of fancy wagyu hot dog in the air. It goes directly into Crash’s mouth before he props his hands on his hips and winks at his new tag partner.

“Was that a hot dog?” Tom looks at the chefs again.

“Wanna try it?” Crash says cheerfully, in a Dude, you gotta try it! tone. “It's fun.”

He puts the gourmet glizzy to his mouth and bites. Pensiveness washes over his face as he chews, but he cracks a wry smile.

“Pretty good, I have to admit.”

Crash's eyes blow out of their sockets.

MY GUYYYYYY!

Tom looks around the room at the rest of the decor.

“So did some preteen get a hold of the music or what?” Tom jabs.

Crash’s face goes flat as his eyelids narrow more and more.

“That's Billie fuckin' Eilish, bro,” Crash puffs his chest out. “Voice of a goddamn angel, dawg.”

Tom looks around, unsure what comes next and just nods. Still trying to figure one another out, the pair of Heroes take a few seconds to give their new partner a once over.

“Mister Crashsan,” one of the chefs calls out. “Mister Badass Mask Man… please come.”

Tom wonders where he got that from before glancing to his left. New York’s Finest was watching his reaction the whole time. The surprise brings a big ole grin to his face.

“I threw in an extra two hundred Yen to have him say that,” his eyes shoot upward twice.

Crash begins a stroll to the counter and leads TAL with him via hand gestures and eye contact. Hoping to help him calm down, Tom’s new partner seems to have pulled out all the stops. Once they get within sight, the Luchador spots the Wagyu hotdogs.

The kicker is a buffet of perfectly prepared gourmet condiments for their choosing. What are gourmet condiments? people without a clue would say. To that, these master chefs would answer with crispy fried onions and bourbon cherry BBQ sauce, caramelized onions finished with a balsamic glaze, an avocado cilantro lime crema, pickled jalapenos, smoked gouda, and, fanciest of them all, a white truffle aioli.

“This is…”

His voice trails off as he looks at the entire get-up. He was gone for, what, an hour? Crash had this all figured out in that time? He doesn’t know if he’s impressed or suspicious.

“...a lot. How did you pull it off?”

“I mean,” Crash replies, “I’ve been wanting to do something big for a while now, bro. Like, you didn’t even have to have our backs, but me and Bash asked, and you didn’t hesitate. Short notice too. Like…”

Crash splays his fingers out and makes a “booooosh” sound with his mouth like he’s simulating an explosion.

“This is the least I could do, bro, especially after you went to the boss and got me one of these sweet Tag Titles.”

Tom’s face runs colorless. He looks around again as sweat beads on his forehead.

“It’s too much. I gotta run.”

He leaves the locker room again.

“Bro?”

Crash turns to the chefs.

“Hey, I’ll brb.”

Crash tries his best to keep up but is still purple and yellow from Farthington's knucks. So when he makes it out of the door, he is so glad to see Tom leaning against the wall, still bug-eyed.

“Bro, did I do something wrong?”

Tom shuts his eyes for a moment before exhaling deep.

“No, it’s not you, unless it is.”

Crash cocks his head and raises his nostril.

“No, no, I’m sorry. It’s. Lemme ask you a question. How much do you know about my last tag team partner?”

“What, the weird mob guy? Not a whole lot. I kinda had my own thing going on with VP and Max and stuff.”

“Yeah, I guess I’m not the center of the universe, huh.”

Tom snickers a bit.

“But,” he continues, “he entered us into tag league without me knowing. We spent most of our time together as a team bickering. Like I’d give him a suggestion, and he’d act like I insulted his mother. But he’d calm down. The cycle would always renew every time we’d get a new booking. And I just kept waiting for the bottom to fall out.”

Crash squints.

“But it wasn’t really new with him,” Tom continues. “Like, almost every team I was in, there was some pattern of that. Zapp was just the most colorful version. And I’m seeing all this stuff with you, right here at the beginning. There’s no static. Hell, you put together a gourmet hot dog bar for me. It’s just messing with my head. Sorry.”

Crash shows he knows the feeling with a nod. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet, and then unfolds a picture of him and Violent Purple on the European tour last year.

“For almost a year, dude, this is all I had to help me not forget what she looks like. Isn’t that crazy? Didn't think it would be that fast but it sure was. Fuckin’ concussions probably don't help.”

They both share a soft, sincere chuckle.

“Point is, I got her back… but I still can't tell what she used to look like. Sound like. None of it… it's

not her, bro. So now, I promise you this, Tom, whatever variety of piece of shit crosses my path, us on the same side, doin’ it for the same reasons, is gonna feel the fuckin’ heat for what happened to her.”

“Yeah. Shit’s fucked, huh?”

Tom stands up from the wall he was leaning on.

“It always has been, or else we’d be in different businesses. But I guess some people are just born for this.”

Tom sidles up next to Crash and throws an arm around his shoulder.

“We both have damage. Scars. Reasons why we fight, reasons why we may not trust. It’s hard to get over.”

He releases and turns to face Crash.

“But I guess if I gotta be the dad to you and Bash, I might as well set an example, right? Show not just you, but the rest of the fucking world, a world that expects wrestlers to be lowlife pieces of shit who backbite and double-cross at every turn that there is some good in this fucking locker room. I’m in as long as it takes.”

Crash smiles and laughs before bumping the fist of his new, wise ally. With Tom knowing what he knows and these two willing to do it the right way, the chance to make some serious noise starts at Culture Shock. They can both feel it now.

“I’m damn proud to go into battle with you, brommander.”

Tom nods appreciatively at the sound of the Northern Light’s words. They start to head back into the locker room to just chill and shit.

“And I’m sorry for tonight. I really do like hot dogs, like I didn’t always like them, but I’ve actually gotten a taste for them over the years.”

Ahh, the converter. Crash thinks and smiles.

“Like you said, brother, some people are just born for this.”

Crash stops before they reach the door.

“But really, bubba, I’m not like Zapp, or any of those other gutless fucks who did you dirty. Sounds like the majority of them didn’t really care about anything other than their own necks. Only things I care about is that shattered mute girl, hotdogs more than any human being probably should, doin’ the right thing, and dustin’ it up when duty calls for it.”

Those annoying memories of thinking he would be able to support a guy like Max Kael early in his time in PRIME sneak back into the front of his thoughts.

The chaos he made. The turmoil it led to. The tragedy that followed. Still stabbing him from the nether every time looks at Violent Purple.

The overwhelming feeling that Tom Battaglia is nothing like the Minister breaks those thoughts into pieces, clearing them away as Crash sends those things into the parts of his brain that get locked and left for never.

“Oh, dude, I was thinkin’ we could surprise Bash by completely disfuckin’mantling Rob Williams and reminding him he still has our boy to answer to.”

They round the corner and head out of sight.

Nobody’s Heroes wild first night gave this group real momentum. Win or lose, they put PRIME on notice. Sent up a signal that made it clear the unanswered hostilities were gonna get much more attention now. Seeing the group succeed under such circumstances made Bash, Tom and Crash proud to be doing the right thing. 

The right way.

It just so happens this time it comes with a chance to give these two nefarious organizations a straighthand to the throat and make ‘em figure it the fuck out.

They’re all gettin’ the treatment.