So Fucking Much

I beat you, Jason.

Whether you ever wanna open up that mouth again, it doesn’t matter. Whether I take another shot to the dome from your boy, Bader, it doesn’t. Matter. I beat you. 

And took a title I never wanted to begin with. But hey, I’ll never say no to a strong addition to the resume.

But the belt? That ugly, silver belt? Means absolutely nothing anymore.

If it hadn’t been on the line at Culture Shock? It wouldn’t have made any difference if it had. YOU were the focus. Beating YOU was the goal.

It’s absolutely no secret that I was absolutely obsessed with PRIME’s past. I grew up with it. I tried to live it.

And you were an absolutely massive part of that.

And then I beat you.

Quite abruptly, Hockey Player Number One slams into the glass, cartoonishly smooshing his face and skewing his helmet.

A sharp whistle heralds the referees arrival, prior to a super sick hockey stop spraying shaved ice all over.

Referee: Take a breather, bud! Two minutes in the sin bin!

Hockey Player Number One, with one of his front incisors suddenly missing, spins to face the ref, and wildly unimpressed.

Hockey Player Number One: What’r’you’talkin’aboot, bud? You didn’t see that hoser chargin’? What an’ absolute chucklehead!

The referee skates back a touch, quite deftly, holding his hands up in defense.

Referee: Don’t get the syrup stuck to your fingers, bud. I didn’t sleep too good last night.

Hockey Player Number One whips his gloves to the ice, and reaches into his pads.

Hockey Player Number One: Well you oughta figure’it’oot! Here, get yourself a little buzz!

Hockey Player Number One tosses a tall can to the referee, who catches it with a curious eye. A close up reveals an angry cartoon beaver below the label of “Beaver Buzz Energy”. The referee pops the top and takes a mighty swig.

Referee: Gretzky’s Grundle! That’s pretty good, eh?

“IT AIN’T JUST GOOD!”

Hockey Player Number One and the referee flinch as a glass panel shatters onto the ice. Stepping through appears to be PRIME Wrestling’s Hayes Hanlon, wearing what appears to be his wrestling gear, plus a black hockey helmet and a pair of skates. He clumsily skates over to the referee, snatches the can of Beaver Buzz from his hand, and then absolutely clobbers him with a clothesline, sending him crumpling to the ice. Hayes Hanlon then turns and thrusts the can of Beaver Buzz toward the camera.

Hayes Hanlon: It’s DAM good!

“CUT!”

Hayes dropped the cheesy smile, and wobbled his way over to the actor playing the referee, who he only knew as “Chuck.”

“You can take a little off that clothesline, bud, it’s just a commercial, yanno?”

“My bad,” Hayes replied, pulling him off the crash pad. “I don’t have any balance on these things.”

Chuck waved him off before skating to the benches for a touch-up from the production crew. Hanlon remained on the ice while Rick, or Hockey Player Number One, pulled a phone from his pads. The clean up crew was quick to work, sweeping up the scattered sugar glass and replacing the panel with a fresh one.

“Hanlon!”

Hayes turned his dark gaze to the director, Val Bergeron, a bald, stocky man in a puffy coat, shuffling his dress shoes onto the ice.

“You gonna figure out how to skate or what? You look like a moose on roller skates!”

“I’m tryin’, man! I’m not built for these things!”

“What? You didn’t play hockey growing up?”

“Baseball.”

“Blue Jays fan?”

“Mariners.”

Val grimaced and waved him off with a stubby hand.

“Just try and be an athlete, alright? You push from the skates more side to side. You don’t just, shuffle your feed forward and back.”

Val turned, taking short, quick steps to retreat back to the stands, waving an arm and hollering at the production team. Hayes exhaled through his nose, and clambered his moose-legs toward the benches, where the railing would provide some relief, and balance.

He hated this part of the job.

He hadn’t leaned into sponsorships and product appearances much since he signed with PRIME in 2022. A promo for the Ace Network here and there, sure, but even those were just distractions, and his career was off to the races in what was still often referred to as “The Hanlon Year.” That, and he was doing it all as a one-man show; Paul was just along for the ride back then. He hated being told what to do, how to do it. Stand here, turn that way. No, that way. Smile bigger. A little less. Think if you flex hard enough you can make your shirt rip?

An absolute nightmare for an anxiety ridden kid finding his place in the big leagues. But again, he was a one-man show. All he really had to do was show up, and put on the whole. Damn. Show. Make it bigger and brighter and louder and stronger, every time. And he did just that.

“Hey, skater, let’s see a triple lutz or something.”

Until Olivia jumped on the bus.

Hayes snorted through his dark ‘stache as Big Sister appeared to his right, resting her forearms onto the railing. Her blue eyes scanned the production in front of her, lips smirking, quite amused.

“Beaver Buzz? Seriously?” Hayes asked, craning his neck. “Can you believe this shit actually exists?:

“I can,” she replied with a nod. “And they pay pretty well for these things, too. Turns out the Canucks like caffeine as much as Americans. We have that in common, I guess.”

“Doesn’t taste as good,” Hayes grumbled. “Have you tried these things? What the hell’s a ‘saskatoon berry,’ anyway?”

Olivia snorted in response as he set the tall can down and leaned back against the railing.

He felt like an idiot.

He looked like an idiot.

Ice skates. Signature black hole “Event Horizon” wrestling tights. Hockey helmet that was definitely too small for his giant noggin. And shirtless. Just out there cutting glass in the Scotiabank arena.

And as he crossed his arms across that cold, broad chest, Olivia took notice of his tone, and cocked an eyebrow.

“What’s up? Cold got your nipples, bro?”

“Don’t, don’t talk about my nipples,” Hayes shot, eyes squinted with strange concern at his sister’s comment. Oliva back-handed him in the shoulder, quite proud of herself. Little Brother crossed his arms a little tighter, and exhaled long through his nose.

“This shit isn’t a circus to me, ‘Liv.”

He stared out onto the ice. Olivia offered the time, further tuning into her little brother’s tone.

“Look, I get it. Every two weeks I walk out in front of thousands of people, with my shirt off, with my loud-ass music, and do ridiculous shit in a square box we call a ‘ring.’ We have stupid interactions backstage, create ways to want to kill each other, and say absurd shit over microphones in front of millions of people watching. I get it.”

“This stuff. This is the circus. This is where I feel like a fucking clown.”

That notion caught Olivia by surprise. She tucked her hands into the sleeves of her peacoat,  cocking a curious head toward her younger brother.

“Is that how you see yourself?” she asked, sincerely.

“No. Maybe. Kinda. I don’t know–”

He found himself getting cuffed across the head, jostling his helmet.

“Listen here, little bro.”

Olivia stood up tall, hands braced against the railing, with a long breath drawn in through her sharp nose.

“I know Paul was the only one who gave a shit about all…this,” she said, spreading her arms to the air in front of her. “But dude, everyone knew you were going to be special.”

Hayes, looking the fool, lifted an eyebrow of his own from his place on the ice.

“Who knew?” he demanded.

“Everyone,” she replied, quickly. “Bro, you were like, six feet tall in the eighth grade and were hitting homers since you were nine or ten. Dad is what, five-foot ten? You ended up six-three and fucking gigantic.” 

Hayes blinked at the thought, and looked himself over. Gigantic? No. Not him.

“And you’ve won what? Four titles in four years?”

“With only one legit defense–”

“Baby Bro, for real, shut the fuck up.”

The pair took a moment to collect. Olivia shoved her hands into the pockets of her long peacoat. Hayes kept his arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Look, I barely watch your shit, but I don’t think anybody sees you like that. You’ve won a bunch of belts or whatever, and it seems like nobody holds them for very long anyway. Wherever I go, everyone can’t shut the fuck up about you and your ‘Hanlon Year’ and how you’re gonna be in the Hall of Fame.”

Olivia took a beat, and flicked her younger brother in the ear, much to his chagrin.

“Why can’t you?”

And Little Brother couldn’t offer much of an answer. His eyes flicked from the ice he stood on to the empty chairs in front of him across the way. And as he shifted, gripping the railing to turn 180 degrees, an image caught him off-guard. Dead in his tracks.

An old man, pushing the wheels of his chair across the walkway a few rows above, and glaring downward, to the ridiculous, shirtless man on ice skates, wearing a hockey helmet.

Hayes curled his lips in behind his mustache, and drew in a long, heavy breath.

“Why can’t he.”

I beat you, Nate. And all I had to do was whistle.

You didn’t have to get yourself involved. I had Snow under control all by my fucking self.

But you had to go and polish the badge you pinned to your shirt, didn’t you?

Good.

Because I’ve already shown the world that Jake Colton’s Little Boy can’t handle a few sharp whistles from the crowd. And I can’t wait to expose that again when I beat you, and when I beat Jason fucking Snow.

AGAIN.

Hayes had ditched the ice skates, collected his gray hoodie, but kept the helmet.

He sat somewhere around row fifteen of the Scotiabank arena, one foot resting on the backrest in front of him, tumbling the Bauer hockey helmet back and forth in his hands.

As ridiculous as he’d felt down on the ice; bare-chested on ice skates, he felt twice as uncomfortable sitting next to Phil Atken.

It had never crossed his mind that he and The Founder had never talked. There was no initiation. No application. No interview or phone call. Hayes had turned left down that hallway at ReVival Thirty-Five to find Cecil, FLAMBO, Joe, and Sid. But no Phil. After he crunched Jared’s jaw with the Flash Point soon after, no Phil. And after the miserable year of failure that was 2024, still. No Phil.

Yet, there he was in the Scotiabank Arena. Not even the same building that would host UltraViolence 2025.

“This…wasn’t on my bingo card this week,” said Hayes, breaking a long silence.

“Hayes, my son,  I can understand why you may be wondering about why it’s been so long since we could arrange a chat - and I assure you, it was never about your sense of humor.”

Phil may still be limited physically, but there’s an unspeakable gravitas there. Something about the resonance of his voice that captivated all attention. And it had seemed to have gripped the attention of his charge in the seat next to him.

So he continued.

“But really, when we dissect the thing, Hayes Hanlon in the Glueminati…Hayes requires something different than Cecilworth, or Julien, or Joseph. Would you agree with that?”

“I’m not your son,” Hanlon shot, sharply, deflecting the question altogether.

“Sure, well, that’s debatable.”

Phil chuckled. Hayes did not.

“I didn’t want to interrupt your processes, frankly. You seem so…intentional. Focused. I like that.”

Hayes replied with a hard slap to the helmet in his hands; a hollow, plastic clap, enough to interrupt the flow of their conversation.

“And I’m just hearing this now?” Hanlon asked, after a long, pregnant moment. “After almost two. Years with this crew?”

Atkens chuckled in his chair, legitimately amused.

“I’ve never in my life heard someone so upset that they weren’t micromanaged.”

Hayes shifted his body with intent to respond, but the Founder interrupted.

“Let me ask you this, Hammer,” he asked. “When it’s all on the line - when it’s you and another man on the floor, your next meal at stake…which one do you think you are? The eater, or the eaten? Do you truly understand the pit beneath you that holds the answer?”

Hayes blinked at the question, then shook his head. Perhaps surprised, certainly confused, but absolutely indignant.

“Man, what…what the fuck are you talking about?”

Phil, nonplussed, turned his attention back to the ice.

“I think you know.”

“Man…all I know is I hated your guts. You know that, right?”

Atkens did his best to hide a grin, but collected himself enough to allow his charge to continue.

“Tell me more,” he said.

“You were this…old, whiny, bitch back when PRIME came back,” Hayes expanded. “Pissing and moaning about the Old Guard, supposedly wanting to pave the way for the new. Blaming the business. Blaming my heroes!”

A pause. Hayes drummed his fingers on the helmet, glaring off toward the ice.

“Until they weren’t.”

Another long pause to follow, eyes sharp as they stared into the ice.

“I remember being so. Fucking. Mad, when Julien pulled that rope away from Youngblood,” said Hayes. “It was the worst thing. And a year later, I watched Glue just get…covered in gold. I couldn’t escape the thought of it. I turned left. 

Hayes turned his head toward the Founder, and shrugged his shoulders.

“And you weren’t there.”

Phil could barely hide his grin, but did so successfully, nonetheless. Hayes dropped his head, staring into the floor, drumming that helmet with his fingers while searching for the right words.

“But I’VE been there,” he said at long last. “I knocked out Jared Sykes in the middle of the ring! I pulled Don Winters’s neck over the ropes! I’ve done all the things I thought I was supposed to do! And meanwhile? Cece, and Julien, and Joe, are out there acting like…cartoon characters?”

The youngest Hanlon held up his palms, curious and indignant, even in the stoic face of Phil Atken.

“So, why me? Why did you give me the nod?’

And Phil, with a small grin, turned to face the young man and his criticisms.

“Because you’re the only one who doesn’t trust me. You’re the only one who doesn’t give a damn about my approval. So, among my crew of “dangerous weirdos”...you understand what that makes you–”

Phil allowed that notion to settle in as he turned back towards the ice.

“--The Thresher of Hooves.”

Hayes hated that name, and he flinched hearing it. A name given by Julien shortly before he joined the Glueminati, but a name he couldn’t defend. Loss after loss to the Old Guard killed any notion of keeping it.

“You know I had a Jason Snow poster on my wall, right?” he said instead. “And I’ll bet a lot of people have, or will have Nate Colton posters.”

“People cling to their relics. It’s lethal to live in the past, or in a fake future.”

“Then where am I, Founder? Where do I fit? Every time I try to defend a title I get fucked out of it.”

“...how do you not know?”

Phil turned away in his chair, willing to leave the conversation on that one, specific note before wheeling away to find a mechanically assisted method of exiting the arena.

Leaving Hayes Hanlon, nearly two years later, and still the latest member of the Glue Factory, to himself.

In the stands.

Of the Scotiabank Arena.

Sofia fought hard to fight the smile creeping across her thin lips.

But she did. Devilishly. Wrapped in her brown duster.

The heat from the flames licked at her cheeks, nearly singed the hairs of her thin, brown locks.

The flames flashed against her insistent blue eyes. Thirty years worth of memories, stories, all engulfed in orange flares of fire.

She was equal parts crestfallen, overwhelmed, and full of glee.

At the edge of her driveway, she watched her home burn.

She could hear the sirens in the background approaching swiftly. And she did not care.

She didn’t even hear the silver sedan screeching to a halt behind her, as Paul jumped out from the driver’s seat.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathed, stepping to his mother’s side.

They stood, silhouetted against the hot, orange blaze.

“Mom,” he sputtered. Nearly unable to ask. “Did….did you…”

“No,” she replied, confidently. “No I did not.”

She stared deep into the flames that danced against her eyes.

And she smiled.

Warmly.

“I would never take this away from you.”

I’ve beaten you both. For titles or otherwise. I’ve made you both look like fools.

And that’s tough. Because I love this place. So. Fucking. Much.

It was tough pinning you, Jason. Mr. 407. I had your poster on my wall, and I mean that. You, along with Nova. And Youngblood. And Johnny. And Tchu. All of you represent what I was OBSESSED about. And still, I beat you.

But it was easy pinning you, Nate. The Golden Boy that didn’t hold a candle to Tyler Rayne. The Corn-Fed douchebag that’s supposed to be the King, right? But no. You’re too caught up in your daddy’s name, and he wasn’t all that fucking good to begin with. 

I can beat you all. 

And I will. Again.

I’ve beaten the past with Jason Snow.

And I’ve beaten the supposed future, with Nathan Colton.

But I’m the present, aren’t I?

Yeah.

That’s exactly who I am.