What-what-what-whatcha donna do wit all dem beans; buns and beans inside dem jeans

Indianapolis, IN Three Months Ago

The world of professional wrestling was one of endless fascination for Dolores. So many personalities, all there for different reasons. For someone like her, someone who traded in misery, it was a veritable bounty of wayward souls just waiting to be harvested. Despite its violent nature, the sport bled innocence like a stab victim. More than that, it was ripe with desperation, and that was something that could be exploited.

The Cold War soldier still pretending to be the version of a man that time had long forgotten, because unless he is the symbol then he is nothing. The young Frenchman and his collection of daddy issues, each one neatly sleeved in acid-free plastic and PSA-graded gem mint. The blue-chipper from a family of grapplers who was so broken-hearted that he allegedly brought his favorite childhood stuffed animal on the journey from town to town. And, of course, an endless carousel of men and women whose best years were behind them, all searching for fifteen more minutes in the bright summer sun.

If she were smart about it, Dolores could make this her permanent hunting ground and never worry about slaking her thirst again.

She took all of this in from her spot against the wall, the same spot she'd occupied since arriving, and smiled. She let the time bleed away. It wasn’t hers, so she spent it freely.

When she finally left the building twenty minutes later, the first thing she saw was Etienne Lemieux pacing by the car. Gertrude Lippy, her partner in the Sketti racket, stood nearby, wearing a practiced mask of concern. Despite her age, a number few would ever truly know and fewer still would ever believe, the wrinkles at the corner of Gertrude's eyes had continued to fade. This, Dolores knew, was one of the many benefits her Sister enjoyed in keeping company with people like Fred Dick. Soon enough Dolores knew she would also feel revitalized, rejuvenated, though her boon would come at the expense of the young man currently sweating through his suit in the late summer haze.

The suit, that had been Gertrude's idea. Etienne would need it, she had said, if he wanted to be taken seriously when talking with representatives of a company like PRIME. It would show them he took this opportunity seriously, and that he could be trusted to represent the company like a professional once this whole mess had been sorted. Etienne had said he didn't have the budget for it, but Gertrude had insisted. And so, the young man relented, and purchased a suit for a meeting he would never have.

"How did it go?" Etienne said.

"I'm so, so sorry," Dolores began. "I tried, Stevie, I really did. I told her everything. I said that PRIME had made a terrible mistake and had signed the wrong Lemieux, and now the real one - the one who should be wrestling for you - has had his life turned upside-down."

Dolores watched the color drain from Etienne's face and found herself having to force down a potent tingle of joy.

"And she didn't budge?" Gertrude added.

Dolores slowly shook her head. "Unfortunately, no. She said that it could open up too many legal issues for everyone involved if she voided one contract in favor of another. That it wasn't the kind of precedent she wanted to set for the company, and that it would just make things so much harder for everybody."

"That bitch," Gertrude said. Her Sister had never been one for the long game the way Dolores was, but Gertrude seemed to be enjoying the part she was playing.

"I know, I know," said Dolores. "Believe me, I wish things were different. And I know that this isn't what any of us wanted to hear today, but we're not out of options just yet."

"Out of options? Not out of options?!" Etienne was a wall of anger. "This is my life, Dolores! I come here thinking this will be okay. I buy this suit even though I can't afford to look professional. My family, they all laugh at me because of the sandwich man. I will have to reapply for work Visa soon, but there is no job here for me. What option do we have left?!" # Peoria, IL One Week Ago

It was the quiet moments at LeMoo's that Steve relished the most, those times when it was just him and the building. When he could sit in his office, close his eyes, and think about all the Saturdays he spent coloring at that same desk while his father conducted the kitchen like a symphony. His favorite memories were made here; it was his personal sanctum away from the teasing he endured at school.

The restaurant was his now, having been passed down from his father when the old man decided it was time to settle into a quiet life of retirement. Not for the first time, Steve wondered who would take over when it was his turn to enjoy a life of relaxation. Dating had never really been Steve's scene, though not for lack of trying. And now, rapidly approaching forty and balancing two careers, those prospects seemed all the slimmer.

He was trying to banish the thought when he heard footsteps on the linoleum outside his office. He checked the clock - still a few hours until the restaurant was scheduled to open, and the first members of the morning crew weren't slated to arrive for a while yet. He rose, expecting to find a delivery, local solicitor, or perhaps a confused patron.

"Steven! It's so lovely to see you again, darling." Dolores stood in the kitchen, looking like the picture of modern royalty.

Steve blinked twice and forced a smile. "Hello, Miss Dolores."

"I'm so sorry to just barge in like this," Dolores said, "but it had been so long since we've had a chance to chat, and I saw that the door was open. Besides, we've known each other so long we're practically family, aren't we?"

Steve thought that family members didn't run attack ads accusing each other of giving people violent food poisoning. What was it the jingle had said? "Please don't eat the diarrhea meats." She'd played it on his first night in PRIME, thus taking a rocket launcher to any semblance of a good first impression he was likely to make.

He said none of this.

"Steve, there's someone who's been so very interested to meet you. I hope you don't mind." She turned slightly and gestured to the man behind her.

He was tall, much taller than Steve, and looked to have been carved from solid marble. It was the kind of build that, until he began in PRIME, Steve only saw on television. This man, like so many others he knew, could have passed for a superhero.

"This," she continued. "Is Etienne Lemieux."

Steve's eyes widened. "Oh! Lemieux is my last name, too."

"I know," Etienne said, his voice devoid of any warmth. "I know who you are."

"Oh, umm, right. Silly me, I forget sometimes that-"

"You have my spot."

"Your... your what?" His eyes darted between Dolores and this young titan. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't understand."

"My spot," Etienne said. He took another step forward. "You have my name, and you have the place that should be mine."

Dolores let out the softest gasp, but the twinkle in her eye - one that Steve didn't register - said that she was enjoying every last second of this.

"Etienne, sweetheart, maybe we shouldn't overwhelm him. Oh, Steve," Dolores feigned. "I'm afraid there's been a terrible mistake. I tried to ask Lindsay Troy to make it right, but she was unwilling to budge. Etienne and I were hoping that maybe there was something you would be willing to do."

"You did not earn your spot," Etienne continued. "I know your name. I've seen what you do. I won't call it wrestling because that would be insult to the sport. You have no experience, no skill, and one night you just appear on biggest stage in all of wrestling. I have trained since I before I could drive. I have given my life to this. And you? You just walk in and take a place other people fight for. That other people would die to have."

"I-I'm sorry." Steve took a step back, suddenly unsteady on his legs. He reached for the wall to brace himself. "I didn't take anything on purpose, honest. I don't even know how this happened. I didn't mean to-"

"You didn't mean to?!" Etienne boomed.

Dolores placed a hand on her chest. "Etienne, dear, I admire your passion, and I know that you feel hurt by all of this, but poor Steve looks terrified."

"I didn't mean to make you or anyone upset," Steve said quietly.

"Well," Etienne scoffed, "now you do."

Dolores stepped forward and put herself between the two men. She'd already played one of these men, and now it was time to puppet the other.

"Steven, please don't take this too hard," she said. "I know that it's been hard for you there. It must be so disappointing. And young Etienne here, he just wants what's right. He just wants what's fair. Put yourself in his position and think what it must be like to see an opportunity wasted. And I know that you're someone who always does the right thing, aren't you Steve?"

"I'm really sorry," Steve whispered. "I really am."

"That's a nice sentiment," Etienne said. "But what are you going to do about it?"

"Okay, I think that's enough," Dolores said. She slithered up beside Etienne and slipped her arm through his, gently guiding him towards the door. "I think it's time for us to go. We should give Steve some time to reflect on this, don't you think?"

Begrudgingly, Etienne allowed himself to be led away.

"After all," Dolores continued as the two approached the door, "I'm sure he'll do the right thing." # Portland, OR One Day Ago

When Trevor Galvin agreed to do a favor for Dale Henderson, an old colleague from his time in the National Wrestling Council, this is not what he had in mind.

"What the hell did you do to my gym?"

In fact, Trevor could not imagine any chain of events or alternate universe that would have led him to agree had he known what Dale was planning on conjuring up.

"Seriously, Dale, where did you get all this shit?"

"Hello, yes!" The response came from behind one of the many metal racks that had been setup in the space. "It's an annual tradition that I go to all the Spirit Halloweens every November and buy their many empty shopping racks at a substantial discount."

"Uh huh. And why are there four pallets of Lucky Charms in the garage?"

"Costco!"

Trevor sighed. His career trajectory had always been one a reasonable person might consider high-stress. In addition to his time as a professional wrestler, Trevor spent the bulk of his career working in film as a fight coordinator and practical effects wizard. He'd wrestled some of the biggest names on the planet, been in equally aggressive board room negotiations, and almost blown himself up twice, yet it was interactions like this why he believed his hair was rapidly greying.

"You do know that I know people who could have built something for much less, right?"

"You speak irrelevancies!" Zeke squawked from behind a shelf that was quickly being stocked with many boxes of Lucky Charms. "Stefon Lummox needs the real thing if he's going to train properly."

Across the building, a different sort of conversation was taking place.

"You're not even a little excited?" Ollie Cade moved aside a stack of Lucky Charms boxes so he could lean against what little of the ring he could find. "It's a title match, Steve. In PRIME. Do you know how many people would kill for an opportunity like that?"

"I'm learning that there are a lot," Steve said. Despite being in what passed for a training environment, the only thing that differed between his daily attire and his training attire were a pair of knee pads pulled up over his khakis.

"Which means you're in a really rare spot. You think you're ready to walk out of Georgia with a little gold around your waist? Because no lie, that would be pretty cool."

Steve shrugged, an act that looked like a pile of laundry came to life just long enough to burp. "I guess."

"Steve." Ollie leaned forward, an impish grin on his face. "Do you know what the Alias Championship gives you? Like, do you know what the benefits are?"

Steve shook his head.

"No," he said. "I know that Mister Blaze-"

From across the gym, Zeke shouted, "Flamberge!" in correction.

Steve sighed, then lowered his voice. "I know that Mister You Know Who talked about it, but Mister Doctor Zeke was lecturing me on all of the people he knows that are named for swords."

"Don't forget Ted Zweihander, Roger Feder, and Dirk Dirk!" Zeke shouted.

Ollie chuckled. "Dude, how the hell does he keep hearing you? There's like eight hundred boxes of cereal between him and us. Anyway, the thing about the Alias Championship is that you don't just win the right to wear the belt."

"You don't?" said Steve.

"Nope," Ollie said. "You win the title, and you get to make the rules. Bl-," he started to say, but then corrected himself. "That guy you're wrestling? He's turning this into a kind of game show."

"Supermarket Sweep. I used to watch reruns when I was home sick from school and my aunt Helen used to watch me," Steve said.

"Exactly! So think of what could happen if you win."

"I... I'm not going to win," Steve said.

"What? Why do you say that?"

"Don't worry about it. Forget I said anything." He stared down at the floor.

"Steve."

"I'm fine," he said a little too quickly.

"Steve."

"Really, Mister Ollie. I'm okay." A long sigh escaped his lips. "It's just been a long week. That's all."

"Well then let's think about how we can make it better, okay? Just go with me on this one, Steve. If Blaze...," he paused to wait for his uncle's response, only continuing when one didn't come. "If Blaze can choose to make his defenses into Supermarket Sweep, then what would Steve Lemieux do when he wins?"

"I think you mean if."

"I know what I said, Steve. What will you do? Because I think I know. I just want to see if we're on the same page."

"I don't know, Mister Ollie." Steve shrugged. "I haven't really thought about it."

"Atlasphere." At this, Steve looked up from the floor. "Joust. Assault. Powerball."

"Breakthrough and Conquer," Steve said softly.

"Yup."

"Human Cannonball," Steve said, this time speaking with more enthusiasm.

"Oh hell yeah. Steve, when you win at Colossus, you're going to get to turn the Alias Championship into..."

"American Gladiators." He spoke the word reverently, as though the name invited worship.

From across the gym, Trevor's voice boomed. "Dale! Why are there Lucky Charms all over the goddamn floor?!"

As did the shrill response from Dale Henderson, now fully committed to his role as Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq. "Because Stefon Lummox has to sweep the supermarket if he wants to win the Many Disguises of Jennifer Garner Title! Only if he embraces the spy will he have the hotel fajitas!"

"Ignore them," Ollie said. "I know you can do this, Steve. Not everyone gets the chance to make their dream a reality, and it's right there for you."

Steve thought back to the outfit that had been made for him before his match against Mister Ivan, the one that took inspiration from what Laser wore every episode. He imagined himself running through the Gauntlet. He scaled the rope wall like a spider born to the task. He danced along the balance beam with the grace of a gymnast. But as he drew closer to the finish line, the dream started to fade. Splintering and cracking at the seams.

Steve swallowed hard, and opened his eyes to see that Ollie was smiling. At least one person thought that he could make his dream come true.

"And all I have to do," Steve said. "Is win." # Portland, Now

"Just a damned minute," Rick spat as he limped towards the door. Whoever was pounding on it clearly had no sense of time, volume, or a healthy regard for their own personal safety.

He passed a small graveyard of empty Keystone Light cans as he navigated the living area, and made a note that he'd need to restock the next time he left the apartment.

Rick yanked the door open.

"What?" he snapped. A moment later he added, "Oh you've gotta be fuckin' me."

Steve Lemieux stood in the hallway. He had his shoulders hunched, and his hands were folded together in front of him like he wasn't sure what to do with him. Typical Steve, really. The sandwich man wore a blue polo, but aside from that he looked just as helpless as the last time Rick had seen him, and every other time before that.

"H-Hi, Mister Rick," Steve said softly. "I hope I'm not disturbing y-"

"You found where I live," Rick said, incredulous. Before Steve could answer, Rick held up a finger. "Or did someone tell you where I live? Was it Cade? Do I gotta remind that little fuck who runs the show?"

"N-no, I just put your name into Google, and-"

"And seriously? What the fuck are you doing here? What the fuck made you think this was okay?"

"I'm sorry, Mister Rick. I really am. But there's something that I need help with, and I thought it would be better if I came in person, but you see I have this match coming up against Blaze Claymore, and Mister Doctor Zeke keeps calling him Flamberge, but those are two different people, and-"

"No," Rick interjected.

"No?"

"Yeah. No. What's unclear about no? You just said you have a match and you need help, and there's no fucking way I'm going to try and show you how to wrestle again, and I figure your dumb ass already knows how to push a shopping cart around, so do us both a favor and forget that you know my address, okay? Okay."

He started to shut the door, but it thudded against something soft, like a ball of wet dough. From inside the door frame, Steve let out a small whimper as the doorknob drove itself into his tender midsection.

"The fuck do you think you're doing, Lemieux?"

"You're wrong," Steve squeaked.

"I'm what?"

"I'm sorry," Steve said again, "I mean about what I'm going to ask you. I know that pro wrestling isn't what I thought it was, and that there's no way I'll ever be as strong as you, or as fast as Mister Ollie. I'm hopeless, Mister Rick."

"Alright, well I'll give you that." Rick let the door open slightly, and he watched as Steve exhaled a pained breath.

"I don't want to be a disappointment anymore, Mister Rick."

"Well, you're a little late for that. You gonna get to a point sometime soon, though? I've got a long day of sitting on my ass that you're keeping me from, so if we can move this along..." Rick traced a series of slow circles in the air with his finger.

"Right, sorry," Steve said. "Like I said, I'm not fast. Or strong. I'll never be those things, Mister Rick. I know that. Everyone knows that. I'm not even really sure how I got this spot that I did. People look at me like I don't belong." He swallowed. "And they're right."

Rick took a step back, now more curious than annoyed. Still, despite the open door he continued to bar Steve's path. Steve took a long breath.

"I know that you and Mister Ollie don't agree on certain things," Steve continued. "And I don't know what he'd think if he knew I was about to ask you this, but..."

"But...?"

"Mister Rick, I don't want to waste the opportunity I have. Not when I know that other people would kill for it. I'm not here to ask you how to wrestle."

Rick couldn't help but start to smile. His inner voice, the one that told him he was always the smartest, most handsome person in the room, knew exactly where this was going.

"Go on, man," Rick said. He was all-in now, riding the intoxicating wave of smug satisfaction. He could already imagine the expression on Ollie’s face when he found out he’d been passed up in favor of motherfucking Rick Hardbody to solve this little problem. "Let's hear it."

"I want you to teach me how to win."