The Monkey's Paw

The yolk was still thick in the eyes of Cecilworth when he finally found his way backstage after the ending events of ReVival 83. He had been staggering about like some kind of mountain monster dressed head to toe in toilet paper as he walked back up the entrance way at the Arena Coliseo. The Universal Champion eventually found a small stool he could sit upon to allow him the appropriate space to dig into his eye holes and the surrounding area to rid himself of the encrusted yolkiness that had befallen him in another attempt for the broken man to try and grip tightly to the Universe he had claimed to become one with.

Two thumbs at the edge of the eyes were the chosen tool to support Cecilworth Farthington’s battle with the Coolympian Yolk he had just experienced. Also, he had to be blinded because he swore he saw Coral Avalon at the end of the match but that just didn’t seem possible. A stage hand finally provided a towel to Farthington, one soaked in water even, to help with his particular predicament. Although, he probably wasn’t that pleased at the first sight he beheld on his return to the land of the visual, that of what now was a very frothy ball of rage in the name of Dirk Dickwood.

“Cecilworth, you almost fucked that one… if Youngblood didn’t do what he did…” Dirk was clearly near the edge of a heart attack during Cecilworth’s Universal defense against ole frenemy Caner Jiggles, what was the fifty thousand cheat traps that Cecilworth almost found himself caught out by.

“But he did do what he did, didn’t he, Dirk?” was the terse reply who was now scratching yolk out of parts of his body he was incredibly surprised to discover would absorb the glands of the former Manhunter. “Jiles poked a bear and he paid the price. Well… I mean, is Youngblood a bear, I know Ivan likes to go with the bear thing and those two would hate to be compared to each other… so Youngblood was like a Polar Bear because he’s whiter? Look my eyes really hurt and I haven’t had much time to consider the implications.” Farthington stated as another lump of delicious yellow fell from the side of his face.

It was around this point that his old mentor decided to slap the slightly unsteady and befuddled Universal Champion upside his skull.

“You know how close you were to fucking this whole thing up? Your hubris has been getting the best of you. It’s been getting the best of you for months now, the consequences of your own actions just haven’t caught up with you yet. At Culture Shock though…” Dickwood began to drift off, noticing that Cecilworth’s eyes were getting wider at the implication he was making.

“And what will happen at Culture Shock, Dirk?” was the terse response.

“Well, I’m not claiming to be a brain genius, but typically, when one of your own allies marches to the ring to give you a Kiss of Death, it’s not exactly a sign of fucking good tidings, now is it, my dear friend?”, it was clear the FLAMBERGE/Farthington match had already begun to weigh on Dirkwood, despite the fact the match had only become reality a few moments earlier. Reality fell upon Dickwood like a crash test dummy to a brick wall. Which is a well known saying.

“He did what? I was still really out of it. I got kicked in the face a lot and then spat on, the only reason I knew Brandon Youngblood got involved was because even 90% blinded you can spot that beautiful shiny skull of his.” The tone of Farthington tried to convey confusion, but certainly had a subtext of knowing exactly what FLAMBERGE had done and just trying to live a jolly little life of denial for a few more brief moments.

“We both know he’s wanted this for a while now, I know what happened at the birthday party…”

Dirk’s comments hung out in the air for a few seconds, like an unwelcome fart, like a really unwelcome fart. One of those wet sloppy jobs that hangs around in the air for way longer than anyone would like to acknowledge.

“Considering you needed the heavens and the Earth to open for you tonight to sneak out of the arena with that title, I don’t if you’re ready for this. You’re getting older, you’ve been broken down by a year of that championship… you’ve put your body on the line time and time again to get here but… FLAMBERGE is what Phil wants, FLAMBERGE is our future.”

Farthington let Dirk’s comments hang in the air for a few moments, mopping his eyes a bit more, allowing his vision to truly restore itself, get a sense of where he was and his bearings once more. His arms folded, he looks to his mentor, a steely determination in his eyes.

“Well Dirk, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation if he didn’t fuck it the first time around, now would we?”

A single sentence can reveal so much, on this occasion Cecilworth Farthington had let his absolute resentment at FLAMBERGE’s lust for L’Uni spill out in one moment, when he had kept his feelings buried deep inside until the referee’s hand hit three against Cancer Jiles and he knew what awaited him.

“I know how to keep a fucking belt in this company.” Farthington followed as he spat yolk upon the ground below, which is very unsophisticated for a former or current Lord depending on how negotiations with the government are currently going at this moment.

Dickwood looked at the disheveled hunk of humanity that sat in front of him and claimed to be the Universal Champion. “That’s true, but you’re on borrowed time. We both know this. You weren’t even meant to be here to begin with.”

All Farthington could do was nod, he knew exactly what Dirk meant.

—

Farthington Manor Board Room

February 20th, 2022

In a time of the past, a time before the Farthington Manor hedge maze was ever burning, a time before the Minotaur of Survivor fame found his new home within the twists and turns of the burning bushes, the Farthington Manor Board Room served as something different, not of a base of wrestling strategy, not a room for a wheelchair bound Phil Atken to call his shots, not a room where a Phil Atken with functional legs decided to keep using the wheelchair for longer because being on wheels was more fun.

Before The Glue Factory had even opened in PRIME, there were just men.

Innocent men.

Well perhaps not so innocent, when you consider the careers of Cecilworth Farthington and Phil Atken until this point.

It’s clear both men have been in intense conversation for some time, sitting at either end of what many would consider an impossibly large conference table. Thankfully, both gentlemen had powerful voice projection so it was reassuring to know that they had probably heard what each other said.

“You know I’m done in the ring, Phil, all I can provide is a training base and material support. I did my time down t’pit, I’ve dug deep into the coal mines of this industry, I’ve had my highs but I’ve also had the proverbial black lung to go with it. If you want to make a go of this PRIME thing, you have my full backing in everything but physical support. The Manor is your, Dirk, Hank, whatever you need, just… not me…”

It was clear that Farthington was speaking from recent wounds, at that point in time, the very idea of a return to the ring was nothing but ridiculous fantasy. Supporting an old friend to see out their dream? That he could certainly do.

“I’m not fucking around this time, Cecilworth, I’ll building a legacy, and I’m going full force.” said Atken in the slightly less than convincing way.

“Maybe don’t go full force at your age, your heart might give out. Might be better to start with someone around your age. I hear Dusk’s back… you two have history.”

There was derisive snort from Atken in response “You want me to battle Beetlejuice Tights? That’s how you want this to start?” although Atken was trying to be dismissive, Farthington was nodding in absolute encouragement. “Yes, I want you to show me that we can invest in you. I want you to show me what I’m getting out of this partnership. If we’re opening the Glue Factory, we have to start taking down the slow horses. Hell, I’ll give you Hank to sweeten the deal. He’ll speed up the process for you.”

The nails were chewed, the lip bitten, the eyes rolled back and forth as Phil Atken considered the offer in front of him. “Let’s do this, let’s build a new era of wrestling.”

A jubilant Farthington leaps out of his green leather fancy meeting man chair, rushing towards Atken. “Welcome to the Manor. I can’t wait to see how we make you grow.”

—

Farthington Manor

16th March 2026

On what should have been a quiet morning in Farthington Manor, the day was disrupted by a large metallic banging noise. Those who had chosen to stay at the Manor full time, your Dirks, your Phils, your Hanks, were all out of bed way earlier than useful to the clang clang clang of construction work that they did not recall being informed of at any point. There was a convergence on the ground floor of the manor as they tried to get to the source of the clunking and clanging. When they found the destination of the noise, it caught all of them by surprise.

The Dripping Room

When Hank flung the door open, they all had their mouths agape as they saw the complete destruction of the room, pipes hissing out hot steam, the walls smashed to pieces and any nice pieces of bark that one could sit upon were now nothing but crumbs of structures past. When they saw who had the hammer in their hand… well it sort of made perfect sense.

“CECILWORTH! THE FUCK YOU DOING?” was the immediate question from Dirk Dickwood as he surveyed the scene of chaos that the Universal Champion had created.

“Manor was too damp” was the quick response as Farthington continued to batter any metal he saw exposed with the sledgehammer that he was gleefully swinging around. “Can’t have a damp manor, invites mold, invites disease, invites death.” was the conclusion of his point as he swung the hammer full force into the Dripping Room’s wall once more.

Dirk and Atken looked towards each other, both of them with the expression “well, who’s going to talk to him about this”, neither man wanted to be the one to deal with it. Hank did his best to deal with it, entering the room and providing unto Cecilworth a reassuring pat upon the shoulders, but this does nothing to deter the impromptu room reconstruction.

“Why are you…” is the most that Dickwood manages to utter before Farthington jumps back in to respond.

“See, a room like this can provide a function. A home for lizards. And boy, did we make a fucking home for a lizard for YEARS. You know, a gecko, that serves function, takes care of the bugs around this dusty old manor, flies, spiders… cockroaches… does more than the fucking one we brought in as family!” Farthington is mostly frothily yelling at this point as he swings the hammer into the wall once more, this time splitting a pipe in half, steam spewing forth into the room and almost burning Dirk Dickwood’s face for being a bit too close to the situation.

“Great for a while, takes care of your troubles, particularly when the roses in your garden get to be particularly thorny, but the thing is Phil, the thing is Dirk, if you don’t put your foot down, they start to think that your home is their home.” Farthington continues as he stomps upon the pipes. “But if you indulge for too long, it starts to make your entire home dank and disgusting.”

Farthington throws his hammer at a nearby terrarium and enjoys the soothing sounds of the glass shattering around him.

“Is this about the birthday party?” Dickwood tries to interject to at least make sense of the scene.

“Oh, Dirk, of course it’s about the fucking birthday party.”

—

Farthington Manor

21st September 2022 

Phil Atken has managed to survive his time in the l’hopital after a cowardly attack by Cancer Jiles and a second man. The second man existed at some point but the long lens of history now only has a picture of Colonel Sanders, so it’s hard to get to the bottom of Phil’s second attacker. I suppose you could go through the PRIME archives to discover such things.

An emergency meeting has been called, it’s clear that the very future of Glue stands upon fragile grounds, no one quite certain on how to proceed forward. There is tension in the air as Dirk, Atken and Farthington sit together.

“Do we go all in on the chips kid? He’s a true believer. He’s the reason you even had that Universal Championship around your waist.” is the offer from the business savvy Dirkwood, trying to look forward.

“We can’t leave him to drown out there along Dirk, he needs guidance, he needs someone on the road with him. He’ll get there, I know he’ll get there, but he needs a spark, he needs someone to set the fire that will burn eternally… speaking of… any news on how the fire team is getting on with the hedge maze?” quizzed the infirm Atken.

“They said it’ll just kinda do that from now on, they didn’t really give me much reasoning. They said after the first time you burn it down, it remembers the warmth of destruction. It’s a terrifying thought that hedges have self-destructive memories but it is what the fire team has told me.” came the confident answer from Glue’s Financier.

“Dirk, can you go on the road with FLAMBERGE?” enquired Atken, trying to find a way forward from his new wheeled order.

“I could…” splutters Dickwood, clearly enjoying the much more relaxed life of dragging numbers around on a spreadsheet “...but he needs someone who knows the ring as much as someone who knows the business.”

Atken and Dickwood both quickly snap their necks towards Farthington

“No, no, no, no… I told you boys, those days are done. I’m not doing it. Not doing it. This is no longer my dance, I’m sure this FLAMBERGE lad can carry the flag alone with the right mindset… the right encouragement.”

Dirk and Atken continued to look at Farthington as he stared both dead in the eyes with a clear “Not. Fucking. Doing. It.”

—

Farthington Manor

17th March 2026

After the sudden and immediate remodelling Farthington had decided upon the previous day, there was almost an air of tranquility and calm spread upon the Manor the very next day. That was until Dirk Dickwood stepped in the Manor’s study for a relaxing read and perhaps a delicious cup of tea.

As Dickwood stepped into the study, he noticed the Universal Champion sitting upon a large armchair nearby. What really drew the attention of Dickwood was noticing that the Universal Champion was staring intently at two stuffed monkey paw’s that were sitting upon the bookcase he sat in front of. On one of the paws, every finger had already curled up tight, locked in. On the other, a single finger remained pointing up to the sky, the rest were already wrapped around the large meaty paw.

Not been one for tactical conversation, or even dignity now that I think about it, Dirk was quick to snap the champions attention away. “Care to explain what the ever loving fuck that is all about, Cecil? Didn’t know you’d got into the animal trade business.”

The last thing that Dickwood expected was a deep chuckle from the champion in response as he turned towards his long term companion. “Oh Dirk, don’t you see. Don’t you get it? I don’t blame you if not, it took me a while too, took me until the Universe whispered the truth to me once more.”

Dickwood stood stoically, his hands upon his hips, clearly not following what the champ was throwing down. “And what did this beast of a universe impart upon you, my dear friend?” was said almost through the gritted teeth of tolerance for the situation.

“For over a year, Dirk, I’ve had this Universal Championship. More than three hundred and sixty five days. There’s only one more man in the grand history of PRIME who can claim he has done the same but he got busy being a part time assassin so he’s not here right now.” Cecilworth pauses to consider what wrestling news sites may be saying about him right now. “Regardless, for a whole year, opponent after opponent has ended up with the mistaken impression I would be an easy win. That their time with the universe and her secrets… that they were inevitable. They thought a booking against Cecilworth Farthington was their turn was the Genie’s Magic Lamp… that they were about to get their wildest dreams to come true.”

The cackling and rambling of a mad man is very seldom the source for solace and for his part, Dirk did not follow.

“I don’t follow.”

See, told you.

“Think about it, TAL dreamt of defending a title, Jiles of redemption, then the second time, also redemption, that man is seeking to redeem himself pretty often, he should probably look into that… Daytona saw the title as a pathway to fill the hole in his heart where his brother should have been, Nate… that was a chance to finally exceed the family legacy, Tsonda wanted one last ride… they all saw the answer in the Universal Championship. They all saw me as the walkover that would provide them the opportunity to fix the gap within their soul and every single one ate shit. They ate shit Dirk. They ate so much shit. We would need at least three trucks to meet the levels of shit they ate…”

Dickwood gestures towards the paws on the bookshelf. “And that explains these how?”

Farthington throws his hands up as if it was ever so obvious. “That it was never a magic lamp, Dirk, that it was always a wish upon the monkey’s paw. That every person who has desired meaning through a Universal Championship match in the past year has suffered a twisted fate. Whether it be insomnia, death, or just dwindling career prospects… seven have wished upon these paws and seven have been given exactly what they deserve.”

Dirk tries to laugh it off in a “surely you don’t believe this way” until he sees the deadly serious look in the eyes of the champion. “Why is there one finger left?”

“The eighth man to wish upon the paw, those who seek L’Uni, the one certain of his chances. The one that hurts the most. His consequences won’t come from me, they come from wishing upon the paw.”

Dirk takes a deep breath and tries his best to comprehend the mindset of his current compatriot.

“Is this about the birthday thing again?”

It takes no seconds for an immediate response of “OF COURSE IT’S ABOUT THE FUCKING BIRTHDAY THING! BASTARD THINKS I’M A DOORMAT. THE PAW COMES FROM HIM. IT CURSES HIS DESIRES. I AM THAT CURSE."

There is lightning in the background of the stained glass lobby windows at this point but it’s hard to tell if that’s just British weather or summoned due to the madness.

—

Farthington Manor

7th April 2023

“Are you ready for tomorrow? I can’t stress how much I appreciate you doing this” came the surprisingly kind words of Phil Atken, once again sitting across from his Financier.

Farthington picks up a picture of FLAMBERGE sitting upon the conference table. “He’s family now, we need to protect family… fuck, you knew how to get me back in that ring.”

Atken cracks a rare Glasgow smile that doesn’t involve the use of any knives. “I thought you’d understand the family dynamics at hand.”

Knowingly nodding, Farthington responds with an old mantra “Family doesn’t fight.”

Farthington stands up out of his chair and pats his Atken warmly on the back. “I’ll take care of the kid, I know exactly how to motivate him.”

—

Dear Diary,

I’m looking at a fight I never wanted, yet knew it was always desired. If he’s sure he’s better than me, he’s about to get the biggest opportunity in the world to prove it. 

I guess in Mexico I find out if he gets to use the belt polish I bought him. 

Or another finger curls.