Babies Are Born Worshipping Unknown Gods (Civil Age)

You think about a thing,

you obsess about a thing

for days weeks, months in a row,

years, even,

and you wonder what it will be like

when The Moment finally

Arrives.

And so often, for so many people,

the day shows up

and suddenly we’re surprised;

we thought maybe there was more time,

because the avoidance of the thing, or fear of the thing, or both

has us on these round treadmills

looking inwards towards Finish Lines we have been made to keep at arms’ length because of these infinite circles that have been built by us,

within us, without us,

passing the time pleasantly enough,

only to one day find out we’ve been a needle on a record player this whole time, projecting a beat and a rhythm out to the world through power beyond our comprehension, always moving forward and forward, the infinite circle growing smaller and smaller,

until the last song’s done.

We’re here now, and the music has stopped

as the world spins around us

and we’re forced to look at It,

Mr. Finish Line,

up close.

…

Words are failing to describe It,

this seemingly-infinite longing for greatness, this singular focus of building a reptilian nest made of necks and championships and accolades and glue, driven by an Ancient Hater for whom this lizard has no name

(for he, even now, is barely more than a baby

and babies are born worshipping unknown gods);

this electrical instinct for acquiring, for building one’s unassailable reputation on fat stacks of paper and gold as a result of a lifetime of unrequited yearning that has led to the conclusion that You Will Not Love Me “Just Because”, So I Will At Least Prove I Am Worthy With Tangible Achievements which is shooting out from his very marrow into the DNA of every major choice of his adult life,

which is crashing headlong

into one of the rarest kinds of friendships and partnerships,

not just for this specific lizard, but in this industry as a whole; this buzzsaw of a life, the threshing of generations at the end of EVERY line

has in some ways trauma-bonded these boys, along with Hayes and along with Joe, into becoming the cohesive and effective Faction Of The Year/Of This Generation/Of Ever? they are today;

friends who woppshork together and celebrate birthdays together and jolf together at the palatial Manor of the most notable wrestler of the most notable wrestling promotion in the world’s roster;

and it is so rare be able to genuinely like someone this much in this setting

because this friend, this partner, this Prince at the Finish Line

is who the baby wants to be

and has what the baby wants to have.

Cecilworth Farthington is the finest professional wrestler on this earth, Cecilworth Farthington is everyone in the world’s number one target, Cecilworth Farthington is the face of Phil Atken’s legacy, and Cecilworth Farthington holds the PRIME Universal Championship.

This sort of nest casts such a long shadow over the lizard’s own.

What’s the word for all of that?

Do they fail you too, the words?

It’s a clawing back to the more primordial DNA strands of a person, where words are replaced by guttural yawps. “I cannot be the greatest if my dear friend is the greatest.” “GRRHWWAHHHHHUUUUUUUUUUGH.” …

—--

FLAMBERGE hasn’t left Mexico in a couple months by this point. After the overwhelming Bizarro Art Binge of 2025 that took over his Las Vegas flat throughout the Almasy Invitational (followed by the unspoken, swept-under-the-rug Bizarro Art Purge of 2026), he felt very ready for a change of scenery. Plus, and this is something he’s found a lot over the course of his PRIME career - people outside of the United States really seem to like him a lot. Easy to explain in France; reasonable to explain in places like the UK or Spain or elsewhere in Europe; no longer just a coincidence in Mexico City.

Many times when PRIME tours the United States, even as FLAMBERGE has ascended to Hall Of Fame Main Event Superduperstar status in America’s top wrestling promotion, he can find places to just “exist” as Julien Lavigne for a while. He has plenty of earnest American fans, sure, and plenty more who will never ever cheer for him as Nate Colton’s mortal enemy or for “screwing over” Brandon Youngblood or any other time the fan has mistaken completely justified heroic action with something else; but, still, there are echelons to the American Athlete Celebrity Ladder still to climb.

The respect for professional wrestling that Mexico City holds, followed by the sincere respect they will hold for a person’s earnest pride to represent their home and their culture as FLAMBO has long done as a Strasbourgeois, has meant FLAMBO is often signing autographs the moment he steps out of any door or any car, he’s stopped for selfies; and while there are certainly other luchadors in PRIME and beyond who may receive even higher levels of casual awe from passers-by, this is a world FLAMBO has largely not allowed himself to experience very much.

He’s dipped his toes in this world, he’s dabbled, he’s done a mess around, he’s taken a tumble or two, and sure, he’s drunk-dialed Benny Colton and Rose and Henry Keyes in rapidfire succession before he really got his legs beneath him in the life of Being A Fucking Stud…but it was always stopped before it got “too far.”

It’s incredibly easy to list out a bunch of reasons why FLAMBERGE would have chosen to stop himself - maybe some sort of gut feeling that, for all his bluster and for all the accolades he lists off on the PRIMEtron during his entrances, maybe FLAMBERGE hadn’t really earned the right to act like a megastar. Being a profound introvert subject to dissociative episodes, antisocial interactions, and a litany of insecurities unpacking themselves at every turn also probably made it easier to follow the sage advice of “just don’t.”

But to go from dipping his toes in the world before retreating to some heat lamp over some swampy branch in some sort of Drippin’ Room to literally and figuratively sweat through his anxieties, to where he is now, fully sloughing off the old skin in an attempt to accept, foster, and perhaps become one with Being THE Guy, Being THE Ace, Being THE G.O.A.T….

It’s a lot. It’s a lot to confront, it’s a lot of change, it’s a lot of reframing the lens with which FLAMBERGE is choosing to view himself.

Nature’s rituals for proving your worth and your vitality within the habitat are many-numbered. Building the largest nest is one. Putting on the biggest show is another.

Fighting is probably the third, but that’s always just matters of “whens” instead of “ifs.”

…

FLAMBERGE found himself enjoying the Mexico City nightlife more and more all the time. The colors, the music, the drinks, the beautiful people, the freeing vibrancy. “Am I doing this right?” “Is this where I find love, and if not love - is this where I find self-worth?” “Living the fantasy life of the fabulously rich and famous…” “...when does the ‘satisfaction’ part start?” …

—--

Cecilworth,

I WANT to want to say I’m sorry, but I can’t do it. I’m not. And what’s taken me the better part of 8 months to truly hammer down is that I think it’s because I’m absolutely in the right.

…which is not to say you’re in the wrong. You’re not. That’s not what I mean.

How do I say this? Words, failing me once again.

…ok, maybe I have it, or at least the start of it.

Civil Dusk.

I don’t know how much you really think about Civil Dusk anymore, or how much PRIME as a whole thinks about Civil Dusk.

Phil Atken, a man they laughed at, a man who rallied against the same-old same-old even to his own expense as a wrestler of a past era, showed the world just how very serious he was in his mission to rip out old and rotted roots to plant fresh bulbs and even though Dusk may have had other matches after their rivalry, after what Phil Atken did, a legend became a fairy tale and Dusk from then on out was nothing more than an old warhorse whose only use anymore was as a bottle of glue.

It was fucking magnificent. No surprise to you, I know, after the many conversations we’ve had in the course of our friendship, why I might be immediately attracted to this sort of mission statement. From that day, I was all in.

I was ready for the dawn of a Civil Age…Civil Youngblood, Civil Anglue, Civil Impulse (gag), Civil Anyone Past Their Expiration Date Who Should Be Put To Some Use Via A Hooven Threshing Machine.

It got cut short the night of Phil’s injury…but I held down the fortress. I waved the banner of Glue, alone, for what felt like an eternity, hoping in my deepest guts that one day there may come a turning of the tide and the Glue Factory could come back online.

Then, like a miracle, you happened. Mr. Finish Line, an absolutely stunning #41 of a 40-wrestler match (a perfect echo to my own debut as the 33rd person signed to a roster holding a 32-wrestler tournament). We’d met before, of course, if only in brief moments of sunbathing while watching Hank spin like Sonic The Hedgehog during his well-earned pool time. But we hadn’t MET met - as in, I hadn’t met the finest technical wrestler on the planet in the ring yet.

And I saw you go. And I saw you last until the very end. And I immediately knew -

This Cecilworth Farthington is better than me, and as far as the Glue Factory goes, I’m no longer the last general standing. I’m a lieutenant now.

Your class and your acumen were so immediately head-and-shoulders over anyone I had ever seen in PRIME to that point, and knowing that we could be incredibly powerful allies together gave me a rejuvenated hope, a fire lit inside of me like I had been dreaming about ever since Phil’s injury.

The Civil Age would be upon us.

…

Time has gone on. The Glue Factory name didn’t - we abandoned manufacturing entirely. What once was an industrial mission of harvesting wheat and purging chaff became something else.

And don’t get me wrong - I also love the “something else” we’ve become. We’re an enigma to these people now and nobody can gameplan against us, because how can you know what we’re going to do next when WE don’t know what we’re going to do next?

But that’s the thing.

I know what I want to do next. I know what I had in mind when Phil Atken captured my imagination and won my undying allegiance.

It’s why Civil Rose happened. Sure, she may have appeared on PRIME after the old Factory machines were turned back on and her status in this industry was converted into a highly durable adhesive for others to build from, but after that moment, Rose was effectively neutralized. Just like her father before her.

We should be doing THAT. We should be doing that a LOT.

And as long as I am where I am in my career, and as long as you are where you are,

this, justifiably, isn’t my call to make.

…

You’re the greatest wrestler in the world today. You’ve passed a full year as Universal Champion not very long after we just had a “greatest Universal Champion” run from Coral Avalon and not long after the great mountain that is Ivan Stanislav proved that Civil Bear might end up being the most difficult bottle to make, if only because he’s always RIGHT THERE.

As long as that 1 is there by your name, as long as that Universal Championship is around your waist, there is nothing anyone can say or do to deny your place at the very very top.

And while on the one hand, you know - absolutely “smashing” for you, and Glue is on top.

On the other hand, a part of me was rooting for Cancer Jiles at ReVival 83. At least if I was to be number one contender against Cancer Jiles, I knew there was an irredeemable enemy who was responsible for the downfall of my career’s greatest mentor and inspiration, and I would have no qualms about doing literally whatever it takes to wrest wrestling’s top prize away from a Truly Vile Motherfucker Who Should Be Made Into Glue.

So, since it’s you, I have to move past those qualms that might normally come up.

Only one person can be the Universal Champion. Only one person can have that 1 next to their name on the rankings. Only one person can spearhead the direction of Glue into the next chapter.

If I want that person to be me…that means that person can’t be you.

I made Civil Rose. Rose, who, like so many others seem to do in PRIME, had chosen Cecilworth Farthington as her primary objective. Rose, who, like so many others seem to in PRIME, outstayed their welcome and clogged up the card like a weed while the future of professional wrestling waited for the space to open up towards the sky above them.

That feeling was so. Addictive.

I felt important again.

Glue felt important again.

And now, at the end of the line, after all these months and years of simmering and unspoken intentions and desires between us, I get it.

I do not have the right to dictate the direction of Glue, or to pull the attention of every new wrestler looking to make a name for themselves in PRIME, or to call myself the greatest wrestler of a generation (let alone beyond) as long as you are all of those things yourself.

I can want what I want, I can yearn for what I yearn, this ancient reptilian hater that’s become more “me” than me can give a low-clicking gurgle and blink slowly from one lid to another for all eternity, but until I stand in that ring,

arm raised,

Universal Championship around my waist?

This age is yours to shape.

…

I would be satisfied forever as lieutenant if it were Phil Atken instead of you. I would happily take my place as just the guy who gets his hands dirty. And if my grandmother had wheels, she’d be a bicycle.

Say nothing of the fact that my age still begins with a 2 and yours is about to start with a 4, or that you as the Financier have every right to build whatever it is you want to build as your legacy, or anything else that might try to plank itself in as an artificial “rivalry enhancer” between two friends who have never lost when competing together and who genuinely might put on the most historically significant Universal Championship match of the ReVival Era without any other goosing or juicing or trope or anything else;

ultimately, the ancient hater inside of me,

this unknown god for whom I have no name,

has conspired with the fates of time

and led us to fight each other not once, but twice in the span of a single weekend,

and to my bones, to my core,

to the old parts of me that have circled the earth before,

it cannot abide anything in the world,

any future, any life, any Age

except

for

one

outcome. “And if that happens, what becomes of us?” “Or worse:” “What if this doesn’t happen? What becomes of us then?” “...GUHHHHHHH.” …

—--

Two months in Mexico.

Two months of feeling like absolute hot shit. Two months of believing the hype about himself because he’s constantly surrounding himself with it.

If hyper-introversion is an escape, hyper-extroversion is, too. It’s all escapism. FLAMBERGE wonders some nights if everyone feels the pull the same way he does, if everyone feels like they’re called to be “le protagoniste” or some great arbiter of the future…and then he orders another colorful cocktail and finds a tight-fitting pair of jeans to grind against as the music pulses loud enough to drown out any shot at an internal monologue.

A text on his phone - Kerry Kuroyama of all people. He wants to meet up with him tomorrow night, and says he knows a place. Huh. FLAMBERGE felt like he had hit upon a significant number of the notable nightlife options in the city up to this point, but obviously there was more to explore.

Not a bad thing. More to explore means more validation to pursue, and more avoidance of naming the words that actually define the horrible collision course of conflicting feelings and emotions approaching him ahead of Culture Shock. FLAMBO texts Kerry back, “Ouais, d’accord” and a sunglasses-face emoji. Maybe that was too much. He edited the text and removed the emoji.

Just then, a fizzy drink with a lemon wedge was forcefully placed into his hand. He looked up - and kept looking up. This suitor was a tall one, and fit.  “OK, then. I could end my night with this one.” “Guapo.” And he prepared for a different set of guttural yawps in his near future.

This is how important people live, right?

The ability to grow the nest, the ability to fight,

the ability to let it be known how much ass one can pull should he so choose…

The people here want him, and he wants to be wanted so, so badly.

After a miserable upbringing, after only getting to know that love was conditional, transactional, temporary;

FLAMBERGE is so very sure, deep down, that there is a way to “win” at this life,

that there is a way to “win” at being a person in the world,

and that winning necessitates the biggest nest, the most dominant fights, the most outwardly-projecting barometers of success that exist in the culture

even if it’s uncomfortable, even if it’s unnatural,

even if his secondary instinct is to freeze in place and conserve energy to defend himself from exterior threats,

the biggest, brightest, most aggressive, most outlandish, most courageous, most willing to die in the pursuit of greatness is the lizard history will remember.

FLAMBERGE will live like the king he is for as long as Mexico will have him, for as long as he can stretch this glorious un-American place before PRIME brings the roster out to the East Coast.

He will control what he feels, what he experiences,

until he can control more;

His Way, Soon;

in which the Glue Boiz finally embark on the long-promised Civil Age which will be wrought from the ebbs and flows of his own hand.

Cecilworth would be welcome, of course, if he wanted, though this is a big ask.

It’s hard to imagine approaching a Hall of Famer at the peak of their powers and selling them on the idea of “let your downfall happen and join me for the next ride,” but it’s hard to imagine a lot of what the Glue Boiz do.

Maybe he’d take it well.

Maybe he’ll rip FLAMBERGE’s arms off above the elbow and render the Frenchman incapable of ever pursuing this sort of Unhostile Hostile Takeover ever again,

because surely Cecilworth knows by now;

surely Cecilworth has seen this coming from miles away;

surely Cecilworth knows every move FLAMBERGE has in his arsenal, because the reverse is certainly true;

and so surely Cecilworth will go into this match ready for the fight of his absolute fucking life

not because FLAMBO WANTS to end it,

but because in his mind he HAS to end it;

meanwhile the rich, handsome, charismatic, capable, mostly loyal Cecilworth Farthington has every intention of remaining The Guy, so why wouldn’t he pull a Cardboard Dan Ryan and do everything in his power to literally disable this would-be usurper? This ultimate threat to everything he currently stands upon? The most dangerously weird member of the weird and dangerous Faction Of The Year?

…

These thoughts,

the ones where FLAMBERGE falls short, the one where he’s a lieutenant forever,

serving a mission that died with Phil Atken’s in-ring career,

flailing underneath the shadow of the Real Best Wrestler Alive as he makes his insurmountable resume even more impressive with each passing day,

these are the ones that launch the lizard the most.

What good is he if he is not the very very best?

How long was he willing to wait for Cecilworth Farthington, fit as a fiddle and tight as a drum, to rot away on his own? A decade? Longer?

No, no. The Ancient Hater cannot remain domesticated for so long.

This was always going to come to a head,

even as this baby lizard still doesn’t know the name of the god whom he worships,

only the sounds it pulls,

its insatiable yawps.