ULTRAVIOLENCE 2025 NIGHT ONE

“You Wanted War.” Sum 41.

Darkness.

Only the opening of the front door allows the viewer to see what the darkness shrouded. The light outside fills the inside, revealing a professional wrestling ring set up in the center of a warehouse floor. A man walks through that light, dressed to the nines in a suit that straddles the line between “business casual” and “just business, baby.”

You may recognize this man if you saw him, but he sits down at a seat in front of the ring and has an Old Fashioned all ready for him. He reaches for it, and hesitates for a bit as though confused about his own choice of drink. There is a shrug of his shoulders before the camera pans backwards through the ring to show an all-out brawl between nameless, muscular men. Survival of the fittest.

The camera pans back further to show Joe Fontaine, swinging a steel chair in much the same way that Happy Gilmore swings a golf club. Two steps, then the swing, and fuck whatever’s in the way.

The camera continues panning backwards. Steve Lemieux is running for his life while a horde of skunks fly in his direction courtesy of a skunkapult. The skunks wear safety helmets because it’s the only way OSHA would approve of this video package.

A little further, and we see a dazed man standing in the center of the frame. Moments later, Rose comes flying on screen from seemingly nowhere to deliver the R2R to this man, flattening him. Rose stands up and dusts herself off, and then starts walking towards the camera. The camera continues its pan backwards, until it arrives on a dazed and confused Jonathan-Christopher Hall. Hall sees Rose coming for him, and does not move. He stares at her as the camera continues moving backwards.

Max Kael and Jackson Cooley are engaged in a dice game, surrounded by witnesses. Clearly, the game isn’t going well, because almost as soon as Max and Cooley roll their die, they both stand up, point at each other while yelling, then throw the table aside and start brawling while the gathered crowd around them cheers enthusiastically.

We pan backwards and then start to curve to our right. We find Steve Harrison wiping down his 5-Star Championship while holding it close, as though he’s overtaken by the spirit of Gollum and the 5-Star belt is his Precious. He looks around with a distrusting expression, as though any of these unclean fucks could put their paws on his championship belt.

We complete the curve, heading back towards the ring to find Kerry Kuroyama and Scott Hunter. Kerry keeps his back to the camera at all times, posing dramatically while Scott Hunter holds an electric fan up so that Kuroyama’s clothing can blow equally as dramatically in the wind.

Going further down the track, we see Ivan Stanislav kneeling in front of a closed casket. Fanya may be gone, but she is never too far from the Russian Bear. Once he senses that the camera is upon him, he stands and glares at it.

The camera pans back before curving again. We see why Ivan was glaring.

Chandler Tsonda stands like a beautiful superman, his fist glowing with electrical energy. Between him and Ivan is a caged wall, covered in barbed wire. It’s the only thing keeping the two of them from tearing each other apart, especially once Ivan’s own fists glow with a red fire.

The camera turns, and flies rapidly away. Back through the Ivan and Tsonda confrontation as the two men begin to approach each other for their battle. Back through Kuroyama and Harrison, who stare each other down dramatically (and made even more dramatic with Hunter’s help!) before beginning to approach one another.

Back through the Kael and Cooley brawl, where they’re now breaking wooden chairs over the heads of the extras now trying to break up their fight. Back through Hall and Rose, whose confrontation is bathed in red and pink lights. Back through Joe Fontaine and Steve Lemieux. The former has entered a fabby mech suit and the latter has entered a skunk mech suit, and they’re now engaging in fisticuffs.

Finally, we’re back in the ring, and one faceless man stands triumphant over all others. He points to the man enjoying his Old Fashioned, imploring him to enter the ring. We pan to that man, who calmly sets down his drink and stands up.

He removes his cufflinks and adjusts his tie. He needs no other modifications.

He smirks for the camera, and he walks towards the ring with the purpose of a man who’s taking an arm tonight.

Cecilworth Farthington is ready for some UltraViolence.

Are you?

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/06/UV25-Night-1.mp4

It’s time for ULTRAVIOLENCE!

It’s time…for some signs…

COOLOSSUS SZN STARTS TOMORROW
SUCCULENT PRIME HALLWAYS, WHERE YOU AT?
A VOTE FOR MAX IS A VOTE FOR FREEDOM
YEAH FREEDOM FROM SANITY
NED REFORM WIPES BACK TO FRONT
FEELINGS ARE RAD
TSANISLAV VS. STONDA
SEEMS LIKE A PRETTY BIG SCREWJOB FOR MONTREAL THAT THIS SHOW IS IN TORONTO, EH?

And now, brace yourselves, guys, gals, and nonbinary pals. It’s about to get real dumb.

Did you know that “Sandstorm” by Darude had lyrics? No, neither did I. And I bet the band would be very surprised to learn that someone had taken their dancehall hit and added words to it. Imagine their shocked expressions as they realized that those lyrics were just a name repeated in time with the synth beat.

Le-le-le-lemieux

STEVE Le-le-le-lemieux

Le-le-le-lemieux

Le-le-le-lemieux

Le-le-le-lemieux

Le-le-le-lemieux

Le-le-le-le-MUH-MUH-MUH-MUH-le-le-muh MUH-MUH-MUH-MUH-MUH-lemieux

Le-le-le-le-le-lemieux

Le-muh-le-muh-muh-lemieux

It goes on like this for a while.

Vince Howard: From Peoria, Illinois he weighs in tonight at 183 pounds…

There is no crowd reaction for any of this, by the way. No cheers. No boos. Not a goddamn peep. It’s quiet enough that you can hear a single cough.

Vince Howard: He is “Mister Beefst”… STEEEEEEEEVE LEMIIIEEEEEUUUUUXXX!!

Total fucking crickets time out here in the arena.

Steve stumbles out through the curtain dressed like a man who’s ready to clock in for his shift at the local Geek Squad. He’s wearing a pair of khakis, a white polo shirt tucked into those very pants, with some knee pads on the outside of his clothes and – for reasons that probably make a great deal of sense to him – swimming floaties on his upper arms. Oh, and let’s not forget the red, white, and blue sweatband and the well-loved pair of New Balance sneakers.

But that’s not all.

No?

No.

Muh-muh-muh-m’mieux

LE-LE-LE-LE-LE-LE-LE luh-le-luh-le-luh-luh-la le-le-la luh-luh-la-le-lah

In addition to this, Steve’s face is painted very red, and very poorly. Like he tried to make out with a paint roller in the dark. Look, I know that was kind of a shit analogy, but there isn’t a whole lot to work with in the realm of bad makeup aside from “drunken middle-aged divorcee” and “flea market clown,” so just go with me here.

But that’s not all!

What do I mean?

I ‘splain.

In addition to the facepaint, and the C-tier Mark Gormley cosplay, there is a little matter of the jet suit to discuss. Not like an actual flight suit or anything, that would be cool. No, instead it looks like Steve has spent some time at the arts and crafts table and come away with his best “human airplane” costume. It’s made entirely out of cardboard, is painted a bright, shiny silver, and has holes for his arms, legs, and head.

That’s right, friends – Steve Lemieux has gone full “Jetman.” And you never go full Jetman.

OH BUT JUST YOU FUCKING HOLD YOUR TITS, because there’s still more bullshit.

See, unbeknownst to Steve (but knownst to us) there are now six additional figures on the stage. If Lindsay Troy ever had a skunk phase, then one could say their outfits are an homage. Thankfully that was never the case. Maybe someone should clue these guys in. Who are they? Glad you asked.

Lance.

Ian.

Nevin.

Devin.

Zephram.

Taylor.

They are the Troy Boyz, which they are now spelling with a Z because someone told them it would make for a better branding opportunity. They are all more or less naked except for the matching skunk loincloths, the oversized skunk pelts across their shoulders, and the furry skunk-themed shoes they have on.

Also, each one is riding a small scooter, best described as a “penis bike” because of the dong-like qualities each bike possesses.

Also also, each bike has a smoke machine attached to the back, but instead of dry ice or whatever, it’s atomizing the potent scent of Powerbomb Cologne into the arena atmosphere.

Two rows of three bikes zoom past Steve. In the moment, our poor sandwich man experiences a flash of PTSD from having to contend with the bicycle teens who linger around the local Target, and he’s clipped by a penis bike as a result. He spins, stumbles, and then turfs out on the ramp.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think this is how Steve Lemieux wanted this to go, Richard.

Richard Parker: Bold of you to assume that anyone wanted any of this.

Steve makes his way to the ring, and almost trips over his own feet trying to ascend the ring steps. Things don’t get any better when he’s on the apron, as after around thirty seconds of trying to figure out the best way to get his now-broken jet costume through the ropes, it’s left to Vince Howard to hold them open so Steve doesn’t get stuck.

…

The PRIMEview comes alive, and it shows a city at night, illuminated by the neon lights. The camera focuses on one building and its lights in particular, because unlike the other neon lights, it looks like this is a green-colored spotlight shining straight into that building. Overlayed is a countdown, counting down from 30.

Triumphant trumpets are heard as we cut to, for whatever reason, a 3D model of Big Ben. Like, a cheap one. The kind you get when you’re only just learning how 3D graphics works. It’s also pretty ridiculous because the man this entrance is for is from fucking Arizona. Anyway, there’s a shot of a gargoyle. Pretty standard.

Then we cut to the inside of some gearworks and motherfucker, we got a rotating pyramid. Not the perilous kind, but it’s there. As it rotates, it shows various shots of Joe Fontaine engaging in jolf activities. You know the deal. A steel chair swung at jolf-like velocity by a man in his league-approved jorts. That same man in those same league-approved jorts smiling like an idiot as he shakes hands with King Charles III (or, more accurately, a caricature thereof).

There is, for whatever reason, a shot of a polling station in the UK. You know, because Joe didn’t actually finish editing this video. Don’t worry about it. It’s followed by Joe Fontaine getting off a bus (or as we all know it, “the Glus”) and being greeted by his fans. There’s like two of them. One of them might be his youngest sister. Ah, yes, and now there’s shots of Joe taking a selfie with those fans. FLAMBERGE is also in the shot. He doesn’t quite want to be.

There’s more shots of Joe with his fans (all two of them, plus FLAMBO) as he makes his way towards a destination. Along the way, he shakes hands with other fans. Joe is much more pleased about these handshakes than said fans are.

The epic music swells as we have a long, agonizing shot of fabby eating a sandwich. The sandwich is bologna. It has nothing else. Just a dry piece of bologna. Considering the opponent, this is a threat.

Anyway, Joe Fontaine is on the news! But not WON Action News. This is a renegade news network. Jolf National News. JNN. Joe is wearing the top half of his usual bedazzled suit, but the lower half is (once again) league-approved jorts.

By now, you’re probably wondering if Joe is going to actually come out and wrestle a real goddamn professional wrestling match with a sandwich man. Well, you don’t have to wait long, as News Joe has a proclamation.

“News” Joe Fontaine: We now go live to the scene in Toronto, already in progress!

The feed slowly fades to static, and that static gets replaced with the opening drums of Jack White’s “Love Is Blindness”. Considering this is the first time Joe Fontaine’s actual theme music has played in a PRIME arena, it’s probably good that we had a long, ridiculous introduction to hype him up. Because fans definitely wouldn’t have recognized the song at first.

We cut to the arena entrance, which has darkened. A single spotlight shines down as Joe Fontaine emerges from behind the curtain. He isn’t alone, of course. Next to him is FLAMBERGE, freshly made a manager for the evening thanks to wonderful connections from a wonderful man named Hank, dressed in lizard’s finest. He’s even got brand new bright yellow sunglasses! Behind the two of them is fabby, I guess, dutifully carrying the jolf bag.

Joe is dressed in a breakaway version of his signature bedazzled suit, and he makes his way to the ring while Vince Howard announces his arrival.

Vince Howard: His opponent… hailing from Phoenix, Arizona… he weighs in tonight at one hundred and eighty-five pounds! He is one half of the PRIME tag team champions! HE IS… JOOOOOOOEEEEE FONNNNNTAAAAAAIIIINNNNEEEE!!!

Joe has certainly waited a long time for an introduction like this that he could call his own, given his smile. He walks with an even greater purpose to the ring, hopping up onto the apron and then springboarding in. He may have dabbed in midair before landing, because that’s the kind of asshole we’re dealing with this evening.

Nick Stuart: No shortage of confidence from Joe Fontaine here.

Richard Parker: Has Steve Lemieux even performed an offensive move in PRIME? Genuine question.

Joe tears away his suit, flexing muscles immediately afterwards as he does so, as though the feat of tearing away a suit outright designed to be torn away is some sort of feat of tremendous strength. It isn’t, but let him believe.

…

Referee Jimmy Turnbull signals for the bell!

DING DING

Nick Stuart: Steve Lemieux! Joe Fontaine! One of these men is coming away with their first singles win in PRIME!

Richard Parker: …but what if they draw?

Nick Stuart: Partner, let’s not put more evil into the world tonight. It’s ULTRAVIOLENCE! The wrestlers will take care of that!

As usual, Lemieux is entirely incapable of understanding what he’s supposed to be doing at the start of this combat-centric sport. Fortunately for him, at least for now – Fontaine is much more interested in vibes. It starts with a dab, and then a double dab, and then rapid-fire dabs where he alternates arms with machine gun speed.

Mr. Beefst, amazed at the sight, sort of trips over his feet a bit as he tumbles over to Joe for an attempted high-five, only to lightly stumble into Smooth Joe Cool. Joe immediately covers his nose at the smell coming off his opponent. When Steve attempts another high five, it is met immediately by The Famed 45 Days Purge!

Joe Fontaine: Wha-chaaa!

Nick Stuart: Spinning roundhouse kick by Joe Fontaine!

Richard Parker: Down goes Lemieux!

Joe goes for the cover!

ONE!

TWO!

Joe stands up and scurries away – holy MOLEY does his opponent smell bad! It was too jarring at that proximity for his bodily reflexes to do anything but recoil away in disgust.

Richard Parker: Who would’ve thought stinking like a skunk could be used as a defense mechanism??

Nick Stuart: …skunks, I think?

Joe looks over to FLAMBERGE and fabby and mouths “can you smell that too?”

fabby shrugs and points to his fabulous gold mask (lowercase, as this is the object the object is wearing). FLAMBERGE takes a moment to call over the referee; Jimmy Turnbull seems to acknowledge the stank of it all, but notes it’s not technically against the rules. He’s about to turn back to the ring as fabby searches through the jolf bag for a special club to use in this moment – sensing that he needs to buy a moment of time, FLAMBERGE calls out at Jimmy again.

FLAMBERGE: I heard you were stabbed, man, are you ok?

Jimmy Turnbull: …stabbed?

FLAMBERGE: Ouais, stabbed! During the tag title match?

He thrusts an imaginary knife forward towards Jimmy’s guts a couple times. Jimmy instinctively feels around at his stomach, wondering, searching his memory banks to see if somehow, some way he completely forgot about being stabbed. No, he decides in the end – he’s pretty sure he’d remember that.

Jimmy Turnbull: I think I would remember if I got STABBED, FLAMBO.

FLAMBERGE: Maybe double check.

While this bonkers conversation is going on at ringside, Steve Lemieux continues to be dead on the ground from one move. Out of sight of the ref, fabby hands Joe a set of brass knucks emblazoned with chair symbols – his famous 2-iron. He checks one more time to make sure he’s in the clear, charges across the ring, leaps in the air, and HADOUUUUUUUUKEN’s Steve Lemieux right in the crotch!!

OOOOOOOOOHHHH!

Some of the men in the first few rows instinctively hunch over. Somehow, though, Steve looks maybe a bit more alert than he did before? He’s getting to his feet?

Nick Stuart: I can’t believe Steve Lemieux is rising to his feet!

Richard Parker: Neither can Joe!

Joe checks the knucks for black magic ensorcelments – finding none, he looks at Steve incredulously. Steve smiles and points to that big ol’ brain of his, reaches down the front of his jet pants, removing and revealing – a protective cup! The crowd laughs a bit at this “ingenuity” – perhaps Steve had heard rumors of The Great and Powerful Dick Puncher of Oz and prepared accordingly.

Which made the next part worse.

Joe Fontaine: HADOUUUUUUKEN!

Fontaine punches Lemieux with the 2-iron squarely in the uncupped penis and balls.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!

Steve’s eyes cross as he slowly, agonizingly, crumples into a heap on the ground. A few of the men we saw hunch over before are looking a little green beneath the gills at this.

Joe tosses the 2-iron vaguely in fabby’s direction and FLAMBO wraps up his helpful check-in on an important PRIME employee. Fontaine takes a few steps back, measures the fallen Lemieux, and decides that this move is perfectly fine to execute even if Steve’s face is technically on the mat…

THUNK!

Nick Stuart: The Wang Ten! Joe had to fly really low for that…for that, uh…help me out, partner.

Richard Parker: The Flying Crotch to the Face.

Nick Stuart: Yes, THAT – the cover!

Joe zealously hooks both legs and pulls forward as hard as he can, shutting his eyes and grabbing at his nose to try to protect himself against the odor!

ONE!

TWO!

TH-Turnbull stops the count! He points to the ropes!

Joe Fontaine has accidentally pulled Steve Lemieux’s legs TOO far, and the tippy tips of Lemieux’s toes are juuuuust touching the middle rope!

FLAMBO, not discouraged, claps for his tag team partner and calls out, pointing back to the jolf bag. Joe takes a moment to look over and shrugs – but then something catches his eye. It’s on the opposite side of the ring, near Steve’s corner.

It looks an awful lot LIKE a jolf club, but purists know that whatever the hell this cockamamy attempt at welding a pipe to a metal chair is, it’s absolutely NOT regulation. It somehow looks too shabby for even fabby to carry. On the top of the chair, we see letters scratched into the metal: “J-GOLF”.

He picks it up and brings it into the ring with him. Jimmy Turnbull is about to take away this “weapon”, but Joe assures him that he’s not going to use it – in fact, he slides it across the ring to the feet of his still-downed opponent. Lemieux flinches as the J-Golf club hits him in the butt, but it at least proves he’s not dead.

Fontaine heads over to the Glue corner and calls out to fabby.

Joe Fontaine: Putter!

fabby nods and digs through the jolf bag, pulling out a standard steel chair that’s got an actual fucking brick mounted into the headrest.

OHHHHHHHH

Nick Stuart: Don’t ask me why I know this information, but I understand that the Putter here was designed by Hayes Hanlon.

Richard Parker: …what the hell, Hayes?

Joe takes the putter and stands on the opposite side of the ring from Steve, motioning for him to rise to his feet. Slowly, slowly, Steve does get up, and he sees that uh oh – the “secret weapon” he was thinking of using against “the J-Golf guyz” has been spotted! He looks across the ring at Joe, who seems to suggest that Steve pick up his club.

Jimmy Turnbull looks like he wants to intervene until FLAMBO motions over to him again. The Frenchman points to a huge banner hanging from the rafters that reads “UltraViolence”, and executes the classic “come on, man, be cool” debate tactic usually employed by teens trying to get away with something. Turnbull rolls his eyes, sighs, and motions for the two men to meet in the center of the ring!

Nick Stuart: It looks like a duel between two men and their clubs!

Richard Parker: Is Joe…is Joe making lightsaber noises with his mouth?

Nick Stuart: …he is, and…yeah, partner. So is Steve Lemieux.

Joe and Steve: Pewrrrrrr, wommmm, wom BZHHHHHHH, GZJOOO! Pewwwwrrrrrr…

It’s a sword fight that must have been mercifully left on the cutting room floor of Rise of Skywalker. With a mighty HI-YAH!, Steve looks like he’s finally made contact!

…thrusting contact. Like he’s trying to stab Joe.

With a shitty chair.

It’s like using Ember on a Squirtle…not very effective.

Joe takes the putter and arcs a huge golf swing directly into Steve’s J-Golf club!

CRACKASHHHHHH!

Steve’s club explodes into dozens of metal pieces! Even Steve looks surprised!

He’s even more surprised as Joe gently tosses the putter his way. Steve, being completely uncoordinated and slow in reaction time, fails to catch the jolf club and it sort of thunks into his chest before falling brick-first onto his feet. Fontaine, in a brief panic, checks with Turnbull to make sure he’s in the clear – Turnbull, to his credit, is so dumbfounded at Lemieux’s complete lack of manual dexterity that he doesn’t register Fontaine’s actions as any sort of “attack with an illegal weapon against an unarmed opponent”.

Lemieux is hobbled from the brick-chair hitting his toes, and Fontaine decides to run to the opposite ropes, rebounds off, and performs a dabbing chop block to the back of Lemieux’s knee! Lemieux practically gives himself whiplash as he’s sent to the mat, one foot planted in a desperate attempt to get back up. He doesn’t see that Joe has rebounded back off of the ropes again, this time charging straight into Lemieux’s face…

SMASH!!

Joe Fontaine doesn’t dab for this one. He just runs like a fucking locomotive train and throws a Shining Wizard into (and through) Steve Lemieux’s skull.

Nick Stuart: JOE FONTAINE SAYS “GO BACK 2 CHICAGO!” He’s got the leg hooked, he’s dabbing over his nose to block the smell!

ONE!

TWO!

…

THREE!

DING DING DING

Fontaine rolls off of this stinky skunk man and raises his arms in triumphant victory. FLAMBERGE enters the ring with Joe’s tag belt and holds aloft one of Joe’s hands. He eyes fabby trying to decide if he should come into the ring too – FLAMBO gives him a hard look, and fabby understands that he shouldn’t ruin this moment with his presence.

Vince Howard: Here is your winner! JOOOOOOOE! FOOOOONTAIIIIIIIINE!

“Love Is Blindness” blasts through the arena speakers once more as FLAMBO straps up Joe. Fontaine shuts his eyes hard, gives a huge open-mouthed anime smile, and bounces up and down while waving his arms in sync. FLAMBERGE lightly jogs around the ring for a moment, raising his arms to pump up the crowd, before leaping into the air with his arms at his sides and flopping to the mat like a caught fish.

Nick Stuart: No surprises here as Steve Lemieux continues his march of ineptitude here in PRIME. Big dub for Joe Fontaine!

Richard Parker: Look at those Glue Boys celebrating. Tonight’s win was the easy one. Hayes Hanlon and Cecilworth Farthington have their hands MUCH more full on Night Two.

Nick Stuart: Right you are, and on that note, UltraViolence rolls on!

We cut away.

…Snark Darkly Presents…

…An UltraViolence…

…WON ACTION NEWS…

No previously on.

No silly antics to start the NEWS.

Just Maximillian Wilhelm Kael seated in a chair under a pillar of white light in a black three piece suit with a bowtie.

Max Kael: Welcome, friends, welcome worms of PRIME… Welcome to UltraViolence! Heh-heh..

Max leans back in his chair, his hands coming to settle on the arm rests.

Max Kael: Tonight I face Mr. Jackson Cooley, a simp of a human being whose slavish devotion to his whore. Now many people would consider this below the skill and effort of the Lord of Kaelsavania but I disagree.

A smirk crosses his lips as he continues.

Max Kael: This is but a preview, you see, a violent interlude that will prepare me for the first round of the Almasy Tournament. Jackson Cooley and my first opponent in the Almasy have something in common. They’ve both been stung by the love bug, both given their lives to their deep infatuation. JCH has burned for his “love” and fallen from grace…

Another pillar of light opens up to the left of Max revealing an oil painting of Johnathan Christopher Hall and Vickie Hall. The longer one looks at the painting the more distorted and strange it truly becomes with Vickie appearing more like some parasitic monster while JCH looks weak, silky and pathetic.

Max Kael: One would have hoped Cooley could have seen JCH and his misadventures in love as a warning but that would take… I don’t know, awareness? Given that Jackson Cooley has decided to interject himself in my business, it is clear he is lacking in that. Thankfully… that will change.

Another pillar of light opens up to Max’s right revealing a painting of Jackson Cooley and Dahlia Noir. Jackson is bloodied and broken, ripped and torn. Dahlia looks over him, fear in her eyes, her cheeks slick with tears.

Max Kael: You will find the cost of love is a steep price, one that will cost you gallons of blood, Cooley. It might even cost you… your life… heh-heh.

Max winks, or perhaps blinks out of order, pulling open his suit jacket, patting a small black box in his pocket.

Max Kael: Love… ptth. Love is the death of duty, Cooley. Love is an illusion created by your primitive ape brain to convince you to stick your dick into someone to produce offspring. Love is nothing… nothing. Nothing but pain. Endless, pointless, cruel pain.

Standing, Max buttons up his suit, shaking his head with a wide, monstrous smile.

Max Kael: Love –ENDS– with me.

The pillar of light over Max vanishes while the two paintings remain illuminated. The camera slowly focuses on the bloody painting of Cooley, lingering there for a few moments before we are thrown into complete darkness.

We move on.

Rose steps out of the Red Army locker room. What happened in there? What was said? Who knows? Quite frankly, it’s none of your business, so why don’t you make like a tree and leaf?

Rose does this as she rubs her wrists and starts rotating her arms to stretch out her shoulders and neck accordingly. She walks purposefully, dressed for a Red Army Rules match that promises violence and destruction. It’s not the only match the Red Army will find themselves in this evening that could cause them serious harm and injury.

She turns the corner towards Argyle and as she does, she runs smack into the Lizard King himself, one-half of the PRIME Tag Team Champions, FLAMBERGE.

(Thankfully, Joe isn’t here. Because we don’t like Joe. Don’t tell Joe that.)

Rose: Whoops.

FLAMBERGE: Ah, le whoops indeed.

Rose: Been a minute. You know, since France. And Vegas.

FLAMBERGE: Ouais. You look healthy. For the time being, at least. Feel ready for your match? Looks like it will be the “toughie.”

Rose: Yeah, that. That’s going to be a blast.

The Frenchman cracks a small grin at this.

FLAMBERGE: Yes, I know what this is code for. But you are due for the breakthrough, I think. Perhaps it comes for you tonight.

Rose: Yeah, we shall see. Not interested in seeing what happens with Ivan if I don’t.

FLAMBERGE: Indeed. Well.

He’s a little more awkward than we usually see him. The eagle-eyed viewer might catch the quickest “elevator eyes” of all time directed at Rose.

FLAMBERGE: Two more matches for me to manage tomorrow, lots of work to be done, lots of jolf to be swung. Be seeing you.

Rose flashes a smile before stepping around the former Universal Champion. As she does, Julien’s fingers glance her shoulder, stopping her as she stands next to him.

FLAMBERGE: Alors – I almost forgot…

He pauses. She gives him a look that is a mixture of confusion and apprehension.

FLAMBERGE: You and I, we are friendly, non? We can speak the truths? I have heard the rumblings and the rumor millers, some crazy notion around you and the Cecilworth. If this is the true – again, as the friendly – c’est une idée terrible.

Oh, fuck. The Rose we all know love and hold dear, not the one we just saw initially with the Neck Collector, flashes across her face. She turns on a dime and glares at FLAMBERGE dead in the eyes.

Rose: Excuse me?

FLAMBERGE: Oh, apologies, sometimes I slip the in and the out of the languages – it is the TERRIBLE IDEA. I have ridden with this man for the years, I have seen this man at his most cordial and his most ferocious. This is the sort of man for whom, how you say, you do not “fuck around to find out”. And I like you, I like your style, I like your…

He pauses and clears his throat.

FLAMBERGE: Alors, you have come to me for the advice in the past. Perhaps this is some of the best I can offer you now.

Hands ball into fists. Eyes narrow. Rose rolls her tongue around in her mouth as she ponders a response.

Rose: I’ve largely given you a pass because you were there for me when I needed you. You never laid hands on my father — though you had some choice words to say to him, at least you said them to his face. While your alliance with Atken was… interesting… it was after Atken did what he did to my father. And Farthington coming along was just a byproduct of that.

FLAMBERGE: …a “pass?”

Rose: But I’m not in the mood to have someone tell me what to do, especially as it pertains to what I may or may not regarding Cecilworth fucking Farthington. Don’t cross that line. Do we have an understanding?

Julien’s hands go up, not looking for a fight with the Second Coming tonight. As she departs, he watches her leave. His left eye blinks slowly, then his right. All remaining human expression becomes blank-filled. Statuesque to the point where it’s unclear whether or not he’s breathing.

We linger.

…

Then we cut elsewhere.

Richard Parker: Red Army rules? What does that mean, anyway?

Nick Stuart: I think it means that anything goes, Richard!

Richard Parker: Well, just say that!

Nick Stuart: Yes, but then no one would ever say “the Red Army rules.”

Vince Howard: The following contest is scheduled for one fall…

The lights then dim inside of the arena as a siren echoes throughout it, like a trumpet heralding the end times.

What’s up, danger? (Danger)
What’s up, danger? (Danger)

Then, “What’s Up Danger” by Black Caviar and Blackway plays throughout the arena.

Vince Howard: And his opponent, representing KING. She stands at five feet and ten inches tall and weighs in at one hundred and thirty-five pounds. Hailing from San Diego, California… she is THE SECOND COMING! ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSE!

Two thousand on thermometers
Two thousand surroundin’ us
Travel two thousand kilometers to hang out with us
What’s up, danger? (Danger)
What’s up, danger? (Danger)

Rose emerges from the backstage area and the spotlight lands on her. She stands there, focused and determined, wearing a pair of black pants with ROSE painted on the sides in purple and a black sports bra.

Ayy, didn’t know they doubted us
Makes it that more marvelous
Sign ’em up, ’cause ominous vibes and I get synonymous
What’s up, danger?
Ayy, don’t be a stranger

She struts down the ramp, confident in herself, even as the fans yell at her. She blocks them out as she reaches the halfway mark of the entrance ramp before she explodes into a run and slides under the bottom rope. As she reaches the middle of the ring, she hops up to her feet and sprints to the opposite set of ropes before placing her right foot on the middle rope and her left foot on the bottom. She extends her right arm high as she screams into the void.

‘Cause I like high chances that I might lose (lose)
I like it all on the edge just like you, ayy
I like tall buildings so I can leap off of ’em
I go hard wit’ it no matter how dark it is

She moves around the ring, shaking her head, stoic.

I’m insane but on my toes
I could keep the world balanced on my nose
I had a slumber party wit’ all my foes
Now I wear them like a badge of honor on my clothes

Rose reaches one of the corners and climbs up to the second turnbuckle, slamming her fist into her chest and raising both arms.

If I’m crazy, I’m on my own
If I’m waitin’, it’s on my throne
If I sound lazy, just ignore my tone
‘Cause I’m always gonna answer when you call my phone

She hops off the middle turnbuckle, moves to the opposite set of ropes, and glares out at the fans.

Like, what’s up, danger?
Like, what’s up, danger?
Don’t-don’t be a stranger
What’s up, danger?

The music then fades.

Vince Howard: And, her opponent…

“The Best” by AWOLNATION hits the speakers.

Vince Howard: THE FOREVER MAN! THE VOW OF VIRTUE! THE ALPHA MALE LOVE BOAT!

Nick Stuart: You know Richard, with the combined dispositions of our two competitors in this bout –

Richard Parker: You mean how they’re both bat shit crazy?

Vince Howard: JONATHAAAAAAN-CHRISTOPHERRRRRRRR HAAAAAALLLLLLL!!!

Nick Stuart: Yes.

A sullen Jonathan-Christopher Hall emerges from the back. He sports black board shorts, frizzy blonde hair and heavy bags under his eyes that suggest he’s going through another depressive episode. This time, though, he’s doing maybe just a hair better, holding it together a hair more strongly, keeping his chin just a little higher. If waves of depressive tears are coming, he’s doing a decent job holding up the dam.

Hall reaches ringside. He rolls under the ring, and slinks to his corner, not even looking Rose in the eye.

DING! DING!

Rose chuckles to herself as she walks across the ring to JCH’s corner. He’s sitting there, looking weak, not even moving, so why not just go ahead and stomp a mudhole in his ass right now–

BUT JCH JUMPS TO HIS FEET!

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: This kitty has claws!

He shows his fingernails and hisses at Rose.

Rose sends a forearm to his jaw in response! Another! Another! JCH flails back into the turnbuckles, and Rose just continues to send forearm shot after vicious forearm shot, each one sending his feet into the air.

Richard Parker: The only “claws” JCH has is a six pack of White Claw seltzer. Look at Rose just whooping this boy in that turnbuckle.

Nick Stuart: Don’t count JCH out!

But as soon as Nick says that, an uppercut from Rose sends JCH spilling over the side of the turnbuckles to the outside of the ring!

Nick Stuart: OK, count JCH out.

Richard Parker: Red Army Rules, Nick. There are no count outs!

And with that in mind, Rose has climbed to the top turnbuckle, and is staring down at JCH as he s l o w l y crawls up to his knees.

BY GOD, SHE AIN’T WAITING FOR HIM TO REACH HIS FEET! ROSE LEAPS!!!

DIVING HEADBUTT TO THE OUTSIDE FROM ROSE TO JCH WHILE HE WAS ON HIS KNEES!!!

Nick Stuart: Good Lord!!!

Richard Parker: There’s a joke about JCH being on his knees and taking pain or something, I just know it.

Nick Stuart: Let it go.

Richard Parker: I can’t. Something something, head on his knees, or…

Nick Stuart: Richard, you are heading down a dark road.

Richard Parker: To Funnytown.

Nick Stuart: To the unemployment office.

Meanwhile, JCH and Rose both lie outside the ring, neither one feeling particularly keen after the diving headbutt, but JCH writhes around quite a bit more than Rose, having taken the worst of it.

And thereby, it’s Rose who starts the ascent to her feet first. To her hands and knees, she then reaches the apron and pulls herself up. JCH, meanwhile, is only now starting to reach his feet.

Rose walks over to the timekeeper and shoves him out of his steel chair seat. She folds the chair up and takes it right back to JCH, who on his hands and knees, has his back perfectly exposed for–

CRACK!

JCH cries out in pain and arches his back as the steel chair collides into his spine!

CRACK!

Again!

CRACK!!!

Again!!!

Rose sets the chair on the ring apron and pulls JCH to his feet by the arm. She grabs his head! SMASHES it into the steel chair– NO!!! JCH blocks by putting his foot on the apron!

He KARATE CHOPS Rose in the throat, and sends HER head into the steel chair!!!

Again!

And again!!

And again!!!

Nick Stuart: JCH showing life here now!

But uh… something happens here.

JCH he… he doesn’t stop.

Again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and AGAIN, Rose’s head slams into that chair. A wound opens on her forehead, and still, JCH continues until Rose falls to her knees, and her head is no longer able to reach that steel chair.

Richard Parker: Hey, JCH? Overkill called. He said this is gimmick infringement.

Nick Stuart: Who’s Overkill?

Richard Parker: Don’t worry about it. It was the nineties. Myrtle Beach Wrestling Association. Great times.

JCH let’s Rose go. She slumps to the floor in a heap. Meanwhile, the Forever Man has a dark look in his eye. Like he’s embraced a more sinister attitude, and even as Rose slowly comes back to reality and finds her forehead bleeding, standing up, furious and full of fire?

JCH has a wicked, sinister grin on his face.

Even as he nails her, right in that open wound, with a running, flying back elbow!!!

Nick Stuart: Chasing Vickie to Rose and she’s right back down on the ground!

Richard Parker: I’m digging Evil JCH. Give me more Evil JCH.

JCH grabs Rose up by her hair and DRAGS her to the steel steps! He SLAMS her head on the edge– no, she stops him by resisting with her hands on the step.

He tries again, but once again Rose blocks. She sends an elbow back into JCH’s sternum, and then another, and another, until she grabs his head and smashes it into the steps herself!

The Forever Man reels backwards, creating enough space for Rose to reach her feet, jump on the steel steps, and

MOONSAULT TO JCH FROM THE TOP OF THE STEEL STEPS BY ROSE!!!

Nick Stuart: Picture perfect moonsault by Rose!

Rose keeps riding this pocket of momentum she’s made for herself, smearing the blood on her forehead with the back of her hand as she sends boot after boot to JCH’s midsection, until she picks him up and rolls him in the ring.

Rose doesn’t take long to give chase, immediately following behind him, wrapping his neck in her arm, and–

Nick Stuart: Guillotine choke from Rose to JCH!!! And with body scissors to keep him there! Jonathan-Christopher is in a lot of trouble now!

Richard Parker: Just give up, JCH!

And maybe JCH is about to. Why not? No one likes him anyway. Rose doesn’t like him. The love of his life doesn’t like him. Maybe just fuck everything, you know? Maybe fuck this match, fuck wrestling. Actually, maybe if she doesn’t tap, she’ll kill him. Maybe that’s actually optimal. Then, if nothing else, Vickie would see him die, and realize what an awful mistake she’s made.

Or he could just use his free hands to take Rose’s eyes damn near out of her fucking sockets.

Which do you think he chose?

Richard Parker: Now that looked like it hurt!

Nick Stuart: I have phantom pain in my pupils somehow.

Rose obviously let’s go of the Guillotine and instinctively grabs at and rubs on her eyes. Meanwhile JCH staggers to his feet. His hair all messy, face red from being unable to breathe, eyes wide and psychotic like he was possessed by the devil.

JCH slides out of the ring, reaches under the apron…

And pulls out a red tool box.

Nick Stuart: Jonathan… Jonathan, don’t do this.

Richard Parker: I’m normally one to encourage this kind of behavior but… whatever he’s thinking cannot be good for anyone.

JCH climbs back in the ring. He measures up Rose, waiting for her to climb to her feet.

When she finally does?

He charges!

WHAM!

Nick Stuart: Right in the forehead with the toolbox and that’s not gonna do her head wound ANY favors, Richard!

Richard Parker: Rose! You need to DUCK next time!

Nick Stuart: You think she doesn’t know that!?

Richard Parker: I’m just saying!

JCH lines Rose up again.

Meanwhile, Rose, – and I hate to even use this word because she would hate it, but – pathetically clamors for the ropes as the wound on her forehead bestows the crimson mask upon her.

Shakily, she pulls herself up to her feet with the top rope’s additional support.

JCH CHARGES!!!

ROSE DUCKS AND PULLS THE TOP ROPE DOWN WITH HER!!!

JCH AND THE TOOL BOX SPILL TO THE OUTSIDE!!!

Richard Parker: See, Nick?

…And the toolbox bursts open as it hits the ground, revealing a veritable spread of instruments of pain. A hammer. Screwdrivers. Wrenches.

And yes, rEaL nAiLs.

But this isn’t some dead, garbage promotion. This is PRIME. And Rose isn’t a monster, she’s just an asshole. So she doesn’t go for the real nails even as she steps out of the ring to loom over JCH.

…but the big ass wrench on the other hand?

Well, that’s the perfect thing to bridge right across JCH’s Adam’s apple as she places him a brutal, wrench-assisted camel clutch.

JCH would cry out in pain if he could breathe, but thanks to the wrench, he can’t. The only thing he knows to do is to free one of his arms from Rose’s knee and fight with her for the wrench, which he manages to do.

And for his trouble, Rose sends a forearm to the back of his head, which sends his face straight to the cold, hard floor, busting his nose open!

Nick Stuart: And that might be lights out for Jonathan-Christopher Hall!

But Rose knows better. That’s not enough to take out this annoying, little, lovesick psycho. She’s going to need something big. She’s going to need…

She reaches down and grabs the hammer.

She looks at JCH, who has rolled over to his back. Blood pours from his nostrils, and his eyes are wide as he stares at that hammer, which she has risen over her head with both fists.

But JCH doesn’t beg.

He nods at her.

Closes his eyes.

Accepts his fate.

The crowd reaches a bizarre fever pitch. It’s not excitement that has them buzzing, but fear. Fear of what they might see unfold in front of their eyes.

Rose can end this match, and possibly JCH’s career, right now.

All she has to do is bring that hammer down on him.

Ivan Stanislav would. And the sickle as well.

But Rose isn’t Ivan Stanislav.

She drops the hammer to the ground.

And the crowd?

Well, they roar.

For her.

Confused, for a moment, she looks around. They’re cheering her? They don’t do that. It’s almost enough to make her–

Rose cries out in pain.

Because after she dropped that hammer?

JCH took it into his hand as he lied on the ground.

And as she stood around, confused?

JCH hit her in the side of the knee with the claw-side of that hammer.

The crowd jeers angrily at JCH.

And maybe, this is what JCH needed. Maybe he needed to become this monster. Maybe he needed the world to reject him.

He is a reject, afterall.

Nick Stuart: A scumbag move by JCH.

Richard Parker: Evil JCH is so fun!

JCH agrees. He smiles as he watches Rose writhe on the ground. He pulls her up by the hair and rolls her into the ring.

After he gets in the ring, it’s evident Rose can walk, but boy, it’s a little shaky, and indeed, two little claw bruises on the side of her knee are beginning to swell.

And though she bravely continues to fight, throwing a few chops into JCH, he simply puts a side kick right into that knee.

Rose drops.

JCH circles her, and locks in the double chickenwing.

Stand.

By.

Me.

JCH makes the pinfall attempt!

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

THREEEEEEEE!!!

DING! DING!

Vince Howard: Here is your winner… THE FOREVER MAN!!! JONATHAN-CHRISTOPHER HALLLLLLLL!!!!

JCH pulls his arm away from Vince Howard when he goes to raise his hand and exits the ring, heading up the ramp.

Suddenly, he seems like a different man.

We cut from ringside.

We move from the commercial to inside a locker room where we see our bald guy Miracle Man Steve Harrison sitting on the floor sitting indian style. On either side of him sits the rehab concussion hero Jack Marley and Doc. Steve looks incredibly annoyed by the situation and just sits glaring at Jack. Jack smiles and motions to Harrison to do what he is doing.

Jack Marley: See, boss…you just sit indian style and close your eyes and do the breathing exercises I told you about.

The Five Star Octopus Executive Champion rolled his eyes at Jack.

Steve Harrison: Yea, that is not happening. I am trying to focus and not fall asleep.

Jack Marley: This will help center yourself so you can focus and not lose your way in your match with Kerry.

Harrison shakes his head and then chuckles softly when he looks over and sees Doc trying to cross his old legs.

Steve Harrison: Seriously old man?

Doc stops crossing his legs and looks up at The Immortal Jellyfish.

Doc: What?

Steve Harrison: What do you mean, what? It looks like you are about to snap yourself in half trying to cross your legs. I don’t think you need to be pressured into this by someone who has more brain damage then Joe Fontaine.

Doc: I have felt really stressed recently, I was hoping this would help.

Steve Harrison: STRESSED!?!?

The Man of all Miracles throws his arms up and begins flailing them around like Kermit.

Steve Harrison: What are you stressed about? I am the one that has been dealing with different types of roaches all year. I am the one having to fend off these phony people who want my title. I am the one with all the pressure from The Octopus. The only thing that is going to make me feel better is beating Ellis to a pulp and leaving Kerry Kuroyama failing again.

Jack Marley: More reason to center yourself, mon. I once closed my eyes and was greeted by a talking river thats current was able to tell the future.

Steve Harrison: WHAT. THE. FUCK.

Doc, still struggling to cross his legs, shakes his head at what Steve just said.

Doc: Language.

Steve Harrison: Are you serious?

Jack Marley: So you want to breathe from your diagram to draw your breath to help relax you. I have some construction paper and crayons just in case.

Harrison’s mouth opens in confusion as he stares at Jack from all the words choices he had just made.. Jack is now rifling through a bag he has with him and pulling out the crayons and paper.

Steve Harrison: No, just no.

Jack Marley: I have your favorite color!

Steve Harrison: NO!

Doc: Is it still sky blue?

Jack holding a brown crayon looks at Doc and then Steve.

Doc: Are you color blind?

Jack Marley: I was going to draw the river bed.

As exciting as crayon analysis is to an international viewing audience, and it’s something that could take up at least fifty percent of the airtime of any Pay Per View, we must now deprive the audience of their much sought crayon content due to the fact that there is a knocking at the door of Steve Harrison’s sex pad.

Steve Harrison: Oh, thank god.

Steve tries to stand up but Jack grabs his arm and shakes his head.

Jack Marley: Don’t forget, down by the river is where I shot my baby, mon.

Harrison pauses. He smacks Jack’s hands from his arm and then stares at Jack.

Steve Harrison: Are you quoting Neil Young? Did you fall off the wagon?

The door knocking gets more aggressive, like it is seconds away from shoving a knife through the door if such a thing was plausible.

Steve Harrison: (Shoots Jack a death stare and points at him to stop) Coming.

The Miracle Man of formally Montreal walks around the one idiot and the old doctor who seems to have forgotten he isn’t as flexible as he once was. The two of them go back to talking back and forth to each other as Harrison’s anger with them has finally set into the two of them. The camera stays with Doc and Jack as Doc had brought it into the room but it can still pick up Harrison answering the door.

Steve Harrison: Speaking of Miracles eh?

Jack Marley: (On Camera talking to Doc) So did you ever see Neil Young in concert?

Doc: (On Camera talking to Jack) I have, believe it or not I saw him back in 86’ in Chicago and he played Down By The River of course.

There’s a clear gruff and low toned voice, as if it possesses the fury of one thousand suns, standing at the other side of the door talking to Harrison, but we don’t know what’s going on there because Doc thinks it is more important to record their meditation session with the ridiculous brain mussed Jack Marley.

Steve Harrison: Shut the hell up back there, shouldn’t you be centering yourselves?

The camera manages to pick up a few key words, like “glue” and “murder” but that could mean anything. It could even be Anna Daniels. Probably not though, because of the voice thing. Harrison is listening attentively, we assume, because we can’t see him.

Steve Harrison: Oh…(laughs) that sounds good to me.

The unseen gruff voice makes pleasurable sounds to Harrison’s want of agreement. Well, not pleasurable, just not terrifying, so that’s good enough. The door is heard shutting. Footsteps are heard and then Harrison comes back into camera view and sighs as he sees them sharing earbuds while listening to music on Jack’s phone.

Jack Marley: (Singing) I need a Miracle everyday…

Doc: I need a Miracle, I need a Miracle…

Doc and Jack are signing back and forth to each other and it obviously dawns on the already annoyed Steve Harrison that this Grateful Dead song is probably not what they should be signing around the true Mr. Miracle. Also, weren’t they talking about Neil Young? Jack’s brain doesn’t work too well.

Steve Harrison: Just stop everything and go get me some water or something. I need to concentrate on the upcoming battle with that arrogant fool who always looks down at me. This belt is staying clean and around the waist of yours truly.

Doc and Jack stand up and nod. Dod walks over and pushes the power button on the camera as we move over to Mr. Kuroyama and his mighty band of Koala craziness.

Some fancypants in the production booth does an old-school fly-way transition to switch between the previous scene to the current one. The scene is now before the giant metal doors of the VVIP Room, where once more Simon Tillier, the ever loyal disciple of punk journalism, stands at the ready with a microphone in hand.

He’s standing with the VVingmen of Vae Victis, Kerry Kuroyama and Scott Hunter. The former is already decked out in his ring gear, looking focused and ready for the battle that awaits later in the evening. The latter sports acid-washed jeans, a sleeveless winged “VV” shirt, and gold-tinted Pit Vipers, looking like a badass ’80s action hero.

Looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, Tillier takes a final drag off his dart, drops it to the floor, and stamps it out while raising the mic to address the fans watching at home.

Simon Tillier: Yeah, hey, what’s up, people? This UltraViolence gig is well underway, and Simon Tillier is once again called upon to entertain the crowd through the smoke break between acts. With me now, “The Emerald Apex” Kerry Kuroyama, who will later tonight challenge Steve Harrison for the Five Star Championship…

Hunter impatiently clears his throat, and an irascible sneer crosses the junior reporter’s face as he looks over to him.

Simon Tillier: …and, the other half of his Vae Vaudeville act… Scott Hunter.

The Maven of Miami cracks his knuckles, glaring down at Simon through his shades like a bird of prey tracking a rodent. Looking more annoyed than threatened, Tillier puts all of his focus on Kuroyama.

Simon Tillier: Anyway, Kerry, seeing as how you are on the one scheduled to compete tonight, let’s take a minute to pick your brain. You fought hard over the past six months to earn this second opportunity for the Five Star Title. With that in mind, what final message would you care to give to your opponent — and the world at large — before you go into this potentially career-defining title match?

Kerry stands firm like a living statue, his arms folded across his chest. His eyes, which have been transfixed into a thousand-mile stare since the scene began, now shut themselves as he gathers up his thoughts.

Kerry Kuroyama: This is my message, Simon…

As Tillier holds the mic close, Kuroyama turns his attention to the camera. The view slowly centers on him as he begins to speak.

Kerry Kuroyama: Steve Harrison… before this goes down, I need you to understand something about the man you’re facing. See, I was r̴̰̕͝a̵͔͈̚͝i̸̢̎̒s̸̱̯͆̕é̷̢̜ḏ̴͉̎ ̶̫̘̇͆ï̴̗n̵͖̺͝ ̴̨̛̫͘ȧ̴́ͅ ̵̭̽ḣ̶̙̘͠ò̵͕͝m̸̠̥͘e̶̖̘̎̕ ̶̞̊w̵̼̰̆͝h̷̛͉́ę̷̣̔̓r̵̯̎ḛ̵͓͝ wrestling was t̶̰͊̚ḩ̷͎̿é̶̡ ̴͂̈́͜c̸̳̊o̷̝̳͌r̷̭̘̅̒n̶̨̗̔̿ḛ̵̺̓͝ṛ̷͍͊s̸̠͔͝ť̸̌͜ȍ̷̱n̵̦̬͂ē̶̟͆ ̴̻̤́ǫ̵͇̀͌f̶̝͗ mya̶͖̋͂&̴̲͎̈́m̸̢̛̭̺̟̒̀̊͂̂̕ͅ(̶̨͍̦̗̞̖̉͘͠w̵̜̞̣͚̯͙̤͌͝Ÿ̴͉́!̸̢̬̺͕͎̫͍̂̔́̅͝x̷̘̐́̊̋̊]̸̻̥̫̃̎͛̎̓̆͠%̷̡̮̘̝̄͋̕b̶̙̈́̔͂̂̔@̷͎̘͎̰̬̞͆͊̀͂Ġ̶͈ͅk̷̯͓͍̹͗͐̉̓̂p̴̞͔̀͊̑q̴̰͈̰̫̫̯̈́͂͗ͅC̶̢̛̘͇̥̙͇̀ͅ*̴͓̘̤̥͇̹̹͐̍̍d̵̛͖̗̤͖̞̳͎͆̅͊̀̄̔ḩ̴̢̧̨̬͈͕͗̇#̵̼̳̹̀̑̆̎̀ͅ8̴̢̣̥̽Ẓ̷̹̍͊̉̅̌́͝–

SHHHRRRRKKK!!

With the video feed apparently glitching out, Kerry’s words are suddenly lost to the sudden HISS of white noise. Static gradually overtakes the screen until Kuroyama, Hunter, and Tillier become mere shadows in a snowstorm, eventually disappearing altogether.

Then, a voice calls out…

“FANS of PRIME, do NOT readjust your television sets! We have OVERTAKEN the ACE Network’s broadcast signal…

The video interference appears to weaken, only for the outline of a head and set of shoulders to come into view. The first noticeable detail is the wide, toothy SMILE that peaks through the veil of static

“… to deliver unto you a REAL message!”

The static finally fades the rest of the way, leaving the viewing audience gasping in revulsion and disgust at the unsightly face and garish, goat-like grin of everyone’s least favorite familiar face in PRIME. If they weren’t already busy readjusting their screens, they’re definitely looking for something to throw at them.

Erik Black: Good evening and salutations, PRIME. It is I… Erikos Bartholomew Black. Leader and founder of professional wrestling’s greatest business venture… the Kuroyama and Black Athletic Legion. Or, the K.A.B.A.L. for short.

The former Rezin, looking uncharacteristically dapper and devious in an ivory white suit complemented by a purple turtleneck and golden crucifix, slightly bows his head. There’s a strange smarminess in his voice. He appears to us seated in a white leather armchair, petting what appears to be a stuffed white tiger cub on his lap.

Erik Black: Not to mention, the undisputed greatest, most overlooked, most underrated, AND most TRUSTWORTHY former Universal Champion in your company’s history. Which is why I hope you won’t mind this unscheduled interruption to your big, all-important Lana Del Rey-themed pay-per-view event. Though to be honest, such an interruption wouldn’t be necessary to begin with, had SOMEONE had the HEART to send me an invitation. Be as it may, news has come to light that the powers of PRIME intend to host their NEXT great event here in MY home city…

He swivels slightly in his seat to wave out to the impressive view of the Indianapolis skyline beyond the window behind him.

Erik Black: Indianapolis… the City of CHAMPIONS… and circles, I think.

Black tosses the taxidermied tigercub aside, rises to his feet, and begins walking. The camera pulls back to reveal more of the surroundings — a luxuriant high-rise suite, fitted with a crackling centralized fireplace, beige retro modernist furnishings, and the soft lilt of lounge jazz.

Heavy, heavy Bond villain vibes with this guy.

Erik Black: Naturally, it would be FOOLISH of anyone to believe that a wrestling company with the cachet, prestige, and respectability of PRIME could just brazenly encroach upon MY territory without my having to say something about it. Especially when they choose NOT TO INVOLVE ME IN ANY WAY WHATSOEVER. BUT… despite the MANY INSULTS I’ve been dealt these past two years… I consider myself to be a man of generosity. And forgiveness. And most important of all… TRUST!

He stops when he reaches the wall, where we see a ridiculously huge blow up of a black and white photograph, taken in his moment of glory over two years ago at ReVival 22… only the figure in the photo proudly hoisting the Universal Championship barely holds any resemblance to the bearded and tattooed force of anarchy and violence committed to the fans’ memory.

Instead, we’re looking at a very obvious and very bad AI render, rewriting history by replacing the Goat Bastard with this modern-day creep in white.

Erik Black: And I TRUST that LINDSAY TROY will do what’s in the best interest of her LOVING FANS by hearing, comprehending, and ultimately accepting this FINAL offer on behalf of me and my associates within the K.A.B.A.L. I TRUST, PRIME, that we can both MUTUALLY BENEFIT from this Ascension event, in a way that avoids DIRE CONSEQUENCES.

He motions for the camera to zoom in, and sadly, it does.

Erik Black: LINDSAY!! I HOPE you’re listening right now, Lindsay, because THIS PART pertains specifically to YOU! Can you HEAR ME right now, Lindsay?! If you can’t, then please get closer to your screen! Closer, Lindsay! CLOSER! WHOA, HANG ON, not that close… last thing I need is to SMELL the cheesesticks and garlic butter on your breath, Lindsay! Now LISTEN CLOSE, Lindsay, because these are my demands! NUMBER ONE, Lindsay! You WILL reinstate ME back into PRIME’s active roster! NUMBER TWO, Lindsay! You WILL add ME into a match on the Ascension card! And NUMBER THREE! LINDSAY! That match WILL be for the UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP! And if you IGNORE these demands, Lindsay… then YOU, Lindsay, will go DOWN as the person who hosted the GREATEST CATASTROPHE in PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING HISTORY!! LINDSAY!!

The former Rezin scurries out of the frame with all the grace and majesty of an albino cockroach.

Erik Black: Allow me to let you in on what awaits you…

The camera swivels over to find Black now standing next to something BIG, covered in a sheet.

Erik Black: BEHOLD!!

Black tears the sheet aside, which results in two things happening. For one, he accidentally buries himself in a two-hundred-square-foot piece of canvas. For another, he reveals a towering DEATH RAY pointed down at the city! Punctuating the visual, a horn section over the soundtrack blasts a jazzy little dramatic sting.

After taking several moments trying to free himself from under the sheet, Black suddenly reappears and waves proudly up to his engine of destruction.

Erik Black: Late 60’s vintage design, saddle-operated with Doom Co. gearing, six-point gyroscopic positioning… made by the FINEST ENGINEERS the K.A.B.A.L. has to offer! And it’s pointed directly at ONE PLACE…

He points through the window. The camera zooms into the city, and when everything comes back at focus, we can see the intended target: Lucas Oil Field.

Erik Black: Comply with my demands, Lindsay… or on the night of Ascension, in ONE SWIFT MOTION, I will CLEANSE ALL OF PRIME FROM THIS EARTH, LINDSAY! HA-HA, Lindsay! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Boisterous cackling with the head thrown back and fists shaking overhead… you know the look.

Erik Black: With THAT, my little lambs… I’ll leave you to your regularly scheduled wrestling monotony! I can’t wait to FINALLY see you all again in September! Until then, remember to stay safe… stay CLEAN… and most of all… don’t forget to TRUST ME!

Black’s grin grows ever wider… and then, in a flash of static, he’s GONE.

The feed goes right back to backstage at Rogers Centre, where Kerry Kuroyama is still in the middle of cutting his promo.

Kerry Kuroyama: …which is why no matter how this ends, Steve Harrison… with or without that belt, I will always be worthy of the title of “Emerald Apex”.

Standing next to him and having heard the whole thing from beginning to end, Scott sniffles and wipes a tear from his eye before clapping his Wingman on the shoulder.

Scott Hunter: That was beautiful, man! Got me right here!

Hunter emphatically points to his heart.

Kerry Kuroyama: Thanks, Scott. … What happened to Simon?

Scott looks to the floor. Taking his cue, Kerry looks as well, but only looks mildly surprised. The camera pans down to see Simon laid out on his back, clutching the goose egg on his forehead.

Simon Tillier: Urrrghh… Hunter, you… you… tyrant!

We pan back up to Kerry and Scott, with the former arching an eyebrow at the latter. Hunter innocently shrugs and deflects the blame by pointing to someone off-camera.

Scott Hunter: Kerry Koalayama…. He um… hates Simon… told me he smells like feet.

Scott suddenly notices his right fist is red from what must have been a recent impact with someone’s face. Quickly, he hides it behind his back and gestures off-screen again.

We pan over to find Kerry Koalayama sitting in a bean bag, cutting up eucalyptus leaves with a razor blade on a vanity mirror. His two-thumbed paw is about to reach for the straw when he notices the Wingmen looking down at him. Being a koala, he can’t exactly say anything back, but does his best “…what? He does smell like feet!” expression.

UltraViolence goes elsewhere. And again, because someone in the production truck apparently just got his hands on Adobe Premiere, the scene does a stock 3D cube transition.

Vince Howard: Our next match is House Ruuuules match…

The lights dim in the Rogers Center as a single pillar of light illuminates the UltraViolence stage. At the center of this light is Snark Darkly wearing an all white cardigan, white collar shirt, white slacks and a pair of white comfortable looking boat shoes with white socks. In his hand he carries a white microphone.

Snark Darkly: My name is Snark Darkly and introducing my client… he stands at six-foot-four inches and weighs in tonight at two-hundred-and-sixty-five pounds, he is the RIA-Ranger, the Man With Over Two Nicknames, Love’s Reckoning… MAXIMILLIAN WILHELM KAAAAAEEEL!

The name immediately draws loud boos from the largely Canadian crowd as the pillar of light vanishes.

The iconic guitar intro to “Love Hurts” by Nazareth fills the darkness. As the lights snap back to life the Daytona Diamonds All-Bastard Choir fills the stage, each of them wearing a Max for Mayor shirts.

“Looove hurts, love scars, love wounds and marks anyway heeeaaart!
Not tough or strong enough to take a lot of pain, take a lot of pain.”

Sauntering out onto the stage comes Max Kael, his hands held upward, waving toward the crowd who shower him with boos as the DDABC continue, their singing having vastly improved since debuting over two years ago.

“Love is like a cloud, holds a lot of rain.
Loooove hurts! Oooooh, ooooh Looooove Hurts!”

Scampering out onto the stage behind Max comes the Herald, also dressed in an all white version of his Herald gear, mirroring Snark Darkly’s look. He’s carrying a massive Vote for Max banner, which he waves with some difficulty behind the Lord of Kaelsalvania. Why is he having trouble waving the banner? Because strapped to his back is a large trash can that reads “Property of Arkham”.

“I’m young, I know, but even so I know a thing or two I learned from you!
I really learned a lot, really learned a lot. Love is like a flame!”

Max moves lazily toward the ring, soaking in the choir’s song, basking in the casual cruelty of his entrance choice. Confidence, even eagerness, keeps his head held high, his prominent chin jutting forward as he walks cocksure. Scrambling behind him, trying to manage all of the random items he’s been assigned, is the Herald. The fans show neither of them any love.

“It burns you when it’s hot!
Looooove hurts! OOOOoooh, oooOOOooh Love Hurts!”

Half way down the ramp Max begins to waltz to himself, his arms held out as he pantomimes as though he had a dance partner with him. A fan spits on Max. Max immediately throws pocket sand in their face before he continues to waltz himself to the dulcet tones of the All-Bastards.

“Some fools think of happiness, blissfulness, togetherness…
Some fools fool themselves, I guess, their’ not foolin’ meeeee!”

Reaching the ringside area, Max begins to slither around the ring, eating up air time. He doesn’t acknowledge the fans at ring side but rather appears to be lost in his own little world. The Herald drops off the “arkcan” at the ring steps before continuing to follow Max. He’s much more free without the can on his back and can really wave the shit out of that banner now. Which he does.

“I know it isn’t true, I know it isn’t true. Love is just a lie.
Made to make you blue…”

Once completing a full circuit of the ring, Max turns and climbs the ring steps. His lip curls back into a sadistic grin, shimming his way between the ropes before waltzing himself into his own corner. The Herald quickly follows him in and waves the Vote for Max banner in the center of the ring.

“Love HURTS! OOooOoOOH, OoooOooh LOVE HURTS!
OoooooOOh, ooOOOOOOH LOVE HURTS!”

As the choir finishes their last lyric the lights in the Rogers Arena flash off for a few seconds before coming back on to full. The All-Bastards are gone from the stage and Max is standing in his corner with the Herald on the outside.

The arena lights rise as bright as they can. Oxygen pumps in the arena. The sounds of laughter and slot machines being pulled.

I went home with a waitress the way I always do
How was I to know she was with the Russians, too?

Jackson Cooley slides out from behind the curtain weightlessly, his feet floating as he breezes out half bent over doing a honky tonk walk. After a few steps he shoots up straight, putting two peace signs up like Nixon and fireworks shoot out fucking everywhere. People duck in the first few rows around the entrance ramp. Following close behind as always, is Nick DeSalvo.

I was gambling in havana, I took a little risk
Send lawyers, guns, and money
Dad, get me out of this, hiyah!

Cooley struts his fucking stuff down the aisle in his impeccable electric blue blazer and zebra pants. All of the women fawn over him, reaching out to try and touch his oiled up chest. He leans in to them, grabbing the lapels of his jacket and acting like he’s going to open up like a demure flower for these ladies. They get close, but he closes the jacket before any can make contact.

I’m an innocent bystander
Somehow I got stuck between a rock and a hard place

Like that Olympic pole vaulter – yes, that one – Cooley gets stuck on the rope as he climbs in. He puts his hands on his hips in an Urkle “Did I do that?” pantomime. It fucking kills. Everyone laughs.

And I’m down on my luck
Yes, I’m down on my luck
Well, I’m down on my luck

As the song closes out, Cooley does a little warmup lap around the ring, letting the entire arena get a look at how fucking cool he is.

I’m hiding in honduras, I’m a desperate man
Send lawyers, guns, and money
The shit has hit the fan

Cooley removes his blazer and tosses it to DeSalvo at ringside before settling into his corner looking so much cooler than his whack ass opponent.

Send lawyers, guns, and money
Send lawyers, guns, and money
Send lawyers, guns, and money, hiyah!
Send lawyers, guns, and money, ow!

With the entrances finished a small table is set up in the middle of the ring with referee Elvis Nixon and Vince Howard standing behind it.

Max snaps his figures as the Herald hurriedly removes a small black box, handing it off to the Prime Minister of Maxopotamia. A twisted smile curls its way across his face as he oozes forward, giggling under his breath like a school boy who had just heard a particularly windful flatulence.

Vince Howard: As per the House Rules stipulation, both contestants will roll a pair of dice. A three through six will result in a Dog Collar match.

Elvis Nixon holds up a leather strap with dog collars tied to either end as the crowd cheers.

Vince Howard: On the roll of a seven through eleven will be a Barbed Wire ropes match.

The referee holds up a large spool of Barbed Wire while wearing heavy leather gloves for protection. The crowd cheers a little more loudly.

Vince Howard: A roll of twelve, or double box cars, will result in a First Blood match.

Elvis Nixon shows off his latex gloves that he wears in case of blood.

Vince Howard: Rolling a two, or snake-eyes, will result… IN A DEATH MATCH!

Nixon crosses his arms over his chest and rolls his head to the side, his tongue hanging out as he feigns death. Crowd loses its mind for the most dangerous of the stipulations. Max provides a golf clap, nodding his head in furious agreement.

Vince Howard: Max Kael will roll first.

Swaggering up to the table like he’s John Wayne about to commit a war crime, Max opens the small box to reveal a pair of bone-yellow dice. Clasping them in both hands, Max blows on them before casting them down onto the table. They roll and dance and skip across the table surface before clattering to a stop.

Vince Howard: Snake-eyes! The first stipulation will be… A DEATH MATCH!

Kael pretends to be surprised, fanning himself before shooting Cooley a pointed, arrogant smirk.

Little does he know.

Cooley only smiles back, giving a golf clap.

From within his sport coat pocket, Cooley pulls out a cherry red pair of dice. His throw is precise – natural, as casual for him as running a hand through his blonde locks. With a thud, they land on a five and six – colloquially called the Yo in Craps.

Vince Howard: The Yo! This match will be a BARBED WIRE DEATH MATCH!

The fans go absolute bat shit crazy. Vince Howard drops his shoulders. Elvis Nixon darts for his ringside ‘Just In Case’ bag. Then, in a sweeping wind, the full force of the Enemigos rush the ring and cover it in barbed wire. The lights drop.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen…

Another PRIME supershow. Another spotlight hangs over Vince Howard’s head in the middle of the ring. Another night for the “King of the Deathmatch Referees” Elvis Nixon to break out his death prevention attire. The two exchange a look of deja vous. After all, they went through this at Culture Shock. Howard gets back to business.

Vince Howard: Our next scheduled contest is, as the result of the House Rules… a BAAAAARBED WIIIIIIIRE DEEEEEEEEATH MAAAAAAAAATCH!!!

The arena lights pop on to reveal the ropes, bound in cutty-string, to the murderous joy of the Toronto fans.

RRRAAHHHHHHHHH

Vince locks eyes with Nixon again, both waiting for the carnage that’s about to take place, before getting to a point he raises the microphone yet again. Stage hands finish the ring prep, wrapping the ring posts from top to bottom back to the top again because the barbed wire budget here is so plentiful, wrapping shit twice won’t matter on the end of year expense report. One dude just dumps out a box of spare spindles around the outside of the ring.

Vince Howard: This match has no disqualifications… no stoppages allowed… and no holds barred!

Another bloodthirsty cheer washes over the arena. Vince’s stomach cringes a bit, trying to compartmentalize the fact that he’s literally leading lambs to the slaughter.

Vince Howard: The winner will be determined by… being the only man standing after a ten count!

The whole arena goes nuts as Vince points off toward the contestants. Nixon and Vince give each other a professional, parting nod before Howard brings on the sacrificial pieces of meat before their frenzied fanatics.

DING-

Kael waits for no dings. Not tonight. He’s full on into Cooley’s ribs with both thumbs, pressing inward, and lifts Colley up with a sudden, sharp scream before dropping him onto his back.

Nick Stuart: Good Lord! I don’t know if we’re gonna be glad we got this match, Dick, or really, really sad.

Like freshly witnessing a murder sad? Yes. That exact kind of sadness.

Kael goes right to work and wraps his spindly digits around Jackson’s throat. Elvis Nixon circles the two but knows damn well he’s not gonna be able to do shit in this one. Cooley reaches to unwrap but pivots instead to clap Max’s ears. It’s enough to break the strength of the choke before Max’s prey scrambles to his feet.

Nick Stuart: Here we go! Jackson Cooley squaring up with Max, finally!

Richard Parker: Oh, please, Nick. Jackson just isn’t ready for what he’s gotten himself into. This is the literal definition of getting fucked.

Nick can’t even find the words to question his partner. It doesn’t matter because, honestly, nobody’s gonna fact check it. What people are doing is watching Jackson and Max circle the ring. PRIME’s newcomer wears a snarl while PRIME’s nightmare chooses to sport a smile and snarl simultaneously while cracking his knuckles. That’s right before Max comes at Cooley with a clothesline. Jackson ducks and rolls to reposition behind Kael to a small cheer for the building suspense.

Richard Parker: See!? He’s gonna waste this entire clock by dodging Max before-

Two thunderous footsteps through the middle of the ring are louder than the hushed crowd. Nick and Dick look up to see Jackson Cooley lift off and plant two feet off Max’s chest and send him into the ropes.

OHHHHHH

Nick Stuart: Dropkick by Cooley! Kael hits the wires!

Fans nearby gasp as Kael hits and hangs, head down, against the wires. The first blood in this match belongs to the Minister. Cooley grins, glad to be the one to strike first, and elects to keep his foot on the gas. He pumps his hands to the roof to get the crowd into the match even more.

Nick Stuart: Cooley ready to take the fight to the Nightmare!

Richard Parker: This is…

Jackson doesn’t even get a step toward Max before he snaps his head up. Almost purposely, he allows the wires to dig into his back and arms even more, doing damage to himself more than his opponent has so far. Cooley stops in his tracks as the fans’ noise dies out. Kael finally pulls himself to his feet, reaching to his lower back, before smearing blood over his forehead and wagging his tongue at Cooley.

Richard Parker: …right where Max wants him!

Nick Stuart: Oh Christ…

HISSSSSSSSS

Kael cracks his neck. Cooley doesn’t give him the chance. They collide in the middle where Kael puts Jackson down with a running knee strike to the chest. Jackson hits the mat hard enough it doesn’t take much for Max to get him back to his feet.

Richard Parker: This is gonna be so fun, Nick. Max is gonna show the good people of Arkham exactly why he will be a merciful, kind Mayor.

Kael spins Cooley toward the ropes but Jackson slips out, ducking behind Max and delivers a closed fist to the face. Cooley counters, choosing to send Max to the ropes, before Kael counters himself but retracts, pulling Jackson into a short arm clothesline that rocks Cooley’s brainpiece.

RAHH-AWWWWWWW

Nick Stuart: I’m not sure who the fans are behind but I’m just gonna guess it’s not Max. Ever.

Kael wastes no time, ready to exalt the many lessons he’s learned over a lifetime of death upon the eager newcomer, and lifts Jackson off the mat. Max grips Jackson in a headlock and stands for a short second.

Nick Stuart: Looks like Max is trying to decide which direction he wants to go here.

OOOOOOHHHHHHHHH

So… he chose just to lift his heel backward and kick Cooley in the plumbs with a sickening smack. A deafening silence comes over the crowd enough that we can all hear that sick, slimy fuck chuckle with evil pride. He doesn’t let Jackson rub off the gut-wrenching pain. Nope, not tonight motherfuckers. Tonight, he wants to put this kid through absolute Hell.

It’s what Max does.

Richard Parker: Anything goes in a Barbed Wire Death Match, Nicky! What? You… have something to say?

Kael lifts Jackson from the mat by the waistband. He gets his very wobbly-legged opponent in a shoulder buster but stalls again, trying to build even more suspense. He takes a few steps to the turnbuckle as a rising groan grows over the arena.

Nick Stuart: This is… just wrong.

Kael winks at the fans in the front row. Cooley kicks his feet in the air but doesn’t seem to disturb his larger foe. Max wrenches back, sure to put everything he can into shattering Cooley’s body, and swings forward with the power of a dark wizard.

Nick Stuart: SLIP OUT BY COOLEY!

Richard Parker: Well that’s unfortunate.

Jackson drops off of Kael’s shoulder onto his feet. He takes a step back before springing at Max to connect with a lariat to the back of the head. The length of Max’s body comes in the form of a con here as he hits the ropes and wires before toppling over to the outside of the ring. He lands on the outside, gripping his midsection with some cuts to tend to.

YYYEEEEEEAAAAAAAHHHHHH

Richard Parker: How is this happening!?

Nick Stuart: Looks like this underdog has a little more bite than you’ve given him credit for, Dick.

Cooley jockeys around the ring. His eyes bounce around, examining his current surroundings. He backs up to the ropes opposite the recovering Max – now on one knee and holding the back of his head – before taking off and leaping over the top rope with a suicide plancha.

Richard Parker: …

Nick Stuart: …

HOLY SHIT

Both Kael and Cooley crash into the guardrail with a fleshy slap. Elvis Nixon, kind of just reading the various, hilarious signs around the crowd at this point, sees Nick, Richard, and Vince pointing behind him. He spins to notice the situation for him to finally get some action.

ONE

Richard Parker: There is no way this is happening.

Nick Stuart: Cooley has had a counter for every move Max has had to this point, Richard. But, getting out of here without a scratch… nobody took those odds.

TWO

Cooley is the first to stir. Max lay motionless. The pair lay awkwardly against the metal barriers.

THREE

The first to his feet is Jackson Cooley. Forearms against the rails, he looks down at Max with heavy breaths, before noticing the blood smeared on his torso and arms from Max’s open wounds.

FOUR

“Fuck that.”

Jackson shakes his head side to side. There’s no point in getting Max here if there’s no justice delivered. A dull, disapproving rumble comes from around Jackson as he reaches to lift Max to his knees. Somebody shouts ‘Don’t do it, stupid!’ as he turns to walk away and put some distance between him and the wobbly Kael. He turns around, waving his finger in a circle above his head, and charges at Kael. Max’s eyes pop open with another sick smile.

Nick Stuart: Ohmygod!

Another dropkick from Cooley is interrupted as Max grabs Jackson by each ankle, opens his legs slightly, and catches him crotch to face. In a swift motion, Kael wrenches his torso forward and plants Cooley on his back outside the ring with a makeshift powerbomb.

Richard Parker: Ahaha! See, Nick!? Cooley shouldn’t have done that.

BOOOOOO

Kael uses Jackson’s face and body as leverage to get himself up. The Lord of Kaelsylvania shakes off the minimal amount of cobwebs, rises to his feet and checks a jeering PRIMEate nearby with a fake backhand. The prospect of popping everyone in arms reach makes him laugh. That reminds him of the jackass he wants to pop the most.

Nick Stuart: Kael! Firing off rapid boots to Cooley’s head!

Gripping the guardrail to inflict even more violence, Max only stops when he’s out of interest. So a good minute and eighteen seconds of kicking down on his victim. Nixon shouts at Max but, again, it doesn’t mean jack. Max cocks an eyebrow at Elvis, smirks, and fires another boot into Cooley without breaking eye contact with his referee.

Nick Stuart: This is pathetic…

Richard Parker: But not illegal, Nick!

Certainly not illegal. Not in this instance. Which is exactly why Max is calling over the Herald and his trash can of terror. Cooley rolls to his stomach before pulling himself up with that trusty guardrail but only makes it to one knee.

Nick Stuart: Cooley getting to his feet. Slowly but… he’s getting there.

COME ON COOLEY!

A chant spreads around the arena with Kael elbow deep into his Beelzebub bucket. Unsure of what he wants to turn up the volume with, Max emerges with the Arkham flag on a flag pole.

Richard Parker: A vote for Kael is a vote for freedom!

This also happens to be the moment he hears the rumblings of Cooley’s resurgence and spins to see his opponent standing upright, blessing from his face. The perfect tool will take time to find that he doesn’t have right now. His hand grips a simple shinai wrapped in barbed wire and spins, planting it smack dab in the middle of Cooley’s forehead.

Nick Stuart: Jesus Christ, Richard!

Richard Parker: Oh calm down. It’s not a real sword.

Cooley drops back, crashing into the railing, before blood begins to trickle down his face even heavier. Max spins, winds up, and plants another one for good measure much to the disdain of the fans and Elvis Nixon. The Herald turns to head away from the danger before Max hears his toys clanking away. He tosses the bamboo-slash-barbwire sword off to the side.

Nick Stuart: Seems like Kael wants to go through his bag of tricks some more before the Herald gets away from the danger zone.

In the effort to speed things up and crank things up to eleventy billion, Max begins tossing items to the floor. In cartoonish fashion, he sends weapons of death out of the seemingly bottomless bucket of brutality. It’s a what’s what of hardcore weapons; steel chairs, barbed-wire baseball bats, a barbed wire-wrapped Rubik’s cube, brass knuckles, a French Press wrapped in barbed wire, an old rotary phone, and finally emerges with wide eyes and even wider smile.

Richard Parker: Now we’re cookin’, Nicky babes!

Max pulls out a twelve-inch castiron skillet and hoists it in the air to another audible gasp from the fans. Kael shows off his culinary killing device and softly taps it against his hand a few times to fully feel the weight of his decision. The fans begin to stir with a vibrant rise of energy.

Richard Parker: See, Nick? No matter how hard these people try, they can’t turn down a good, old-fashioned bloodbath.

The encouraging frenzy convinces Max to get back on the offensive before he turns to catch the skinny end of a steel chair to the ribs. The air leaving his lungs is quickly cut off with the sound of metal denting around the skull of a demon.

Richard Parker: Hey! That’s Max’s weapon. He can’t… can he?

Nick Stuart: It’s not illegal though, right, Richard?

A huge pop goes off as both Jackson and Max crash to the floor. It’s a brief respite however. Jackson gets back to his feet but, now, has a new target.

Nick Stuart: Jackson Cooley has his eyes on the Herald!

Richard Parker: Run, Bentley! Ruuu-

Doing his best to maintain his grip on the Killing Can, Cooley does his best to jostle it out of The Herald’s hands. When that doesn’t work, he drops his hip, uses his weight, and wrenches backward. Jackson’s size and weight are enough to catapult The Herald behind him into the side of the ring.

THWACK

Richard Parker: Ring the bell! This is absolutely uncalled for! Bring on the Tribunal!

Nick Stuart: We both know Max Kael doesn’t recognize the rules of the Geneva Convention so why should Cooley?

Kael gets to his feet but notices Jackson is nowhere near him. He’s on his way towards the trash can. Max’s eyes go wide. Cooley turns to bait Max to his feet with a sneer. The Black Heart of PRIME obliges and does his best to sprint towards Cooley before he gets to Bag o’ doom. Jackson mock browses the can before toe dragging Max face first into the side of the can, painting it red, and putting Max down yet again.

Nick Stuart: Jackson Cooley holding his own right now.

Richard Parker: I take it you didn’t grow up around chickens, Nick.

The rapid pace and maximum impact moves between the two take their toll on Cooley though. He’s not as quick to his feet as he wants to be as Elvis Nixon starts a ten count while both men are slow to collect themselves.

ONE

The crowd starts slapping their hands, stomping their feet, and screaming demeaning things at Kael; everyone doing their best to bring Cooley to his feet first. It’s enough to stir them both from a motionless state.

TWO

Nixon watches from inside the ring because, honestly, he doesn’t want to have to get back in the ring with all his gear on. So he tosses up a third digit.

THREE

Nick Stuart: If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Cooley-

Max seemingly comes back to life, rolling over and sits upright in one fluid and grotesque motion. Blood trickles out of his mouth and down his neck from the prior chair shot. Like a true demon, he seems unaware of his injuries and mostly applies his focus to giving Cooley many, many more.

Starting with the old rotary phone.

RINGRING

Without standing up, Max grips the phone much the way an old timey newspaper man might hold it in one hand and rocks it onto the back of Cooley’s head. With nowhere to bounce, it slams his head into the ground outside of the ring. The crowd groans nauseatingly.

RINGRING

After doing so again, now with pure violence in his eyes, he mounts Cooley’s back and wraps the slicy-wire around his concussed victim’s neck. He pulls it tight enough to draw blood but not enough to end this match because… we all know what Max Kael wants.

To make a lasting impression on the kid. Duh.

BOOOOOOOOO

Nixon and the fans scream at Max. Trying to reason with the Devil is impossible though and he simply wrenches back even tighter. Jackson Cooley’s eyes fill with water. His legs kick for his life. One hand grabs at the wire, cutting his fingers up, before his other hand reaches out and desperately searches for a weapon. He finds something heavy, very heavy, hard, and strangely cold.

BONG

Nick Stuart: Cooley found the skillet! Blood is pouring from Kael’s nose!

The Rogers Center erupts yet again. Max slumps back, releasing his grip on the cord, and topples over like a worn out beanbag chair. Nixon shakes his head but sees that he has to administer another count.

ONE

RAAAAAHHHHHH

Richard Parker: That was an absolutely selfish move by Cooley.

Jackson Cooley is quick to reach up to the ring apron and get his shoulder up. Kael isn’t quite there yet, still writhing around on the floor. The Choice Champion of All the Mother’s lets out a guttural roar through his teeth, using the apron to pull himself up.

TWO

The image of his throat bloodied after receiving the most violent collect call of his life is lasting but the image of him making it to his feet lasts a lot longer. Slumping over yet again, Cooley tries to fight through the multiple concussions he might be facing. He settles for deep breaths while mentally preparing himself to block out the pain and finish the job.

THREE

Richard Parker: We need a blood test after this one. There is no way this kid gets up first after getting his bell rung like that…

Nick does an eye roll.

Richard Parker: …get it, Nick? Bell… rung…?

Nick Stuart: …

The silence amongst the announce team is enough to draw the attention away from Cooley. Kael begins to roll but has yet to get off the ground. He reaches for Cooley’s boots, barely mustering the strength to grab on, as Jackson simply pushes Max’s hands away.

FOUR

Richard Parker: Now what’s that handsome devil doing?

Jackson drops to a knee by the ringside. The cameras cut from across the ring to his side, seeing him fumbling underneath with fervor. Max rolls to his stomach but can’t stop his face from dropping another cup of blood from the holes in his nose.

FIVE

Nick Stuart: Look! Look! Jackson Cooley is pulling a table out from under the ring!

Richard Parker: I give him credit for wanting to go big but, with Kael already at the five count, do you put Max on that table or see how far you can take the count?

Jackson turns, moving the table into a manageable area and begins to set it up. It also happens to be next to the loose spindles of excess slicer-string. He looks back, noticing some fans start to warn him that Max is trying to move more than before, but sees he’s still on his back.

SIX

Nick Stuart: We’re past five, partner!

Cooley starts undoing the barbed wire around the table. He gets through it before finally propping the table upright. There’s a 50/50 reaction going on right now. Those of the preventative school of thought, wanting Cooley to wait for the count to finish, and the others who want an aggressive finish. The ones who have been waiting their whole lives to see Kael put on a rippy-rope torture table like this.

SEVEN

Nick Stuart: Elvis Nixon reaching seven, Richard. All the while, Cooley is keeping things fairly clean on his end. Unlike the road Kael’s taken to get to this point.

Cooley spots the skillet and puts it toward where somebody’s head would be. Then the chair in the middle. Then he spots the French Press and wonders what sick fuck would think to bring this thing? He figures he could have Max hold onto it when he plants him through it. Those few precious seconds are enough to distract Cooley long enough from the task at hand.

LOOKOUT!

Nick Stuart: Turn around, Jackson! Turn around!

Richard Parker: Tisk, tisk, Nick. Bipartisan, eh?

BEHIND YOU!

As Cooley checks the structural integrity of his death bed, it registers that he hasn’t heard Nixon make a count in a little while. The hairs on his neck go up. He spins, holding the French Press, but sees nothing where Max just was.

Nick Stuart: Where the Hell…

Kael rolls out from under the table, springing upward. He launches Cooley into the air, still gripping the wire-wrapped coffee maker, before sending his fist into it and through the therefore said French Press with a mighty European Uppercut.

NOOOO!

Richard Parker: Arkham Uppercut! Arkham Uppercut! AAAAARKHAAAAM UUUUUPERCUUUUUUT!!!!

Nick Stuart: Good God, folks.

Cooley falls to the floor in a pile, barely missing being put through the table of his own making, as the fans pop for some of the craziest shit they’ve seen in a long time. It takes so much out of Arkham’s Mayoral Nominee, he drops to a knee himself. With more lacerations on the side of his head and more blood drawn, Jackson Cooley lies seemingly dead against the ring steps.

Elvis Nixon starts the count

ONE

CLANG

With little interest in running down a ten count, Max performs a running soccer kick to the head of his opponent that echoes off the arena walls. He stalks around, sneering to the fans with a bloody grin, while gauging what he wants to do with his prey.

Nick Stuart: Whatever ending we get here, this is absolutely sickening to watch. Who the Hell signed off on this? I know Cooley wanted to be here but did he really know what he was walking into!?

ONE-

Kael grabs Cooley’s hair, sneering back at Nixon, seemingly to express his disdain for these counts and not letting him get on with his business. Elvis, through his catcher’s mask, tries to plead with Max to go easy on the kid. He knows too many people around PRIME to expect that to happen though.

Richard Parker: Alright, Mr. Mayor, let’s bring this thing home!

Ironically, Max takes a good, long while to get Cooley to his feet. Probably much longer than a ten count would take. He shoots spiteful darts at Nixon yet again before planting Cooley onto a chair with a Cobra Clutch Suplex that draws even more ire from the fans.

Nick Stuart: JESUS CHRIST!

Richard Parker: No, Nick, that’s Max Kael, future Mayor of Arkham, and he just performed his original move the Suplex That Broke Time.

Nick just glares at Max. Richard maintains focus on Nick. Max watches Cooley writhe and twitch around the outside of the ring. The crowd grows to a fever pitch, mostly booing but some cheering for the chaos, as Max looks to his audience with curiosity on his bloody mug. He turns over his shoulder, once again focusing on Elvis Nixon, before tapping his wrist and shrugging. Nixon’s shoulders drop with a mournful sigh.

ONE

BOOOOOOOOOO

Nick Stuart: Oh, now he wants to back off Cooley? Give me a goddamn break.

TWO

All the number counting brings a smile over Max’s face like he’s an avid Sesame Street fan. He lets his gaze circle around the arena at the hate and fear and disapproval being thrown down upon him like rain in a flash flood. He turns his eyes to the Terror Table Cooley has gifted his villainous foe.

THREE

Nick Stuart: Wait… no! That table was meant for Max!

Richard Parker: As they say, Nick, if you mess with the bull, you get covered in bullshit.

Nick Stuart: That’s not… what?

FOUR

There’s no time to debate how that statement actually, somehow, makes sense.

Nick Stuart: Max Kael is kicking the legs out from under the table, letting the castiron skillet slide into Cooley’s ribs for yet another cherry on top of the Suicide Sundae this kid signed up for.

FIVE

Richard Parker: But look, Nick! As always, Max has taken the high road and thrown that table into the middle of the ring. Oh, it looks like he cut his hand there.

SIX

Max Kael looks at the open wound. Peering at it, longingly. Noticing how the blood flows fresh, fluid, like a river being let loose over rocks at the head of a waterfall. His eyes drift away from his tied-for-first most beautiful thing to witness. They land on Jackson fuckin’ Cooley.

SEVEN

Now rolling around, unsure if he can get up, Kael’s prey starts to make the game fun again. They lock eyes. Cooley lowers his brow, ready to fight for everything he loves, but is met with a sick, twisted gaze. Kael slowly steps toward Cooley with steps as soft, yet loud, as the Devil’s whisper.

EIGHT

Richard Parker: Well, Nick… I… I’m liking-

Nick Stuart: Folks, if you have young ones in the room, you might want to get them out.

NINE

Jackson Cooley looks to Elvis Nixon, realizes his position, and springs to his feet with a serious amount of pain from almost every spot that feels pain on his body.

Nick Stuart: He’s up!

Kael pounces like a panther under the pale moon. He begins punching away at Cooley as hard as he can, feeling this match himself, but with a violent fever he has no cure for. Not even Jackson’s bloodied face will stop him now. But a straight right under Max’s jaw does.

RRRRRAAHHHHHHH

Richard Parker: What the fuck!? I mean, how is this guy even on his feet!?

Cooley climbs onto Max, arm around his neck, and delivers closed right after closed right. He delivers a stern headbutt, right where that skillet made eggs earlier, as the pair fall back. Max is nearly out as Cooley goes full rage mode.

Richard Parker: The Herald! Help your liege!

The Herald simply stares at the carnage happening in front of him. Cooley continues his fierce and ferocious frenzy of fists. It’s a goddamn bloodbath. Max’s spray is covering Cooley. The Herald finally looks at Richard, who is shaking his head slowly from side to side with folded arms.

Richard Parker: You treacherous bitch.

The amount of blood brings Jackson out of his vision of red. Almost. He crawls off Kael but gives him a stern boot to the ribs. That doesn’t draw a sound from PRIME’s Number One Nightmare Man. He’s… quite limp.

Richard Parker: Oh my God, Nick…

Nick Stuart: Ladies and gentlemen, we’re not sure what just happened here but… the fact that Jackson Cooley stopped is an indicator that we might need medical attention out here for Max Kael.

Richard Parker: No, Elvis! That doesn’t count!

ONE

Cameras are focused on a very bloody Max Kael. Jackson Cooley is on one knee a few feet away, unsure if he just killed a man, and takes deep, calming breaths.

TWO

Richard Parker: Is this really happening, Nick?

Cooley leans back, hands on his hips, unsure what to do. He looks at his hands, shaking, still unsure. He cautiously turns to watch Max as the count continues.

THREE

Nick Stuart: It looks like Jackson Cooley is asking the ringside doctor to check Max Kael out!

Richard Parker: That’s what I was just doing, Nick! You son of a bi-

FOUR

From ringside, a man in black and blue scrubs rushes in, pressing his fingers to Kael’s throat. A hush comes over the crowd as he looks up, nodding affirmatively, before ducking back to his out of fucking danger position. The crowd begins to resume their cheers for Cooley with a little remorse for Max.

Very little.

Richard Parker: Wait! Just because he’s breathing doesn’t mean he’s okay, Nick. What is this? Battle Dome!?

Nick Stuart: This is a Barbed Wire DEATH MATCH, Richard. You get what you ask for.

FIVE

Cooley continues to watch the motionless, somehow breathing Max Kael, before finally standing to both feet to the roar of the crowd. His face isn’t sure what to do because, last time, he left Max alone too long and is now… here.

Richard Parker: You leave that man… yeah! You leave him alone you slimy shit!

Nick Stuart: Sit down, Richard. This is Max Kael and we haven’t even gotten half-

SIX

Jackson Cooley walks over to Max’s area. More like limps. He’s had a rough roll so far and needs to find out what he needs to bet right now. He throws a soccer kick but stops before delivering the blow. Max doesn’t move.

SEVEN

Richard Parker: This sick fuck is just toying with Max now! I would disqualify him on lack of integrity!

Nick Stuart: Look, Richard. He stopped and then went over to the doctor. It looks like he’s confirming that Max is okay. For what these two have gone through, I am honestly impressed by Cooley’s amount of integrity.

Cooley makes his way back toward Max. He looks up at Elvis with a shrug. That’s when he starts to scale the ring steps.

EIGHT

Richard Parker: This cannot go down this way. I know we don’t see eye to eye a lot, Nick, but like this? Jackson Cooley is the one to kill Max when so many others deserve to?! This is downright disappointing.

Cooley notices his boot strings have been caught in one of those loose spindle of cutty-cord. It holds him up just a touch.

NINE

He loosens himself and goes back to getting to that third step. He climbs the top rope to the roar of the crowd. The only thing about the barb wire that scares him now is getting down without cutting an artery. Cooley looks down, not seeing Kael, but brushes it off because he’s one second away from.

Nick Stuart: Where is Max!?

Through the ropes, risk to the fucking wind, Max Kael lunges from the shadow of the other side of the ring post to grab Cooley’s ankle and pull. He pulls like a Preying Mantis grabs her mate and prepares for the most violent fuck sesh you’ll ever see.

BOOOOOOORRRRAAHHHHHHH

The ring is painted red as Max leaves his current body on the line and yanks Jackson Cooley’s ankle. He drops into the ring.

Nick Stuart: Max Kael is in the ring!

Cooley, fresh as can be, sees Max wipe the blood from his face and spread it around his hands like sticky grip the fast football guys use. They both eye the Treacherous Table of Losing A Lot of Blood. Max points behind Cooley.

Richard Parker: Look!

Nick Stuart: POCKET SAND! Oh come the f- Come on!

Cooley turns back to catch a sturdy amount of sand from his pants pocket, not body pocket, and disperses it into Jackson Cooley’s eyeballs. Jackson hits the deck, right onto the table of said losing of blood.

Max isn’t done.

BOOOOOOOOO

Kael waves the fans’ dismay off, firing a strong boot into Cooley’s ribs, before he begins to prop the table upright. He gets one side up. Then he gets the next side up. Cooley finally can register shapes and colors. He plays defense, slapping Max’s attempts at a grapple away.

Nick Stuart: Stay away from the corner, Jackson!

Richard Parker: You are such a crumb.

OOOOOOHHHHHHHH

Max presses Jackson into the turnbuckle with a sick sound of toothpicks. Cooley buckles. Max doesn’t care and catches his foe in his arms. He bounces him onto the second turnbuckle with more sounds of toothpicks. The fans wince. Richard rises out of his seat.

Nick Stuart: Sit down, please.

Richard Parker: How can you sit down!? Have you ever seen the dead come back to life… in a DEATH MATCH??

Max, feet on the red ring mat, presses upward and brings his 195 pound opponent to the top rope. He stops at the top, wondering where he’s bleeding from because, frankly, all he can see is blood. He grins, wraps each of his arms under Cooley’s, before dropping him through the table in a top rope Tiger Driver.

Nick Stuart: Holy. Mother. And. Ghost.

BOOOORAAHHHHBOOOORAHHHHBOOOORAHHHH

The Rogers Center can’t help but bounce on their feet. Most hoping Jackson Cooley isn’t done yet. A good percentage acknowledging Max Kael’s lighting-fast comeback. Everyone, shocked at what they just saw unfold. Richard clutches Nick’s shoulder, both on their feet, watching both competitors lay bloodied and motionless in the middle of the UltraViolence ring.

ONE

Nick Stuart: Not like this.

Cooley shows some signs of life amidst the wood, barbed wire, and metal of the table he just went through. The crowd shows him their support with cheers and whistles.

TWO

Richard Parker: Max is alive, too! Cheer for him, too, Toronto!

Cooley rolls but winces. And bleeds. From everywhere. The Herald finally rushes back into action, looking for some signs of life from his master.

THREE

Nick Stuart: Let’s be real. Max isn’t dead. That body? Maybe. He’s lost a lot of blood.

Richard Parker: Stay in your lane, Nick. Max Kael loses the most blood. It’s kind of his thing.

FOUR

Max wrenches. Cooley rolls. Neither man has made an effort to get to their feet. The most unfortunate person amidst this mess wears a catcher’s mask and football pads. And throws up his fifth finger.

FIVE

Cameras catch Vince Howard turning away from the crimson-covered canvas he so lovingly steps upon. And will again tonight. He offers a glance toward the announce table, in which the cameras follow and see both Nick and Richard trying to stomach the rest of the call.

SIX

Cooley can’t muster past his injuries. Max seems to be content on the mat. Blood is everywhere. The Herald runs around the outside of the ring, slapping spots not covered in barbed wire. That’s a hard game to play as he slips in the pool of blood Max left by the ringsteps.

BONG

SEVEN

Nixon calls the count but notices Max’s little puppet just planted against the PRIME staircase, teeth first. He gestures to the ringside doctor, wondering if they want to look at that, before remembering his affiliates.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think our policies include The Herald. Do they?

EIGHT

Elvis Nixon focuses. There are two counts left in this Murder Match and he’s really not ready for more. His eyes bounce to Max, still motionless, and then to Jackson, very much trying to escape the web of wire he built around that table. The main problem is that, unfortunately, it’s all around him.

Nick Stuart: Jackson Cooley is doing everything here tonight!

NINE

The blood loss is enough to drag Cooley down. His shoulders drop. Max Kael finally reaches his side and then, gripping the middle rope – yes, it’s covered in barbed wire – pulls himself up to both knees. Jackson Cooley can’t do the same.

TEN

DING DING DING

The crew by ringside rush to help Jackson. The arena erupts. Sixty, forty split. The winner slithers to his feet. He gestures violence toward Elvis which sends the official out of the ring, catching his pads on the wire. Max presses the medics out of the ring. Especially the ones trying to help him.

Nick Stuart: This is absolutely sickening.

Max folds the ends of Jackson Cooley’s broken table over him, further disallowing him to escape, and simply smiles down at him. Vince Howard, from beyond the ring, reluctantly raises a microphone to his mouth.

Vince Howard: Tonight’s winner, by way of ten count…

BOOOOOOOOO

Vince Howard: …is MAAAAAAAAAAAXXXXXXXX KAAAAAAAAAAAAAELLLL!!!!

Nick Stuart: Oh! Come on, Max!

As if there were a goddamn rehearsal, Max flags in The Herald. He doesn’t bring his trash can but, instead, carries in a briefcase of brutality. Max smiles, motioning for The Herald to open his latest surprise to PRIME. His eyes go wide. The Herald flinches but tries to hide it through tears.

Richard Parker: It’s just a simple close of business signature transition, Nick! Stop being soooo weary, dude.

Kael pulls what looks to be a necktie made out of barbed wire from his briefcase o’ blood. He hoists it over his head, modeling it for the fans. It’s actually made out of barbed wire. Like seriously. The ingenuity. Elvis Nixon waves his hands, moving towards the middle of the ring.

Away from Max. Just as he wraps the barbed wire Windsor around Cooley’s throat. And pulls like a terrier on a pillow.

BOOOOOOOO

Nick Stuart: This.. NO! This is uncalled for – AFTER A DEATH MATCH! Max Kael is not letting go!

Richard Parker: Jackson Cooley asked for it, Nick. You have glass on the lions at the zoo for a reason. Jackson Cooley is getting a first-hand lesson why.

Kael wrenches, almost like a cowboy, and makes sure to leave memories on Cooley’s body. This is what Max does. Jackson peers up into his eyes…

They’re finally broken up by the Enemigos and hired security. Nick and Richard, finally, sit the fuck down. Cooley leaves with things to remember Max by. With help. A lot of help.

Richard Parker: Told ya, Nick.

Nick Stuart: Told me what, now?

Cameras flash to the announce table while the ring crew does their best to clean up the copious amounts of blood spilled in the last match.

Richard Parker: Getting out of here without a scratch… not tonight.

UltraViolence moves on.

The show comes back to life after the commercial break, but instead of the feed picking up inside the Rogers Centre; it’s via satellite, and onboard the USS Bandit.

Surprise!

Live, from inside the Captain’s Quarters.

A sit down before the throw down.

The Universal Champion, Cecilworth Farthington.

The Manhunter, Cancer Jiles.

The stars of Night Two’s MAIN EVENT!

The two are seated across from each other, and yes there is tension. As such, between them is a rather large table with the grandest prize in all the land dutifully displayed atop of it. Oh, and there’s also a rather large forehead seated between them as well.

Coral Avalon: Uh, hi everyone.

He even wore a blazer.

A regular Coral Cronkite.

Cecilworth Farthington: Hello, Coral. Great seeing you again. Hope all is well, and thank you for taking the time out of your busy day to come and see us.

The King of Crumbs yawns, acting as if he’s way too cool for school.

Cecilworth Farthington: You might be wondering why I asked for you, and truth be told with him on deck I wanted to see what a real Bandit looks like, and not some cockroach.

And the yawning stops.

Cancer Jiles: Good one, Cecilworth. Tell us, which one of the Woods do you have writing your material these days? Holly or Scotty?

Bobby Dean is heard snickering off screen, presumably the bathroom from the echo he makes.

Cecilworth Farthington: Like I said, a real Bandit. God knows they certainly don’t exist inside “the carton” anymore.

Cancer Jiles: Oh, like “the stick” is some shining example. That idiot Hanlon doesn’t even know how old he is!

Cecilworth Farthington: Is Doozer here? Doozer? Are you here? Yes? No? Not that anyone would care. Probably off mumbling in a corner about boots and bums again. That guy has got a fetish.

Cancer Jiles: If he was, I can assure you he would egg you in the face for a second time. That said, I could always give him a call if you’d like, just to see.

Cecilworth Farthington: Go ahead, I bet you that he doesn’t answer. Actually, bet your spot on it. Actually, let’s take it all the way. I’ll give you the championship right here and now if he answers.

There is a moment of pause.

And never once does Cancer Jiles reach for his phone.

Cancer Jiles: You crumb, I’m going to–

Before King COOL can continue, and the sit down completely derails, the man in the middle slams his hand on the table as if it were a gavel.

Coral Avalon: GENTLEMEN, please! Some civility just for one more night. Some of us have come a long way to be here, y’know. …Also, can I have a gavel? That hurt.

No one gives Coral a gavel, but this comment does give Cecilworth a moment for pause and reflection.

Cecilworth Farthington: Now you mention it… how did I get here? You know what, I’m not going to dwell on that, let’s move on.

Cancer Jiles: I know how you’re leaving, that’s for sure.

“Overboard.”

Cecilworth Farthington: I’d like to see you try.

Coral Avalon: Gentlemen, please!

Both Champion and challenger begrudgingly relent, but who knows how long their concession will last.

Coral Avalon: Thank you.

Cecilworth considers saying “you’re welcome” but realizes this isn’t the right environment for generic British pleasantries.

Coral Avalon: Okay…

The Crownless King straightens his posture, clears his throat, and goes about maintaining order, or at least something closely resembling order. After all, it is the reason why Coral was chosen for this; he might be the only person on Earth that Big C and Little C would listen to, or at least something resembling listening to.

Ha.

Coral Avalon: Before this spirals again let’s get down to business. Two questions still remain heading into tomorrow night’s MAIN EVENT. One, what did you say to him on ReVival 68, and two, will there be some sort of stipulation in play to ensure… for a lack of a better word, Banditry, won’t rule the day?

Cancer Jiles: I’ll tell ya what he said– he said deep down he wishes he were an eGG Bandit, and that he’s tired of Hayes’ reverse aging, and not remembering what Fontaine’s first name is… and that he wished Flambo was really Scottish, like Phil. That’s what he said.

A beat, one that is just long enough to not let anyone else get a word in.

Cancer Jiles: As for this Banditry you speak of… well, I’m unfamiliar with the term and what that means.

The Champ makes a universal hand gesture that involves wagging his wrist.

Something Off.

Cecilworth Farthington: Remember when “the brethren” carried Coral away after the Banditjack? That was Banditry. Whenever Tony scurries out from underneath the ring to save the day, or Hessian takes out a continent to protect you, or when Bobby farts to clear the apron… that’s Banditry.

Genuine confusion sets in before the doctor can even close the door.

Cancer Jiles: … that happens?

Cecilworth Farthington: All of the time, that happens.

Cancer Jiles: I wasn’t asking you.

Poor Coral.

Coral Avalon: Eh, from time to time, yes, that happens.

The Manhunter sulks.

Cecilworth Farthington: Told you.

And then he sulks once more.

Cecilworth Farthington: Matter of fact, let’s make sure it happens again, but let’s make sure the playing field is equal this time around. I say, since you asked, Coral, the stipulation for me and crumbo’s match tomorrow night is this… A LUMBERGLUE dash BANDITJACK MATCH.

Audible gasping from all corners of the den and stick can be heard.

Cecilworth Farthington: Me and mine. You and yours. No surprises. No tricks. No rules. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. All the cards on the table, may the best man win.

Cancer Jiles: You wouldn’t dare. I eat jacks, Jack. Eat them.

Cecilworth Farthington: I just did, Jack.

Cue the siren noise from the KILL BILL showdowns.

Cancer Jiles: Done.

Cecilworth Farthington: Plus, I want him sitting at ringside. I want him to watch with the rest of the Bandits as I break you piece by piece.

Cancer Jiles: Double done.

Coral Avalon: I wasn’t planning on going but… well I guess I am now.

Cecilworth Farthington: Oh, and for the record, I told him that no matter how high he climbed he’d never escape the pit.

Ha.

Before Jiles lunges across the table and Night Two comes early, Coral takes it home.

Coral Avalon: You heard it here first, folks. Tomorrow night the Hunter Games rage on, and only one district’s representative, either glue’s or yolk’s, will get carried away to victory.

The Crownless King shrugs, before apologizing for being a little rusty.

The satellite feeds cuts back to the Rogers Center and Night One of UltraViolence rages on,

Hype for tomorrow night’s Universal Championship battle transitions to the more prescient; the final championship bout of the evening. Important to note that both men featured mere moments ago have each held the 5 Star Championship which is about to be put up for grabs. Those reigns are as different as the men themselves.

Steve Harrison had a part to play in such assessments; The Miracle Man took down The Coolympian mere weeks after Manhunt, wrestling the title away from the King of Cool. Ol’ Banditsbane. Subsequent weeks have been divisive; an association with Glue, a defeat at the hands of Jonathan-Christopher Hall. Still, he holds the champion’s advantage. But his opponent tonight, The Emerald Apex, Kerry Kuroyama? His road has been anything but. Under the radar, his run of victories. Tonight, he competes for the title connected to the lone loss he has suffered as a singles competitor nearly a year ago.

Nick Stuart: A night of violence already, but I think most believe this bout will be more about technical superiority within the sport of professional wrestling.

Richard Parker: And Kerry Kuroyama has, for his part, definitely made it clear his sentiment toward that. But sentiment is whatever. Look where it got him…face down on the canvas thanks to Jack Marley.

A simple scan over the Rogers Centre crowd. Then, ominous storm clouds begin to billow across the super-sized panoramic PRIMEview hanging over the stage. The sounds of howling winds, rolling thunder, and heavy rainfall accompany scattered flickers of viridian-hued levin.

KRACKA-BOOOOOM!!!

Bolts of LIGHTNING suddenly strike the stage, heralding the opening beats to “Blouses Blue” by Konrad OldMoney and Sleep Steady.

BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!

BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!

BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!

BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!

A row of fountain pyros, silver and green, interchangeably erupt from pots arranged around the entryway. Two figures emerge through the storm of fire and smoke. The spotlight hits, revealing KERRY KUROYAMA in full emerald and argent regalia, with eternal wingman Scott Hunter at his shoulder and everyone’s favorite stoner marsupial Kerry Koalayama waddling at his heels. Scott leans in and graciously double-points to the Emerald Apex. Kerry stands at the head of the ramp, arms pumped overhead, DEFIANTly staring down the crowd.

Vince Howard: The following contest is scheduled for one fall and is for the PRIME! FIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE! STAAAAAAAAAAAAR! CHAMPIONSHIP!

The crowd roars.

Vince Howard: Introducing first…THE CHALLENGER! Accompanied by “Wingman” Scott Hunter… he hails from Seattle, Washington, and weighs in at two-hundred and thirty two pounds… representing VAE VICTIS… he is…THE EMEEEEEEERRALD APEX… KEEERRRYYYY! KUUURROOOOYYYAAAAAMMMAAAAAAA!!!

The Pacific Blitzkrieg scales the steel steps and enters through the ropes, with the Atlantic Guerilla Warfare (nickname pending) and the Eucalyptic Apex close behind.

Nick Stuart: Over the course of the last year, we have seen a change in one Kerry Kuroyama. His potential, immeasurable. His credentials, rock solid. His skill? We’ve seen him rise to the occasion over and over and over. Over former Universal Champions. Top level competitors. But tonight…does it all come together? After failing to capture the 5 Star Championship at Colossus…does Kerry Kuroyama make good and take the title as his own?

Richard Parker: If that’s going to happen, he’s going to need more than good vibes and koalas. As much as things have been coming up VV lately across the wrestling landscape…are things going to look great if he DOESN’T get it done? If he’s still titleless in PRIME after coming in as the tip of the Vae Victis spear?

Testing the ropes, Kuroyama stops, his eyes shooting to the entrance the moment the lights dim. The slow melodic song of “Monsters,” by Phish begins to play. Steve Harrison slowly emerges to the entrance ramp. His green robe flows behind him as he takes a few steps. His eyes are closed as he stops at the top of ramp:

Easy now, easy now

Easy now, easy now

I wake up in my bed

With monsters in my head

Easy now, easy now

Easy now, easy now

I wake up in my bed

With monsters in my head

Steve’s eyes open at the last mention of Monsters and “Set Your Soul Free,” by Trey Anastasio w/ Derek Trucks begins to rapidly play. There is no acknowledgment of the crowd as he begins to walk a bit faster down the ramp.

Vince Howard: His opponent…coming to the ring, from… currently unknown, weighing 250 pounds and standing six feet five inches tall….he is the PRIME! FIIIIIIIVE STAR! CHAAAMPION! THE MIRACLE MAAAAAAAN! STEEEEEEEEVE! HAAAAAARRISON!!!

No smirk, but rather, his palms slapping the face plate of the 5 Star Championship. His eyes scan the ring, then focus on his challenger, his concentration refusing to waver as he makes his way to the steps, swiftly stepping into the ring.

Richard Parker: A Glue Boy in spirit. And if he has the blessings of Lord Cecilworth Farthington? Then I know where I am buttering my bread on this evening.

Nick Stuart: Steve Harrison returned to the wrestling world from the dredges, from the pits of entertainment. Yet for all the talk of Miracles, he would be amongst the first to tell you that his victory over Cancer Jiles–

Richard Parker: THANK YOU!

Nick Stuart: –was FAR from a miracle. He has the chance, tonight, to prove that against someone young, hungry, and on one hell of a roll.

He walks to the middle and looks out at the crowd and then runs from one corner to the other and then leans against the turnbuckle and takes his robe off and, before handing it to the ring attendant, makes sure to tell them to not muddy up his duds. From there, he unclasps the 5 Star Championship from his waist, pumping it skyward, flashing a smirk in the process before handing it over to official Ashley Barlow.

Barlow then presents the title to both champion and challenger, their eyes focused on it before locking on each other. Lifting the title in the air, the crowd erupts. Soon after, Barlow hands the championship to the ring attendant, and, quickly, signals for the match to begin.

DING DING

Kerry and Harrison don’t waste a second. The two pick up a brisk walking pace that turns into side-steps. Harrison takes a swipe for a leg pick, Kerry manages to step away from it. He lunges in at the Five Star Champion. The two immediately lock up into a collar and elbow tie up. Kerry pushes on Harrison, but the Miracle man pivots and uses Kerry’s momentum to spin the lockup, but Kuroyama manages to plant his foot and shove back. Harrison manages to get a grip on an arm and drops under Kuroyama’s elbow and wrenches his arm back. The Emerald Apex tries to roll forward out of the hold, but Harrison stays with it and plants an elbow into Kuroyama’s shoulder for the trouble.

Nick Stuart: Harrison has a solid grip on that arm.

As Stuart compliments it, Harrison acknowledges by ripping Kuroyama’s arm behind his back into a hammerlock. Kerry reaches back for Harrison, but his hand finds nothing while smacking against Harrison’s bald head. The Apex does the sensible thing and steps forward looking for the ropes, but Harrison follows him all the way to the ropes. Kuroyama grabs hold and Harrison lays on Kuroyama.

Richard Parker: Great strategy from Harrison, he’s going to make Kerry work for it.

Barlow steps in with a count, it’s a bit quick and Harrison motions for her to slow down. Barlow ignores him, she makes it to four and Harrison steps away with his hands raised. Kuroyama holds the ropes as Barlow steps away, Harrison darts in and rakes his fingernails down Kerry’s back and across the famed back tattoo.

Nick Stuart: Dirty play there, Richard.

Richard Parker: Kuroyama is going to have to work for it, Nick.

Kerry grimaces while taking an agonized step, the second step is away but it plants hard and the Emerald Apex unleashes a bruising forearm that comes behind the third step of the sequence. Harrison takes a backward step and fires back with an absolutely blistering knife edge chop across Kerry’s chest. Kuroyama tries to fire another forearm but Harrison sniffs out the decapitating intent of the blow, Kerry stumbles through where Harrison was. The Miracle Man follows behind Kuroyama, jamming him into the turnbuckles.

Nick Stuart: Oh! What a shot from Harrison.

Kerry smashes the buckles chest first but manages to spin around. His sternum is screaming, but Harrison smothers him. He’s driving his bald head into Kerry’s jaw, grinding it up under his chin. Kerry takes a weak swing to Harrison’s midsection, and Steve responds by separating and delivering another blistering knife edge chop. Harrison doesn’t stop, he brings a second, then a third across the pectorals. Kuroyama’s upper chest reddens, and Harrison drives a sharp boot to Kerry’s stomach as Barlow steps in to separate Harrison from Kerry.

Nick Stuart: Great start from Harrison, he’s working Kuroyama over.

Richard Parker: All in the plan, Nick. I might get into managing. I like this Harrison guy. He beats Jiles, my word.

Nick Stuart: Not again.

Harrison backs off slowly with his hands raised. Barlow backs off, and Harrison gives Kuroyama a little smack on the cheek. Just enough to cause Kerry to run his tongue around the edge of his mouth for a second while he smirks and clutches his chest. Barlow gets in between the two and starts counting in Harrison’s face. He has both hands up, but he’s looking over Barlow’s shoulder into Kuroyama’s glare.

Nick Stuart: He’s trying to get Kerry fired up.

Richard Parker: And it’s working.

Kerry pushes himself up out of the corner and Barlow quickly gets out of the way as Kerry roars in. He clubs Harrison across the side of the head with a right forearm. Harrison’s eyes light up with the shot and he backs up a pace. Kerry loads up for a second but Harrison’s arm twitches like a whip and slashes across Kuroyama’s chest with another chop. The Immortal Jellyfish’s sting is venomous and a second sting follows the first and Kuroyama staggers backwards. Kerry gives a roar and lunges forward but Harrison is underneath Kerry’s forearm in an instant, he spins to the back and snaps Kerry over his head with a quick german.

Nick Stuart: Right back to their feet.

Harrison doesn’t let waist control go but Kuroyama manages to rotate and scramble his way back up to his feet. The champion tries to yank Kerry over again, but Kuroyama has a better base and pushes his weight forward. Harrison shifts his feet and manages to shove Kuroyama into the turnbuckles. Barlow starts the count quick, but that just makes Harrison more vicious the second time around. He spins Kerry around quickly and plants another chop that steals Kuroyama’s breath, and a boot to the stomach for a follow up. Kerry doubles over in the corner and Harrison takes a few steps back.

Nick Stuart: Harrison is relentless.

Richard Parker: I heard he was raised by pitbulls.

Nick Stuart: What?

Richard Parker: It’s just a thing I heard.

The Five Star Champion sprints forward and hammers Kerry’s neck with a heavy corner lariat.

Steve Harrison: Fuck you too Byrd!

Nick Stuart: That wasn’t very nice!

Richard Parker: Company man, Nick Stuart.

Harrison shouts into the corner camera, somehow not using an inch of extra movement, or taking a moment more time he has Kerry’s arms pinned to his sides in a bear hug. The Miracle Man smirks and rips Kerry over the top and smashes him across the mat with a strong belly to belly suplex. The two men hit the mat and bounce from the impact, Harrison uses the bounce to drive his hands down and smash Kerry into the mat for a second time. Barlow drops for a fall attempt.

Nick Stuart: Not gonna get Kerry like that.

ONE!

Kuroyama shoots his far arm up, and Steve slides his hands down to Kerry’s face. He somehow manages to smush Kerry’s face with his forearm as he gets to his feet. Harrison stumbles up from the awkward angle and Kerry slowly makes his way up to his feet.

Richard Parker: But you’re going to keep pissing him off.

Nick Stuart: Kerry has to be frustrated. I’m sure there’s no way he thought this match was going to go like this.

Richard Parker: Harrison’s putting on a clinic.

Kerry recollects himself for a moment, and then Harrison is back on him. He goes for a single leg but Kerry manages to hop backwards to the ropes. Harrison holds the leg and presses against Kuroyama, waiting for Barlow to separate them. Harrison takes another swing on the separation and this time Kuroyama snatches Harrison’s hand. Barlow backs away and Kerry charges forward and shoulder checks Harrison. He doesn’t let go of the champ’s wrist, and Kerry pulls Harrison forward into a big right forearm that sends Harrison to the mat.

Nick Stuart: Kerry with some fight.

Harrison is right back on his feet, and Kerry smashes him with a right hand. Harrison hits the deck and bails to the outside.

Nick Stuart: A lot of fight!

Richard Parker: Smart move by Harrison here.

Steve takes a moment on the outside, Barlow makes her way over to the ropes and starts the count. Harrison takes the first four seconds to collect himself against the barricade. Kerry takes a strong position in the center of the ring as Harrison takes his time making his way to the ring steps and then climbs up them. He makes sure he has Barlow positioned between he and Kerry as he steps through the ropes.

Nick Stuart: Kuroyama doesn’t look like he’s planning on giving any ground.

Richard Parker: We’ll see about that.

The Miracle Man walks to the center of the ring, nose to nose with a welted and bruised Emerald Apex. Harrison gives Kerry a small shove and Kuroyama fires back with a forearm. Harrison returns a chop, forearm, chop, forearm, chop, Kerry reaches back for another forearm but Harrison manages to slam his foot down on top of Kuroyama’s. Another stinging chop and Kerry is back in a world of pain. The welts on his upper chest have ripped open and Harrison stings again.

Nick Stuart: Harrison is trying to turn Kuroyama’s chest into chewing gum.

Steve slips behind Kerry with another waistlock. This time Kerry manages a switch and pushes his arms upwards and locks his hands behind Harrison’s head. Kerry yanks him over the top with a snap dragon suplex. Steve hits the mat on his neck but rolls right back to his feet. He steps forward and plants a knee across the back of Kuroyama’s neck.

Nick Stuart: ENLIGHTENMENT!

Richard Parker: Kuroyama’s seeing stars!

It’s not full power, but Harrison collapses down on Kuroyama. Kerry slumps onto his back, and Harrison lays across him holding his own neck. Barlow slides in for the count.

ONE!

TWO!

….

……..

………….

KICKOUT!

Richard Parker: He had him!

Nick Stuart: I don’t think Harrison could get the leg hooked, if he does he probably does have him. That was close.

Both of them stumble to their feet. Kerry half bounces off the ropes and comes back at Harrison with a sudden twirl and a discus lariat would have clipped Harrison’s hair if he had any, but Steve manages to duck under. Kuroyama hits the far rope and Harrison cuts his legs out on the way back with a low drop kick. The Apex scrambles to his feet with a limp and The Miracle Man sends another chop into the onrushing Kuroyama’s chest. Kerry powers through and smashes Harrison across the jaw with an open palm slap. Harrison turns from the blow, but fires back with a stiff right hand that sends Kuroyama staggering.

Nick Stuart: Back and forth these two titans go.

Teetering on the brink of collapse Kerry takes a huge risk and leaps into the air connecting in the center of Steve’s chest with a standing dropkick.

Nick Stuart: Kuroyama with a ton of elevation!

The Five Star Champion hits the deck and Kerry is right back to his feet. He scoops Steve up to his feet and sends him into the ropes. Harrison comes back and Kerry manages to smash him off the canvas with a gutwrench sitout powerbomb. Kerry stays seated for the count.

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Harrison clicks his heels on Kerry’s ears, and rolls backwards out of the pin attempt. He springs from a kneeling position forward and smashes Kuroyama across the jaw with a desperate knee.

Richard Parker: Huge knee from Harrison!

Harrison collapses to the mat and Kuroyama is beside him. The two slowly get to their feet. Kuroyama stumbles his way to the center of the ring, and Harrison passes on the strike exchange, he just drives a boot into Kerry’s stomach instead. Kerry doubles over and Harrison takes Kuroyama to the corner. The Miracle Man boots Kuroyama in the stomach again, and puts him up onto the middle rope.

Nick Stuart: Oh no, what are we doing…

Richard Parker: Ending a career Nick!

Kuroyama begins punching Harrison in the back, Steve staggers and Kuroyama bends down and grabs him around the waist. He tries to lift him.

Nick Stuart: He’s got him up!

Kuroyama almost gets Harrison up for an avalanche Judgement Jolt Bomb, but Steve manages to grab a rope and pull himself back over. His feet catch on the bottom rope, he smashes Kerry with a right hand and hooks him into a front face lock. He starts to lift Kerry for a small avalanche brainbuster, but Kerry hooks his leg on the top rope. Harrison has to sit him back down on the middle rope. Harrison climbs up to the second rope, but Kerry slides his head underneath Harrison’s.

Richard Parker: NO!

Kerry lifts Harrison up over his head and hits him with an avalanche Derechoplex.

Nick Stuart: AVALANCHE DERECHOPLEX! HE MIGHT HAVE BROKEN HIS NECK!

Harrison’s skull collides with the mat and Kuroyama falls over, hooking a leg.

ONE!

TWO!

….

………

…………..

……………..

KICKOUT!

Richard Parker: It’s an actual miracle.

Nick Stuart: Harrison isn’t giving up this championship that easy.

Kerry is frustrated and gets to his feet. It was so close… He gets to his feet and pulls Harrison up by his neck, since he doesn’t have hair. Kerry pulls back and sends an open hand chop into Steve’s chest. Harrison teeters but comes back with a blistering chop of his own to the bloodied chest of Kuroyama. The energy is sapped from Kerry and Harrison brings another brutal chop across the chest.

Nick Stuart: Those chops are soul sucking.

Richard Parker: Absolutely brutal.

Harrison comes forward with a short lariat, Kerry ducks under and grabs a waist lock. Harrison spins around and swings a knee attempt, but Kerry side steps and grabs a waist lock again. He yanks Harrison backwards but Harrison manages to stick his leg between Kuroyama’s. He drops his leg behind Kerry’s leg and tries to flip Kuroyama with a belly to belly. Kerry keeps his footing though and turns with the discus lariat catching Harrison in the mouth. The Apex comes low and scoops Harrison into the Fireman carry, but Harrison rolls off his back. Harrison grabs a partial chickenwing on the way down, but Kerry spins with a rotating elbow to the side of Harrison’s head. He wraps Harrison up quickly and plants him with an emerald flowsion.

Nick Stuart: KUROYAMA DRIIIIIIIIIIIIVER!!!!!!!

ONE!

TWO!

….

……..

…………

……………

THREE!

Richard Parker: Harrison’s hand is on the rope!

Nick Stuart: Didn’t get there in time, Richard! It’s plain as day!

Barlow agrees with Stuart and points to ringside.

DING DING DING

Kuroyama collapses at the bell. Harrison lets go of the rope. Scott Hunter dives into the ring to check on Kuroyama as Vince Howard makes his way into the ring with the championship. He hands the belt down to Kuroyama, and Hunter helps him to his feet.

Vince Howard: Your winner and NEEEEEEEEW FIVE STAR CHAAAAAAAAAAAAAMPION! THE EMERALD APEX! KEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRY KUROYAAAAAAAAMMMAAAAAA!!!!

We cut backstage, and…

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh god.

Fuck.

Fuck everything.

…We’re at a funeral.

One of the conference rooms of the Roger Centre has been commandeered for purposes and reasons beyond your mortal understanding. The big conference table has been moved all the way to the back of the room and is just the background for a platform that serves as a place where a coffin now sits open. The most we can see about the contents of the coffin is that there is a man in a black suit and PRIME blue tie inside, his face shrouded. There’s a picture next to the coffin that shows who the man in the coffin used to be, except that they’re in mosaic and have the PRIME logo over their eyes.

There’s streamers decorating the walls, pictures adorning the walls of many moments in PRIME history (though a distressing number of them are Glueminati-related triumphs), and (even more distressingly) there is fabby there. This fabby, the genuine article as it were, might be “free” but he’s still in the Glueminati space. He also looks appropriately sorrowful, which is to say that he has a post-it note taped to his face that has a sadface drawn on it.

It looks like this: :’(

There’s other problems. Most of the viewing “audience” for this funeral are made up of mannequins and blow-up dolls, and each and every one of them carried features of a member of the PRIME roster. Likely, Joe had hoped that a lot of people would show up to this funeral like the last one, and clearly too many people had decided that it wasn’t worth the effort this time. Glue had pissed a bunch of people off over the last few months, after all. Especially the Red Army and the Whoresmen.

Coincidentally, the mannequins are clearly meant to be the Red Army with their fur hats and their red coats, while the blow-up dolls are the Whoresmen – one has a cowboy hat, one has smeared lipstick, one has a T-shirt that reads “leJend” on it (and the J was backwards), and one… has a box of frozen lasagna placed in their lap.

Not sure what that’s about.

One other feature we should probably talk about is the cross that hangs on the wall just above the coffin. Imagine a cross, T-posing away. Imagine if we could make that cross do a dab. That’s what hangs over the coffin. It was hideous and blasphemous and we’re already getting at least thirty complaints about it just talking about it. Our advice? Don’t worry about it.

Referee Jimmy Turnbull is standing there like he has no idea what he’s doing there, but hey – that’s a complimentary gin and he’s done doing the big referee for tonight.

Anyway, the Glueminati are here. Well, almost all of them. Phil Atken took one look at what was about to happen here, said the word “no” with a nonplussed tone of voice, and immediately bailed out of this entire mess. In his place is a cardboard cutout of Phil Atken that stands vigilant over the proceedings. Joe Fontaine helpfully drew “angry” eyebrows on his face despite the fact that even Cardboard Phil is pretty goddamn mad about all of this. So now he’s double mad.

You have Dirk Dickwood, who stands there gawking at the sheer stupidity he’s becoming witness to. It’s like there was a terrible, tragic 18-car pileup somewhere in his brain and all he could do was behold it. Hank is seated in the corner with a Nintendo Switch, and he’s having a lovely time with some Animal Crossing. We didn’t even know Hank played that, really.

FLAMBERGE did his usual thing when it came to these sorts of big funerary events. He found a couple of chairs (not jolf clubs, just normal chairs) and just planked right on top of them. He’d done his job for the night, after all, so this is how he’s going to decompress after a long and tough day of managing Joe Fontaine in his match with Steve Lemieux earlier in the night. So long, much tough.

Hayes Hanlon, meanwhile, isn’t even paying attention to any of the nonsense happening in the room. No, what caught his attention is the gin. Oh, sweet gin, nectar of life, take all of the pain that comes with being in the same room with Joe Fontaine once he gets all funeral director-y.

And then there’s Cecilworth. The Universal Champion has evidently decided that rather than gawking at the spectacle before him like Dirk or walking out of the whole thing entirely like Phil, he has an expression on his face like he’s seen this before and he’s just going to roll with it. He’s also looking at his cell phone and hasn’t really stopped.

And then there’s Joe.

Joe Fontaine looks like a man who is going to a funeral.

Okay, uh… Maybe we should explain the nature of what that means before we get totally out of hand.

That funerary outfit is fucking bedazzled. And I mean, super bedazzled. His black suit sparkles. Like, it’s super amazingly sparkly. He looks like he was going to a disco version of a funeral. He looks like the only shade of black that could cause epilepsy. He looks like he’s literally wearing Edward Cullen.

He stands behind a podium, and once he sees that the camera is on, he addresses his audience.

Joe Fontaine: …Isn’t Simon Tillier supposed to be here?

Oh, he got the invite, alright.

Unbeknownst to Joe, though, Simon has been deep in the throes of punk for a while, and now thought the most punk rock thing to do when it came to this funeral was to not show up. Because he knows, just as everyone else does, that this is just going to be a lot of Glue horseshit. Which is ironic, considering what we turn horses into.

Joe Fontaine: (muttering) Whatever.

He brightens up, only to drop into a solemn tone of voice that belies that look on his face. You know the one. It’s the one where you know Joe is up to something and isn’t quite ready to show his hand yet.

Joe Fontaine: Welcome, everyone, to the funeral.

Dirk finally gets it together enough to ask the important question.

Dirk Dickwood: Funeral for what?

Joe Fontaine is less interested in directly answering that question than he is about embellishing that answer.

Joe Fontaine: We’ve been through a lot together. I met them three years ago, back when I was a simple young man with big dreams and big ambitions who looked cool and was cool and everyone thought was extremely cool. What a chance meeting! And they were so full of life, too! Not like now, when they’re dead and all.

Dirk rubs his temples and considers the possibility of leaving the room. He can do that, right? Phil did it, why doesn’t he?

Dirk Dickwood: HOW is it that you’re not giving me a straight answer!?

Joe Fontaine: No no, we already did the funeral for that one. Nobody came, including me, and it ate itself in the coal mines. Very tragic. Many tears were definitely shed.

Cecilworth Farthington: They most certainly were not.

He doesn’t even look up from his phone.

Joe Fontaine: Okay, you got me.

Dirk Dickwood: C-Money, don’t encourage him.

Dirk has the look of a man who sorely wished he’d brought his migraine medication, but Joe continues.

Joe Fontaine: But now, we have come to be given the “truth,” given to us by someone who is definitely of the right mind and doesn’t have an incredibly questionable grasp of reality or common sense or intelligence or anything really.

He pauses. Dramatically.

Joe Fontaine: PRIME… is dead.

There is shock that reverberates through the room. One of the mannequins might have turned their head in acknowledgement, but that might have just been a trick of the camera. The blow-up doll representing Fred Dick deflates slightly.

Hayes Hanlon looks up from his gin, staring at Joe and how whack that sounds. He looks around, as though taking note of where he is and what he is doing. He fixes his posture, clears his throat, and holds up a finger. To make a point, of course.

Hayes Hanlon: That, my friends, sounds somewhat…indignant.

The rest of the Boys in Glue pause, lifting curious eyebrows toward the Event Horizon. He looks around, confused at their stares. Indignant, even. See what he did there?

Hayes Hanlon: What? I went to college! I know what ‘indignant’ means!

Joe Fontaine: And we believe you! But yes, that’s right. Even though we are in a building promoted by PRIME, owned by Lady Galactus herself, participating in a two-night show of intense action and segments… PRIME is dead. It’s dead. It has died because FLAMBERGE and I are very good at tag team wrestling.

FLAMBERGE turns his head.

FLAMBERGE: Ouais.

Joe Fontaine: Now, I recognize that we should go to The Prison for our crimes.

FLAMBERGE: Non.

Joe Fontaine: But we shouldn’t think about the crimes. We should think about the life and legacy that PRIME has left behind. We should think about the memories and friendships we made along the way, like we have with Glue! And we should think about how, in two years’ time, we’re all going to be replaced by AI constructs created by Youtube SuperchatGPT that do really fucked up 1080 spiral double stomps on people and those will only get one counts.

FLAMBERGE: ……Quoi?

Joe Fontaine: But alas, PRIME is dead, and…

SUDDENLY!

The speaker is shoved roughly aside by two bulky men in masks and wrestling tights. They’re also wearing black ties, because this is a somber occasion.

They’re not wearing shirts, though.

Anyway, the Intruders step up to the podium.

Intruder #1: PRIME IS DEAD AND THAT IS SAD!

Intruder #2: SAD BECAUSE IT DIED BEFORE WE COULD DESTROY IT!

Intruder #1: THERE IS ONLY ONE THING LEFT TO DO! ENTER THE ALL-MACY’S AND WIN IT SO HARD THAT OUR VICTORY TRAVELS BACK IN TIME AND DESTROYS PRIME RETROACTIVELY!

Intruder #2: SO WE ARE HERE TO ANNOUNCE THAT WE ARE…THE MYSTERY ENTRANT!

They peel off their masks, revealing…other masks.

But these masks have a question mark on the front. ‘Cause, you know. Mystery.

Intruder #1: THAT’S RIGHT! WE, THE INTRUDERS–

Intruder #2: THE MYSTERY ENTRANT!

Intruder #1: –ARE THE MYSTERY ENTRANT IN THE ALL-MACY’S INVITATIONAL!

Dirk Dickwood: What, both of you?

Intruder #2: YES! WE ARE VERY MYSTERIOUS!

Intruder #1: CAN’T YOU SEE THE QUESTION MARKS?

Intruder #2: WE WILL DESTROY ALL OTHER ENTRANTS AND ALL THE OTHER DEPARTMENT STORES! SEARS, YOU ARE DOOMED!

My dude, they’ve been doomed for a while now.

Intruder #1: WE ARE YOUR ONLY HOPE…AND WE OFFER NONE! YOU WILL ONLY FACE SWEET OBLIVION AT THE HANDS OF…

Intruder #2: …THE INTRU–THE MYSTERY ENTRANT!

Intruder #1: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!

Intruder #2: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!

They charge away from the podium and toward the stairs, where Intruder #1 trips and falls. #2 then quickly trips over #1.

Intruder #1: I CAN’T SEE! THE QUESTION MARK IS COVERING MY EYES!

Intruder #2: ME TOO!

Now you might ask: how could they see before, when they had masks over the question mark masks? And the answer is: fucked if I know. You’ve already put more thought into this than they did.

They loudly try to untangle themselves, while Joe Fontaine tries to get this solemn affair back on track.

Joe Fontaine: I don’t know what just happened.

No one in Glue did, but then again, most of them likely lost the plot and their attention spans when the Intruders did what they do.

Joe Fontaine: Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah, PRIME is de–

Behind Joe, there’s a stirring. The mannequins perk up. Maybe. Camera tricks have come a long way in the last hundred years or so, after all. Blow-up Fred makes a sound very much like a long-held fart, which might be true of the real Fred Dick as well.

Joe Fontaine: What is this!?

The body that’s been sitting in the coffin slowly rises, sitting up as though waking up from a long nap. This body stretches his arms, and turns their head to face the camera. Their face is obscured through mosaic, and it has the PRIME logo on top of the head like it’s been put there in post-production.

The Man Who Is PRIME: Hey.

This man definitely does not sound like Sid Phillips, and all of that smouldering that’s radiating from him is definitely not Sid-related. That’d be ridiculous. We definitely didn’t fly Sid in from Nevada just to do a single stupid gag, that would be stupid.

FLAMBERGE perks up anyway.

Joe Fontaine: Oh my god, guys. I think PRIME is alive! I think he just had some bad blowfish and was in a coma. It’s alive! It’s really alive, all along!

Hayes takes a long sip, and while doing so, snaps his fingers and points to Joe, confirming the wild revelation that PRIME has, miraculously, not died.

Cecilworth Farthington: You should never eat bad blowfish.

He pauses, considering.

Cecilworth Farthington: Or good blowfish?

He shrugs.

Cecilworth Farthington: I don’t think I’d want the Whoresmen to get their hands on the word “blowfish,” actually.

We don’t.

Joe Fontaine: So we now know that PRIME is alive, why are we all at a funeral?

Joe reaches up to the tie of his ridiculous suit and, in one smooth motion that couldn’t have possibly been a practical effect, tears the entire suit off to reveal his usual sparkly green suit. He nods to his fellow Gluemates, his Gluefriends, his Gluemibuddies, and then puts his arm around the large form of PRIME itself and walks out of the funeral room.

Yes, just like that.

Cecilworth belatedly looks up from his phone.

Cecilworth Farthington: Oh. We’re done, then?

He turns on his heel and walks out as well. FLAMBERGE stands up so quickly and smoothly that Dirk is taken aback by the fact the chairs didn’t even move, and then he walks out as well. Hayes simply takes another sip of his gin, and puts his feet up on a chair.

Jimmy Turnbull looks around, shrugs his shoulders, and leaves.

And finally, we can move on to bigger and better and more violent things.

We’re back at ringside with Nick Stuart and Richard Parker, who watch pensively as the WARCHAMBER is slowly constructed around the PRIME ring. Stuart holds a pen in his hand and taps it on the announce table while Parker reclines in his chair and gazes up at the unforgiving structure.

Nick Stuart: Folks! We are moments away from what is undoubtedly going to be a match for the ages. Ivan Stanislav. Chandler Tsonda. Two pillars of wrestling. The two men are mere minutes from walking down this very aisle and entering into the Warchamber. A structure unlike any other, which may have the dubious distinction of spilling more blood than any other object, implement, or superstar here in PRIME.

Parker sits up straight and nods.

Richard Parker: Last year it was Paxton Ray and now-Intense Champion Fred Dick, and both men barely got out of there alive. I don’t know what to think about this. Ivan Stanislav is the type of man who you will have to kill, or render unconscious, to stop. The big Russian has not been pinned, cleanly, since he arrived at PRIME at this very event in 2022.

Nick Stuart: So you’re saying that, despite the Russian’s constant complaining, Hayes Hanlon pinned Stanislav cleanly back then?

Richard runs a finger on the inside of the neck of his shirt.

Richard Parker: Look, I’m not about to say anything that might rankle comrade Stanislav. He’s about to walk down here shortly. I’m just saying that Stanislav is as tough as they come. He’s not like the modern wrestler, Nick, he’s something different. Like they say. Unstoppable.

Nick Stuart: Yet while some might say that Chandler Tsonda is out of his depth, being smaller and, perhaps, less resilient than Stanislav, we’ve seen a side to the man that has never been seen before. Many might think the Warchamber plays into Ivan’s strengths, trapping the faster Tsonda in place, but there’s been a sense of brutality coming from Tsonda that has been unheard of, and I think his dynamic wrestling style and age advantage may pay big dividends.

Richard nods his head.

Richard Parker: It very well could. The cage cuts out The Red Army, but it also leaves Tsonda vulnerable. There’s just no way around it: this is going to be a lesson in violence. We can’t imagine the two of these men sharing time together to, you know, hash it out, but they’ve each been given time to let their voices be heard prior to the match. So without further ado, let’s take it back to The Red Army locker room, where Speedy Riggs is with Ivan Stanislav and Alexei Ruslan! Also Ivan I’m rooting for you!!

We cut back to The Red Army locker room. The Russian Bear is ready, filling the screen with all four hundred pounds of his inexorable might. Alexei Ruslan smirks and stands off to his comrade’s right, while Speedy Riggs, tropical communist shirt and all, stands to his left with a microphone.

Speedy Riggs: Thanks Richard! And you’re right, it’s best to take a close look at that Hanlon / Stanislav match before making any snap judgements. As a former head referee, I can tell you the irregularities were everywhere! But, we’re not here to talk about the past. We’re here to talk about the future. The dwindling future of one Chandler Tsonda!

Ruslan snatches the microphone away from Riggs and brays loudly. It’s as old school as it gets with this promo, just the way the old school duo likes it.

Alexei Ruslan: That’s right, comrade Riggs! No more running. No more hiding. No more subterfuge, Chandler Tsonda! You’ve done everything in your power to sneak attack The Russian Bear. And it has always failed. When Ivan crushed your skull and neck against the apron over a year ago, you should have taken the hint and retired. But we’re more than happy to beat you into the dirt once more. And no force on Earth is going to pull your carcass out of the wreckage!

Ruslan offers the mic up to the former two-time Universal Champion.

Ivan Stanislav: You asked for it, Tsonda, and now you have it. A cage with barbed wire. Since before Manhunt you have been a gnat, flying around me, trying to annoy me to the point of a match. For all those who think you are a legend, in the shadow of Ivan Stanislav you are but a journeyman. You’ve been nothing but a puppet of Lindsay Troy’s, doing whatever you can to hinder my progress!

Ivan roars.

Ivan Stanislav: I was all set to reclaim my Universal Title at Manhunt, but you had to ruin it by dragging us both into barbed wire. Was it for revenge? No, you are too self-centered for that. I’m sure you earned a nice sum for your antics! But no amount of money makes it worth it, Tsonda. Tonight, you will be under the harsh glare of the PRIME lights, with the Warchamber looming over you. Yet, an even darker shadow will be there: mine! There will be no escape, no place to hide. No corners for surprise attacks. No baseball bats to prop up your dwindling power. Just you and me, you pest, and I’m going to dismantle you!

Ivan snatches the mic from Ruslan and bellows into the camera.

Ivan Stanislav: In all of your storied career, you have never stood across from a force like Ivan Stanislav. I am the biggest, strongest, and most powerful member of PRIME roster. No “big man” in this federation holds a candle to me. And no “big man” in our profession has ever been as dominant as myself! For all of your legendary matches, you walk into this one unprepared for what you are about to face. There is nothing special about you, Chandler Tsonda. I have been thrashing good looking pretty boys my entire career. You have overestimated your ability and underestimated mine. My goal this evening is to make sure you never wrestle in a ring again. And my track record speaks for itself!

Ivan tosses the microphone back to Speedy, who catches it deftly. Ruslan laughs and leans into the mic. .

Alexei Ruslan: He is unstoppable! He is unbeatable! He is indefatigable! He is Ivan Stanislav, Chandler Tsonda, and you are just another casualty in our patriotic war! We will see you soon!!

Ivan Stanislav: Da svidaniya, Chandler Tsonda! DYAAHAAHAA!!

Speedy grins as Ivan and Alexei laugh.

Speedy Riggs: I’d say this one is already done with before it even started, but hey, if we want to hear the last will and testament of a dead man walking, let’s go check him out!

We cut to…somewhere. It’s nondescript.

The proverbial bowels of the arena.

Only a true Torontonian sicko would even be able to locate where we are within the Rogers Centre.

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Compared to the bombast of the Red Army production, the sight of Chandler Tsonda, seated in a simple steel chair against a concrete backdrop is downright spartan. Even with the rousing crowd response, the Model Citizen looks downright catatonic.

Tsonda is folded over himself, his torso bent over, his head even lower, and he sits directly facing the camera, but the face so money that was considered as a reliable alternative to the gold standard? We don’t see it.

From his hunched, brooding seated position, we get a growl out of the depths of his chest. A black track jacket wraps his upper body, with his typical tights and ring gear already on.

Chandler Tsonda: This… barbarism is what we deserve. I will change you in there.

He releases the deepest of breaths. The toll of this vendetta is right there. Tsonda’s usual pre-match energy is manic and kinetic. Tonight, he is calm like a coffin.

Chandler Tsonda: If you walk out of this building tonight, I have failed.

Finally, Tsonda uprights himself enough to make direct eye contact with the camera.

Chandler Tsonda: If you don’t bury me, you will pray to all your gods and wish you had.

Now the quiet calm explodes, as in one motion: Tsonda is up, he flips the chair aside in a clatter, and he is walking off towards Argyle.

War beckons.

Nick Stuart: Well folks, here we are. Night One of UltraViolence 2025 is just about in the books, but we have one more match before we call it a night, and as the crew puts the finishing touches on the Warchamber, everyone is on pins and needles.

Indeed, the unforgiving steel deathbox, the Warchamber, now surrounds the ring itself, and even Richard Parker has to blanch at the sight of it.

Richard Parker: No PRIME superstar ever enters the chamber and exits the same, and I’m afraid this might be the same for the two PRIME legends who are about to walk down the aisle.

Vince Howard stands in the ring while Elvis Nixon stands off to the side. Howard brings the microphone up to his lips and pauses, hearing the cheering crowd immediately begin to swell in anticipation.

Vince Howard: Ladies and Gentlemen! The following contest is the Main Event of UltraViolence Night One!!!

RAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!

Vince Howard: It is to be held in the WARCHAMBER!!!!!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

Vince Howard: Introducing first! From Arkhangelsk Russia…

Yes, the lighting turns crimson, and the swirling yellow hammer and sickle slams together on the PRIMEtron with a metalling ker-thunk, while the background bleeds to red.

BOOOOOO!!!!

“The Soviet National Anthem” by the Russian Red Army Choir blares through the Rogers Centre and is met with vehement negative reaction.

Vince Howard: He stands 7’1” tall and weighs in at 400 lbs! He is a former two time Universal Champion! The leader of The Red Army! He is The Russian Bear! IVAAAAANNNNNN STAAAANNNISLAAAAVVVVVVV!!!!!!!

Pyro bursts from the entryway as smoke fills the area and the enormous silhouette that can only be that of Ivan Stanislav lumbers out from backstage. The Russian Bear emerges and raises his arms high in the air, stretching his crimson suspenders that are connected firmly to his black pants. He lets out a defiant bellow, challenging not just the crowd, but perhaps the Warchamber itself.

Nick Stuart: No Alexei Ruslan at his side. I guess there’s no reason to have him here, since there’s no way he could get into the Warchamber to cause any trouble!

Richard Parker: That’s a bunch of crap Nick and you know it! Why, it’s almost discrimination. Ivan is a communist, he believes in the group working together to, you know, beat people into a pulp. That shouldn’t be stopped because someone else doesn’t believe it.

Ivan takes his time walking down to the horrific structure known as the Warchamber. He eyes it up and down carefully, barbed wire circling unforgiving steel. Even Ivan Stanislav looks… wary.

Nick Stuart: It was three years ago, UltraViolence 2022, where Ivan Stanislav returned from the arctic of Russia to terrorize PRIME. And he’s done just that. Any superstar who has gotten in his way, or was brave enough to put themselves in his way, has had to weather a war on all fronts. We knew the possibility of legendary matches with The Russian Bear back in the fold. This is just another in a long list. Ivan Stanislav and Chandler Tsonda is happening. Two legends. Two pillars of our sport. Two men who have never, ever locked up in a singles match. This is a dream match, folks. It’s the kind of match that we wrestling fans hope to experience, and we’re so glad that you’re here with us to do so.

Ivan turns to the crowd and roars at them, still not entering the cage.

Nick Stuart: He’s a different breed, this Stanislav. I think it’s a breed of warrior we aren’t used to anymore. It’s not just a battle against him. It’s against The Red Army. It means putting your loved ones at risk. It means not fighting for a win or a loss, but surviving the contest. No one, folks, has exited a match against this man the same. Sometimes the scars are physical, other times they’re psychological. Jared Sykes is gone. Nate Colton went to places we’ve never wanted him to go. There’ve been victories against this man and yet, somehow, many are left wondering if the lengths and depths they had to go in order to achieve victory were worth the cost.

Ivan finally enters the Warchamber and immediately approaches Elvis Nixon to give him a stern talking to.

Nick Stuart: I can’t say who has the advantage. Cutting out The Red Army certainly helps Tsonda, but there’s no way Chandler can go toe to toe, physically, against The Russian Bear.

Richard Parker: And he has nowhere to run! There’s no sneak attacks with baseball bats now! Now Manhunt matches to give him cover. Ivan is going to slice and dice him to pieces in that cage, and it’s going to be horrific to watch. It’s been a war of attrition between these two for over a year now. Ivan knocked Tsonda out of PRIME with a scary chokeslam across the apron… but the Viet Viper came back and was out for blood. Some might say he got his revenge, but you’re right Nick, is there ever a time where Ivan gives up the fight?

Nick Stuart: I can’t say, Richard. The Bear never forgets and rarely forgives. He could have allowed Tsonda to have his revenge and called it a day, but everything ramps up with Stanislav. There is nowhere he’s not willing to escalate the fight. He went after Jasmine Jeong and hospitalized her…

Richard Parker: Now hold on, Tsonda threatened Ruslan first.

Nick Stuart: Give me a break, Richard! Stanislav absolutely asked for that! But it doesn’t matter. No more threatening third parties. No more avoiding one another. No more cheap, underhanded tactics. The Russian Bear is in the Warchamber, and there’s just one more piece of the puzzle left!

——–

Rhythmic snap drums.

Gregorian bass thump.

Industrial guitar.

Vicious exhale.

Nick Stuart: Well, this isn’t the typical sound of Chandler Tsonda making his entrance…

Richard Parker: Agreed. There’s not nearly enough whimpers and sobs.

Don’t fret precious, I’m here

Step away from the window, go back to sleep

The smoke is here. Green and gold lights dance dimly behind the entrance, with no sign of Tsonda.

Richard Parker: Discretion is the better part of valor. I for one am proud of Tsonda for tucking his tail between his legs and running far away from Ivan and the WARCHAMBER.

Safe from pain and truth and choice and other poison devils

See, they don’t give a fuck about you like I do

The discerning listener knows this is neither of the two songs that usually welcome the Model Citizen, but the crunchy ass sounds of “Counting Bodies Like Sheep to the Rhythm of the War Drum” by A Perfect Circle.

Count lies like sheep, like sheep, like sheep, like sheep, like sheep, like sheep

Up come the lights. Standing at the top of the ramp are six figures, silhouetted darkly in the green and gold. Smoke layers around their ankles.

Ow owwwwwww owwwww

Nick Stuart: Chandler Tsonda was effusive that he would stand alone against the Russian Bear. Is this his backup?

No, Nicholas.

In a trick of perfect timing, the lights are up to half-full, and the six figures are illuminated. And they are done up.

Richard Parker: This freaking theater kid energy.

Richard is reacting to the fact that all six of the men on stage are the following:

Shirtless.

Dusted or painted in a bright white substance.

A metallic charcoaled smoky eye of makeup around eyes and mouth.

Around each neck, a thick strap that holds in place a big ol’ leather drum.

Nick Stuart: There are War Boys on the war drums!

Richard Parker: Subtlety is dead.

Nick Stuart: Were you expecting subtlety from the match called WARCHAMBER?

The War Boys strike in perfect time as the song crescendos:

Counting bodies like sheep to the rhythm of the war drums

A skillful DJ somewhere has looped this. The drumming continues.

Counting bodies like sheep to the rhythm of the war drums

The crowd is into it, rising in volume as the anticipation grows for the arrival of the night’s shining idol, Chandler Tsonda.

Counting bodies like sheep to the rhythm of the war drums

And in impressively synchronized motion, it all stops.

It’s as quiet as a massive arena of crazy Canucks can be.

The War Boys execute a military precision about face, each one turning so that they now form a human tunnel, three on each side.

And now Toronto knows exactly how to react.

I said, ‘Kiss me, you’re beautiful’

These are truly the last days

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

On the PRIME*View:

M O D E L C I T I Z E N

And now we’re into the signature acoustic opening to Coheed & Cambria’s “Welcome Home” that can only mean one thing.

Nick Stuart: You know, Richard, it’s been many, many moons since Chandler Tsonda walked to the ring for a supershow main event, but dare I say, I’ve still got the ability to get chills.

Richard Parker: And I’ve got the ability to taste my own rising bile that we have to sit through this. Tradition is beautiful.

At the top of the ramp, Tsonda materializes, looking every bit serious as cancer (no Jiles). He walks through his welcoming procession of War Boys right as the acoustic section becomes the thunder guitar section of “Welcome Home” and the crowd shouts to the heavens.

There is hate in Chandler’s eyes, and a message written in thick black painted letters on Tsonda’s bare chest. It fits right in with the theme of his entrance and reads:

WITNESS

ME

Nick Stuart: Tsonda may be all business, but he’s 100% on theme here!

Richard Parker: 100% on my nerves. Get in the cage and see how much the Mad Max cosplay matters, dork.

BOOM

BOOM

BOOM

Green and gold pyro blasts behind Tsonda as he strolls to the ring. He clutches something around his neck, and begins his assault on the ring. At no point do his eyes ever leave his always-lethal opponent.

Richard Parker: Say what you will, but I think it’s just great that we get to conclude Night One with a happy ending and a snuff film.

Nixon gives his final set of instructions. To which there are none. He’s there only to end the match by pinfall, submission, or unable to continue. So, let’s get started.

DING DING

As the massive Warchamber structure starts its descent, casting a shadow over the ring, the bell rings. Ivan Stanislav charges forward and connects with a brutal lariat across the chest, which drops the Model Citizen hard to the mat.

Ivan wastes no time reaching down and lifting Chandler with one hand, showcasing his incredible strength as he hoists the Hall of Fame wrestler overhead before slamming him down. The Russian Bear hoists Tsonda up again, military pressing him with both hands as the cage keeps lowering toward the arena floor.

Nick Stuart: And we’re underway! Ivan Stanislav establishing dominance early while that Warchamber structure comes down like a guillotine!

Richard Parker: Look at that power, Nick! Four hundred pounds of Russian muscle tossing the pretty boy around like a child’s toy! This is what I wanted to see – no fancy gymnastics, just good old-fashioned violence!

Nick Stuart: Ivan’s using valuable time here though, Richard. That cage is coming down and weapons are still scattered outside. Every second matters.

Richard Parker: That’s not wasted time, that’s psychology! Stanislav is proving Chandler Tsonda doesn’t belong in there with him!

As Ivan prepares another slam, Chandler drives his elbow up, catching the giant under the chin with a jawbreaker that snaps his head back. Both wrestlers notice the barbwire-wrapped weapons at ringside – chairs, tables, and other tools of destruction that will soon be trapped outside.

Moving quickly despite the beating, Chandler fires kicks at Ivan’s legs. A shin kick to the left knee, followed by a roundhouse to the right thigh, staggers the giant. The Model Citizen rolls under the bottom rope and dives for a barbwire-wrapped steel chair, grabbing it as the cage drops closer.

Richard Parker: What the hell? Tsonda’s running already? Match just started and he’s looking for shortcuts!

Nick Stuart: That’s ring awareness, Richard! Chandler knows once this cage hits the ground, anything outside becomes inaccessible. Smart thinking from the Sultan of Style.

Richard Parker: Smart my ass! A real wrestler stays in the ring and settles it like a man instead of scrambling for weapons like some street punk!

Nick Stuart: That cage is more than halfway down now. The window’s closing fast for both men to grab external weapons.

Seeing Chandler with a weapon sends Ivan into a rage. The Russian Bear pursues to the outside, catching Tsonda turning with the barbwire chair and nearly decapitating him with a short arm clothesline that sends both wrestler and weapon flying.

Nick Stuart: Good God! That clothesline from Ivan almost took Chandler’s head off! The power of this man is just incredible!

Richard Parker: Now THAT’S how you handle a weapon-grabbing coward! Chair went one way, pretty boy went the other – beautiful!

Nick Stuart: Ivan showing ring awareness himself, maximizing damage before they get trapped. But look how close that cage is getting!

Richard Parker: Perfect! The sooner that cage comes down, the sooner we see what Ivan really does when there’s nowhere to run!

Ivan grabs Chandler by the hair and rams him back-first into the ring apron.

THUD

Nick Stuart: Listen to that impact! Chandler’s back meeting steel, and that’s got to be aggravating his existing spine issues!

Satisfied, Ivan tosses his opponent back into the ring as the cage approaches the final few feet.

Fighting through back pain, Chandler rolls to his feet as Ivan climbs back in. Seeing the giant approaching, Chandler springs to the middle rope and launches backward in the Perfect 10, his corkscrew body press catching Ivan in the chest and driving both men down.

Richard Parker: Lucky shot! That’s all – desperation from a man who knows he’s about to get destroyed!

Nick Stuart: What athleticism from Chandler! Despite the punishment, he still hit that Perfect 10! Wait, is he going for another weapon?

Chandler doesn’t cover Ivan, though. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a barbed-wire wrapped steel pipe. He immediately drops to the mat and rolls towards it as the cage continues its descent, his fingertips brushing against the weapon with the edge of the cage seconds from coming down on his arm.

Richard Parker: Of course he is! The weasel knows he can’t beat Ivan straight up, so he’s grabbing for any advantage!

Nick Stuart: The cage is almost down! Chandler’s got seconds before that weapon becomes impossible to reach!

Richard Parker: Good! The sooner that cage comes down, the sooner Stanislav ends this joke!

Just as Chandler’s fingers close around the pipe, Ivan’s hands clamp onto his legs. The Russian Bear’s strength shows as he deadlifts Tsonda away from the ropes, the weapon slipping from Chandler’s grasp and falling outside just as the cage slams into the ground.

CLANG

Nick Stuart: There it is! The Warchamber has sealed them both inside! No escape now until someone can’t continue!

Richard Parker: Music to my ears, Nick! Now the real fun starts! No running, no hiding, just Ivan Stanislav and all that beautiful barbwire!

Nick Stuart: That sound echoes like a death knell! The cage is down, and both men are trapped in this barbwire hell!

Richard Parker: Look at those walls! Every inch of chainlink wrapped with barbwire. One wrong Irish whip and someone’s wearing a crimson mask!

The sound reverberates through the arena like a prison door slamming shut. Both wrestlers pause as reality sets in – they’re trapped inside this barbwire tomb. Ivan capitalizes immediately, lifting Chandler overhead and driving him down with a powerslam that shakes the structure. The barbwire walls glint menacingly in the arena lights.

Nick Stuart: The PRIMEates know what they’re witnessing now. This isn’t wrestling anymore – this is survival!

Richard Parker: And my money’s on the four-hundred-pound Russian Bear to survive. Tsonda’s already been softened up, and now he’s got nowhere to run!

With both men now trapped inside the Warchamber, Ivan wastes no time introducing Chandler to the unforgiving reality of their barbwire prison. The Russian Bear grabs Tsonda by the wrist and whips him with tremendous force toward the cage wall, but this isn’t just any Irish whip – this is a deliberate attempt to maim. Chandler hits the barbwire-wrapped chainlink back-first with a sickening impact, his body weight driving the razor-sharp barbs deep into his flesh.

Nick Stuart: Oh my God! This is exactly what we feared would happen once that cage came down! Chandler’s back is being shredded like hamburger meat!

Richard Parker: Beautiful technique from Ivan! Why settle for just a submission hold when you can add a little barbwire seasoning to really make your opponent suffer?

Nick Stuart: Technique? Richard, this is borderline torture! Look at the blood already streaming down Chandler’s back!

Richard Parker: That’s not torture, that’s psychology! Ivan’s sending a message that every inch of this cage is a weapon, and he knows how to use them all!

The Model Citizen’s scream of agony pierces the air as he tries to pull away from the wall, but the barbwire has other plans, catching his skin and tearing fresh wounds across his already damaged spine. Before Chandler can fully extricate himself, Ivan is there, applying his devastating shoulder claw submission hold while simultaneously pressing Tsonda’s face and chest against the unforgiving barbwire. The giant’s massive fingers dig into Chandler’s shoulder muscles while the barbs continue their brutal work, creating a symphony of pain that has the smaller wrestler trapped between two forms of torture.

Nick Stuart: Chandler’s trying to fight out of this, but how do you escape when you’re caught between a four-hundred-pound giant and razor wire?

Richard Parker: You don’t, Nick. That’s the point.

Blood streaming down his back from the barbwire lacerations, Chandler refuses to submit despite the dual torture of Ivan’s shoulder claw and the razor-sharp steel pressing into his flesh. Drawing on reserves of determination that have carried him through countless battles, the Model Citizen begins driving his elbow backward with desperate precision, each strike finding its mark against Ivan’s face. The first elbow catches the Russian Bear across the bridge of his nose, the second lands flush against his left cheek, and the third finally loosens the giant’s grip enough for Chandler to slip free from both the submission hold and the barbwire’s cruel embrace.

Richard Parker: What? How the hell did he get out of that? Ivan had him dead to rights against that barbwire!

Nick Stuart: That’s why Chandler Tsonda is considered one of the most technically sound wrestlers in PRIME! Even bleeding and in tremendous pain, he found a way to counter with that elbow combination!

Richard Parker: Lucky shots, Nick! Those were nothing but desperate, lucky shots from a man who should have stayed down!

Moving with the fluid grace that has made him famous despite his injuries, Tsonda immediately springs toward the nearest turnbuckle, using the corner as a launching pad for his signature Runway Vault. The forward somersault three-quarter facelock connects perfectly as Chandler drives Ivan’s jaw down across his shoulder, the impact echoing through the cage like a gunshot.

Nick Stuart: And look at that Runway Vault! Picture perfect execution despite everything he’s been through! That move can be hit from anywhere, and Chandler just proved it!

The giant staggers backward, his huge frame swaying dangerously, but his tree-trunk legs keep him steady as he shakes off the cobwebs.

Richard Parker: Yeah, well, it takes more than one fancy move to put down the Russian Bear. Look – Ivan’s still standing!

Nick Stuart: Barely! You can see Ivan’s legs shaking after absorbing that jawbreaker. A lesser man would be down and out right now!

Fury flashing in his eyes after absorbing the Runway Vault, Ivan’s gaze immediately falls upon the barbwire-wrapped steel chair scattered during their earlier exchange. With a menacing snarl, the Russian Bear lurches toward the weapon, his massive hands gripping the chair’s legs as he lifts it overhead, a barbed wire-encrusted club. Blood dripping from his nose, a result of Chandler’s elbows connecting at the right points, drives Ivan to swing the makeshift weapon in a vast, sweeping arc, aiming straight for Tsonda’s skull. Just in time, the Model Citizen’s ring awareness kicks in, and he ducks, the chair soaring over his head and crashing into the barbed wire-wrapped cage wall with a loud, echoing clang.

Nick Stuart: Ivan’s gone completely unhinged! That chair shot was aimed directly at Chandler’s head – that could have been career-ending!

Richard Parker: Could have been? That SHOULD have been! If pretty boy hadn’t ducked like the coward he is, this match would be over already!

Nick Stuart: Thank God for Chandler’s reflexes! But even that glancing blow looked like it did serious damage to his shoulder. You can see him favoring that left arm already.

The impact embeds several barbs from the chair into the cage’s barbwire, creating a tangled mess that takes Ivan precious seconds to wrench free. When he finally pulls the weapon clear, strips of barbwire hang from it like deadly streamers, and his second swing catches a desperately dodging Chandler with a glancing blow across the left shoulder that sends the Model Citizen spinning away.

Richard Parker: And now Ivan’s got that chair free and ready for round two! Look at all that extra barbwire hanging off it now – it’s like a medieval mace!

Nick Stuart: This is getting out of hand, Richard. The weapon has weapon attachments now! How much punishment can one human body take?

Richard Parker: We’re about to find out, Nick, because Ivan’s not done swinging!

With blood painting crimson streaks down his back and his left shoulder throbbing from the chair shot, Chandler knows he needs something spectacular to shift the momentum in this increasingly one-sided battle. The Model Citizen begins his ascent to the top turnbuckle, each movement sending fresh waves of pain through his barbwire-shredded spine, but desperation drives him upward. The PRIMEates sense what’s coming and rise to their feet as Tsonda reaches the top rope, positioning himself for his signature finishing maneuver. Despite his injuries, Chandler launches himself backward into The Model Citizen, his body arcing gracefully through the air in a picture-perfect high-arc moonsault that showcases why he’s considered one of the most athletic performers in PRIME.

Nick Stuart: Incredible athleticism from Chandler despite his injuries! That moonsault was picture perf— OH NO! Ivan caught him!

But Ivan Stanislav has been waiting for exactly this moment, and the Russian Bear’s freakish strength and timing come together in devastating fashion. The giant steps forward and simply plucks Chandler out of mid-air like he’s catching a falling leaf, Tsonda’s 187-pound frame landing squarely in Ivan’s waiting arms.

Richard Parker: YES! Now THAT’S what I’m talking about! Four hundred pounds of Russian muscle just snatched that flying pretty boy right out of the air!

Nick Stuart: This is bad, Richard. Really bad. Ivan’s got Chandler in position for the Iron Curtain, and there’s nowhere for Tsonda to go!

Without missing a beat, the Soviet Giant transitions into his Iron Curtain setup, his massive right hand clamping around Chandler’s throat and lifting him high overhead with terrifying ease.

Richard Parker: Nowhere to go but DOWN, Nick! This is what happens when you try to get fancy against a real powerhouse!

Nick Stuart: Look at the ease with which Ivan’s holding Chandler up there! One-handed, like he weighs nothing at all!

Richard Parker: That’s the difference between a real athlete and a circus performer, Nick. Ivan’s about to drop the hammer – or should I say, the Iron Curtain!

Clutched in Ivan’s crushing grip, Chandler’s survival instincts go into overdrive as he senses he’s mere seconds from being crushed through the mat. With his feet dangling and his air cut off, the Model Citizen frantically scratches his fingernails across Ivan’s eyes, clawing and scratching with the ferocity of a trapped animal.

Nick Stuart: Desperation move by Chandler! He had to do something or Ivan was going to plant him with that Iron Curtain!

Richard Parker: Eye rake? Seriously? That’s the best the so-called Sultan of Style can come up with? What’s next, a kick to the groin?

Nick Stuart: When you’re fighting for your life in the Warchamber, Richard, you use whatever you have to! But look at this – both men are now tangled up in that barbwire!

The eye rake forces an involuntary roar of pain and rage from the Russian Bear, who immediately releases his grip and staggers backward, his massive hands flying to his face. Both wrestlers stumble in opposite directions, the momentum of their separation carrying them toward the unforgiving barbwire walls that surround them. Chandler crashes back-first into the cage once again, fresh barbs finding new flesh to tear as he cries out in agony. Across the ring, Ivan’s retreat is stopped when his thick leather suspender strap becomes entangled in the barbwire, the razor-sharp steel biting into both the leather and the exposed skin of his chest and shoulder.

Richard Parker: Great, now Ivan’s caught like a fish in a net! That suspender strap is completely wrapped up in the wire!

Nick Stuart: This barbwire cage doesn’t care how big you are or how strong you are – it’ll cut anyone who gets too close! Both wrestlers are bleeding now!

Richard Parker: Ivan’s tougher than pretty boy though. A little barbwire never killed anybody… I hope.

Nick Stuart: Look at them trying to separate themselves from those walls! Every movement is causing more damage!

As both men struggle to free themselves from the cage’s cruel embrace, they separate with matching sets of fresh lacerations painting their bodies crimson, though Ivan’s suspender remains entrenched.

With the barbed wire cutting into his flesh, the fans see Stanislav’s rage grow into fury. Primal fury erupts from the Russian Bear, reminding everyone of his well-earned reputation as one of the most intimidating figures in PRIME history. His roar echoes off the cage as he turns back and grabs his caught leather suspender with both hands and rips it free from the barbed wire with his impressive strength. Flecks of blood fly off of his body as he does so.

The thick leather strap, dripping with Russian blood, hangs there as Tsonda inches forward only for the giant to wrap the bloody suspender strap around his throat and pulls him into a modified bearhug, using the leather like a noose while his massive arms constrict around Chandler’s ribcage. The dual assault cuts off Tsonda’s air supply while crushing his ribs, but Ivan isn’t finished with his sadistic display.

Richard Parker: Now THAT’S how you use the environment to your advantage! Ivan just turned his own suspender into a weapon of mass destruction!

Nick Stuart: This is sickening, Richard! Using that strap to choke Chandler while applying a bearhug – that’s not wrestling, that’s torture!

Richard Parker: It’s innovation, Nick! Why limit yourself to just your hands when you’ve got perfectly good leather accessories? Ivan’s thinking outside the box!

After what feels like an eternity, he lets go of the hold and grabs Chandler by the wrist, sending him flying with such brutal force that the Model Citizen turns into a human projectile launched toward the far corner. He crashes into both the turnbuckle and the barbwire-wrapped cage with a gruesome impact, leaving him crumpled and bleeding.

Nick Stuart: And that whip into the corner! Good God, Chandler hit both the turnbuckle and the cage wall simultaneously! His body just folded up like an accordion!

Richard Parker: Beautiful impact! Did you hear that sound when he hit? That’s the sound of someone learning that they don’t belong in the ring with Ivan Stanislav!

Nick Stuart: Chandler’s not moving, Richard. That might have knocked him unconscious. The way his head snapped back when he hit that corner…

Richard Parker: Perfect! Now Ivan can take his time and really go to work. This is what happens when you try to scratch the eyes of a four-hundred-pound giant!

The cumulative damage from multiple encounters with the barbwire-wrapped cage walls has taken a devastating toll on Chandler’s already problematic back, and the Model Citizen can barely push himself up to his hands and knees in the corner.

Nick Stuart: Ivan’s targeting those back injuries like a surgeon! He knows exactly where Chandler is most vulnerable and he’s exploiting it ruthlessly!

Richard Parker: This is beautiful ring psychology, Nick! Why waste time with fancy moves when you can just break down your opponent piece by piece? That’s veteran instinct right there!

His back is a roadmap of lacerations and welts, each movement sending electric jolts of pain through his nervous system as Ivan stalks him like a predator sensing wounded prey. The Russian Bear reaches down and hauls Tsonda to his feet, positioning him for one of his most punishing maneuvers. With methodical precision, Ivan hooks Chandler’s arm and head, lifting him vertically into the stalling brainbuster position that showcases both his incredible strength and sadistic nature. For what feels like an eternity, Ivan holds Chandler completely inverted, allowing gravity and blood pressure to do their work while the smaller wrestler’s damaged spine screams in protest. The PRIMEates count along as Ivan maintains the hold – five seconds, ten seconds, fifteen – before finally dropping backward and driving Tsonda skull-first into the canvas with bone-jarring impact.

Nick Stuart: Fifteen seconds! Ivan held Chandler upside down for fifteen seconds! All that blood rushing to his head, all that pressure on his damaged spine!

Richard Parker: And look at the precision of that brainbuster! Ivan dropped him right on the back of his neck – that’s how you end careers, folks!

Not satisfied with the destruction, the giant immediately bounces off the ropes and launches his four-hundred-pound frame into a massive jumping legdrop that crashes down across Chandler’s throat and chest.

THUD

Nick Stuart: Four hundred pounds coming down across Chandler’s throat! That legdrop could have collapsed his windpipe!

Richard Parker: Ivan’s not just winning this match, Nick – he’s making a statement. This is what happens when you step into the Warchamber with the PRIME Locker Room Leader!

Nick Stuart: Chandler’s not moving at all now. His back and body may be completely shot after all this punishment.

Sensing victory is within reach, Ivan moves to emphasize his dominance. The Russian Bear lumbers to the barbwire-wrapped steel chair scattered around the ring during their brutal fight, dragging it to the center. With deliberate malice, Ivan unfolds the chair and positions it perfectly, the barbwire gleaming menacingly under the arena lights like a medieval torture device.

The giant then turns his attention back to the battered Chandler, grabbing the Model Citizen by the hair and hauling him to his feet with sadistic intent written across his bloodied face. Ivan hooks Tsonda around the waist and begins to lift him for what appears to be a devastating powerbomb directly onto the barbwire chair – a move that could end not just the match, but potentially Chandler’s career.

Desperation breeds innovation; as Ivan hoists him, Chandler shifts his weight to grab the giant’s head, using his momentum to spike Ivan face-first into the barbed-wire-wrapped chair with a DDT. The impact is brutally sickening as four hundred pounds of Russian muscle meets razor-sharp steel, and Ivan’s face disappears into the barbwire as both chair and giant crash to the mat.

CRASH

Nick Stuart: Oh my God! Ivan was going for the kill shot with that powerbomb onto the barbwire chair, but Chandler turned it into a DDT!

Richard Parker: What?! How did… that’s impossible! Ivan had him dead to rights for the powerbomb! That chair was going to cut Tsonda in half!

Nick Stuart: Incredible counter by Chandler! He used Ivan’s own momentum against him and now the Russian Bear’s face is buried in that barbwire!

Richard Parker: This can’t be happening! Ivan’s face is completely tangled up in that wire! Look at all that blood!

Nick Stuart: Both men are down now, Richard. Chandler’s completely spent from the punishment he’s taken, and Ivan… Ivan might be unconscious with his face and skull wrapped in barbwire!

For the first time in this brutal encounter, Ivan Stanislav is down and vulnerable, his massive frame motionless as barbwire from the destroyed chair clings to his bloodied face like metallic tentacles. Chandler, despite his own grievous injuries and the fire coursing through his damaged spine, recognizes this as perhaps his only opportunity to turn the tide.

Summoning reserves of strength he didn’t know he still possessed, the Model Citizen crawls over to the fallen giant and begins raining down a series of precise elbow strikes to Ivan’s skull. Each blow lands with surgical accuracy, targeting the same spot on the Russian Bear’s temple as Chandler draws upon his technical expertise to maximize the damage.

The strikes echo through the cage like gunshots, and after the fifth elbow finds its mark, Chandler transitions into one of his most devastating submission holds. Working with methodical precision despite his exhaustion, Tsonda captures Ivan’s massive arm in a hammerlock before smoothly transitioning into an inverted dragon sleeper, using the giant’s own considerable weight as leverage.

Richard Parker: No, no, no! This can’t be happening! Ivan was dominating this match and now pretty boy’s got him in some kind of pretzel hold!

Nick Stuart: Technical wrestling at its finest from Chandler Tsonda! Those elbow strikes were perfectly placed, and now he’s got Ivan trapped in the Spinal Tap!

Richard Parker: Technical wrestling? He’s using Ivan’s own weight against him! That’s not skill, that’s physics!

Nick Stuart: Sometimes the best technique is knowing how to use your opponent’s advantages against them, Richard! Chandler’s proving that size isn’t everything!

Richard Parker: Get out of it, Ivan! You outweigh him by over two hundred pounds! How is he controlling you like this?

The Spinal Tap reaches its crescendo as Chandler drops to one knee, bending Ivan’s spine across his leg in a kneeling backbreaker that forces a guttural roar of pain from the previously dominant Russian Bear.

Nick Stuart: Listen to that roar of pain from the Russian Bear! For the first time tonight, it’s Ivan who’s suffering, and Chandler’s applying that backbreaker with perfect leverage!

Sensing that this may be his last chance to put away the Russian Bear, Chandler begins his agonizing journey toward the turnbuckle. Every step is torture as his barbwire-shredded back screams in protest, but the Model Citizen knows he needs something spectacular to keep Ivan down permanently. Blood streaming from multiple lacerations, Tsonda begins his climb to the top rope, each movement sending fresh waves of agony through his damaged spine. The PRIMEates rise to their feet as they recognize what’s coming – the Model Citizen Redux, Chandler’s most devastating finishing maneuver reserved for only the biggest matches.

Nick Stuart: Chandler’s going for broke here! He’s climbing for the Model Citizen Redux – his ultimate finishing maneuver!

Richard Parker: This is desperation, pure and simple! His back is already destroyed and he’s going to risk everything on one high-risk move!

He reaches the top turnbuckle for the triple jump corkscrew moonsault, body coiled like a spring despite the punishment. Chandler launches into the air, executing the first rotation beautifully.

Nick Stuart: Triple jump corkscrew moonsault! If this connects, it could put Ivan away for good despite the size difference!

Richard Parker: Move, Ivan! MOVE! Don’t let this circus act end your night!

As Ivan enters the corkscrew maneuver, his survival instincts kick in, and the giant rolls away just in time. Tsonda crashes into the canvas, his compromised back giving out as he lands on the unforgiving mat, convulsing in pain while clutching his spine.

Nick Stuart: Chandler’s in the air! Beautiful rotation on the – NO! Ivan rolled away!

CRASH

Richard Parker: YES! Pretty boy just crashed and burned! Did you see his back bend when he hit the mat? That looked like a career-ending impact!

Nick Stuart: Chandler’s clutching his spine, Richard! His back may have given out completely! The cumulative damage from all that barbwire contact has finally caught up with him!

Richard Parker: That’s what happens when you try to get fancy instead of wrestling smart! Chandler just broke himself in half trying to hit that ridiculous move!

Nick Stuart: Both men are down now, but Chandler looks like he’s in absolute agony. He’s not moving his legs at all!

Overcome by a taste of blood and shame, the Russian Bear falls into a primal rage. Ivan rises from the rubble of the barbwire chair, his face scarlet and eyes blazing with hatred as he watches Chandler writhe on the mat, clutching his injured spine.

Richard Parker: NOW we’re talking! The real Ivan Stanislav is back! Look at that rage in his eyes – pretty boy’s about to pay for everything he’s done!

The giant rises to his seven-foot height like a vengeful monster, barbwire clinging to his cheeks and forehead as he stalks the helpless Model Citizen. Ivan suddenly leans down and drives his massive skull forward, delivering a headbutt that echoes through the cage like a gunshot, leaving Chandler’s eyes rolling back.

Nick Stuart: That headbutt sounded like a car crash! Ivan’s skull is like a bowling ball, and Chandler just took it right between the eyes!

Not satisfied with just one blow, the Soviet Giant hauls Tsonda to his feet and hooks both arms in a double underhook, his rage-fueled strength allowing him to lift and launch Chandler backward in a suplex that sends the Model Citizen crashing spine-first into the barbwire-wrapped cage wall.

Richard Parker: And that double underhook suplex into the cage wall! Did you see how Chandler’s body just folded when he hit that barbwire? Beautiful brutality!

Nick Stuart: This is getting hard to watch, Richard. Ivan’s completely lost control and he’s using his size to systematically destroy Chandler in that corner!

Richard Parker: Destroy? This is justice! Tsonda thought he could embarrass the PRIME Locker Room Leader and get away with it? Ivan’s teaching him a lesson in respect!

As fresh barbs tear into Chandler’s already mangled back, Ivan drags him into the corner and begins a systematic destruction, turning around and repeatedly crushing Tsonda with his four-hundred-pound frame.

THUD

After flattening his opponent multiple times, Ivan steps back and climbs to the second rope, taking his time to position himself before dropping a stalling fist that crashes down like a sledgehammer onto Chandler’s skull.

Nick Stuart: Four hundred pounds crushing Chandler against those turnbuckles over and over! How much punishment can one human body take?

Richard Parker: And look at Ivan taking his time on that second rope! He’s savoring this moment before he drops that sledgehammer fist!

Nick Stuart: Chandler’s completely defenseless now. His back is destroyed, he’s been beaten senseless, and Ivan’s showing no mercy whatsoever!

Chandler won’t back down, even with the constant pain in his back and his vision blurry. As Ivan readies another strike, Chandler lands a desperate dropkick to the Russian Bear’s left knee, sending him reeling backwards.

Nick Stuart: Incredible heart from Chandler Tsonda! Even with his back destroyed, he’s still fighting with everything he has left!

Richard Parker: Heart? That’s not heart, that’s stupidity! The man can barely stand and he’s still trying to wrestle like this is some technical showcase!

Tsonda immediately capitalizes, unleashing a barrage of rapid-fire elbow strikes to Ivan’s head with the precision of a prizefighter, each blow targeting the same spot where the barbwire had already opened wounds.

Nick Stuart: Those elbow strikes were surgical in their precision! Chandler’s targeting the exact spot where the barbwire opened Ivan up earlier!

Blood flies with each impact as Chandler tries to stagger the giant long enough to apply his Breathtaker cobra clutch. He locks his arms around Ivan’s throat, but the Russian Bear’s strength prevails as he powers out of the submission attempt, tearing Chandler’s arms from his neck.

Richard Parker: Lucky shots! And did you see how easily Ivan powered out of that cobra clutch? Tsonda’s got nothing left in the tank!

In one fluid motion, the resourceful Tsonda slides between Ivan’s massive legs and pops up behind him, rolling the giant forward into a schoolboy pin attempt.

Nick Stuart: Smart wrestling though, sliding between Ivan’s legs for that schoolboy attempt! Chandler’s using every trick in the book!

However, Ivan’s violent kickout sends Chandler flying backward into the ropes, where his left arm gets caught in the barbwire and fresh crimson begins to flow as the razor-sharp steel finds new flesh to tear.

RIP

Richard Parker: Yeah, and look where it got him! Ivan kicked out so hard he launched pretty boy into the barbwire! Now his arm’s getting shredded too!

Nick Stuart: You can hear the barbwire tearing into Chandler’s arm! This cage is like a living entity that just keeps feeding on both wrestlers!

Richard Parker: Good! Maybe now Tsonda will learn that technical wrestling doesn’t work when you’re trapped in hell with a four-hundred-pound monster!

With fresh blood streaming from his barbwire-torn arm and his back screaming in agony, Chandler rolls away from the ropes and spots a barbwire-wrapped table. He immediately sets it up before dragging Ivan onto the table after a few well-placed knees to the skull. Desperation driving him beyond rational thought, the Model Citizen begins an impossible climb up the cage wall itself, his hands immediately finding the razor-sharp barbwire that coats every inch of the structure.

Nick Stuart: WHAT IS CHANDLER THINKING?! He’s climbing the cage wall with his bare hands! That barbwire is cutting him to ribbons!

Richard Parker: He’s lost his mind! Completely and utterly lost his mind! Those hands are going to be hamburger by the time he gets down from there!

Blood begins to pour from his palms as the barbs slice deep into his flesh, but Tsonda continues his ascent like a man possessed, climbing higher and higher despite the excruciating pain. The PRIMEates gasp in horror and amazement as Chandler reaches a dangerous height on the cage wall, positioning himself directly above the recovering Ivan.

Nick Stuart: Look how high he’s gotten! This is absolutely insane! If he falls from that height onto the concrete floor…

Richard Parker: Good! Maybe it’ll knock some sense into him! Wait… is he going to jump?!

CRASH

With nothing to lose, he dives into a modified Perfect 10, spinning through the air and crashing both wrestlers through the barbwire table in a burst of twisted metal and razor wire.

Nick Stuart: HOLY COW! Chandler just dove off the cage wall with a modified Perfect 10 and both men went through that barbwire table! I’ve never seen anything like this!

Richard Parker: That’s because you’ve never seen anyone stupid enough to try it! They’re both lying in a pile of twisted metal and barbwire!

The impact is devastating for both men, but Chandler somehow manages to land on top and immediately attempts to transition into his Narcissist’s Noose rack neckbreaker.

Nick Stuart: Somehow Chandler’s trying to apply the Narcissist’s Noose! But Ivan’s just too big! There’s no way Tsonda can lift four hundred pounds in his condition!

Indeed, Ivan’s massive frame and four-hundred-pound weight make it physically impossible for the battered Tsonda to properly execute the maneuver, his arms trembling as he struggles to lift the giant.

Richard Parker: Of course he can’t! What did he think was going to happen? That little rack neckbreaker works on cruiserweights, not giants!

Nick Stuart: The courage of Chandler Tsonda is beyond question, but his body is simply failing him now. Look at his hands – they’re completely shredded from that cage climb!

Ivan’s raw power and survival instincts kick in as he shifts Chandler onto his back, as Chandler attempts to maintain some semblance of the Narcissist’s Noose. The Russian Bear’s eyes burn with fury as he realizes exactly how to solve his problem, backing up with Tsonda still attached and charging full speed toward the barbwire-wrapped cage wall.

Nick Stuart: Ivan just used Chandler as a human battering ram against that cage wall! The impact shook the entire structure!

Richard Parker: Brilliant strategy! Why waste energy trying to get Tsonda off your back when you can just crush him against barbwire?

The impact is earth-shattering as Ivan drives Chandler’s already mangled spine into the unforgiving steel and razor wire, crushing him between four hundred pounds of Russian muscle and the barbwire that tears fresh wounds across his back. But the giant isn’t finished, spinning around with murderous intent and extending his massive arm for what should be a decapitating short arm clothesline. However, Chandler’s ring awareness saves him one final time as he ducks under the devastating blow and counters with his Golgotha Drop, hooking Ivan’s head and stalling for a brief moment before driving the giant skull-first into the scattered fragments of the barbwire chair.

Nick Stuart: But somehow Chandler ducked that clothesline and – OH MY GOD! Golgotha Drop onto the chair fragments! Both men are down!

Richard Parker: How… how did pretty boy still have that left in him? Ivan should have finished this with that short arm clothesline!

The stalling lift implant DDT connects with sickening impact, and both wrestlers collapse motionlessly to the canvas, their bodies intertwined among twisted metal and razor wire as crimson pools begin forming around them. Nixon immediately slides into position, checking both men’s conditions as the Warchamber falls eerily silent except for the sound of labored breathing.

Nick Stuart: Neither man is moving, Richard! Elvis is checking on both wrestlers, and there’s blood everywhere! This cage looks like a crime scene!

Richard Parker: Look at all that barbwire wrapped around both of them! They’re both cut to shreds! I’ve never seen anything like this level of carnage!

Nick Stuart: Nixon’s waving for medical attention! Both Ivan Stanislav and Chandler Tsonda may need immediate medical care after what we’ve just witnessed!

Richard Parker: An unstoppable force meets an immovable object in a barbwire hell! Someone must stop this match before a tragedy occurs!

Nick Stuart: After twenty years of calling matches, I’ve never seen two human beings put each other through this kind of pain. The Warchamber might have claimed two more victims tonight.

Chandler, driven by strong will and determination that distinguishes Hall of Famers from champions, is the first to rise from the wreckage of metal and barbed wire. Even with his trembling hands, his eyes reveal a cold, sharp look. The Model Citizen seizes a loose barb wire strand near Ivan’s prone form, using it to wrap around the Russian Bear’s thick throat like a metallic noose.

Nick Stuart: Chandler’s showing a side of himself we rarely see! This is cold, calculated brutality from the Model Citizen!

Richard Parker: Where the hell did this come from? This isn’t the pretty boy acrobat we know! He’s wrestling like a damn assassin!

Nick Stuart: That barbwire around Ivan’s throat – Chandler’s using every weapon at his disposal! This is survival wrestling at its most primal!

As Ivan begins to regain consciousness, Chandler applies a modified sleeper hold, using the barbwire to amplify the choking effect while his arm clamps down on the giant’s carotid artery. The combination is brutal and effective, but Tsonda isn’t finished with his systematic assault. He transitions seamlessly into a series of calculated knee strikes to Ivan’s spine, each blow targeting the exact same vertebrae with surgical precision.

Richard Parker: Those knee strikes to the spine were surgical in their precision! Tsonda’s targeting Ivan’s foundation like a demolition expert!

Sensing the giant weakening, Chandler drags Ivan toward the corner and positions him on the second rope for his Guerilla Plex ’69. The release tiger suplex sends all four hundred pounds of Russian muscle crashing backward onto the canvas with tremendous impact.

Nick Stuart: Guerilla Plex ’69 from the second rope! Ivan just went flying backward onto the canvas! What impact!

Richard Parker: NO! Not like this! Ivan can’t lose to this technical pretty boy after dominating most of this match!

Without hesitation, Chandler immediately drapes himself across Ivan’s chest for the cover as Nixon slides into position.

Nick Stuart: Cover by Chandler! This could be it!

ONE

Richard Parker: Kick out, Ivan! KICK OUT! Don’t let this circus performer steal your victory!

TWO—

Nick Stuart: So close! Chandler nearly had the upset of the century right there! But it’s going to take more than that to keep the Russian Bear down!

Ivan manages to roll away from the near-fall and desperately slides out of the ring onto the concrete arena floor, his massive frame backing up against the barbwire-wrapped cage wall as he tries to create distance from his relentless opponent. But Chandler has entered a zone of technical savagery that few have ever witnessed, and he immediately pursues the giant to the outside.

With Ivan seated helplessly against the unforgiving barbwire, Tsonda seizes the opportunity to lock in his Breathtaker cobra clutch, his arms wrapping around the Russian Bear’s throat with python-like precision. The Model Citizen shows incredible ring psychology as he braces his feet against the cage wall behind Ivan and pushes off, using the barbwire structure itself to add devastating leverage to the submission hold.

Nick Stuart: Incredible technical wrestling from Chandler! He’s using that cage wall as leverage for the cobra clutch! I’ve never seen anything like this!

Richard Parker: This is cheating! Using the cage for extra pressure has to be against the rules! Where’s Elvis?!

Nick Stuart: There are no rules in the Warchamber, Richard! Chandler’s showing why he’s considered one of the most gifted wrestlers in PRIME!

As Ivan struggles to get up, his face turns bright purple, but Chandler smoothly moves into his Spinal Tap stance, keeping control as he changes position.

Richard Parker: Look at Ivan’s face! He’s turning purple! That cobra clutch is cutting off his air supply completely!

Nick Stuart: And now Chandler’s transitioning into those kidney shots! Each knee strike is perfectly placed to maximize damage to Ivan’s internal organs!

Richard Parker: This is systematic torture! Tsonda’s not trying to win a wrestling match – he’s trying to cripple the Russian Bear!

With clinical brutality, Tsonda begins driving repeated knee strikes into Ivan’s kidneys, each blow finding its mark with surgical accuracy before transitioning into an inverted dragon sleeper variation that bends the giant’s spine at an unnatural angle.

The barbwire cage prevents any escape route as Chandler applies pressure that threatens to snap Ivan’s neck.

Nick Stuart: That inverted dragon sleeper has Ivan’s spine bent at a horrific angle! Combined with the kidney damage, this could force a submission from the giant!

Richard Parker: Come on, Ivan! Use that four-hundred-pound frame! Power out of this technical nightmare!

Nick Stuart: Chandler’s feet are still braced against that cage, and the barbwire is preventing Ivan from getting any leverage to escape! This is submission wrestling at its most devastating!

Sensing that even his technical mastery isn’t enough to keep the giant down permanently, Chandler releases the submission hold and spots the mangled barbwire-wrapped chair among the wreckage. With blood loss affecting his judgment but adrenaline fueling his actions, the Model Citizen grabs the twisted weapon and begins his ascent to the top turnbuckle, each step on the ropes sending fresh jolts of pain through his destroyed spine. The PRIMEates watch in horrified fascination as Tsonda reaches the top rope, hoisting the barbwire chair overhead like some medieval executioner.

He launches into the air, driving the chair into Ivan’s head. The impact creates a huge cut on the Russian Bear’s forehead that immediately starts bleeding heavily. As the chair bounces off Ivan’s head it lands on his chest. Tsonda quickly springs off the ropes and nails a perfect moonsault, crashing down on the chair and driving it into Ivan’s chest with all his force.

Nick Stuart: WHAT KIND OF INNOVATION IS THIS?! Chandler just hit a diving chair shot from the top rope followed immediately by a springboard moonsault onto the same chair!

Richard Parker: This isn’t wrestling anymore! This is attempted murder! Look at all that blood pouring from Ivan’s head!

Nick Stuart: The creativity and ring awareness of Chandler Tsonda is off the charts! Even in this barbwire nightmare, he’s finding ways to combine high-risk offense with pure brutality!

Richard Parker: That chair is completely flattened against Ivan’s chest! Four hundred pounds can’t absorb that kind of punishment forever!

In one fluid motion, the Model Citizen rolls through the impact and attempts a modified pin while simultaneously cranking back on Ivan’s massive arm in an improvised armbar, creating a submission-pin combination that showcases his technical brilliance even in this barbwire hell.

Nick Stuart: And now he’s applying an armbar while going for the pin! I’ve never seen a submission-pin combination like this in my twenty years of commentary!

Richard Parker: Elvis doesn’t know what to do! Is this a pin attempt or a submission hold?

Nick Stuart: Chandler’s found a way to attack two victory conditions simultaneously! This is wrestling innovation born from desperation and technical excellence!

ONE

Richard Parker: NO! Not like this! Ivan’s arm could snap, and if he can’t kick out because of the submission…

Nick Stuart: The blood loss from that head gash is affecting Ivan’s response time! This could be the end of the Russian Bear’s dominance!

TWO—

The Russian Bear’s incredible resilience shows as he manages to explosively power out of Chandler’s innovative combination, breaking both the pinfall attempt and the armbar simultaneously with one tremendous surge of strength. But the Model Citizen is undeterred and he immediately capitalizes on Ivan’s depleted state with a rapid-fire succession of his signature maneuvers. Tsonda drives a crisp jawbreaker into Ivan’s chin, snapping the giant’s head back before seamlessly transitioning into a spinning heel kick that catches the Russian Bear flush across the temple.

Nick Stuart: Unbelievable technical wrestling from Chandler Tsonda! He’s chaining together signature moves like a master craftsman!

Richard Parker: This is insane! How is pretty boy still moving after everything he’s been through? That jawbreaker-heel kick combination was picture perfect!

Without missing a beat, Chandler springs toward the turnbuckle and launches into his Runway Vault, the forward somersault three-quarter facelock driving Ivan face-first into the barbwire-wrapped cage wall with devastating precision.

Nick Stuart: And that Runway Vault driving Ivan face-first into the barbwire! Chandler’s using every inch of this cage as a weapon!

The giant staggers backward as fresh barbs tear into his already mangled features, but Chandler isn’t finished with his technical showcase. He immediately springboards off the middle rope into a modified Perfect 10, but instead of the traditional body press, he drives both knees directly into Ivan’s spine with bone-crushing impact.

Richard Parker: Did you see that modified Perfect 10? Instead of a body press, he drove both knees right into Ivan’s spine! That’s brutal innovation!

In one fluid motion that demonstrates his wrestling mastery, Tsonda transitions smoothly into a Boston crab, but with a sadistic twist – he drags Ivan closer to the barbwire wall and uses the razor-sharp steel to increase the pressure on the giant’s legs.

Nick Stuart: And now he’s got Ivan trapped in a Boston crab using the barbwire wall for leverage! The technical brilliance of this sequence is absolutely incredible!

Richard Parker: Ivan’s legs are getting shredded by that barbwire! This isn’t a submission hold anymore – it’s torture!

Nick Stuart: Chandler’s found a way to combine traditional technical wrestling with the brutal environment of the Warchamber! This is submission wrestling taken to its most extreme level!

Richard Parker: Come on, Ivan! You’re four hundred pounds of Russian muscle! Don’t let this freak break you down piece by piece!

Nick Stuart: The blood loss from both men is becoming a serious factor, but Chandler’s adrenaline is carrying him through this incredible technical display!

With Ivan trapped and writhing in the barbwire-assisted Boston crab, Chandler finally releases the hold and surveys the carnage around him with the cold calculation of a surgeon preparing for a complex operation. Blood streaming from multiple lacerations but his eyes burning with focused determination, the Model Citizen begins methodically setting up a barbwire-wrapped table in the center of the ring.

Nick Stuart: Look at the methodical precision of Chandler Tsonda! He’s setting up that barbwire table like he’s planning a military operation!

Richard Parker: This is premeditated brutality! Chandler’s not just trying to win anymore – he’s trying to put Ivan through that table and end his career!

To ensure Ivan stays down during his preparation, Chandler grabs the mangled steel chair and delivers a series of calculated shots to the giant’s head and back, each blow perfectly placed to maintain control without expending unnecessary energy.

CRACK!

CRACK!

CRACK!

Nick Stuart: Those chair shots are keeping Ivan down, but you can see Chandler’s running on pure adrenaline now. The blood loss has to be affecting his judgment!

The metallic impacts echo through the cage as Ivan’s massive frame absorbs punishment that would finish lesser men. Tsonda rolls Stanislav back into the ring and hoists him, slowly, onto the barbwire-wrapped table.

Richard Parker: Smart strategy though – weaken the giant before attempting the high-risk maneuver. Tsonda’s showing veteran ring psychology here!

Finally satisfied with his setup, Tsonda begins his climb to the top turnbuckle, his bloodied hands gripping the ropes with grim determination. Reaching the summit, he raises both arms and signals to the roaring crowd for the Model Citizen Redux – the triple jump corkscrew moonsault through the barbwire table that could end this war once and for all.

Nick Stuart: He’s climbing to the top! Chandler’s going for the Model Citizen Redux – the move that’s ended more careers than any other in his arsenal!

Richard Parker: Through a barbwire table?! This could kill both men! Someone needs to stop this madness!

Nick Stuart: He’s signaling for it! The PRIMEates are on their feet! This could be the end of Ivan Stanislav!

But as Chandler launches himself from the top rope, Ivan’s survival instincts kick in and the Russian Bear suddenly springs to his feet with shocking speed.

Richard Parker: Wait… WAIT! Ivan’s moving! He’s getting up!

Nick Stuart: Chandler’s in the air! But Ivan’s on his feet! This could be a disaster for both wrestlers!

The arena erupts as Ivan’s massive arms extend upward, catching the falling Chandler in mid-air like a hunter snaring a bird in flight.

Richard Parker: YES! THAT’S THE IVAN STANISLAV I KNOW! He caught pretty boy right out of the air like swatting a fly!

The Russian Bear positions Tsonda perfectly for his Iron Curtain setup, holding him aloft for a split second that feels like an eternity before dropping him and delivering a short arm clothesline with such devastating force that it nearly separates Chandler’s head from his shoulders. The impact sends the Model Citizen crashing to the canvas like a rag doll, his body folding unnaturally as four hundred pounds of Russian fury collides with his throat and chest.

Nick Stuart: Good God! That short arm clothesline nearly took Chandler’s head clean off! The power of the Russian Bear is absolutely incredible!

But Ivan’s rage has only begun to manifest, and he immediately hauls the semiconscious Tsonda back to his feet for more punishment. The giant grabs handfuls of loose barbwire from the wreckage around them, wrapping the razor-sharp steel around his massive hands like medieval gauntlets.

Richard Parker: Look at Ivan wrapping that barbwire around his hands! He’s turning his fists into weapons of mass destruction!

Ivan wastes no time in applying his Communist Crunch, the coconut crunch now enhanced with barbwire that tears into Chandler’s skull from both sides.

Nick Stuart: This is sickening! The Communist Crunch with barbwire-wrapped hands – Chandler’s head is being crushed and cut simultaneously!

Richard Parker: Beautiful! This is what happens when you try to go too big! Ivan’s showing everyone why he’s the most feared man in PRIME!

Blood pours down Tsonda’s face as Ivan clutches him with immense strength, saving his most brutal move for last. He shifts into a modified version of Stalin’s Sickle, wrapping his barbwire-covered hand around the back of Chandler’s skull before lifting him up. He then slams him face-first through a barbwire table with a deafening impact.

CRASH

Nick Stuart: REVERSE STALIN’S SICKLE THROUGH THE BARBWIRE TABLE! Chandler just went face-first through steel and razor wire! This has to be over!

Richard Parker: That’s what four hundred pounds of Russian muscle can do when properly motivated! Tsonda just got driven through that table like it was made of paper!

Nick Stuart: I don’t see how Chandler Tsonda can possibly continue after that devastating sequence! Ivan’s turned this match completely around!

Richard Parker: From the depths of defeat to total domination in thirty seconds! THAT’S why Ivan Stanislav is the best in PRIME!

Nick Stuart: Both men are lying in the wreckage of that barbwire table, but Ivan’s the one who delivered that punishment. This could be the end!

With Tsonda motionless amongst the wreckage, Ivan shifts gears into exposing his sadistic nature even more. He immediately takes loose strands of barbed wire and begins wrapping it around The Model Citizen’s wrists and ankles. The steel cuts into Tsonda’s flesh as Ivan secures his limbs.

Nick Stuart: This isn’t wrestling anymore – this is systematic torture! Ivan’s wrapping barbwire around Chandler’s limbs like he’s preparing him for slaughter!

Richard Parker: Psychological warfare at its finest! Ivan’s not just trying to win – he’s trying to break Chandler’s spirit completely!

With deliberate malice, the giant drags Chandler across the concrete floor around ringside, the barbwire leaving bloody trails as it cuts deeper into the Model Citizen’s already mangled body.

Nick Stuart: Look at the blood trail as he drags Chandler around ringside! That barbwire is cutting deeper with every inch of movement!

Moderately happy with his work, Ivan drags the semiconscious Tsonda back into the ring and positions him for another stalling vertical suplex. Showing off his strength, and his penchant for exacting torture, he holds him there for thirty seconds completely inverted. Gravity works its damage on the pained back of the Model Citizen.

Richard Parker: Thirty seconds! Ivan’s holding that vertical suplex for thirty seconds! All that blood rushing to Tsonda’s head while his spine is stretched to the breaking point!

When he finally releases the hold, he drops Tsonda directly onto the scattered remnants of the barbwire chair, the impact driving twisted metal deeper into Chandler’s back.

Nick Stuart: And he dropped him right onto those chair remnants! Chandler’s back is being punctured by twisted metal and razor wire!

Without pause, Ivan transitions into his standing surfboard submission, but in a display of masochistic fury, he deliberately steps onto loose barbwire strands, using his own pain to fuel his rage and increase the pressure on Chandler’s already destroyed limbs.

Richard Parker: Now THAT’S innovation! Ivan’s stepping on barbwire himself to increase his own pain and fury! He’s using masochism as motivation!

Nick Stuart: The standing surfboard with barbwire enhancement – I’ve never seen anything so brutal! Chandler’s limbs are being stretched beyond their limits!

Richard Parker: Ivan’s willing to hurt himself to hurt his opponent more! That’s the mindset of a true warrior, Nick!

Nick Stuart: This has crossed every line of human decency! Someone needs to stop this match before we witness permanent damage!

Richard Parker: Permanent damage? This is the Warchamber! Both men knew what they were signing up for when they stepped into this barbwire hell!

Nick Stuart: Oh, now you get what Warchamber is.

As Ivan nears the cage wall, his sadistic creativity soars to new levels. With deliberate precision, he picks his tools – the Russian Bear uses his bare hands to tear apart a section of the barbed-wire wrapped chainlink, his own skin ripping as he molds the razor-sharp steel into a crude whip.

Nick Stuart: What kind of sadistic mind creates a barbwire whip with his bare hands?! Ivan’s willing to tear his own flesh apart to inflict more damage!

Richard Parker: That’s dedication to your craft, Nick! Ivan’s turning this cage into his personal torture chamber, and he’s the master craftsman!

Chandler’s blood drips from his hands as he twists the barbed wire into a dangerous weapon, its metal glistening with his blood as he checks its strength. Still bound by barbwire around his limbs, Chandler tries a frantic crawl toward the far corner, leaving a bloody trail behind. But Ivan closes in like a predator, raising the makeshift barbwire whip high before bringing it down across Chandler’s already torn back with a disturbing crack.

Nick Stuart: Listen to those lashes across Chandler’s back! Each strike of that barbwire whip is opening new wounds on top of existing lacerations!

Richard Parker: Chandler’s crawling like a wounded animal! These are the consequences of pissing off a 400-pound giant.

The Model Citizen’s scream pierces the arena as the makeshift weapon opens fresh wounds, but Ivan continues the assault, lashing Tsonda’s spine repeatedly as he crawls helplessly across the canvas. Positioning the barbwire whip on the mat like a bed of nails, Ivan grabs Chandler and executes his modified Hammer and Sickle, the inverted stomp neckbreaker driving Tsonda’s neck directly into the twisted steel.

CRACK

Nick Stuart: The Hammer and Sickle onto that barbwire whip! Ivan just drove Chandler’s neck into his own homemade weapon of destruction!

Richard Parker: Brilliant innovation! No need to settle for a regular neckbreaker when you have barbwire you can add for extra fun.

Spurred on by the damage, Ivan grabs Chandler’s skull and delivers powerful headbutts that echo through the arena.

THWACK

THWACK

THWACK

Nick Stuart: Those headbutts are like sledgehammer blows! Ivan’s skull is like a battering ram, and he’s using it to crush Chandler’s head!

Relishing using the Warchamber as his own personal weapon, Ivan scoops up the barely conscious Tsonda and presses him high overhead in a military press, highlighting his strength and conditioning. With calculated precision, the Russian Bear launches Tsonda like a human projectile into the barbwire-wrapped cage wall, where the razor-sharp steel immediately begins to rip apart the Model Citizen’s battered body.

Richard Parker: NOW THIS IS CAGE MASTERY! Ivan’s using every inch of this barbwire hell as his personal playground of destruction!

Nick Stuart: That military press launch turned Chandler into a human missile! The way the barbwire just wrapped around his body when he hit that wall!

The barbed wire wraps around Chandler’s arms and torso with one purpose: to maim, and suspends him against the cage as he struggles weakly to free himself from its cruel embrace.

Richard Parker: Look at Tsonda hanging there like a piece of meat in a slaughterhouse! The barbwire’s got him completely tangled up!

But Ivan has anticipated this moment perfectly, positioning himself to catch Chandler as gravity and his movements finally tear him free from the barbwire’s grip. Without missing a beat, the giant transitions into a devastating gutwrench suplex, lifting Tsonda high before driving him backward into the cage corner where fresh strands of barbwire wait like a bed of nails.

Nick Stuart: And Ivan catches him perfectly for that gutwrench suplex! The ring awareness and timing of the Russian Bear is incredible despite his size!

Richard Parker: Chandler soared through the air and is in a new world of pain he couldn’t fathom before this match.

The impact sends Chandler flying into the corner, covered in blood. But Ivan isn’t done yet. The Russian Bear charges and delivers a powerful lariat that spins Chandler through the air like a ragdoll before he crashes into another part of the barbed-wire-wrapped cage wall.

CRASH

Nick Stuart: That lariat just launched Chandler like he was shot out of a cannon! The power behind that clothesline defies belief!

Richard Parker: Ivan’s treating this cage like it’s his personal training facility! Every wall, every corner is just another weapon in his arsenal!

Nick Stuart: Chandler’s body is completely limp as he crashes into that barbwire wall! His nervous system may be shutting down from the trauma!

Richard Parker: This is what four hundred pounds of perfectly applied violence looks like, Nick! Ivan’s not just winning – he’s making an artistic statement!

Nick Stuart: The systematic way Ivan’s using this environment is terrifying! He’s turned the entire Warchamber into an extension of his own body!

Richard Parker: Each headbutt sounds like a car crash! How is Chandler’s skull still intact after absorbing that kind of punishment?

Nick Stuart: This has gone beyond the realm of professional wrestling! We’re witnessing assault with deadly weapons in a barbwire-wrapped hell!

Richard Parker: This is exactly what the Warchamber was designed for, Nick! No rules, no limits, just pure brutality between two warriors!

Sensing that his dominance is reaching its inevitable conclusion, Ivan begins the methodical setup for his most devastating finishing sequence. The Russian Bear hauls the semiconscious Chandler to his feet and positions him for a jumping piledriver, but this isn’t just any ordinary version of the move – Ivan drives Tsonda skull-first directly onto the twisted remnants of the barbwire table, the impact creating a sickening crunch as metal fragments embed themselves in the canvas around Chandler’s head.

Nick Stuart: That jumping piledriver onto the barbwire remnants may have finished Chandler!

Richard Parker: Look at the way Tsonda’s head just bounced off those metal fragments! His skull could be fractured after that impact!

The Model Citizen’s body goes completely limp, but Ivan isn’t finished with his systematic destruction. Lifting the deadweight of Tsonda across his massive knee, the giant executes a brutal shoulderbreaker that sends loose barbwire strands digging deeper into Chandler’s already mangled spine, the razor-sharp steel finding new flesh to tear as his body bends unnaturally across Ivan’s leg.

Nick Stuart: And now that shoulderbreaker with barbwire digging into his spine! Chandler’s body is completely limp – he may already be unconscious!

With his opponent now completely defenseless and bleeding from countless wounds, Ivan hoists Chandler high into the vertical suplex position that signals the approach of The Red Scare.

Richard Parker: This is it, Nick! Ivan’s got him up for The Red Scare! The most devastating finishing move in all of PRIME!

The Russian Bear holds Tsonda aloft like a grotesque trophy, his massive arms trembling slightly from the accumulated damage but his strength still sufficient to support the 187-pound wrestler as crimson droplets begin falling from Chandler’s wounds onto the canvas below.

Nick Stuart: Look at the blood dripping from Chandler’s wounds onto the canvas! Ivan is relishing every second of this!

PRIMEates leap to their feet in stunned silence, knowing they’re about to witness the end of one of the most brutal battles in PRIME history.

With the match hanging in the balance, Chandler drives his knees repeatedly into Ivan’s face while held upside down, using all his available strength. The strikes force the Russian Bear to stagger and drop him.

Richard Parker: NO! How did pretty boy get out of that?! Ivan had him dead to rights for The Red Scare!

Nick Stuart: Incredible desperation from Chandler Tsonda! Those knee strikes to Ivan’s face were perfectly placed despite being held upside down!

Landing behind Ivan, Tsonda immediately attempts a German suplex but can’t lift the four-hundred-pound monster, no matter how hard he tries.

Richard Parker: That German suplex attempt was doomed from the start! You can’t lift four hundred pounds with a destroyed back! What was he thinking?

Ivan counters with a back elbow, then spins around throwing a massive lariat.

Nick Stuart: Smart counter by Ivan with that back elbow, but did you see the power behind that lariat attempt? It could have taken Chandler’s head clean off!

Richard Parker: How did Tsonda duck that clothesline?! His reflexes should be shot after all the punishment he’s taken!

Chandler ducks under the clothesline and hits his Runway Vault, driving Ivan face-first into the mat.

THUD

Nick Stuart: Runway Vault! Picture perfect execution and Ivan just got driven face-first into the canvas! What ring awareness from Chandler!

Richard Parker: This can’t be happening! Ivan was seconds away from ending this match and now he’s the one stunned on the mat!

Nick Stuart: The resourcefulness of Chandler Tsonda is beyond belief! Even with his back destroyed and barely conscious, he found a way to counter!

Richard Parker: Get up, Ivan! GET UP! Don’t let this pretty boy steal your victory when you had him finished!

Ivan staggers to his feet and catches the charging Chandler with a one-handed scoop slam, but Tsonda slips out mid-move and lands on his feet.

Nick Stuart: Ivan’s back up but Chandler slipped out of that scoop slam like water! The agility of the Model Citizen is remarkable!

He immediately unleashes a rapid-fire kick combination targeting Ivan’s legs and midsection.

Richard Parker: Those kicks are like mosquito bites to a four-hundred-pound giant! Tsonda’s wasting what little energy he has left!

Chandler springboards off the middle rope for his Perfect 10, but Ivan catches him mid-air and transitions into the Kurchatov’s Bomb setup.

Nick Stuart: Springboard Perfect 10 attempt – but Ivan caught him again! The Russian Bear’s timing is incredible despite all the punishment!

Richard Parker: Kurchatov’s Bomb! This is it! Ivan’s going to powerbomb pretty boy through the concrete floor!

Desperate, Chandler rakes Ivan’s eyes and counters with a hurricanrana that sends the Russian Bear tumbling out of the ring.

Nick Stuart: Eye rake by Chandler! Desperation move but it worked! And somehow he managed a hurricanrana on the giant!

CRASH

Richard Parker: Ivan just went tumbling to the outside! How does a man that size get taken down by a hurricanrana from someone half his weight?

Nick Stuart: Physics, Richard! Leverage and momentum can overcome size when applied correctly! Chandler’s showing his technical brilliance!

Both men spot barbwire-wrapped weapons at the same time and dive for them. Ivan grabs a mangled chair while Chandler snatches up a barbwire-wrapped chain.

Nick Stuart: Weapon warfare at its most primal! Both men armed and dangerous with barbwire-wrapped implements of destruction!

They charge at each other, weapons raised, colliding in the center with a thunderous crash that echoes through the arena.

Richard Parker: Did you hear that collision?! It sounded like a car crash when those weapons met in mid-air!

Ivan’s superior power sends Chandler sprawling backward, but Tsonda uses the momentum to roll through and sweep the giant’s legs.

Nick Stuart: Ivan’s power advantage sent Chandler flying, but look at that ring awareness! He turned a knockdown into a leg sweep!

Richard Parker: How did the giant go down from a sweep?! Ivan weighs four hundred pounds and Chandler just took his legs out!

Ivan crashes hard to the concrete floor as Chandler immediately pounces, wrapping the barbwire chain around Ivan’s throat and locking in his Breathtaker submission with the razor-sharp steel adding devastating pressure.

BANG

Nick Stuart: And now Chandler’s got that barbwire chain wrapped around Ivan’s throat! The Breathtaker submission enhanced with razor wire!

Richard Parker: That’s not a submission hold anymore – that’s attempted murder! The barbwire is cutting into Ivan’s neck!

Ivan slowly rises from the ground, the submission hold still locked in with Chandler still clinging to his back. He then rams backward into the cage wall to break the hold.

Richard Parker: There’s the power of the Russian Bear! Ivan just stood up with Chandler on his back like he weighs nothing!

He spins around for a short arm clothesline but Chandler ducks and hits a springboard dropkick to Ivan’s knees, sending the Russian Bear down to one knee. Tsonda quickly climbs onto Ivan’s back and delivers repeated elbow strikes to his skull.

Nick Stuart: Smart counter by Ivan using that cage wall to break the submission, but Chandler’s already adapting with that dropkick!

Richard Parker: Look at pretty boy scrambling up Ivan’s back like he’s climbing a mountain! Those elbow strikes are finding their mark!

Nick Stuart: The agility and ring awareness of Chandler Tsonda is keeping him in this fight against impossible odds!

The Russian Bear reaches back, grabs Chandler, and military presses him overhead before launching him into the cage wall with tremendous force, the barbwire tearing holes in Tsonda’s attire as he crashes into the steel and falls to the floor.

CRASH

Richard Parker: But there’s no escaping Ivan’s raw power! That military press just launched Chandler like a human cannonball!

Nick Stuart: Listen to that impact! Chandler just hit that cage wall so hard it tore his gear apart! The barbwire is shredding everything it touches!

Richard Parker: Did you see the holes in Tsonda’s attire? That cage wall just ate him alive and spit him back out!

Ivan moves in for another Iron Curtain setup, but Chandler desperately rakes his eyes and counters with a modified Spinal Tap that drives Ivan’s head into the cage wall instead of his knee.

Nick Stuart: Another desperate eye rake by Chandler! It’s the only thing that’s kept him alive in this match!

Richard Parker: And that Spinal Tap into the cage wall! Ivan’s head just bounced off barbwire and steel like a basketball!

Tsonda immediately attempts his Narcissist’s Noose, but Ivan’s four-hundred-pound frame causes both men to crash to the floor as Chandler can’t support the weight.

Nick Stuart: Both men down! Chandler couldn’t support Ivan’s weight and they both crashed to the floor!

Richard Parker: I told you! Physics beats technique every time! Now Ivan’s back up and Tsonda’s in serious trouble!

Ivan recovers first and drives Tsonda back-first into the ring edge with brutal force.

Nick Stuart: Ring edge to the spine! That unforgiving edge just drove into Chandler’s already damaged back!

He then hoists Chandler up slightly and slams him spine-first into the side of the Warchamber cage, the barbwire tearing fresh wounds across his back.

Richard Parker: And now Ivan’s back to using the cage itself as a weapon! Look at Tsonda’s back getting shredded against that barbwire!

Nick Stuart: The systematic destruction of Chandler Tsonda continues! Ivan’s found every way possible to target the problematic back of his opponent!

Both wrestlers struggle to their feet simultaneously, making their way back into the ring, with their bodies painted crimson from countless barbwire wounds.

Nick Stuart: Both men look like they’ve been through a war zone! Blood and barbwire wounds covering every inch of their bodies!

Tsonda quickly dodges Ivan’s huge headbutt and delivers a precise dropkick to his back, pushing him into the ropes with strong force.

Richard Parker: That headbutt would’ve finished it, but Chandler amazingly found enough energy to dodge out of the way!

Nick Stuart: Smart dropkick to the back! Chandler’s using Ivan’s own momentum against him by sending him into those ropes!

Ivan bounces back and nails Chandler with a big boot before executing a gutwrench suplex.

Richard Parker: But Ivan recovered with that big boot! The power of the Russian Bear is still there despite all the punishment!

Nick Stuart: Gutwrench suplex! Ivan’s still throwing Chandler around like a rag doll!

The Russian Bear immediately lifts Tsonda for a delayed atomic drop, but Chandler slips out and lands behind Ivan.

Nick Stuart: Chandler slipped out! Chop block to the knee! He’s targeting Ivan’s foundation again!

He connects with a chop block to Ivan’s right knee, sending the giant crashing down. Chandler quickly covers for the pin.

ONE

TWO—

Ivan powers out at the last moment, throwing Chandler off with tremendous force.

Richard Parker: Smart strategy but – NO! Ivan powered out of the pin! The heart of the Russian Bear is incredible!

Nick Stuart: So close! Chandler nearly stole the victory with that perfectly executed sequence!

Richard Parker: It’s going to take more than a chop block to keep Ivan Stanislav down for three seconds!

Chandler winds barbed wire around Ivan’s legs and applies a modified figure-four leglock, the razor-sharp steel biting into both men as they scream in shared agony.

Nick Stuart: Modified figure-four with barbwire! Both men are screaming as that steel cuts into their flesh!

Richard Parker: This is mutual destruction at its most extreme! Chandler’s willing to hurt himself to hurt Ivan!

Despite the excruciating pain, Ivan drags himself and Tsonda toward the ropes, reaching down to grab remnants of a barbwire table and hurling them at Chandler.

Nick Stuart: Look at the determination of Ivan! Even with his leg trapped, he’s dragging both men toward those weapons!

Richard Parker: Brilliant counter! Ivan just weaponized those table remnants to break the submission hold!

The impact forces Tsonda to break the hold. Ivan immediately locks in his devastating iron claw, his massive hand crushing Chandler’s skull while the smaller wrestler desperately fires repeated back fists into Ivan’s ribs.

Nick Stuart: Iron claw locked in! Ivan’s massive hand is crushing Chandler’s skull like a vise!

Richard Parker: Those back fists to the ribs aren’t doing anything! Tsonda’s running out of options fast!

Finally, Chandler escapes with a desperate low blow that sends the Russian Bear crumpling to the mat.

Nick Stuart: Low blow! Desperate move by Chandler but it worked! Ivan’s down and writhing in pain!

Richard Parker: That’s a cheap shot! Even in the Warchamber, there should be some limits to what’s acceptable!

Nick Stuart: Survival wrestling at its most primal! Both men are doing whatever it takes to win!

Medical personnel rush toward the ring, urgently speaking with Nixon about stopping the match due to the massive blood loss from both competitors.

Nick Stuart: Medical personnel are asking Elvis Nixon to stop this match! The blood loss from both men is becoming dangerous!

At the same time, Alexei Ruslan arrives at the cage’s edge and shouts through the barbwire for Ivan to finish the match.

Richard Parker: And there’s Alexei Ruslan! He is telling him to finish this barbaric contest!

Chandler struggles to his feet and defiantly gives Alexei the middle finger before digging into his pants pocket.

Nick Stuart: What’s Chandler pulling out of his pocket? Is that… is that Ivan’s tooth?!

He extracts a bloody tooth – Ivan’s own tooth knocked loose by Jasmine Jeong a month ago. As the Russian Bear rises to his feet, Tsonda drives the sharp edge into Ivan’s shoulder like a makeshift weapon.

Richard Parker: That sick freak is using Ivan’s own tooth as a weapon! This has crossed every line of human decency!

Chandler then unleashes a series of sharp boot kicks across Ivan’s face before bouncing off the ropes and connecting with a flying knee strike.

Nick Stuart: Those boot kicks are finding their mark across Ivan’s bloodied face! Chandler’s showing a vicious streak we’ve never seen!

Richard Parker: Flying knee to the face! Tsonda’s throwing everything he has left at the Russian Bear!

He immediately covers for the pin.

Nick Stuart: Cover by Chandler! This could be it after that devastating sequence!

ONE

TWO

THR– NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Ivan kicks out at the last possible second

Richard Parker: NO! Ivan kicked out! The heart of the Russian Bear refuses to quit even after being stabbed with his own tooth!

Nick Stuart: Nixon’s looking conflicted about whether to continue this match! Both men may need immediate medical attention!

Richard Parker: Alexei’s screaming for Ivan to get up! The Russian Bear’s manager knows his fighter has more left in the tank!

Chandler watches as Ivan climbs to his knees and bounces off the ropes for another flying knee strike. But the Russian Bear catches him mid-air, wrapping his massive hand around Tsonda’s throat and chokeslamming him hard to the canvas.

Richard Parker: Chokeslam! Ivan just planted Tsonda like a tree with that devastating move!

Nick Stuart: Both men are completely spent! This match has pushed them beyond human endurance!

Both men lay motionless as Ivan stirs first, encouraged by Alexei’s shouting.

Richard Parker: Alexei’s getting Ivan fired up! The Russian Bear is feeding off that energy!

Stanislav reaches his feet and spots his own tooth protruding from his shoulder. Pure fury overtakes him as he rips it out, wraps barbwire around it and his fist, creating a makeshift weapon with the tooth jutting out like a spike. He drives the improvised weapon into Chandler’s face as he slowly rises.

Nick Stuart: Oh my God! Ivan just turned his own tooth into a weapon with that barbwire! This is beyond savage!

Richard Parker: That’s the fury of a true warrior! Ivan’s using his own body parts as weapons now!

Ivan drags Tsonda to the corner and climbs to the second rope, leaping off with a punch aimed at the grounded Chandler. But Tsonda rolls away at the last second, leaving Ivan to crash to one knee.

Nick Stuart: Second rope leap with that tooth-punch! Thank goodness Chandler moved or that could have been fatal!

Chandler bounces off the ropes and connects with a flying knee to the back of Ivan’s skull before covering.

Richard Parker: Flying knee to the back of the skull! Tsonda’s targeting Ivan’s head with surgical precision!

Nick Stuart: Cover! This has to be it!

ONE

TWO

Nick Stuart: ONE! TWO! THR— NO! Ivan got his shoulder up at the very last split second!

Richard Parker: TWO POINT NINE! I thought it was over! The heart of Ivan Stanislav is absolutely incredible!

Nick Stuart: How either man is still conscious after this level of brutality is beyond comprehension! This is superhuman endurance!

Chandler ascends to the top rope, waiting for Ivan to stand before launching himself with a flying knee off the top.

Nick Stuart: Flying knee off the top rope! Chandler’s pulling out all the stops in this final sequence!

Ivan crashes to the mat, but before Tsonda can cover him, the Russian Bear rolls out of the ring onto the arena floor.

Richard Parker: Smart move by Ivan rolling to the outside! He’s buying himself recovery time and forcing Tsonda to come to him!

Frustrated, Chandler bounces off the ropes and soars through with a suicide dive that drives Ivan into the Warchamber wall.

Nick Stuart: Suicide dive through the ropes! Chandler just drove Ivan into that barbwire wall with incredible impact!

With lightning speed, Tsonda climbs onto the ring apron for a springboard moonsault. However, Ivan intercepts him mid-air and ragdolls him into the cage.

Richard Parker: But Ivan caught that moonsault! The ring awareness of the Russian Bear is phenomenal despite his condition!

The giant maintains his grip and grinds Chandler’s back against the barbwire like a cheese grater, drawing agonized screams. Alexei cheers Ivan on from outside the cage.

Nick Stuart: He’s using Chandler’s back like a cheese grater against that barbwire! This is absolutely sickening to watch!

Richard Parker: Alexei’s loving every second of this! Ivan’s manager knows his fighter has found his second wind!

Nick Stuart: Ivan’s going to launch Chandler into that cage wall again! The systematic destruction continues!

Ivan backs up and hoists Tsonda overhead to throw him into the cage again, but Chandler catches himself on the wall and springboards off it, connecting with a flying crossbody that sends both men crashing to the arena floor.

Richard Parker: Wait! Tsonda caught himself on the cage! How did he— FLYING CROSSBODY! Both men are down on the arena floor!

Nick Stuart: The innovation and athleticism of Chandler Tsonda even in this hellish condition is absolutely incredible!

Richard Parker: That springboard off the cage wall was pure desperation turned into partial brillance and partial stupidity! But both men are destroyed now!

Chandler is in agony while he searches frantically under the ring. His body is wracked in pain and it is clear when looking at blood-covered face courtesy of this hellacious match.

Nick Stuart: What is Chandler looking for under that ring? He’s moving like every step is pain personified

At last, his fingers close around the very thing he’s been searching for: a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire. With a steady hand, Tsonda pounds the weapon against the ring edge twice, testing its balance like he’s about to hit a game-winning home run in the bottom of the 9th.

Richard Parker: Smart strategy – if you can’t beat Ivan with wrestling, find a bigger weapon! But what kind of bat is that?

Nick Stuart: Listen to that sound as he tests it against the ring! That’s not a normal baseball bat!

Richard Parker: Ivan’s getting up! He has no idea what’s coming for him!

In equal pain, Ivan gets to his feet, using the cage wall for support. The Russian Bear is completely clueless about what’s about to hit him. Chandler swings the bat high and then brings it down hard across Ivan’s back with incredible force.

BOOM

Nick Stuart: WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?! The bat just exploded when it hit Ivan’s back!

The impact creates a massive explosion of sparks and smoke that sends the Russian Bear crashing to his knees, revealing that this isn’t just any barbwire bat – it’s rigged with explosive charges.

Richard Parker: AN EXPLODING BAT?! Where did Tsonda get an exploding barbwire baseball bat?! This is insane!

Without hesitation, Tsonda circles around and drives the top end of the bat into Ivan’s chest, triggering another devastating explosion that forces an agonized howl from the giant as he falls backward onto the concrete floor.

Nick Stuart: Another explosion to Ivan’s chest! The Russian Bear is being blown up piece by piece!

Richard Parker: The howl of pain from Ivan! I’ve never heard a sound like that!

Nick Stuart: Chandler’s found the ultimate equalizer! Explosive weapons can bring down even a four-hundred-pound giant!

Richard Parker: This isn’t wrestling anymore – this is demolition! Someone’s going to get seriously hurt with explosives involved!

Tsonda grabs Ivan by his blood-matted hair and rolls the semiconscious Bear back into the ring, the exploding bat carefully positioned on the canvas like a landmine waiting to detonate.

Nick Stuart: Chandler’s rolling Ivan back into the ring! That exploding bat is positioned like a weapon of mass destruction!

As Ivan slowly pushes himself up to his hands and knees, trying to shake off the daze from the intense impacts, Chandler spots his chance.

Richard Parker: Ivan can barely see straight after those explosions! His equilibrium has to be completely shot!

He springs toward the turnbuckle and launches into his signature Runway Vault, driving Ivan’s face directly into the exploding bat with pinpoint accuracy.

BOOM

The third explosion rocks the entire Warchamber structure as smoke and sparks fill the ring, and Ivan rolls away clutching his face in absolute agony.

Nick Stuart: Runway Vault onto the exploding bat! This is it! THIRD EXPLOSION! The entire cage is shaking!

Richard Parker: THE SMOKE! THE SPARKS! I can barely see through all this chaos! Ivan has to be finished!

Chandler immediately hooks his leg and goes for the cover.

Nick Stuart: Cover by Chandler! This HAS to be it! ONE! TWO! THR— NO! IVAN’S SHOULDER UP AT 2.9!

Richard Parker: HOW?! How does any human being survive three explosions and still kick out?! Ivan Stanislav is not from this planet!

Nick Stuart: The heart, the determination, the sheer will to survive of the Russian Bear defies all logic and reason!

Richard Parker: Even Alexei can’t believe what he just saw! That should have ended ten normal men!

Nick Stuart: Chandler’s staring at Elvis in complete disbelief! What more can he possibly do to put Ivan away?!

Chandler stares in disbelief at Nixon before locking eyes with Alexei through the cage. Pure fury burns in the Model Citizen’s gaze as he climbs to the top rope with murderous intent.

Nick Stuart: The fury in Chandler’s eyes as he stares down Alexei! This has become personal between Tsonda and Ivan’s manager!

Without hesitation, he leaps off and connects with a picture-perfect Model Citizen moonsault, his eyes never leaving Alexei’s as he covers Ivan.

Richard Parker: Model Citizen off the top rope! Perfect execution and he’s keeping eye contact with Alexei the entire time!

Nick Stuart: Another cover! This has to be— NO! Ivan kicked out again! How is this humanly possible?!

Richard Parker: The Russian Bear refuses to stay down! Three explosions, a perfect moonsault, and he’s still fighting!

Nick Stuart: Chandler can’t believe it! Look at the frustration and disbelief on his face!

Chandler yanks Ivan to his feet, frustration setting him. He goes to whip him into the ropes, but the giant plants his feet and pulls Tsonda back toward him.

Richard Parker: But Ivan’s got something left! He reversed that whip attempt with pure power!

CRACK

Nick Stuart: Headbutt from Ivan! That sounded like a gunshot! Chandler’s legs just went wobbly!

Ivan drives his skull forward with a devastating headbutt that rocks Chandler’s world before lifting him high overhead for The Red Scare. The vertical release suplex sends Tsonda’s body bouncing violently off the canvas multiple times like a rubber ball.

Richard Parker: THE RED SCARE! Ivan just launched Chandler like a human missile! Look at him bouncing off that canvas!

Nick Stuart: Cover by Ivan! After that devastating suplex, this has to be it!

Richard Parker: THREE! THREE! Wait— NO! Tsonda got his shoulder up! I don’t believe it!

Nick Stuart: Both men refusing to quit! This is beyond human endurance! Neither wrestler should be able to continue!

Richard Parker: Alexei’s screaming instructions but I don’t think either man can hear anything anymore! They’re running on pure instinct!

Both men struggle to their feet as Elvis checks on their condition while medical personnel continue pleading with him to stop the match. Despite their battered states, both wrestlers rise and begin trading punches in the center of the ring.

Nick Stuart: Both men should be in hospital beds, not trading punches! The heart of these competitors is beyond belief!

Chandler is clearly at a disadvantage in the striking exchange, but shows tremendous heart battling back against the Russian Bear.

Richard Parker: Tsonda’s getting the worst of this striking battle, but he won’t quit! The determination is the very definition of stupidity!

Ivan swings for a massive clothesline, but Tsonda ducks underneath.

Nick Stuart: Ivan missed that clothesline! Chandler’s ring awareness is still sharp despite everything!

With momentum slinging him off the ropes, the giant rushes back, but Chandler manages to lift him and slam the 400-pound giant down onto the mat.

Richard Parker: BODYSLAM! Chandler just bodyslammed a four-hundred-pound giant! Where did that strength come from?!

Nick Stuart: Look at the shock on Ivan’s face! He can’t believe Tsonda had the power to lift him!

As Ivan gets to his feet, more stunned than hurt at being bodyslammed, Chandler drives a boot into his midsection and follows up with the Golgotha Drop. He covers Ivan as Nixon begins the count.

Richard Parker: Boot to the midsection! Tsonda’s setting up for something big here!

Nick Stuart: Golgotha Drop! Perfectly executed stalling lift implant DDT! This has to be it!

Richard Parker: Count it, Nixon! ONE! TWO! THREE! Wait… what’s happening?

Nick Stuart: Nixon’s hand was coming down for three! I thought it was over!

Richard Parker: Two point nine nine nine nine nine nine! Ivan’s shoulder came up at the absolute last microsecond!

Nick Stuart: Chandler can’t believe it! He’s staring at Elvis Nixon like he’s lost his mind!

Richard Parker: That was so close to three that even I thought it was over! The resilience of Ivan Stanislav defies all logic!

Channeling every last reserve of energy in his battered body, Chandler immediately begins his climb to the top turnbuckle for another Model Citizen attempt. His bloodied hands slip on the ropes as he ascends, each movement sending fresh waves of agony through his barbwire-torn flesh, but desperation drives him upward.

Nick Stuart: Chandler’s going to the well one more time! He’s climbing for another Model Citizen despite being barely conscious!

Richard Parker: Look at him struggling to get to the top! Tsonda can barely grip the ropes with his shredded hands!

The PRIMEates rise to their feet, sensing this could be the end of this barbaric encounter. Tsonda reaches the summit and positions himself for the high-arc moonsault that has ended so many careers, his body swaying precariously as blood loss affects his balance.

Nick Stuart: This could be his last chance! If this connects, it might finally put Ivan away!

Richard Parker: Ivan’s playing possum! The Russian Bear is smarter than people give him credit for!

He launches himself backward through the air in what should be picture-perfect form, but Ivan’s survival instincts prove superior as the Russian Bear rolls away at the absolute last second. Chandler crashes into the unforgiving canvas with devastating impact, his already destroyed spine absorbing the full force of the failed high-risk maneuver.

Nick Stuart: Chandler’s launching himself! Beautiful rotation on the— NO! Ivan moved! Tsonda just crashed and burned!

The Russian Bear immediately capitalizes on Chandler’s mistake, his massive hands clamping around Tsonda’s throat as he hauls the semiconscious wrestler to his feet. With methodical precision that speaks to his years of dominance, Ivan positions Chandler for another Red Scare, hoisting the Hall of Famer body high overhead with shocking ease given the punishment both men have endured. The vertical release suplex sends Tsonda flying through the air like a human missile before he crashes skull-first into the canvas with bone-jarring impact.

Richard Parker: RED SCARE! Ivan just launched pretty boy like he was shot out of a cannon! That has to be it!

Ivan immediately drops down for the cover, his four-hundred-pound frame pinning Chandler’s shoulders to the mat as Nixon slides into position for what should be the academic three-count.

ONE

Nick Stuart: Cover! This is academic now! ONE! TWO! THRE— WHAT?! How did Chandler get his shoulder up?!

In a moment that defies all logic and human endurance, Chandler’s shoulder shoots up at what has to be 2.999999 seconds, the crowd erupting in disbelief as Nixon confirms it was only a two-count.

Richard Parker: I thought Nixon’s hand hit the mat! That was three! That had to be three!

Nick Stuart: Somehow, someway, Chandler Tsonda found the strength to kick out of the Red Scare! This is beyond superhuman!

Ivan stares at Elvis Nixon in complete disbelief, his bloodied face contorting with rage as he argues that the count was clearly three. Nixon frantically signals that Tsonda’s shoulder came up just in time, but the Russian Bear’s fury is reaching a boiling point that threatens to consume what little sanity he has left.

Richard Parker: Ivan’s arguing with Nixon! He knows that should have been three!

Nick Stuart: Elvis Nixon is confirming the shoulder was up, but Ivan’s completely lost his mind!

The giant’s eyes scan the destruction around him before settling on loose strands of barbwire scattered across the canvas like metallic serpents waiting to strike. With deliberate malice, Ivan grabs several pieces of the razor-sharp steel and begins wrapping them around Chandler’s skull like some twisted crown of thorns, the barbs immediately biting into Tsonda’s flesh and drawing fresh streams of crimson.

Richard Parker: He’s wrapping barbwire around Tsonda’s head! This isn’t wrestling anymore – this is medieval torture!

Nick Stuart: That barbwire crown is cutting into Chandler’s skull! Blood is pouring down his face like a waterfall!

Satisfied with his work, Ivan lifts Chandler to his feet, and pulls him in close. Their faces are just mere inches apart. The Russian Bear’s eyes light up with a psychotic glare as he charges forward with a sickening headbutt, the impact amplified by the barbed wire wrapped around Tsonda’s head.

Nick Stuart: Those headbutts with barbwire! This is beyond the pale!

Richard Parker: Ivan’s willing to hurt himself to hurt Chandler more! The barbwire is cutting both men’s skulls open!

Blood explodes from the point of contact, painting both wrestlers crimson as the metallic taste fills the air. With the second headbutt, Ivan’s splits his own skull open, blood streaming freely down his face. He channels that energy into the third and final headbutt. He deliveres it with such savage force that it reverberates through the arena with a wet thud, leaving both fighters’ faces completely covered in blood.

Nick Stuart: Look at all that blood! Both wrestlers look like they’ve been through a meat grinder!

Richard Parker: The psychotic intensity in Ivan’s eyes! He’s completely lost touch with reality!

His blood-stained face breaks into a chilling smile as he takes in the carnage, his teeth a deep red.

Richard Parker: That smile on Ivan’s face! He’s enjoying this brutality!

The Russian Bear lifts the defenseless Chandler overhead for a Red Scare that connects with devastating impact, driving Tsonda’s barbwire-wrapped skull into the canvas with such force that the ring shakes.

Nick Stuart: First Red Scare with the barbwire crown! Chandler’s skull is being punctured by razor-sharp steel!

Richard Parker: He’s not done! Ivan’s lifting him again! This is overkill of the highest magnitude!

But Ivan isn’t satisfied with just one – he immediately lifts Chandler again, the barbwire crown digging deeper into his victim’s flesh with each movement. The second Red Scare plants Tsonda even harder, the barbwire now embedded so deep that it becomes part of his skull.

Nick Stuart: Second Red Scare! The barbwire is embedding deeper into Chandler’s head with each impact!

With methodical sadism, Ivan hoists the motionless body one final time, holding Chandler aloft for several seconds before delivering the third and final Red Scare that drives the barbwire completely into Tsonda’s head, leaving him utterly motionless on the blood-soaked canvas.

Nick Stuart: Third Red Scare! The barbwire is completely embedded in Chandler’s skull! He’s not moving at all!

Ivan drops down and covers the motionless Chandler, his massive frame completely enveloping Tsonda’s broken body as Elvis reluctantly slides into position. The count is academic now, each slap of Nixon’s hand against the canvas echoing through the suddenly silent arena as medical personnel prepare to rush the ring.

ONE

TWO

THREE

DING DING DING

Nick Stuart: Cover by Ivan! This has to be it! ONE! TWO! THREE! It’s over! Thank God it’s finally over!

Richard Parker: Ivan Stanislav emerges victorious from the most brutal match in PRIME history! The Russian Bear has proven his dominance!

Nick Stuart: Medical personnel are rushing the ring! Both men need immediate attention after this display of mutual destruction!

Ivan doesn’t move. Tsonda doesn’t move. Both just lie there as the Warchamber begins to move. Both men are beyond destroyed, having lost pints of blood, destroyed their bodies beyond all belief, and are not moving an inch.

When there is enough clearance, Alexei rushes into the ring and kneels beside the Russian Bear. Medical personnel rush in as well and immediately start treating both men.

Nick Stuart: Ivan Stanislav has won… but at what cost?

Richard Parker: Any cost was worth being paid.

Nick Stuart: And Tsonda gave the performance of a lifetime here. That can’t be denied.

Richard Parker: …you’re right.

Nick Stuart: New respect was found tonight, even if neither man will ever admit it.

Richard Parker: Hell, will they even remember it?

Richard asks a very good question as the fans in Toronto look on at the end of Night 1, seeing the absolute limits to which these competitors will push themselves to.

And many will wonder, was it worth it? Was it worth all of this?

THIS.

IS.

WARCHAMBER.