ReVival 71

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1GCNJOO-uRpOxqUIq68Yifwqwiz_wWi2y/view

ReVival 71.

Milwaukee.

Fiserv Arena.

Make some noise.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Show some signs.

FOUND: JOE FONTAINE’S DISLOCATED SKELETON, INQUIRE WITHIN
FACT: HESSIAN AND JASON SNOW ARE A COMBINED 147 YEARS OLD
THEY DON’T LOOK A DAY OVER 146, TO BE HONEST
DICKS OUT FOR THE LASAGNA BOYS
GOLD VS. DIAMONDS? WHERE’S SONNY SILVER
WENT TO THE BATHROOM AND A PSYCHOTIC MAN TRIED TO FIGHT ME OVER SOME SPAGHETTI WHICH HE ALREADY HAD. THERE WERE TWO GROWN MEN INSIDE WHO HE CALLED BOYS. LASAGNA BOYS. I AM SCARED. MY PANTS ARE WET.
I DM’D DAWKINS BUT HE LEFT ME ON RED

Nick Stuart: Well… this is different.

Richard Parker: What’s that?

Nick Stuart: Sage.

Richard Parker: What about him?

Nick Stuart: He’s in the ring already.

Standing in the centre of the ring, working the looseness out of his wrists, Sage Pontiff stands, glaring up at the entrance way. His sour demeanour stands as a clear challenge for his opponent, to paraphrase some British pop-star of the 90s, it screams – “Come ‘n have a go, if you think you’re hard enough”.

The crowd seem unsure how to react to this unannounced arrival. Some of them, deciding to go with prior experience, begin jeering towards The Bodhisattva of Transformative Experience. The vast majority however seem more confused and there is almost a buzz about them as they turn to their neighbours to discuss.

Richard Parker: Wait, what? Nick I think I’m having some medical problems; I must have blacked-out and missed his entrance.

Nick Stuart: Nope, you didn’t! One moment the ring was empty as we started the show, then a moment later, Sage Pontiff is in there. No music, no pomp or circumstance, he’s just… there.

Richard Parker: You know what, he should do that more regularly, you’ve heard his entrance theme right?

Nick Stuart: No comment on that. Look at him though Rich, he looks pissed…

Richard Parker: It looks like it’s going to be ‘one of those nights’ for Crash Jackson! Sage is in the mood to realign some chakras, specifically the rib chakras!

Vince Howard: The following contest is scheduled for one fall, already in the ring, weighing in at two hundred and one pounds, from Joshua Tree, California… SAGE PONTIFF!

The arena lights drop into darkness, save for the backlights in the entryway. The crowd, now reassured by the more traditional entrance procedure, respond by bursting into roars of approval. With haste, a figure emerges from the back and stands head high; fist raised, and strikes a pose for a brief second.

LEEEET’S GET READY TO RUUUMMMBLE

Richard Parker: Talking of medical problems – Lets enjoy this folks, it might be the last time we see Crash on our screens – if Sage has things his way.

Nick Stuart: If we know one thing for sure, it’s that you can never count Crash out.

Richard Parker: You could pin him though!

Nick Stuart: You know what I meant.

Volbeat’s “A Warrior’s call” floods the arena and brings the lights back up. A chaotic lightshow takes over the entrance ramp, with flashing white and red strobe lights, before Crash jumps in the air and stomps both feet in clear view for everyone to see. He roars violently with a fiery, toothy grin before beginning his frantic descent to the ring.

FEEL THE FIRE, HE’S ENTERING THE RING

HIS MINDSET KNOWS ONLY HOW TO WIIIIIIIN

Vince Howard: And his opponent, weighing in at two hundred thirty eight pounds, from Buffalo, New York… CRASH!

Crash reaches the ring while pumping his fist in unison with the beat, being joined by many fans simply out of respect for fist pumping, and scales the stairs at the same hellacious pace before turning around to roar at the crowd again.

UNLEASHING HIS HELL

YOU WON’T EVEN HEAR THE BELL

Nick Stuart: It really speaks to the resiliency of Crash Jackson that he is out here tonight, showing no ill effects from the horrific events we saw just a few weeks ago.

Richard Parker: You know what that tells me?

Nick Stuart: Enlighten us Rich?

Richard Parker: Hot dogs are the most effective cure in all of medical history.

Nick Stuart: Well I know of at least one man who would agree with that completely.

Crash leaps the top rope and lands with a thunderous rattle before pacing around the ring and nodding his head repeatedly. He makes towards the middle, where he normally would go to interact with the fans.

But for the first time, he notices that Sage Pontiff remains standing dead-centre in further defiance of the tradition of leaving the ring for your opponent’s entrance. The two warriors lock eyes – Crash frowns, his momentum has been thrown off by the unexpected turn of events. Sage’s expression doesn’t change in the slightest, contempt written across his face. Despite this, the music continues to blast out from the PA system.

FEEL THE POWER OF THE WAAAAARRIOOOOR!

Skirting around the ring alongside the ring ropes, Crash attempts to continue his routine. On this occasion, he mounts the turnbuckles to interact with the crowd from there. He slams his fist into the air and yells along with the song.

FIGHT!

FIGHT!

FIGHT!

FIGHT!

Dismounting the turnbuckle, he casts his gaze towards Pontiff – he finds the opponent still there in the middle of the ring, still not moving, just watching and brooding. Again skirting around, outside of reach, he makes his way to the opposite turnbuckle.

LET’S GET READY TO RUUUUMBLE

Climbing up once more, the fist pumping begins again with sweat flying off his face and arms, landing on the lucky fans in the front row.

FIGHT!

FIGHT!

FIGHT!

FIGHT!

The music begins to die out as Crash dismounts and turns to face Sage. Pontiff slowly moves his head in that direction and returns his opponent’s glare. Jimmy Turnbull slides into the ring and throws a signal towards the timekeeper.

DING DING

Crash is the first man to move; he charges in and instantly attempts a collar-and-elbow tie-up. He wastes no time transitioning behind Sage through a waistlock. Sensing the early momentum is with him, Crash attempts to pull Sage back up into the air for a German suplex.

The momentum deceived him however, Sage finds a way to manipulate his body mid-air, as he twists around to face Crash, he brings his right elbow through – it connects with Crash’s chiselled jaw, forcing The Northern Light to release him before the throw could be completed.

Nick Stuart: I wonder if Sage’s mind-games during the entrances have thrown Crash off. He misread the situation there and thought he was in control.

Richard Parker: He misread the situation the second he stepped in there with Sage Pontiff, particularly when The Bodhisattva is in this sort of mood.

Crash stumbles back from the elbow strike. Not deterred however, he lets his backward momentum send him against the ring-ropes. He rebounds and launches himself towards Sage with a running cross body block. Making it looks effortless however; Pontiff catches Crash and immediately falls backwards, throwing his opponent over his own torso, across the ring with a fallaway slam.

Crash manages to halt his skidding across the canvas, he pops back up to his feet and once more charges towards Sage, this time he tries to connect with a spinning heel kick. Pontiff steps aside with eerie calm, the look of contempt on his face remaining unchanged. He replies with a thrusting knee of his own – it catches Crash on the nose, dropping him to his knees on the canvas.

With Crash dazed, Sage connects again, this time with a roundhouse kick that wraps around the back of Crash’s head. Sage takes the mount position and begins raining a volley of elbow strikes, each one landing with more impact than the last. He picks Crash up and rams his spine into the turnbuckles, and again, and then a third time for good measure. Two sharp knees directed to his kidneys force Crash to collapse into a seated position in the corner.

Jimmy Turnbull puts himself between the two men as he checks on Crash. Sage Pontiff takes a few steps back, but nothing more. He slowly looks out into the crowd, his face still void of emotion. The fans respond with thunderous jeering – some good souls in the front row, clearly disciples of The Northern Light, attempt to throw hot dogs into the ring to inspire their hero.

Richard Parker: These must be medical professionals in attendance!

Nick Stuart: I’m not sure about that, it’s no secret how much Crash loves him some hot dogs.

Richard Parker: Yes, but these people clearly know of the medicinal benefits too!

One of the hot dogs clears the ring ropes. As if he felt a disturbance in the force, Crash’s eyes light up and his head swivels to exactly where it landed. Jimmy Turnbull is pushed aside as Crash lunges toward the dog, he checks it over.

Ketchup – check.

Onions – check.

Crash looks up to where Sage stands, his attention now back on his opponent. Everything appears to happen in slow motion in this instant. Sage looks down at Crash’s hand and spots the hot dog, for the first time this evening there is a flicker of something like emotion on his face. His eyes track the dog as it rises… rises… rises… Sage’s eyes widen, is that concern? In a display that would disgust some folks, yet be cheered on none-the-less, Crash shoves the entire hot dog in his mouth and begins chewing.

Nick Stuart: Please don’t try that at home kids, Crash Jackson is a hot dog professional.

Richard Parker: They say it takes ten thousand hours to become an expert in something, but Crash had blown way past that total by the time he left high school!

Pontiff moves forward and grabs Crash by the jaw; he mutters something in a low voice the ringside microphones couldn’t pick up. He reaches back and slaps Crash across the face, a vicious smirk on his face.

The reaction? Crash shakes his head, slowly from side to side. Sage slaps him again. Crash’s head shakes a little faster than before. Another slap. Again the headshaking gets faster and faster.

For the first time in the evening, the malevolent calmness surrounding Sage Pontiff drops entirely. It’s replaced with rage, fury at this display of defiance from New York’s Finest. Sage lunges back into range, with his left hand he grabs a chunk of hair and pulls Crash’s head back, launching into a series of elbow strikes with his right. The shots are brutal and unforgiving; they fall so quickly that it’s almost impossible to count how many have been thrown.

Releasing his grip on Crash’s hair, Sage steps back to catch his breath, very much expecting Crash to crumble before him. To his horror, Crash just starts shaking his head again.

Nick Stuart: What guts, what courage were seeing from Crash. I told you Rich, he never gives up!

Richard Parker: Idiot.

Enraged, Sage attacks again. He swings a right hand – Crash blocks it, still shaking his head. He swings an overhead left, but once more Crash blocks it, still shaking his head. Pontiff gets ready to try with another strike but suddenly Crash points directly at him. This catches Sage off-guard and from instinct he backs off again. Crash wags the pointed finger from side to side, to mirror his still shaking head.

Richard Parker: This feels familiar somehow, but I can’t think where I’ve seen in before.

The two men suddenly throw themselves into a clinch; Crash getting the better of it starts to back Sage up with three successive big right hands hitting their mark. Crash extends his left hand out, but not towards his opponent, he extends it out towards the crowd.

Richard Parker: What is the idiot doing?

Nick Stuart: Don’t stop now Crash, you’ve got him reeling!

With an unspoken understanding, another one of the faithful of Crash’s fans in the front row knows he has been called upon to make the sacrifice, he does so. For a second time in the encounter, the action feels like it happens in slow motion; Another hot dog flies through the air, every head in the arena watches its flight in a hushed silence. Crash doesn’t even have to move an inch – the hot dog lands perfectly in his outstretched hand.

Richard Parker: Oh my god… he’s a hot dog Jedi!

The crowd erupts in wild scenes of disbelief and joy. Crash brings the hot dog down, smashing it into Sage’s face, taking The Bodhisattva down to the canvas for the first time in the match. When he looks up at his opponent, his face is covered in thick red ketchup.

Richard Parker: THE CRIMSON MASK!

Nick Stuart: Well, I guess you could say that. I don’t get it though, Crash almost looks sad.

Richard Parker: Waste of a good hot dog.

Nick Stuart: Oh yeah, that’ll be exactly it Rich!

As he tries to wipe the ketchup off from his face, Sage rolls outside the ring, but Crash, having finally taken charge of the contest, quickly catches him with a low superkick to the back of the knee as he follows. As Sage goes down to one knee, he finds Crash’s legs suddenly wrapped around his neck. The Hot Dog Hero, letting his momentum twist him around in front of his opponent, takes Sage down with a spinning head scissors. Pontiff’s head bounces off the floor. Inside the ring, Jimmy Turnbull begins to count the competitors out.

One!

Two!

He doesn’t reach three however, as Crash tosses Sage back into the ring. He climbs back to his feet but turns right into the body of Crash as it sails through the air, having springboarded himself off of the rope. The flying cross body block hits its mark this time. Crash immediately makes the cover, Turnbull drops into position and makes the count.

One!

Two!

Thr-No!

Sage kicks out violently, sending Crash off to the side. Recovering quickly from this though Crash stays on him – as Sage climbs back to his feet, Crash takes him right back off them with a jumping swinging DDT. Crash picks Sage back up immediately and delivers a picture perfect sitout suplex.

Nick Stuart: Crash is feeling it now.

Richard Parker: All thanks to the medical miracle that is hot dogs.

Adrenaline fuelling him, Crash glances at his downed opponent and decides the positioning is perfect. Grinning, he launches himself through the ring ropes and up to the top turnbuckle with remarkable speed. He makes a gesture as if taking several draws of a… cigarette… Then he takes flight, rising up into his double clutch frog splash.

Richard Parker: FOUR TWENTY BABY!

Nick Stuart: The high risk offense of Crash Jackson may have just secured him a victory here.

Jimmy Turnbull is in position to count Sage’s shoulders once more.

One!

Two!

Thre-NO!

At the last possible second, Pontiff’s right shoulder shoots up from the canvas. Turnbull extends two fingers (not like that) to Crash, letting him know the count hadn’t been completed.

Nick Stuart: So close!

Crash moves into the corner, patiently stalking Sage as he very slowly makes it back to his feet. The very second he does, Crash lunges forward, foot outstretched with a superkick destined to take Pontiff’s head off.

It doesn’t connect however – ducking at just the right moment, Sage rises up as Crash, helplessly committed to the superkick, can’t defend himself. Pontiff delivers a stiff roundhouse to the ribs; the sound of the connection reverberates around the arena.

Caught out by the unexpected counter, Crash can’t re-adjust in time to stop Sage, as he finds himself taken over with an arm drag. Sage doesn’t let the arm go however, bringing Crash back to his feet he delivers another arm drag. Once more, Sage refuses to let his grip on Crash’s arm go. Bringing him back to his feet for a second time, Sage hits one final arm drag, making sure to ‘put some stank on it’ as he achieves the threepeat.

Richard Parker: I think the hot dog has worn off.

Nick Stuart: Momentum is firmly back with Sage Pontiff now. Has Crash missed his opportunity?

Suddenly, Crash is showing the signs of the trauma of the last few weeks. As the adrenaline fades, the impact of Sage’s offense in addition to the wounds he suffered at the hands of Dawkins is taking its toll. He can only try to protect himself at this point. One hand comes up to cover his shoulder where the impact of the three successive arm drags will have hit hardest, his other hand covers his torso.

Sage Pontiff sits cross-legged in the middle of the ring, watching on as Crash writhes. There is a flicker of a smirk, but nothing more. He suddenly bursts up, mounting the helpless Crash. He sinks his still mostly ketchup covered forehead into Crash’s face, headbutt after headbutt.

He connects with six of them before Jimmy Turnbull manages to pull him out of the mounted position and to his feet. Turnbull furiously scolds Sage about Crash being unable to protect himself – that finally does get a full smirk from The Bodhisattva.

Turnbull, with his right hand outstretched towards Sage, ensuring he keeps his distance, drops down to one knee beside Crash and asks if he can continue. Crash gives a guttural roar that he can.

Richard Parker: Crash showing his usual standards of brain activity here. Give it up you idiot.

Nick Stuart: He that fights and runs away, may turn and fight another day; But he that is in battle slain, will never rise to fight again.

Richard Parker: I didn’t know you knew Shakespeare Nick.

Nick Stuart: Tacitus, Rich.

Richard Parker: Pardon me?

Nick Stuart: Never mind.

Crash bites down and slaps the mat, a desperate attempt to rekindle the fire inside him. He rolls up onto one knee, and tries to get to his feet. But no sooner has he done so, than Sage connects with a thrusting mule kick.

Nick Stuart: Namaste!

Richard Parker: Bless you.

Pontiff grabs Crash around the waist and hoists him to his feet, Crash positioned in-front of him. From the rear waistlock, Sage transitions his hands, up under Crash’s shoulders, connecting on the back of his neck. He reaches back and takes Crash off his feet with a flawless release dragon suplex.

Nick Stuart: Atharvaveda!

Richard Parker: Are you speaking in tongues Nick?

Nick Stuart: That’s what the moves are called Rich!

Richard Parker: Oh, yeah, well, I knew that…

In the ring, Sage has lifted Crash back to his feet once more, this time facing towards him. He plants his right boot on Crash’s midsection. Crash lurches forward, head bowed, and with the set up complete, Sage Pontiff delivers the spectacle that is the Shamanic Dreamweaver.

There is no movement from Crash. Pontiff almost lazily stretches out his hand and places it flat on Crash’s chest, in one of the most disrespectful covers in the history of pro wrestling. Even Jimmy Turnbull shakes his head in disgust as he makes the count.

One!

Two!

Three!

Turnbull calls for the bell, still shaking his head.

DING DING DING

Nick Stuart: Not to be for Crash Jackson on this occasion, he had a chance but Sage Pontiff was just too much for him this evening.

Richard Parker: Yep, once the hot dog ran out, it was game over.

Vince Howard: The winner, by pinfall, SAGE PONTIFF!

ReVival rolls on.

…Previously On…

…THE NEWS…

☠️☠️☠️☠️

Max Kael: I want everyone to know I will be completely and utterly responsible with this new power I’ve obtained.

The lie flows past Max’s lips as easily as breathing.

Max Kael: As a Kael I promise all the good people of this city that this fine vessel will bring the name of Arkham to the four corners of the globe!

Snatching up a bottle of champagne Max marches with an overly excited expression on his face.

Max Kael: And with that in mind I dub-thee… KAISER OF THE SKY AND THE SPIRIT OF ARKHAM!

Max tosses the bottle up into the air where it explodes off the hull of a fully armed and operational ZEPPELIN! As the camera zooms out this fine airship of silver hulled menace while the air filled superstructure of this fine dirigible sports Max’s wide grin.

☠️☠️☠️☠️

The A.A.S. (Arkham AirShip) KAISER OF THE SKY AND THE SPIRIT OF ARKHAM hangs above Fiserv Center like an ominous cloud. The interior of this spectacular zeppelin is finished in rich wood and polished silver. It’s the kind of interior that screams 1870s gentleman explorer.

Max Kael: Gentlemen! Thank you for joining me aboard my airship for his maiden voyage… huh. If the zeppelin is identified as male, is it still a maiden voyage? Or… is it a bachelor voyage? Manservantvoyage? You know what?

Kael waves it off, resting his arms on the long boardroom table he sat at the head of. Behind him sits an oil painting of Max Kael dressed as Alexander the Great. It’s technically well done but it’s also cringe for all the reasons you’d expect.

Max Kael: It’s not important. What is important is what I want to talk to you about.

Standing from his chair, Max folds his arms behind his back, pacing back and forth as he speaks.

Max Kael: As the leading candidate for Mayor of Arkham, I need to have people with good heads on their shoulders to help advise me. To help me navigate the headwaters of public opinion and policy decision making. Young, expressive minds with an eye for what’s important and an ear for hearing the truth when it’s whispered under the screaming of deception.

Lowering himself back down into his chair, Kael steeples his fingers, a wry smile hanging above his chin.

Max Kael: Which is why I am inviting you on my election staff as Political Advisors!

We switch camera angles to see the three individuals that Max has been speaking to. Dr. Reform, Daniel Green and Hugo Vale, the tweed-suited Green Vale Gang and their highly-educated manager. Reform nods, while clever grins slither across Daniel and Hugo’s young faces.

☠️☠️☠️☠️

The warehouse door roars open before Max and Snark Darkly.

Max Kael: I keep all kinds of cool shit in here.

The Lord of Kaelsalvania shimmies into the warehouse located in the outskirts of Chicago. In the distance Kael’s zeppelin can be seen.

Snark Darkly: Why do you keep shit? Is that important? Should I be keeping my excrement? I don’t poop, is that going to be a problem?

Max Kael: No-no! It’s just a turn-of-phrase, I don’t mean literal sh… Did you say you don’t poop?

Toddling past Max, Snarky nods his head.

Snark Darkly: I could if that would help?

Shaking his head, Max presses further into the cluttered warehouse.

Max Kael: No, you keep your shit to yourself. That’s one of the dimensional rules Kenny and Randall were on about.

Snark Darkly: The one you broke?

Max Kael: We’re not here to talk about me! We’re here to talk about… THIS!

He runs to something massive with a heavy burlap cloth draped over it. His greedy fingers grasp the cloth, a Soviet sickle and hammer emblazoned on it.

Max Kael: I had this moved out of Russia before I left the Red Army.

Snark Darkly: You mean kicked out?

Kael hisses.

Max Kael: You weren’t there! Anyway… This is…

Pulling the cloth away, Max reveals a Russia stargate inspired device.

Max Kael: The DIMENSIONAL GATEWAY… We made it as part of a research project to try and kill all the other multidimensional Ivan Stanislavs. We never got to the final phase but we still got this bad-boy out of the arrangement.

Max slaps the device like a used-car salesman trying to make some cash.

Snark Darkly: Huh… and Ivan is still here so in every conceivable dimension where you did this, you failed. Remarkable.

Any pride invested in the DIMENSIONAL GATEWAY are drained from Max as a sour frown erupts from his face.

Max Kael: Well fuck you too.

☠️☠️☠️☠️

…Snark Darkly Presents…

…THE WON ACTION NEWS TEAM…

…starring…

Kai, Bryan Dawkins’ Baby Momma with TRAVEL

Kirk the Sports Head, formerly the undead head of Lowell Dot Com with SPORTS

The Herald, Sub-Marquis Bentley Tennyson Primrose-Fatherington covering THE ALMASY

…and Lead Achor…

Mayoral Candidate for his hometown of Arkham, MAXIMILLIAN WILHELM KAEL

The WON ACTION NEWS TEAM music blares loudly as we cut to the man himself, Maximillian Wilhelm Kael, clad in his black three piece suit and #D6red bowtie. He smiles that practiced, cheesy smile at the camera as he aggressively shuffles through the papers stacked in front of him.

Max Kael: WORMS of PRIME! Welcome to THE NEWS with me, your lead anchor and the most trusted NEWS source in PRIME, Maximillian Wilhelm Kael! We’ve got a packed show for you today so lets get started right out the gate with our world famous INTERVIEW segment!

Max stands as his news desk quickly descends into the WON ACTION NEWS STAGE. A shark cage lowers from the ceiling anding next to Kael. He quickly climbs, retrieving a remote controller from his pocket.

Max Kael: Introducing our guest, if the Sun’s out, his guns’er out!

Clicking a button on the shark cage slams shut and slowly rises off the ground.

Max Kael: The Rhinestone Cowboy… DAYTONA DIIIIAAAAMOOOONDS!

The camera pans, but there’s no cowboy, rhinestone or otherwise, to be found. Instead, there’s an inexplicably placed hot tub off to the side of the WON Action News set. The jets are on. Those bubbles sure look cozy. Color changing lights shine beneath the wave, every color of the rainbow and a clear indication that, yes you silly goobers, it is party time. It’s calm. It’s serene. Pastoral, but less to do with shepherds and more to do with soakin’ them bones.

But peace, o children, is never meant to last.

A cowboy hat begins to rise from beneath the froth and foam. Water drips from the brim as it moves higher, revealing that it’s very much attached to very much Daytona Diamonds’ very much head. He’s screaming as he rises. It’s not a cry of pain or even of anger; it’s guttural, primal, a barbaric yawp torn from the gullet of a man who’s so full of cocaine, steroids, and protein powder that he’s basically become more biochemical weapon than man.

He explodes up out of the water, suds cascading off of his enormous shoulders like Neptune’s very own. His sunglasses still on, impossibly, because of course they are. A dumbbell clutched in one hand mid-curl, the other holding a half-finished bottle of Topo Chico balled into a trembling fist.

Daytona Diamonds: I’VE TRANSCENDED THE LIMITS OF HUMAN PLEASURE AND I AIN’T NEVER COMIN’ BACK!

He plants one boot on the fiberglass edge, water sloshing onto the studio floor as he looks up, lets out one last roar, the death of man cast long in his shado–

Daytona Diamonds: Oh. Howdy, Max. Whatcha doin’ up there, peckerwood?

Max Kael: Staying out of the splashzone, you silly slaphead.

Max peers down at the glistening Diamonds with an imperious look. He’s hanging out about ten feet above the ground, well outside of splash range.

Max Kael: You’re on THE NEWS for an interview, whether you like it or not. FIRST QUESTION, who the hell are you facing in the first round of the Almasy anyway, I didn’t see your name on the tournament bracket!

Daytona squints up at Kael, water still dripping off the brim of his hat. He lifts the dumbbell like he might pitch it at Max, but thinks better of it and sets it gently on the tub’s rim.

Daytona Diamonds: That’s ‘cause they kept it a mystery, you pasty little tapeworm! They didn’t want me scarin’ off the competition with all these goddang muscles!

He slaps one massive bicep with his free hand, just for the sake of emphasis.

Daytona Diamonds: But if you really gotta know, I’m up ‘gainst ol’ Sebastian Gold tonight! You know anything ‘bout him? All’s I know is he dresses like a fuckin’ Minion that got lost on his way to Zumba class. You seen them movies, Max? Little yellow freaks runnin’ ‘round squawkin’ gibberish?

Crossing his arms for a moment, Max considers Daytona’s question on both Gold and the fuckin’ Minions.

Max Kael: Can’t say that I’ve heard of either of those things but with a name like Sebastian Gold I assume he’s rocking some kind of stripper gimmick or perhaps an ole timey pioneer. Wouldn’t be surprised if the man doesn’t swing a pickaxe at you in your match… Hmm.

Stepping to the edge of the cage he wraps his fingers around the metal bars, narrowing his eyes down at the pool and Diamonds.

Max Kael: Are those real muscles or are you wearing one of those hyper-realistic body suits? Or are you somehow a projection of A.I. art? I don’t remember you being so, I don’t know, looking so genetically freakish. And that’s coming from a man who was birthed from a Farthington Jizz Pod and had his genetic code spliced with the Farthington lineage.

At first, Daytona looks offended, but he regains his composure. Downing the rest of the contents of his Topo Chico, he tosses the bottle aside before he lifts both massive arms, flexing until veins pop like garden hoses beneath the skin.

Daytona Diamonds: You think this here’s a suit, you undercooked breadstick? You think anybody’s makin’ body suits with this much righteous fury stitched in?

Another pose. This time, it’s that one where the bodybuilder does a quarter turn, hikes one leg up, and then grabs one wrist with the other whilst flexing. You know the one. The fact that he’s doing this on the edge of a hot tub is, unfortunately, impressive.

Daytona Diamonds: Ain’t no AI could make somethin’ this goddang good, Max! This is the real deal, baby! Hard work! Sweat! Blood! Vitamins! I ain’t no genetic freak, I’m a genetic masterpiece! Get outta that birdcage, come down here, and touch these pecs! Goddang! God-fuckin’-dang!

And boy, don’t those pecs just dance on command. Stare stares down at the breakdancing muscles with a skeptical eye before shrugging with ambivalence.

Max Kael: I’m not ruling Artificial Intelligence just yet. The only cowboy I know with muscles like that smokes Malboro’s exclusively and I’m pretty sure he’s dead now. Alright, listen up you morbidly muscular malcontent, my next question is inbound. Since you’ve been gone, ya boi, Fred Dick, has become INTENSE Champion. Later on tonight he’s defending it against another of you Poor Whorsemen… er… in this case Poor Whores-Woman, with Anna Daniels. Who do you hope wins?!

As Max speaks and moves around, the cage he is in starts to sway and swing back and forth. Slowly, Daytona climbs down from the rim of the tub, scratching his chin in contemplation before he eases back into the water until those jets are positioned just right on his back. He even lets out an audible grunt of contentment.

Daytona Diamonds: Listen, you mopwater drinkin’ shit-for-brains. I ain’t gettin’ caught in that little soap opera you’re tryna stir up. I ain’t wishin’ neither of ‘em nothin’ but the best, even if that belt might as well have my name stamped on it ‘til the end of days for as long as I held it after I beat you for it.

Smirk. Shrug. Wink for the camera.

Daytona Diamonds: Fred… well, hell. He’s a big boy now, ain’t he? All grown up with gold on his shoulder. Good for him. And Anna? Hell, Anna’s smarter’n the rest of us combined, so I ain’t countin’ her out neither. Who do I want winnin’? Don’t make a lick of difference, baby. Long as that hunk of tin stays with The Whoresmen, right where it belongs. Go on now. Next question. I’m startin’ to prune.

Max Kael: Easy, you quaint excuse for a taint, there’s an appropriate pacing to this shit! I wasn’t the one who decided to show up like an Old Spice commercial, you fuddle-fucked flapdoodle. Final Question for one-hundred points! If you win the Almasy, what do you think of our current Universal Champion, Cecilworth Farthington?

By now Max has the cage swinging back and forth at a potentially dangerous speed. Daytona watches, either unconcerned and uninterested as he relaxes back further into the jets.

Daytona Diamonds: You fuddle-fucked, lackluster, discount Dracula-lookin’ ass, you think I give a single good goddang ‘bout Little Lord Farthington? Ain’t never spoken with him, ain’t never dealt with him, ain’t got no opinion outside of the fact he’s got a face that looks like he’s always sniffin’ sour milk. He’s what you get when you mix a tax audit with a trust fund and, lemme tell you somethin’, I don’t like neither of them things. I’ll give credit where it’s due, though… He can wrassle. He can fight. He’s got that Universal Title and I reckon that’s ‘cause he earned it, not ‘cause somebody handed it to him on a goddang silver platter.

Daytona shrugs, water sloshing around those ridiculous shoulders as he stretches his arounds along the tub rim.

Daytona Diamonds: That said… you stick that belt in front of me and it don’t matter if it’s Little Lord Farthington, Mother Teresa, or a goddang grizzly bear wearin’ a top hat: I’m takin’ it. It’s mine. That’s what we call a foregone conclusion, Max.

The shark cage is now swinging back and forth at an exceedingly dangerous rate as Max continues to rock it.

Max Kael: Foregone conclu-

CLICK!

The sound of the metal loop holding the shark cage to the chain cuts Max off before the cage itself begins its own foregone conclusion. The scene freezes before we find out what happens next before screeching to a sign that reads:

WE ARE EXPERIENCING TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES

PLEASE STAND BY

☠️☠️☠️☠️

We return from our technical difficulties to the Herald standing in front of a large graphic of the Almasy tournament brackets.

The Herald: It is I, Sub-Marquis Bentley Tennyson Primrose-Farthington the Herald of the Wise and Whimsical Maximillian Wilhelm Kael AND Special Almasy Correspondent!

The Herald flashes a badge that anoints him a Special Almasy Correspondent.

The Herald: In the first round of the Almasy a lot of heart break can happen but perhaps nothing quite so heartbreaking as the way poor Luc Labelle lost to Steve Lemieux. Lucky Lemieux’s lifeless corpse moves on in the tournament!

On the graphic behind the Herald, Steve’s name moves forward.

The Herald: Doozer gave everyone a bit of the Old Bull, oh boy! Scott Hunter made that Old Bull tap, tappity, tap-tap, like, wow. Move him!

Gesturing toward the graphic, Scott Hunter moves into the next phase of the bracket.

The Herald: Did Kenny Freeman win against his old nemesis, the black hole thingie, Hayes Hanlon? No, no he didn’t. It was a gentle beating either, nope. Hmm.

The Herald stares at the camera then down at his notes then back up at the camera.

The Herald: I’m bored. Max I’m bored?

Pan over to Max, still stuck in the cage which is now embedded into the stage with the door stuck shut. His arms are crossed and he doesn’t really seem to be paying attention.

Max Kael: Cool-cool, sounds good.

The Herald: Yay! Chandler Tsonda, Joe Fontaine, Ivan Stanislav and Cancer Jiles all advance in the 2025 Almasy!

The Herald skitters off the stage as we flash to a STAY TUNED card.

☠️☠️☠️☠️

Max stands, arms crossed, glowering toward the camera as we return to THE NEWS. The cage door continues to be jammed shut, the half crumpled structure stuck in the stage.

Max Kael: I started this evening out in a good mood. Now look at me, stuck in a shark cage, having to do my closing monologue standing up! The INDIGNITY!

Stamping his foot on the cage floor, Max’s lips contort into an even deeper scowl.

Max Kael: Listen close and listen well, Jonathan-Christopher Hall. I happen to know for a fact that people who put hyphens in their names are little bitches. A little birdie told me that you might be having some issues with your current state of being. I spent the last week watching all your matches, your segments, your whiny little promos. From the last Almasy to where we are today. Every. God. Damned. One.

He spits on the floor, snarling.

Max Kael: You’re consistent in the ring, surprisingly uninspiring. That’s not what drew my attention the longer I watched. It was your eyes. It was the cracking and then the splintering of your own psyche that those Forever Man eyes couldn’t hide. Not from a man like me. I used to think that we were similar, that your current mental state might have been comparable to my own… but no. No, the more I watched the more I realized we’re nothing alike. Unlike me, you’re fucking pathetic.

His eyes flash over the cage he’s locked in, his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth. He begins to trace his fingers along the warped bars of the shark cage, studying them.

Max Kael: You’re broken forever, man. Your investment in love was a poor one, invested in the wrong person but you’re too weak. Too weak to walk away, too weak to heal, too weak to stop letting love abuse you. I would never let love hurt me the way it has you, I’d never let love let me be so blind.

Taking a step back, Max drops his shoulder and charges forward, smashing through the cage door. It crashes to the ground, clattering loudly as Kael dusts himself off, straightening his bowtie before turning his attention back to the camera.

Max Kael: You’re too weak to win the Almasy this year. What you think is your ally is a poison that has left you shattered, dulled you. You’re no sharpened weapon, at best you’re a jagged edge. Against me, the Lord of Kaelsalvania, the man who cheated Death… heh-heh.

Tugging at the lapels of his coat, he flashes that practiced, unpleasant smile.

Max Kael: I hope you get hit by a car, JCH, and saves me the trouble of doing what I’m gonna half to do to you if you step into that ring tonight. That’s the news… Peace and Love, Max Kael signing off.

The news feed abruptly cuts off.

ReVival moves on.

Nick Stuart: Ladies and gentlemen, another first round Almasy 2025 is up next, the progeny of Bobby Dean, Annabelle Dean up against the Red Army’s Bryan Dawkins!

Richard Parker: Another eGG Bandit about to flush out of this thing, Stuart!

Nick Stuart: Wishful thinking, Parker. Right now Annabelle Dean stands undefeated in singles competition.

Richard Parker: Well there is a first time for everything.

Nick Stuart: I really hope I get to watch you eat those words, Parker.

“Hot to Go” by Chappell Roan blares out over the Fiserv Center as Annabelle Dean steps out onto the stage to a warm reception. Little Dean makes her way down to the ring as she poses in her electric blue ring gear.

Richard Parker: You know what I hate about Annabelle Dean?

Nick Stuart: Wait, you hate Annabelle Dean?

Richard Parker: I didn’t say I hated Annabelle, I asked if you knew what I hated ABOUT Annabelle Dean, don’t twist my words!

Nick Stuart: Okay, I’ll bite. What do you hate about Annabelle?

Richard Parker: Cancer Jiles.

The Princess of the Ring appears to not be in the company of the rest of the bandits this evening, likely due to budget cuts in the PRIME entrance budget. She climbs into the ring as Vince Howard introduces her.

Vince Howard: From Houston, Texas… standing five-foot-six-inches tall and weighing in tonight at one-hundred-thirty-five pounds… THE PRINCESS OF THE RING, ANNABELLE DEAN!

She poses in the center of the ring before moving to her corner.

The light dies and with it, Annabelle’s music.

BANG!

A red pyrotechnic burst explodes across the stage as “The Soviet National Anthem” by the Russian Red Army Choir blasts over the Milwaukee crowd.

Bryan Dawks steps out onto the stage with a focused expression. Golden shades cover his eyes making it impossible to know where he is looking for certain. Trotting slowly toward the ring in his crimson Red Army gear, Dawkins exudes an aura of seriousness.

Richard Parker: I’ve really come to enjoy the man Dawkins has become, the man that Max Kael helped to create.

Nick Stuart: I couldn’t disagree with you more, Parker. I think he’s performing better than he ever has but at what cost? And that narrative about Max “improving” Dawkins is appalling.

Richard Parker: Sometimes being a miserable prick is what it takes to get wins, Stuart!

Nick Stuart: And what about the Red Army then, huh?

Richard Parker: Oh, them too! Ivan and Alexei took a stone dagger Max created and honed Dawkins into a Soviet Steel Knife!

Stuart audibly sighs as Dawkins climbs into the ring.

Vince Howard: And her opponent, standing at six-foot and weighing in tonight at two-hundred-thirty-two pounds… BRRRRYYYYYYYAAAAAAAAN DAAAWKINS!

The former Flyin’ Hawaiian stretches out on the ropes before moving to his corner. Elvis Nixon signals for the bell.

DING DING DING DING!

Dawkins immediately charges at Annabelle who quickly answers by nimbly ducking beneath Bryan’s arms before hitting the ropes. She flies back at Dawkins, smacking directly into his chest, throwing all her weight into it.

Nick Stuart: Annabelle Dean is giving up almost one-hundred pounds, six inches in height and decades of experience to her opponent tonight, Richard.

Richard Parker: And she’s also got a guy like Cancer Jiles as a hero in her life so she’s already six apples short of a peck.

Bryan stares down at her with a smug expression, dusting off his chest.

Annabelle hits the ropes once again colliding with Dawkin doing almost nothing to move her much larger opponent. Bryan laughs it off and dares her to try that once again. With some encouragement from the crowd, the younger Dean throws herself into the ropes, springing back with as much force as her one-hundred-thirty-five pound body can muster.

CRACK!

On her return, Dawkins slams his foot into her face with a brutal kick that turns the Princess of the Ring inside out. The fans boo as Dawkin’s confidently stalks around his opponent. Elvis Nixon is quick to check on Annabelle. She waves him off though her eyes have a glassy look to them.

Nick Stuart: It’s not always that Dawkins has such a serious physical and experience advantage over an opponent and he’s letting that extra power carry his strategy.

Richard Parker: Overwhelming offensive, that’s the Red Army way, Stuart!

Grabbing a handful of Annabelle’s hair, the Bruh of the Red Army drags her toward the center of the ring before pulling her into a brutal looking German Suplex, bridging for the pinfall!

One!

Two!

Kickout!

Annabelle twists her body free of Dawkin’s grip, breaking the pinfall attempt at two.

Nick Stuart: Bobby Dean’s Baby Girl avoids the first pinfall of the match.

Richard Parker: First blood to the Red Army!

Bryan is quick to sweep back up to his feet, dropping a few elbows onto Annabelle as she attempts to get back up to her feet. With a smirk on his face, Dawkins takes a moment to pose.

Nick Stuart: I am not sure this is wise move by Dawkins.

Richard Parker: Dawkins has this match in the bag, are you watching the same thing I am?

And that’s all it takes! Annabelle is quick as a hick-up, a slender arm reaching between Dawkin’s legs before he’s yanked backward into a School Girl! The crowd can’t believe it! Nixon is down for the count!

ONE!

Kickout!

Nick Stuart: Annabelle answers with a roll-up!

Richard Parker: This early in the match!? Rookie move!

Dawkin’s face is a mixture of surprise and outrage, clamoring up to his feet only to find himself being pulled back down into a School Girl, this time from a different angle!

Nick Stuart: She got him again!

ONE!

TWO!

Kickout!

The crowd lets out a collective boo as Dawkins throws his shoulder up at two. Once again he is up to his feet, immediately scanning for his opponent.

Only to find himself being rolled back down for a School Girl pinfall attempt!

Nick Stuart: And AGAIN!

ONE!

TWO!

THR-KICKOUT!

Dawkins thrashes his body wildly as he manages to escape the three count by the skin of his teeth. Instead of jumping up to his feet,  Dawkins wisely rolls out of the ring putting some space between himself and Annabelle Dawkins.

Richard Parker: That’s right, Dawkins, take a moment to collect yourself! Ivan and Alexei would never forgive you for losing to a Dean!

Fans at ring side hurl insults at Bryan as he paces out his frustration with his much younger, much smaller opponent.

Nick Stuart: The young lady in the ring has Dawkins frustrated after a stinging series of School Girls!

Richard Parker: Never say those words again.

Inside the ring Annabelle Dean poses in the center of the ring, having recovered from the kick to her head.

After a few moments of collecting himself, Dawkins rolls back into the ring using the ropes to guard against any attack from Annabelle.

Nick Stuart: Both competitors circling up again, I think Dawkins key to winning this is going to be to stop underestimating Annabelle.

Richard Parker: He won’t!

The two circle each other before they lock up however Dawkins’ obvious power advantage in this situation allows him to force her into the corner.

She sweeps past his leg and hits another School Girl Rollup!

Nick Stuart: A FOURTH SCHOOL GIRL PIN! Could this do it!?

ONE!

TWO!

THRE-KICKOUT!

Another near fall on Dawkins as he kicks out, his face flushed red with frustration at once against getting rolled up.

Richard Parker: This is ridiculous! What the hell are you doing Dawkins!?

Somehow Annabelle Dean rotates into position again however this time Dawkins is ready. He snatches her arm and pulls her up between his legs before locking her into a Front Face Lock.

Nick Stuart: After some hand fighting from Annabelle, it looks like Dawkins finally has control of his opponent!

Dawkins transitions this into a D’arce Choke, entangling his opponent in his arms and legs in the center of the ring.

Richard Parker: He’s locked on the Garrota!

Nick Stuart: The rookie went to the well one-too many times! Now she’s gonna have to navigate her way out of this brutal submission hold!

With her head buried and locked beneath Dawkins’ arm, he wraps his legs around Dean’s, further limiting her escape options. Still, she struggles, fighting with every ounce of her one-hundred-thirty-five pounds.

Nick Stuart: She’s fading! She’s not tapping but she’s fading…

Richard Parker: She doesn’t know any better! She’s got nowhere to go!

Almost as soon as Parker has said the words, Annabelle finally gives in, tapping so that Elvis Nixon can see it.

DING DING DING DING!

Vince Howard: Your winner by submission…. BRYAAAAAAAAAAAAAN DAAAAAAAAAAAAWKINS!

Despite the sound of the bell and Elvis Nixon’s commands to release the hold, Dawkins refuses. In fact he looks to tighten the hold down even more, the Princess of the Ring’s body going limp.

Nick Stuart: Release the damn hold, Dawkins, you’ve already won the match!

Richard Parker: He’s locked in the zone, Stuart, you can’t just expect him to turn it off!

Eventually Dawkins releases the hold as the crowd rains down boos. Bryan doesn’t seem to pay them any attention, shoving the lifeless Dean away before posing in the center of the ring, “The Soviet National Anthem” blaring triumphantly in the background.

After the match, we cut to Nick Stuart and Richard Parker at ringside.

Nick Stuart: That was a tremendous contest, and PRIME Faithful, there’s plenty more Almasy Action coming your way tonight! But first, we-

As Nick Stuart speaks, a familiar figure hops the barricade and saunters up to the commentary desk.

Luc Labelle: (ripping Nick’s headset off and putting it on himself) Thanks, Nicky! Are we on the air?

Nick Stuart looks stunned as Labelle hovers uncomfortably over him, staring daggers into the camera.

Richard Parker: What the hell are you doing?

Luc Labelle: Richie, shut your damn mouth. I’m sure all the mouthbreathers at home and the idiots in the arena know why I’m so pissed off, but in case you didn’t tune into ReVival 70, let me tell you anyway! I’m here because of STEVE LEMIEUX, DOCTOR ZEKE, AND GENERATION H! And even more so, I’m here because of all the BULLSHIT here in PRIME Wrestling.

Richard Parker: (mumbling) It’s just PRIME.

Luc Labelle: (turning to Parker) What did I tell you about shutting your damn mouth?! (looking back at the camera) You know, I’ve lost before. In a different sport, sure, but it’s the same thing at the end of the day. It’s not fun, but I’ve learned to accept it when the better man wins. But last week, I WAS THE BETTER MAN! I got screwed, you hear me! (slamming the desk for emphasis) Steve-Le-Mieux-Screwed-Me! And all week, I’ve had to listen to people cracking jokes about it, I’ve had to look at pictures of a sandwich maker getting mobbed by fans while I, an actual fighter, was unconscious on the ground! And he didn’t win because of skill, he won because of BULLSHIT. All I see here is people winning matches that they don’t deserve to win, and these people LOVE it!

The few fans in the front row that can actually hear Labelle begin to boo him.

Luc Labelle: (gesturing at the jeering fans) You see what I mean? I don’t think these people realize that I lost out on a winner’s purse, on actual money, in a match that I got cheated out of! The BULLSHIT that Lemieux won with had actual financial ramifications, but because he’s funny, these people love it. I’m advocating for fairness here, but the so-called Faithful don’t like the messenger, and so they’ve decided to ignore the message!

Luc extends the headset cord and walks closer to the camera, finally giving Nick Stuart some breathing room.

Luc Labelle: (quieter and calmer) So I’ve got a message for a man who can’t ignore it. Steve Lemieux. We’re one-and-one. The second you’re out of the Almasy, I want my rematch, and I want it BULLSHIT-free, because my BULLSHIT tolerance is very, very low. I haven’t watched enough PRIME to know exactly what kind of match would be BULLSHIT-proof, but whatever it is, I will make you pay a million times over for the embarrassment that you caused me. And to Dr. Zeke and Generation H, you better pray I don’t run into you somewhere, because I’m owed three pounds of flesh, and I won’t hesitate to collect.

He takes off the headset and tosses it back to Nick Stuart, before hopping back over the barricade and into the booing mass of humanity.

Richard Parker: I kinda like him.

Nick Stuart: You would, Richard. Let’s go backstage.

We move on.

We cut to a view of a door in a backstage hallway with a sign reading “Glonference Room/Jolf Invitational”. Slowly pacing back and forth outside the door is Quetzacoatl’s Favorite Son, The Anglo Luchador…and before long, he gives a confident and serious nod and knocks on the door.

The door opens, and FLAMBERGE emerges in a fun set of teal-and-copper lizard print boxing shorts, a FLAMBOyant teal lizard scale jacket, and his hair as high as high goes.

Following closely behind him, we see Joe Fontaine in a suit so green and so sparkly that it’s safe to wonder if he’s discovered a new technology that allows him to crank up the dazzles-per-square-inch to previously unattainable levels. Shining a flashlight on this jacket might accidentally start a fire in its many reflections. Also, he’s wearing Crocs. For solidarity.

In the far depths of the room, we see fabby hastily arranging customized-for-pain steel chairs into a very large bag labeled “JJJ – JROFESSIONAL JOLFING JASSOCIATION”, and the walls around him are chaotically embedded with jolf tees (thumbtacks).

TAL: Julien. Joseph.

Neither reacts.

TAL: Fine. Whatever. I have been in two separate altercations in the last week, I have fielded several calls from Disney about the whereabouts of their best enforcer and they’re not buying that he was carried off by a sphinx, and I knowingly walked into a conference room with you two dickheads without my own jolf club.

The Luchador looks around, curling his lip.

TAL: And I just actually said the word “jolf.” What the hell do you want?

Joe Fontaine: You know, stuff. And things. Stuffings. Thinuff? Should we woppshork this one, my FLAMan?

FLAMBERGE: Ouais, the sthinff needs the woppshork…

He looks TAL over.

FLAMBERGE: …and the Gluechador needs the…what, exactly? The last time we spoke, Anglue, you were the very rude. Or perhaps you wish to share the regrets of not taking my offer to fill in the Scatino’s glued up shoes.

TAL: Woppsh… forget it. I’m only here because I was sent an e-vite for a very important conference, which by the looks of things….

The Luchador scans the room.

TAL: …is just Joe being Joe? Or maybe a way to soften me up before our match with jolf clubs? I really don’t know how anything works in this place anymore. Down is up, right is left, math is dead.

FLAMBO looks at Joe. They’re both puzzled.

FLAMBERGE: You invited him?

Joe Fontaine: I didn’t – did you?

In the back of the Glonference Room, we hear a muffled voice.

The Fabulous Gold Mask: …my bad!

The tag champs, nearly in unison, seem to be impacted by tension headaches. The Bearded Dragon returns his gaze to his opponent tonight.

FLAMBERGE: This is very weird. You being here is very weird. fabby and the we will have words on this later. Meanwhile – you? Leave now, before this goes from being weird, to being –

The mood suddenly shifts when someone enters the room.

Weird thing is, that someone was already in the room to begin with.

But now, like a Lynchian nightmare, a TAL-masked Anglo Doppleganger stands in their presence.

“TAL”: How do you do, fellow PRIME wrestlers? It’s ME! Your beloved Angled Luchador! Just hanging out, Luchadoring it up, you see! Lovely weather we’re having on this FINE Independence Day! SAY! Just out of curiosity, do ANY of YOU SWELL FELLAS perhaps KNOW where they keep the official PRIME contracts? Asking for a FRIEND, see…

The actual Luchador looks at him in shock.

TAL: Zapp? Is that you? And did you get hooked on stimulants?!?!?!?!

The Dopple-Anglo’s eyes bulge through the holes of his mask at the sight of genuine article. Insert the “Spider-Man clones pointing” meme, but with TALs.

“TAL:” OH SHUCKS, WHEN did YOU GET HERE?!

Insistently pointing toward his twin, he looks to FLAMBO and Joe.

“TAL:” Oh wow, YOU GUYS! This man is an IMPOSTER! He’s wearing the SAME MASK AS ME in an effort to CONFUSE and DECEIVE YOU! QUICK!! Call the ENEMIGOS and HAVE HIM REMOVED!!

Nobody lifts a finger. They stare at the man claiming to be the actual Anglo Luchador.

Thing is, nobody would expect the actual TAL to wear a suit so white and garish. It’s usually green and purple and garish. Joe raises his hand.

Joe Fontaine: Okay, short of just shooting both of you with a gun that shoots jolf tees – a jail gun, if you will – I think I got the solution right here.

He squares up, and asks the all-important question.

Joe Fontaine: Who directed Fitzcarraldo?

“TAL”: WERNER HERZOG, HA-HAAA!! …wait… SHUCKS!

TAL: Werner… wait, he was a director? I thought he just wanted to see Baby Yoda real bad?

From out of nowhere, Enemigos SWARM the imposter and tackle him to the floor. Tearing the mask off, the interloper is revealed to be Erik Black.

Erik Black: UNHAND ME, CRETINS!! I’M on a MISSION! From GOD, I think!

The (real) Luchador sighs as yet another man pretending to be him is dragged away, kicking and especially screaming. He turns to the Glue Boiz one last time.

TAL: Alright, I’ve had enough of this for one evening. I’ll see you in the ring, Julien. And you outside of it, probably, Joseph.

The Luchador turns and leaves the conference room, looking down the hallway for which way the Enemigos dragged Erik Black. He promptly turns the other way because, well, who can blame him after all?

The door to the Glonference Room shuts, and we hear the click of a door locking. JoeBERGE seems to have taken this opportunity for an Irish Goodbye. We hear some yelling behind the closed door.

FLAMBERGE: ZUT ALORS, fabby!! Qu’est-ce que tu essaies de me faire??

Joe Fontaine: Yeah, and what’s with the e-vites? We use J-vites now!

FLAMBERGE: fabby, Sand Wedje

We hear a crashing THUD behind the door, and then it gets quiet.

We move on.

The lights dim and the slow melonic 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. He puts his arms in the air and nods towards the crowd as he begins to walk a bit faster down the ramp.

He smirks as the fans react to him, he doesn’t seem to care if they boo or cheer as he concentrates on the ring he will be competing in tonight. He gets to the steps and swiftly makes his way up and into the ring.

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 hands it to the ring attendant as he prepares mentally for the battle ahead.

##Where my heart is, rests my very soul
And the colors bleed from blue to gold##

“Born for This” by Divide Music starts to play through the speakers as Tony Gamble and Johnnie Newsman step out from behind the curtain, soaking in the chorus of boos that rain down from the crowd.

##When the choice is mine and mine alone
I won’t give in even if you break my bones##

Johnnie Newsman: HELLLOOOOOOO EVERYYYYBOOOOODYYYY!!! THEEEEE LAST MAN LAUGHING IN PRIME IS HEEEEEERRRRE!!!!

##I won’t give in ’till your sins have been atoned
All I see is the flickering lights below me##

Tony stretches his arms out wide, welcoming the crowd’s form of adoration as Johnnie continues to speak and his music plays.

##All I need is the power to change what I see
If I can give a little, not a second thought##

Johnnie Newsman: Coming to your ring, with weight of one hundred and thee eighty nine pounds of lean, healthy muskulls on a man.

##If I’m stuck in the middle, I will take the shot, woah
All I wanna be, yeah##

Tony makes his way down the ramp, ignoring the few smarks in the crowd that actually do like him. They reach their arms out, awaiting a slap of acknowledgement that will never come, as Johnnie stays at the top of the ramp.

##Yeah, I was born for this
I will keep my secrets high above##

Johnnie Newsman: He thee Capotabola!

##In the hopes to protect the ones I love
But I wonder where in darkness lies the truth##

Johnnie Newsman: Number won in your heart!

##Of the one who took their lives, you can’t excuse
I don’t fear you, I won’t let you take my home##

Tony climbs the steps, looking out at the fans that have not quieted down at all since he stepped out from behind the curtain. They love to hate him, even more so as he stands on the apron looking out into the crowd for a moment — not bothering to wipe his feet.

##I will climb through to wherever you may roam
I won’t give in, you can even break my bones##

Johnnie Newsman: Only man to half title with his name!

##What is within is a strength you’ll never know##

Johnnie Newsman: TOOOOOOOOOOOONYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!

##All I see is the flickering lights below me
All I need is the power to change what I see##

He steps in between the middle and top ropes to get into the ring, making his way to the center.

Johnnie Newsman: THEEEEE GRRRRRRIIIINNNNNNNN!!

##If I can give a little, not a second thought
If I’m stuck in the middle, I will take the shot, woah##

He drops down to one knee, lowering his head as Johnnie continues.

Johnnie Newsman: GAAAAAAAAMMBLLLLLLEEEEE!!

##All I wanna be, yeah##

He stretches his arms out once more, then throws back his head to stare up at his hands with one finger on each hand pointed up to the rafters.

##Yeah, I was born for this##

The bell rings and the two competitors circle one another, intermittently faking lunging at one another and adjusting their waist straps. Slowly, apprehensively they step forward… and tie up collar and elbow.

The bigger man Harrison transitions Gamble into a side headlock. Gamble pushes his palms hard into Harrison’s face, trying to create separation as Harrison is forced to loosen his grip just enough to allow Gamble to drop to his knees and take Harrison down onto his belly. Mounting him from behind, Gamble yanks Harrison’s right arm back into an armbar, but this submission maneuver doesn’t have legs as Harrison slides backwards into a rear shoulder lock, cranking it in on the smaller Gamble who contorts, revealing some damage having been done to his left shoulder.

Nick Stuart: Lots of back and forth action here early here.

Harrison’s holding firm, but Gamble drops to a seated position, spins out and around, and reverses the pressure onto Harrison’s arm, all the while throwing some kicks at Harrison’s knees, producing a slight but noticeable buckle from his competitor with each one. Then Gamble, maintaining his pressure on Harrison’s arm, runs to the ropes and springboards off the middle one, launching Harrison ass over tea kettle in a modified arm drag!

Gamble maintains his grip and runs to the ropes to go for a repeat, springboarding off the middle rope again—

BUT HARRISON CATCHES HIM IN MID AIR!

Richard Parker: Not so fast, smiley!

Harrison pauses a moment, holding Gamble belly-to-belly before thrusting his hips—

BIG BELLY-TO-BELLY SUPLEX!

Gable crashes hard onto the mat and as he gets up Harrison yanks his hair up and smiles as he prods his fingers into Gamble’s eyes!

“HEY COME ON!”

The ref admonishes Harrison and threatens a disqualification, beginning a five count which Harrison barely adheres to, but not before nearly clotheslining Gamble’s head off!

Nick Stuart: Harrison needs to be careful here.

Gamble rolls onto his stomach, attempting to get up on all fours now, but Harrison drops an elbow onto his neck! And again! Then Harrison takes a few steps back, then throws a gnarly looking thrust kick to the neck that drops Gamble onto his chest again!

Harrison towers over Gamble now, and grapples him from behind, deadlifting him up into the air as the crowd hushes in anticipation…

HARRISON SNAP TRANSITIONS INTO A FULL NELSON—

DRAGON SUPLEX!

BRIDGING INTO A PIN—

ONE!

TWO!!

GAMBLE KICKS OUT!!

Richard Parker: Bubblegum and a prayer are the only things keeping Gamble’s neck attached to his body at this point, Nick.

Harrison is firmly in control here, smirking as he watches Gamble crawl desperately to the corner to get up, stalking him closely from just a step behind. As Gamble stands, Harrison pushes Gambles chin up, exposing his chest—

CHOP!

The sound reverberates around the arena, and a red mark begins to take form on his chest.

CHOP!!

Richard Parker: Woooooo!

Nick Stuart: Cut that out!

Gamble’s trying to catch his breath, but Harrison Irish whips him to the opposite corner, running a step behind him in pursuit—

BIG CLOTHESLINE IN THE CORNER!

Harrison follows up by hitting the ropes and sprinting back at Gamble, hitting a basement drop kick to Gamble’s shin, dropping him face-first to the mat. Harrison taunts the crowd, saying this is it, and brings Gamble up to his feet, linking arms around their heads, and lifts up…

BRAINBUSTER—

NO!

IT’S REVERSED INTO A SNAP VERTICAL SUPLEX BY GAMBLE!

Nick Stuart: Big momentum shift for Gamble here, he need to stay on it!

Now Gamble tries to maintain the momentum, dropping a quick leg drip over Harrison’s throat! Then Gamble rakes at Harrison’s eyes to the ref’s chagrin, returning the favor from earlier as the ref counts up to four and a half before releasing! Then, as Harrison grasps at his face Gamble grabs both of Harrison’s lower legs, lifts, and attempts to roll Harrison over onto his abdomen—

BUT HARRISON IS FIGHTING IT!

Richard Parker: He’s too powerful for Gamble I think.

Gamble can’t quite lock in the Boston Crab as Harrison pulls him in with his legs, and pushes him off to the mat with gusto, and as both men get up to their feet, it’s Gamble who manages to dodge Harrison’s punch and counter with a kick to the gut, doubling him over. Gamble wraps an arm around Harrison’s head—

DDT!

Gamble covers—

ONE!

TWO!!

HARRISON GETS A SHOULDER UP!!

Gamble now taunts the crowd as he stands over Harrison, proclaiming the end is near, and wraps and arm around Harrison’s back and intertwines their legs—

FRONT RUSSIAN LEGSWEEP—

BY HARRISON!

He reversed it, and follows up with a mean throat punch that all but immobilizes Gamble before he grapples him up tight from the side—

SAITO SUPLEX!

Cover—

ONE!

TWO!!

THR-KICKOUT BY GAMBLE!!

Nick Stuart: This one could go either way.

Richard Patrick: Just like—

Nick Stuart: Could someone get him a muzzle, please!?

Now Gamble slowly pulls himself on the ropes as Harrison stands in the middle of the ring, watching him struggle from behind. Harrison points at Gamble, then taps his own head as if he’s had some brilliant idea. Then Harrison bounds off the ropes, and lunges at Gamble—

ENLIGHTENMENT—

THE KNEE TRIGGER MISSES!!

Gamble ducked out of the way at the last second, and as Harrison bounces off the ropes backwards he rolls him up—

SCHOOLBOY—

ONE!

TWO!!

NO!!

Harrison kicks out before three and now both men are up to their feet in a hurry, lunging at one another—

CLOTHESLINE BY HARRISON—

DUCKED BY GAMBLE!

Big kick by Gamble to Harrison’s midsection—

CAUGHT BY HARRISON!

ENZUIGIRI BY GAMBLE!!

Big tree fall hard, and Harrison drops to the mat, laying supine while Gamble climbs the nearest turnbuckle. He reaches the top rung, hunched over, then slowly straightens before flipping backwards—

MOONSAULT!

Richard Parker: AAAaaahhh!

NOTHING BUT CANVAS!!

The crowd lets out a collective “oooooh” as Gamble’s upper body ricochets straight up off the mat, and from behind Harrison is already charging at him—

ENLIGHTENMENT!!

CONNECTS!!

Harrison swiftly contorts Gamble, who’s on all fours, into a crossface chickenwing, and again deadlifts Gamble off the mat—

CROSSFACE CHICKENWING SUPLEX CONNECTS!!!

IT’S A HARRACLE!!!

Gamble looks out, and Harrison Corolla him over and hooks a leg—

ONE!

TWO!!

THREE!!!

The ref signals for the bell and raises Harrison’s arm in victory!

Nick Stuart: Gamble gave it a good run, but Harrison proved to just be too much on this occasion!

A bathroom.

A bucket of delicious sketti, resting in a sink.

Fred Dick, Intense Championship around his waist, wearing the Scream Mask. The mask from Scream.

You know what muhfuggin’ time it is.

Fred Dick: We don’t have a jingle yet, but this is my fuggin’ show! The Great Powerslam Anubis can suggit, and this is my fuggin’ show! It’s Baffroom Fights and ya better be ready, it’s mothafuggin’ Freddy and a Bucket of Skettiiiiiii… which ya win if yew kick my ace! Bahaha!

Fred tap dances. The Intense Title around his waist maintains its sheen, the Scream mask on his face maintains its smile.

Fred Dick: Welcome to Baffroom Fights with Freddy and Sketti! Sponsored by Sketti Bucket, presented by Sketti Bucket. Welp, last episode? Psh. Maaaaaaang FUG dat episode. I’m here to fight regular fuggin’ men, not immortal deities from times of various, eternal distances stretching into both the long gone by and the far in the future. That ain’t the types of muhfuggas what’s spose to be fightin’ for a Sketti Bucket. What’s a God do with sketti? Buncha fugged up nonsense is what that is. Powerslam Anubis you orta be ashamed of yaself if I’m bein’ honest. Fuggin prick. Fuggin’… red-dicked judgmental ass dawg gawd. Lipstick dick havin’ muhfugga. It’s whatever though, I’m fuggin’ over it. Lawd yes, I have MOVED. THA FUG. ON. And I figure, hell, since I got me an Intense Title Defense in the first round of the Almasy against MY BEST GOOD FREN ANNER DANIELS… Well, I orta get me in a warm up. With, of course, a delicious sketti prize for the victor.

Fred Dick gestures towards the door.

Fred Dick: Who will be the next contestant on Baffroom—

SUDDENLY!

The toilet flushes, and a stall door bursts open, revealing…THE INTRUDERS! Who would have guessed?

Intruder #1: IT’S TIME TO GET DOWN TO BUSINESS!

Intruder #2: TO DEFEAT THE HUNS?

Intruder #1: NO! TO CRUSH PRIME IN OUR MIGHTY, MEATY HANDS!

Intruder #2: REMEMBER TO WASH THOSE HANDS! HYGIENE IS IMPORTANT!

Coming from two guys who just came out of the same stall. Were they both in there while one of them was pooping? Were…were they both pooping?

…

Nope. Don’t want to think about it.

Intruder #1: BUT FIRST WE MUST BUILD UP OUR ENERGY! WE REQUIRE SUSTENANCE!

Intruder #2: ONLY THE FINEST WILL DO! THE FOOD OF THE GODS, FOR THE GODS OF PRIME!

Fred scratches his chinny chin chin.

Fred Dick: I’m likin’ what I’m hearin’. I dig your vibes, your look. It’s good shid, fellas. Real good shid. Puttin’ the Sketti Bucket over already – shiiiiiid yew KNOW I LUH DAT SHID. But guess what?

Intruder #1: CHICKEN B–

Intruder #2: CHICKEN BUTT!

Intruder #1: YOU INTRUDED ON ME! WELL DONE!

Intruder #2: THANK YOU!

Fred adjusts the Scream mask on his face. It’s a tight squeeze bc of all his cheek fat, which is bountiful.

Fred Dick: Chicken butts aside, God damnit! Chicken butts aside! I’m done gettin’ fugged on in handicap baffroom fights. Shid is over wid. Lucky fo’ MY ACE — I brought a couple… boys with me. A couple… Lasagna Boys.

Fred claps his hands three times and whistles. Suddenly, a ceiling tile gets its shit pushed in and hits the bathroom floor. Two janitors fall out of the ceiling and hit the floor seconds later. They writhe on the ground in clear pain.

Fred Dick: Bahahahaha!!! BAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! AAAAAAH!!! AAAAAH-HAHAHAHAHAHA!!! Toddrick! Miguel! I have summoned thee, my Lasagna Boys! It’s time to whoop sum ace!

But the Lasagna Boys are legitimately hurt. They hit the floor hard. So they only writhe and groan in response.

Intruder #1: HEY! INTRUSION IS OUR THING!

Intruder #2: POOR EXECUTION! C- AT BEST, SEE ME AFTER CLASS!

Fred stomps his feet.

Fred Dick: You gonna take that grade from Fuggly Professor over thur? C’mon neow, Lasagna Boys, get up!

Miguel: My leg… my fucking leg…

Toddrick: I think my elbow is actually, legitimately broken.

Intruder #1: THIS IS WHY INTRUDING IS BEST LEFT TO THE PROFESSIONALS!

Intruder #2: DID YOU LEARN FROM A CORRESPONDENCE COURSE?

Intruder #1: AS SOMEONE WITH A MASTER’S DEGREE IN INTRUSION, I AM VERY INSULTED!

Fred Dick, meanwhile, reaches in his back pocket and grabs a washcloth. Quietly, he sneaks up behind Intruder #1 and, with deft hands and chubby fingers, snatches Intruder #1 and smothers his face with the rag. Intruder #1 fights back in a panic, but quickly begins to fade.

Fred Dick: Shhhh… shhhh… Let the darkness take you. Let the darkness take you.

Intruder #1’s eyes slowly close as Fred slowly brings him down to the floor.

Fred Dick: And if that mockin’ bird don’t sang… papa gonna buy yew a diamond rang…

Intruder #2: I LEARNED INTRUSION THROUGH TRADE SCHOOLS AND APPRENTICESHIP! THERE ARE CERTAIN THINGS YOU JUST CAN’T LEARN IN A CLASSROOM! REGARDLESS OF HOW WE GOT HERE, BOTH OF US HAVE HAD A PASSION FOR INTRUSION OUR WHOLE LIVES! WHY, I REMEMBER WHEN I WAS TEN YEARS OLD AND–

Fred Dick sneaks up behind Intruder #2 with that very same rag, and does the exact same thing to him. Snatches him from behind, smothers the face with the rag.

Same result.

Fred Dick: That’s it… Just rest your little eyes sweet baby… Chloroform, just like Mama Dick used to give STRONKY Baby… lawd yes, them good ol’ days…

Fred looks at his handiwork. The Intruders nap on the floor. Fred puts his finger over his mouth and motions for the Lasagna Boys to quietly get up.

While the Intruders snooze and murmur in their sleep, the Lasagna Boys painfully rise up – get shushed by Fred several times in doing so. Fred tiptoes over to the Lasagna Boys, Sketti Bucket in hand.

Fred Dick: (whispers) Eat the Sketti. Put it over.

Toddrick: (whispers) What does ‘put it over’ mean?

Fred Dick: SSH!

Toddrick: (whispers even more quietly) What does ‘put it over’ mean?

Fred Dick: (angrily whispers) It means, “Eat the god damn sketti right fuggin’ now, look at the camera, and say it tastes good. But whisper it. Whisper it so you don’t wake up the babies. And rub your belly like it’s so tasty, like, ‘mmmmm, mmmmm it’s so yummy in my tummy, yew know I gots ta rub my belly,’ just to make sure those at home really know that the sketti tastes really fuggin’ good.” That’s what ‘put it over’ means.

Toddrick and Miguel reach their hands into the sketti. They take handfuls out and eat it greedily, as if they haven’t remembered to eat in several days. They look at the camera, spaghetti sauce on their faces. They nod exuberantly, and rub their bellies with enthusiasm.

Toddrick and Miguel: (whispers) It’s good.

Fred Dick: (whispers) Well, that’ll have to do. Come, my Lasagna Boys.

The trio tiptoe out of the bathroom, leaving the Intruders to dream of fantastical intrusions in realms beyond Reality’s reach.

We cut elsewhere.

Backstage, Matt Mills looks annoyed. If you’ve been paying any attention over the last few months (I haven’t; I’m sorry) then you know why. As the camera pans back to reveal the rest of the scene it becomes abundantly clear.

Our intrepid interviewer is once again tasked with the unenviable job of having to deal with Steve Lemieux. But not just Steve, as the sandwich man is flanked by his manager(?) and professional wrestling’s only lawyer-doctor (as far as we know), Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.

Matt Mills: Ladies and gentlemen, I’m here with Steve Lemieux and his… uhh… manager?

He looks to Steve and Zeke, but they say nothing, which admittedly isn’t very helpful given the current situation.

Matt Mills: Dr. Zeke D. Badguy.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Hello, yes. You forgot the esquire.

Matt Mills: Right, my mistake. Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esquire.

See those italics? Those are sass italics.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: That’s quite alright. Also I love your many delicious breakfast cereals.

He lightly taps Matt on the shoulder. It should be noted that Matt Mills is not now and never has been a General in any capacity.

Steve Lemieux: GREETINGS AND SALUTATIONS, FRIENDS AND FELLOWS.

Matt jumps and then takes a very obvious step back, because Steve has a megaphone that he somehow missed until just now.

Matt Mills: Jesus H…

Yes, the microphone gag is back.

Steve Lemieux: LET’S TALK ABOUT SOME TOPICS.

Zeke does not react, both because he knew that the megaphone was there and also because one of his hearing aids has been on the fritz for months. You’d think he’d get that fixed by now, but this is a man who hasn’t bothered to do something as simple as call his doctor for a new blood pressure prescription for the better part of two years now.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Yes, hi, let us all listen to Stefan Lummox. He is very wise when it comes to the many breads and the many meats you can put on the many breads in many configurations.

He taps Steve on the shoulder. Lotta shoulder taps from old man Zeke today.

A tremendously large shadow falls over Steve from off camera. It’s eerie. And the cameraman shifts to see the cause and he breaks the cardinal rule of cameramen: don’t speak.

Cameraman: Oh shit…

There, looming next to Steve and everyone else, is Ivan Stanislav with Alexei Ruslan. The Russian Bear’s sheer gravity in the frame is enough to almost atomize everyone else in his orbit. And Steve is the closest. The Russian Bear grabs him by the torso (yeah, not the shirt, his entire torso) and shoves him past Matt Mills and Zeke, and into the wall.

Ivan Stanislav: So you are son of bitch in my way?!

The Bear snarls hatred mixed with petroleum.

Steve Lemieux: WHAT? OH, BEANS. PLEASE DON’T USE SWEAR WORDS. I REALLY HATE THE SWEAR WORDS.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Come come now…

He moves to tap Ivan on the shoulder as well, but thinks better of it. Instead pantomiming an odd gesture with his hand a few inches away from the fabric of the Russian Bear’s shirt.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Stefan’s mother is a lovely woman. I think. (pause) I have no idea, to be honest.

Ivan completely ignores Zeke and blows smoke from his nostrils. Ruslan doesn’t even bother to be sneaky about reaching into his brown overcoat of holding and he produces a tire iron, thinks, and tosses it to the side. He instead opts for a really heavy wrench.

Ivan lifts Steve all the way up along the wall until he’s eye level, letting his feet kick this way and that. Ruslan grunts in Russian.

Alexei Ruslan: Просто убей его, Ваня. (Just kill him, Vanya.)

Ivan Stanislav: I wrestle my entire life to be saddled with some stupid, no-good fool like you in tournament for Universal Title?! Do you take me for some fool?!

Steve Lemieux: OH, HEAVENS NO! I WOULD NEVER DO SUCH A THING. I KNOW THAT I MUST HAVE MADE YOU VERY UPSET DURING THE MANHUNT TO THROW ME LIKE THAT, SO I’M TERRIBLY SORRY FOR WHATEVER I DID.

Uhh, Steve? Maybe put the megaphone down. Do not shout in the angry man’s face, Steve.

Steve?

Welp. Can’t say I didn’t try.

Steve Lemieux: I’M VERY HAPPY YOU’RE HERE, BECAUSE I HAVE A SPLENDID IDEA!

Oh no.

Steve Lemieux: MAYBE YOU AND I COULD REHEARSE OUR PERFORMANCE SO THAT THE AUDIENCE GETS THE BEST SHOW THEY DKSHDKSHDKSTATICNOISESHOOOOOOOOOOONK!!!

That sound is what happens when someone who doesn’t know how to use a megaphone accidentally presses multiple buttons at once. It’s a cacophony of wailing static, and terribly unpleasant to everyone who hears it. Except Zeke. Because the hearing aids.

In one motion, Stanislav rips the megaphone out of Steve’s hands with a growl that registers on the Richter Scale. He squeezes it in his dinner-plate sized palm, which of course presses all of the other buttons.

Megaphone: PRRGGHH—-GYENNKKKK!!! TWIGLEBOP! TWIGLEBOP! WOOooooOOoooPPPPP!!! WoooooooOOOOOooooOOOO!!!

Ivan continues to ruthlessly throttle the Megaphone to death, while not taking his eyes off of Steve. Alexei closes his eyes and just tries to live through this.

Megaphone: OOOweeuuuggghhh!!!! Ooooweeeuuuggghh!!!! BEEP!! BEEP!! BEEP!!

And then finally, sweat release.

Megaphone: [Bwooooooooooooooooopppp..pp](http://bwooooooooooooooooopppp..pp/)…pp…pthhhhhhhhhhh….

Ivan has basically turned the Megaphone into a coaster in his hand. He throws it to the side and skips it down the hallway.

Ivan Stanislav: That is what I am going to do to you when we have our match!

Steve, bless his heart, tries to respond. But he’s already gone. As in, disappeared. As in, Ivan has yeeted him, possibly, into another dimension. He just flies somewhere else, and all we hear is the sound of not one, not two, but at least three walls caving in.

CRASH!!!

BOOM!!!

SMASHHHH!!

A cat squeals.

MEOWWW!!!!

Matt looks off camera in the direction Steve flew and winces, appropriately.

Now, it’s just Zeke.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Hi, yes. Just a moment please. I think I heard my cat.

And then Zeke hoofs it. Well, that might be excessive. The man is in his 70s and walks with a cane, after all. So call it a jaunty shuffle. An excited plod. Dude is scootin’ like he’s late for the early-bird special at Sketti Bucket and is about to lose his old person discount. Does he check on Steve? Maybe. You don’t know.

Matt mumbles.

Matt Mills: So Iva–

But The Russian Bear is already stomping away. Ruslan frowns and stows his massive wrench, and follows suit, leaving Matt to simply stand there.

ReVival moves on.

Nick Stuart: Well, Richard, the Almasy keeps on keepin’ on, and up next, we’ve got the third ever successful Alias Champion in Sebastian Gold, and the return of quite literally the most successful Intense Champion of the ReVival Era, Daytona Diamonds!

Richard Parker: Shut up about Gold! I hate that little prick! Daytona Diamonds is the only story that matters in this match. My man is caked up, beefed up, and bricked up to get back in the ring!

Nick Stuart: …Bricked up?

Richard Parker: All the way up.

Vince Howard: The following contest is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first!

I GET AHEAD ON MY MOTORBIKE

I GET AHEAD ON MY MOTORBIKE

The Opening riff of “The Living End” coats the arena as yellow smoke covers the top of the ramp.

Vince Howard: Measuring in at 5’11, 187 pounds! Hailing from Los Angeles, Californiaaaaaa… SEBASTIAAAAN… GOOOOOLD!!!

THERE’S NOTHING ELSE BUT MEEEE

Sebastian flips through the smoke and lands at the top of the ramp and throws up his hands for the crowd.

THERE’S NOTHING ELSE BUT MEEEEE

The Bastion of Action takes his time heading to the ring, signing autographs and taking selfies with fans.

AN EMPTY ROOOAAAAD

AND A COOL, COOL WIND

MAKES IT FEEL SO GOOOOOOOOD

He climbs the top turnbuckle and points to the sky.

Nick Stuart: The fans love this young superstar, Richard!

Richard Parker: The fans are idiots and they support idiots.

The house lights snap off, plunging the arena into darkness. A wave of restless boos start even before the music hits. From the PA, the chorus of Glen Campbell’s “Rhinestone Cowboy” cuts through, clear and mocking.

♫ “LIKE A RHINESTONE COOOOOOWBOOOOOY!” ♫

Half the crowd starts booing before the last note even hits ends.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

A blast of silverdust pyro erupts from the stage. “Fastest Horse in Town” by Sturgill Simpson crashes in, just as loud and just as swaggering as the man it’s set to introduce.

A spotlight hits the entrance ramp. Daytona Diamonds steps out dressed in black, a snarl on his lips as he looks out over the crowd. He lifts his arms high and soaks in the boos for the first time in months.

Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring… from Carson City, Nevada… weighing in at two hundred nintety pounds…

A smirk plays at his lips as he lowers his arms, flipping the crowd a quick middle finger before he starts to make his way down the ramp.

Vince Howard: He is The King of the Rodeo… The Anabolic Outlaw… Mr. Biceps-Bigger-Than-A-Ten-Pound-Baby… The Rhinestone Cowboy… DAYTOOOOOOONAAAAAA DIIIIIIIAMMMMMONNNNDDS!

In the center of the ring, a spotlight shines down as this new and improved Daytona Diamonds stands tall, letting his jacket fall to the floor to reveal the mass of muscles underneath. With a slow, exagerrated motion, Daytona throws his arms to the sides and then curls them up into a double front bicep flex. He holds the pose for an insufferable amount of time as the music plays and the crowd boos before the house lights finally come back up.

Walking to his corner, he takes off his hat and puts it on top of the turnbuckle, just like always, before leaning back and grabbing the ropes with both hands. For a moment, he’s perfectly still and then he shifts forward like he’s about to charge across the ring as soon as the bell rings.

DING! DING!

Daytona charges across the ring and drops Gold with a BIG GOD DAMN LARIAT right out of the gate! Sebastian quickly reaches his feet, and ANOTHER BIG LARIAT from Daytona Diamonds drops him! Sebastian starts to reach his feet, but a boot catches him on the way up right in the sternum!

Sebastian Gold quickly finds himself lifted high into the air. A gorilla press by Daytona – something he never could’ve done so impressively before – and he holds Gold in the air.

He pops his pecs while he holds Sebastian high in the air.

Daytona Diamonds: Y’all see my pecs? Look at ‘em! Look at ‘em dance!

Then, after sustaining that gorilla press for a while, he tosses Sebastian Gold over the ropes to the outside of the ring.

Then he stands in the middle of the ring and performs several bodybuilder poses.

Nick Stuart: …so, Daytona Diamonds is gonna be a problem.

Richard Parker: Less of a problem, and more of an absolute revelation, Nick!

But for Sebastian Gold, Daytona is currently both a revelation and a problem. Elvis Nixon begins to count him out, but as far as Gold is concerned, that’s plenty of time to devise an approach. He knew that with Daytona returning with such a massive body that the tape he had out there would be useless. He needed to feel Daytona’s power in order to gauge it. Now, he knows.

He slowly starts to reach his feet, and peaks in the ring.

But Daytona isn’t there.

Head on a swivel, he looks everywhere and–

He sees Daytona, saddled up against the guard rail, chatting up a group of women.

Nick Stuart: Jesus Christ, Daytona. Way to take your return to the ring seriously.

Richard Parker: Nothing wrong with tryna score after a win!

Nick Stuart: He hasn’t won a damn thing yet!

Gold rolls his eyes. Runs a hand through his hair. And begins.

He slides back into the ring, charges across, leaps to the top turnbuckle, and LEAPS OFF!!!

CRASH!!! 

Nick Stuart: HOLY MOLY!!! A MISSILE DROPKICK FROM SEBASTIAN GOLD TO DAYTONA DIAMONDS!!! RIGHT IN THE FACE!!! AND BOTH MEN ARE NOW LYING OUTSIDE THE RING!!!

Richard Parker: That’s illegal! Attacking a distracted opponent!

Nick Stuart: No it’s not illegal!

Richard Parker: Well it should be!

Sebastian Gold slaps the floor several times as he reaches all fours, as if motivating himself to keep the pedal to the metal. Daytona, dazed, uses the guard rail he was just propped against to help him climb back up to his feet, and–

CRACK! An enziguri from Gold sends Daytona right back down to one knee. A spinning backfist from Gold sends Daytona right back to the floor.

Goldy tries to drag Daytona back towards the ring, but he’s so much more massive, so much heavier, denser, etc. than Gold. All it does is give Daytona an opening to–

OOF!!

Punch Action Bastian right in his golden testicles.

Nick Stuart: Now THAT’S illegal!

Richard Parker: I didn’t see a damn thing.

Nick Stuart: Mmhmm.

Gold hunches over, hands over his nuts like a rabid squirrel is trying to get them. Daytona slams Gold’s head into the ring apron for good measure as he reaches two feet. Then he rolls the former Hollywood stuntman back into the ring. Daytona pursues him under the bottom rope, giving the former Alias Champion no chance to breathe.

Literally.

Because he puts his boot right on Sebastian’s neck, and presses it down, HARD, right into his Adam’s apple.

Nick Stuart: Yet another illegal move.

Richard Parker: Hmm?

Nick Stuart: Nice Hugo Vale impression.

Elvis Nixon immediately starts the five count on Daytona, who chooses to quit choking Gold with his foot at 4.999 seconds. Elvis warns Daytona. Daytona puts his hands up. Elvis walks backwards.

Daytona puts his foot right back on Gold’s neck and does it again.

Nick Stuart: That’s enough Daytona! That’s enough!

Richard Parker: It’s never enough Daytona! Do it more!

Daytona agrees with Richard. Elvis Nixon, however, agrees with Nick, and quite literally removes Daytona from Gold and again gives him an incredibly stern warning.

Daytona doesn’t much like Nixon’s lip. He gets in Nixon’s face and the two men start going at each other verbally. The argument continues with Daytona slowly backing Nixon into a set of corner turnbuckles.

Richard Parker: Don’t get yourself disqualified, Daytona! Think about this, now!

Daytona is so wrapped up in bullying Elvis Nixon, that he fails to notice the swelling sound of the crowd, building itself up into a pop. Normally, a heel knows that means a face is up on their feet, and about to do a momentum shifting move. But Daytona doesn’t notice. He’s too busy calling Nixon a peckerwood.

Nick Stuart: BACKSTABBER BY GOLD!!!

The crowd erupts as Gold grabs the momentum here with that backstabber! As Daytona is on the mat, Gold gets to work. He leaps to the nearest set of turnbuckles, jumps off, TWO FEET right into the sternum of Diamonds from the top rope.

Gold somersaults after sticking the landing, kips up to his feet, leaps to the second rope!

THE PLOT TWIST BY GOLD!!! THE MID-ROPE CORKSCREW MOONSAULT LANDS FLUSH!!!

Sebastian Gold hooks a beefy Daytona leg, Elvis drops and makes the count!

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

NO!!! Kickout by Daytona!

Richard Parker: YES!!!

Nick Stuart: You are such a biased little prick you know that?

Richard Parker: YES!!!

Gold pounds the mat with his fist. Fuck man, that was it. That was his chance. He shakes the negative thought away and climbs to his feet. Spits. Turns around.

Gets his legs swept out from under him by Daytona Diamonds.

And now Daytona Diamonds is on the motherfucking attack.

Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

What’s that you ask?

Why, it’s Daytona Diamonds raining down hammer fists on the downed Sebastian Gold.

Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

Daytona reaches his feet, flexes for the jeering crowd. Diamonds figures they must be booing because they don’t have a close enough view, and they aren’t allowed to touch. He blows a kiss at a woman in the front row, points to his crotch.

Then as Gold reaches his feet, Diamonds starts a little boot scoot, shuffling them feet like a dancing country boy!

BIG BOOT TO GOLD’S FACE!!!

Then Diamonds hits a ta-da pose!

Nick Stuart: He calls that the Big Boot Scootin’ Boogie!

Richard Parker: (singing) Boot scootin’ boogieeeeeee!!!

Nick Stuart: Potential copyright issue there, thanks Richard.

Daytona makes a cover with a single foot on Gold’s chest, and flexes his biceps for the crowd.

ONE!!!

TWO– Kickout by Gold!

Nick Stuart: He’s not even taking Gold seriously.

Richard Parker: Nick I’m tired of your attitude. If you were built like a Greek God, you wouldn’t be taking a 5’11 punk who doesn’t break 200 pounds seriously either!

Nick Stuart: You know what? Fair point.

But Gold is experienced in these situations. What, you think it’s the first time Sebastian has ever had to fight someone twice as heavy as he is? Shit, man, for a guy like Gold, that’s a Tuesday.

So he kips up to his feet!

Roundhouse kick to Daytona’s jaw! Spinning back fist, roaring elbow, and a Yakuza kick drops Diamonds to the mat!

Nick Stuart: What a combo by Gold!

Gold senses new life has just been breathed into his chances and he seizes the opportunity, leaping to the top rope. He bides his time as Daytona slowly starts climbing up to his feet.

Daytona reaches his feet.

Gold leaps!

GOLDENSTEINER BY SEBASTIAN–

NO!!! DAYTONA CATCHES HIM IN A PERFECT POWERBOMB POSITION!!!

HE LIFTS GOLD HIGHER IN THE AIR THAN HE ALREADY WAS!

HIGH ANGLE.

SIT OUT.

POWERBOMB.

THE HANG ‘EM HIGH BOMB!!! DAYTONA IS ALREADY IN A PINNING POSITION!!!

ELVIS COUNTS!!!

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

THREEEEEEEE!!!!

Richard Parker: WOOOOOOOOOO!!! HOOOOOOOO!!!!

Nick Stuart: Sebastian Gold did a great job, but in the end, Daytona Steroids – I mean, Daytona Diamonds, wins.

“Fastest Horse in Town” hits the speakers.

Elvis starts to raise Daytona’s arm, but he yanks it away and flexes more for the crowd.

We cut away from ringside.

We hear the clicking of high heels on the concrete first before we see her face.

Her dark hair frames her dark olive skin, just barely hiding the stress lines jutting out from the corners of her eyes like lightning bolts.

She bites the top of her lip so hard it could draw blood, but given the shade of her lipstick you’d be hard pressed to see any of it on camera. Instead, what we do see is a clearly concerned Cuchilla. Sophia Cuchilla, that is.

What we don’t see is the man, the … myth? The mystery known as Blaze Claymore.

Sonja Cuchilla: ¿Dónde carajo está él?

Voice: Miss – I don’t believe they allow fans in this area.

The source of that comment? A formally dressed Ned Reform – and if looks could kill, Reform wouldn’t just be a dead man right now, he’d be Night of the Living Dead just so Sophia would have no qualms about killing him once again.

Ned Reform: (speaking slower and louder) NO CAN BE HERE.

It is clear that Dr. Ned Reform does not recognize Blaze’s valet-slash-partner as Sophia shakes her head and points at the Mad Gadfly with her long, sharp nails reaching out at him like the talons of a raptor, or perhaps more like Salad Fingers.

Sonja Cuchilla: Oi, estúpido. Don’t think because Blaze isn’t here that you can sexually harass me! I’ll do it! I’ll scream!

Ned Reform blinks, trying to process, and waves off Sonja’s concern.

Ned Reform: Senorita, not only is a man as scrupulous as myself incapable of such a faux pas… were I the type of man who did wander around backstage making sexually explicit comments to unsuspecting women, rest assured you wouldn’t make the grade.

Although we’d already established that Sonja speaks English, Reform oddly opts to return to the “slow and loud” method of communication.

Ned Reform: I. HAVE. A PHD.

Sonja Cuchilla: And I have Double Ds!

She doesn’t, but it sounded like the right thing to say in response.

Sonja holds her palms up to her head and lets out a frustrated growl, looking back up at Ned like she very clearly has been awake for many, many hours.

Sonja Cuchilla: Forget it. Just… get out of my way unless you somehow, some way know what happened to Blaze.

Reform raises an eyebrow.

Ned Reform: Ah. Missing your meal ticket, yes? Why a human being would choose to vanish rather than spend any time in your high decibel symphony of shrillness is BEYOND me.

Sonja is just sleep deprived, delirious, desperate, and any other d-words one can imagine that she actually interprets the sarcasm as somewhat of a compliment and laughs dryly.

Sonja Cuchilla: Wish he thought so…

After a pause, Sonja looks down and then closes her eyes as she lifts her head back up toward Ned Reform. She goes to leave, but Reform blocks her path apologetically.

Ned Reform: Wait wait wait. I mean no offense. In fact, you have my sympathies. Trying to corral ANYONE in this barely coherent circus is more than a full time job. Believe me: I’ve been at this for a spell now. In fact…

Reform makes a show of half-covering his mouth as one would do in a stage play, and that makes a quick “come here” motion. Sonja shakes her head and so he tries again. Sonja’s eyes narrow. Reform waves one final time with aggressive frustration, and finally she cautiously moves forward and leans into his space. When Ned speaks, it’s a bit lower but still clearly audible.

Ned Reform: I’ve dealt with types like Mr. Claymore before. You MUST take a firm hand with them. Spare the rod, spoil the child and all that. You give them an inch, it will quickly devolve in chaos. Particularly with these self-important actor-types with Holly-weird aspirations. Do you hear me? Do you… uh… comprende?

Sophia shoves Ned backwards, not aggressively, but that’s strike three for her on the casual racism. She crosses her arms.

Sophia Cuchilla: Is that how you treat your two criaturas?

Ned leans forward and furrows his brow.

Ned Reform: You mean Mr. Green and Mr. Vale? I mean… creatures may be a bit harsh, don’t you think? They’re growing boys. What’s Blaze’s excuse? He’s almost twice their age and yet he’s the one throwing a tantrum because, what, he lost to that Russian brute? That’s all it takes? A single defeat to break his will?

Sophia softens a bit, letting her arms drop to her side.

Sophia Cuchilla: He’s just emotional… you need that to be a good actor.

Ned raises an eyebrow at the words “good” and “actor” together in a sentence next to Blaze Claymore’s name as he waits for Sophia to continue.

Sophia Cuchilla: FINE! Let’s say I even agree with you about that… I’d still have to find him first, right? What do you suggest? He hasn’t returned my calls, or his mother’s or anyone’s.

Ned Reform: Oh, sure. You could call and hound and pathetically search hoping that some sad excuse for a C-list actor decides to once again spare you a small iota of the time of day…

Reform looks over Sonja’s shoulder, his eyebrows raising in recognition.

Ned Reform: …or perhaps you could open yourself up to the possibility that YOU are the prize in this equation, dear.

Sonja Cuchilla: What… I?

Reform places his hands on her lips; she tries to slap them away but as she does he grabs her shoulders lightly and turns her away from him and toward an approaching Elise Ares.

Ned Reform: Shhhhhhh. Just remember what I said here. You’re going to be fine, child.

Elise Ares: Ew. Ew! Get your hands off of her. Me too! Me too!

Sonja, confused and still a bit star struck, looks at Elise as she approaches, holding up her fingers in the sign of a cross like she’s about to ward off a vampire.

Reform, meanwhile, releases his grip, turns, and smiles smugly to himself.

Ned Reform: (muttering) Yet another life changed, Ned… another one.

Sonja Cuchilla: Elise. I mean, Ms. Ares. I mean…

Elise puts an arm around Sonja, which is when she realizes Ned is no longer holding her shoulders. Sonja does a neck-snap turn backwards.

He’s gone.

Elise Ares begins to pull Sonja away from the scene, tsk tsking all the while.

Elise Ares: Whatever you think you heard from Ned, just forget it. He’s an idiot.

Sonja doesn’t say anything, but when she brushes a section of hair out of her face and behind her ear… her eyes flash with a bit of a spark and, suddenly, she doesn’t look quite as tired.

We move along.

The arena lights dim and the first notes of “A Darkness in My Soul” by Solid Space start to play over the arena speakers.

Vince Howard: Introducing first… hailing from Sydney, New South Wales, Australia and weighing in tonight at one hundred and thirty five pounds…

The Time Lord begins her passive walk to the ring, hands planted firmly in the pockets of her coats. There is no acknowledgement of the fans that try to reach over the barricade to slap hands with her, there is only the casual walk to the ring.

Vince Howard: Representing the Poor Whoresman… ANNNAAAAAAAAAAAAAA DAN!-IELS!!!!!!!!!

Now at ringside, she ascends the ring apron and wipes off the soles of her boots before stepping through the ropes and getting ready for the fight at hand.

Vince Howard: And her opponent…

“We built this city! We built this city on rock and roll! Built this city! We built this city on rooooock and rooooooll!”

The drums and lame synthesizers of Starship’s “We Built this City” hit the speakers, and Fred Dick steps out from gorilla onto the entrance ramp.

Vince Howard: Accompanied to the ring by…

Our dear friend Vince very obviously squints at the text on the card in his hand, as if he can’t believe he has to say this next part out loud.

Vince Howard: The Lasagna Boys…

Fred does some shadow slap-boxing, gets a tad out of breath, and strolls to the ring. He’s flanked by two men who stare at him with the wide-eyes and slacked jaws of the truly devout. One of them has a bucket on his head and carries a mop. The other has a fanny pack.

Vince Howard: Hailing from Chicken City, Georgia and weighing in tonight at three hundred and five pounds…

He rolls under the ropes, stands in the middle of the ring and — you guessed it, shadow slap-boxes some more. Sweaty and gassed, he moves to his corner and awaits the bell.

Vince Howard: Representing the Poor Whoresmen, he is the reigning Intense Champion… FREEEEDDDDDDDDD… DIIIIIIIIIiiiiiiiick!!

DING DING

Fred Dick offers a nod to Anna Daniels. It’s a friendly gesture given their status as friends and stablemates, but it carries with it a message. “I’m going to slap you so goddamn hard that your next regeneration has to live with the ache.”

Daniels returns the gesture of respect, but her nod comes with an undercurrent of its own malice. “And I’m going to punt your head out past the Kuiper Belt. Good luck finding a telescope to see that far.”

They move towards the center of the ring to get things going. The Muse is light on her feet, bouncing from heel to heel. The Street Cat continuously rolls his shoulders as he walks, as if groovin’ to a beat that only he can hear. He makes little slice motions with his hands, accentuated by some whispered karate noises. Those are for his benefit.

Nick Stuart: Richard?

Richard Parker: Yes, Nick?

Nick Stuart: I’m going to ask you a question that I will no doubt regret as soon as it leaves my mouth.

RIchard Parker: Go on.

Nick Stuart: What the hell is a Lasagna Boy?

The King of Wrong Style opens with a flurry of strikes. Chops, slaps, and the occasional punch, but Daniels dodges every one. In this match, and as is often the case, what she lacks in size against her opponent she more than makes up for in speed and precision. Later, referee Elvis Nixon will swear he heard something like, “Anna stan still so I can whup yo ase” in between all the “hiya” and “hwah” noises.

Nick Stuart: Is this part of the Sketti Bucket bathroom thing? Or is it, like, you know…

Richard Parker: Know what?

Nick Stuart: *(sighing) *****A sex thing.

Richard Parker: Oh. I’m not entirely sure. But maybe to that first one, and probably to the second.

Nick Stuart: Hey great. I’m going to call the match now.

Fred throws a right hand slap that lands true, then manages to follow it up with a knuckle backhand with his left. But when he uses this to try and close the distance between the two, he’s met with a knee strike to the stomach that threatens to coat the ring in partially-digested Sketti. Fortunately for everyone, a snap kick to the thigh reroutes all the pain sensors in the Street Cat’s body to that location. Well, fortunate for everyone except Fred maybe. His leg really hurts now.

The move also has the effect of causing him to stumble forward, and he instinctively puts a hand on the area to try and guard it. This in turn means he has to lean forward, so Daniels doesn’t have to reach her own leg as high when she damn near kicks the mullet clean off the champion’s head.

Let’s take a minute to meet one of the men who are lingering outside the ring.

His name is Miguel, and whatever he was doing in his previous life, he’s here now. There is a bucket on his head, a broomstick in his hand, and a blank expression in his eyes. He looks like  a kid about to defend his tree fort from all the girls in the neighborhood, except for the fact that he’s very much an adult. Also he’s jabbing the broom handle at Anna Daniels’ ankle as though it were a sassy squirrel that had the audacity to sneak into his shed.

Nick Stuart: Interesting dynamic here tonight, Richard. We’ve got two members from the same faction both vying for the Intense Championship, but it looks like Anna Daniels might have to deal with a functional three-on-one.

Richard Parker: I’m going to not say the first thing that came to mind.

Nick Stuart: We’re all very grateful for that.

Now you’d think that this is the sort of thing that Fred Dick would encourage given his, well, “sordid” history. But instead of letting it happen, he stops what he’s doing (which is getting kicked in the face by his friend and stablemate) to scold Miguel and shoo him away as though he were the fluffy-tailed rodent. The whole thing has big backyard energy. Even Elvis Nixon is surprised by this, and honestly a little sad that he didn’t get to do the big wind up and “you’re outta here” ejection bit.

Richard Parker: Well if you had any doubts about the honesty and loyalty of the Poor Whoresmen, it’s on full display right now, Nick. Lasagna Boy number one tried to interfere, but Fred Dick say nay-nay.

Nick Stuart: So you’re trying to tell me these are just, what, moral support weirdos?

Richard Parker: Don’t act like this is the strangest thing you’ve seen here.

Nick Stuart: Okay, fair.

But then Fred gets kicked right in the fuckin’ mush again, and suddenly everyone is immediately snapped back into the reality of this being a wrestling match with very serious stakes.

The kick is followed up by a rolling elbow that lands flush on the champion’s jaw, and Fred Dick goes down. It’s not an elegant fall, as if such things exist. It’s more like his legs just forget what their jobs are and give out in such a way that it looks like Fred is aggressively trying to sit down.

Nick Stuart: Vibrant offense out of the gate by the challenger here tonight, Richard.

Richard Parker: “Vibrant?”

Nick Stuart: What’s wrong with that?

Richard Parker: Nothing, if we’re talking about colors in a goddamn painting.

He stands back up quickly, desperately trying to brush the cobwebs out of his head. And there are many cobwebs. Like all the spiders in Georgia got together in Fred Dick’s head for a big spider orgy, just shooting webs everywhere and…

I fear this has gotten away from me.

Anyway.

The champion is able to scramble back to his feet before another blow can land, but he’s on wobbly legs. That might be why his retaliatory strike – an open palm – is able to connect, because it comes from an unpredictable angle from a man who is probably mildly concussed. A second follows, thrown with enough force that Daniels isn’t able to properly block it.

With both arms now in full windmill mode, Fred unleashes a barrage of palm strikes that back the challenger into the corner.

Richard Parker: I believe in slap-boxing circles they call this the Angry Hornet technique.

Nick Stuart: Okay, I’m going to politely ask you to NOT explain what that…

Richard Parker: Because it looks like how you would defend yourself against a swarm of sting daddies who are big mad.

Nick Stuart: …

Richard Parker: What? That’s official terminology.

Nick Stuart: Nowhere on planet earth does the phrase “Sting Daddy” mean anything officially.

Richard Parker: Maybe not in the places you visit, but as an amateur apiarist I respectfully disagree.

The Muse, now well aware of her ring positioning, takes a step backwards towards the corner. This has the double effect of both allowing her some distance from her friend’s strikes while causing him to stumble a bit. She uses the opportunity to brace herself against the buckles, lift both feet, and drive them hard into the ample man-bosom of Fred Dick.

Nick Stuart: And I suppose you also have a name for that?

Richard Parker: Seriously? C’mon, Nick. That’s just a good old fashioned titty kick.

Nick Stuart: I give up.

Dick wobbles (I know what I said), and then takes a few hurried steps back to regain his balance. It creates just enough of an opening for Anna Daniels to come sailing out of the corner like a goddamn comet and land a superman punch that sends the champion starfishing out on the mat.

Hey, remember the guy with the bucket on his head? Of course you do. He is currently trying very hard to not be seen by Elvis Nixon. He is failing. It might be do the fact that he’s a grown man armed in the janitorial starter gear you get in level 1, or it could be that every time the referee turns his head in his direction, young Miguel tries to hide an entire-ass broom behind his back, only he’s gripping it in such a way that it just looks like there’s a wooden dong sprouting from the top of his bucket head.

Nick Stuart: As lackeys go, these guys seem… uhh…

Richard Parker: Like idiots?

Nick Stuart: You said it. Not me.

Let’s take a minute to meet the other guy who’s hanging around outside the ring!

His name is Toddrick, and this motherfucker has a fanny pack full of ninja stars. We know this because he has unzipped said fanny pack, and is currently two-fisting ninja stars and smiling like he just won five hundo on a two-dollar scratcher. He’s looking at his boss, currently prone on the canvas, and making little gestures with his hands as if to say, “you throw these,” like we don’t all know how ninja stars work. Get a grip, Toddrick. This isn’t new information to anyone on earth.

Fred waves him away, then has a moment of reflection and bites on his knuckles. The temptation to use them is overwhelming. He reaches out a longing hand, as if trying to touch a lost lover, but what he finds instead is decidedly less pleasant.

Look, they may be friends, they may be stablemates, but there are stakes here, you guys. The winner of this match walks out with not just a victory, but with the Intense Championship. The winner tonight moves on to the next round of a tournament to determine the next challenger for the Universal Championship. So when Fred Dick finds his hand compromised by his opponent, there is a momentary look of realization in his eyes before the pain sets in.

SNAP

Oooooooooooooohhhh…

The crowd? Yeah, they know.

Yubi Yubi, bitch.

Fred Dick starts dancing in the middle of the ring.

It’s not elegant. It’s not choreographed. It’s simply the kind of rapid foot movement that happens when your friend grabs you by the hand and tries to break the fingers on one of your slappin’ hands.

The champion reacts violently, swinging hard with his other hand in a closed fist that hits Daniels dead center in the middle of her sternum.

Nick Stuart: Given what you said about kicks earlier tonight, I’m not asking what you call this move.

Richard Parker: It’s a heart punch, Nick. Everyone knows that.

Anna Daniels drops to one knee, but she’s not down for long.

Nick Stuart: DDT by the challenger!

Richard Parker: No, that beautiful mullet will be ruined!

The Muse doesn’t waste any time and immediately steps out onto the ring apron. She ascends the ropes, takes a brief moment to do the mental calculations around how she’ll need to turn in the air to make sure she lands flush, and leaps with a textbook frog splash.

Nick Stuart: From On High!

That hits nothing but the canvas.

Richard Parker: And Fred Dick rolls out of the way!

Daniels tries to recover, immediately using her ring savvy to get into a corner where the champion won’t be able to quickly capitalize.

Also, Nate, if you’re reading this, saying that Anna Daniels “[didn’t] waste any time” was strictly a description of her speed, and not a pun in regards to her origin. Please do not divorce me over this. Thank you.

Fred Dick is up on his feet in the opposite corner. He slaps himself in the face once to try and get some of his senses back, and then charges across the ring like a bull. The animal, not the sex thing. And not like Scottie Pippen, I guess.

Nick Stuart: Is he… shouting something?

Barrel-assing his way into the corner, Dick leaps with his legs spread wide in an attempt to his his opponent with his… himself.

Richard Parker: I want to say that was an apology for flinging his crotch at Anna Daniels, but I can’t be sure. It was all very garbled.

Nick Stuart: Well in that case let’s hope it never gets translated online.

This time it’s Daniels’ turn to move, and ‘ol Fred’s undercarriage gets violently introduced to the bottom turnbuckle at mach dick.

With Daniels back on her feet, our good friend Miguel is back to offer some moral support to his boss by trying to hand him a broom with which to do a big violence. Fred pushes him away, but appears visibly conflicted. He keeps reaching for and then withdrawing his hand in a way that is very soap opera.

I want to… But I can’t!… I need to!… But I must’n’t!

It’s giving Victor Newman. IYKYK.

Daniels pulls him up by the mullet and delivers a series of clinch knee strikes, the latter of which busts Fred Dick open. With blood streaming from his nose, Fred manages to shove her away and with a flourish, a little jukin’, and a little jivin’, delivers a Dusty elbow smash to the forehead which drops her.

Nick Stuart: Fred Dick with the cover! The champion to retain!

ONE!

TWO!

Nick Stuart: And Anna Daniels kicks out!

Both competitors are on their feet now, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. With a surge of adrenaline, the Muse surges in and lands a running high knee that connects flush with Fred Dick’s jaw. She follows it immediately with a bicycle-style high knee that also lands true.

The champion collapses, his entire body having been momentarily turned off.

Daniels doesn’t hesitate. As soon as the Street Cat started to fall, she was already moving towards the ropes, first vaulting over, and then springboarding back inside to land a shooting star knee drop.

Nick is big excited about the entire sequence.

Nick Stuart: Retro! Grade! Am! Knee! Sia!

See?

Toddrick once again has his hands full of ninja stars, but this time Elvis Nixon gets to live out his dream of doing the big windmill wind-up and tossing his ass, because ain’t no one getting Dusk’ed in this match. Not on his watch, anyway. Sure there’s a difference between ninja stars and guns (which are not ninja weapons in the strictest sense), but it’s the spirit of the thing.

That just leaves Miguel, and Miguel is really goddamn persistent about that broomstick.

Nick Stuart: Anna Daniels measuring her opponent now. It looks like she’s getting ready for that Brazilian kick that she calls the Interrobang.

With the referee distracted, Miguel slides it into the ring.

Richard Parker: We know how dangerous that is. If she hits that we have a new champion.

Nick Stuart: Daniels with the kick!

CRACK

Nick Stuart: No!

The broom handle connects with the challenger, striking just above the ear as she is in flight. Daniels goes down. Dick quickly throws the now broken broom out of the ring. He makes the cover.

ONE!

TWO!

And puts his feet on the ropes for leverage, just in case.

THREE!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: The winner of this match… and STIIIIIIIIIIIILL PRIME Intense Champion… FRED DICK!

The referee hands Dick his championship belt, and raises his hand in victory. Nearby, Anna Daniels is on the ground with her hands on her knees. She wears the expression of a woman who could crash the fuck out at any moment. She moves to her feet.

Nick Stuart: Uh oh, I don’t think this is over, Richard.

She steps towards Fred.

Richard Parker: If Elvis Nixon knows what’s good, he’ll get the hell out of there now.

She shrugs, and embraces Fred in a hug.

Nick Stuart: If not for that broomstick, Anna Daniels would have had this won. But I guess you can’t teach an old Dick new tricks.

Richard Parker: No, they have pills for that.

We fade elsewhere.

Richard Parker: Don’t ask me how I know.

I said we fade elsewhere, goddammit!

We cut to backstage, outside the steel doors of DOO))M leading into Vaenctum Victorum.

Right away, we are treated to the sight of newly crowned Five Star Champion Kerry Kuroyama, along with junior interviewer, Simon Tillier. The two are huddled close together while looking over an old-school tape recorder in the latter’s hand.

The shrill, lo-fi sounds of barely discernible punk rock music screeches through the tiny speaker. Simon enthusiastically nods to the driving rhythm while Kerry simply stares at the recording device with an absolutely vacant expression.

Simon Tillier: Anyway, the vocals were done with a two-mic set-up, and I recorded them in what used to be an underground outhouse. Totally shredded my voice for the rest of the week, and I’m pretty sure I contracted pneumonia down there, but I think it was worth it. This demo could REALLY change the scene, you know? Maybe open a few eyes to what’s actually going on in the world. But you know, I really wish Curly tuned his guitar before “I Spit in the Face of Fascist Scum Everywhere”, because the solo sounds like dogshit. Also, I swear, if our bassist didn’t let us record in our basement, I’d fire him in an instant for constantly dragging down the rhythm the way he does. I keep saying, play AHEAD of the kick, you dumbass! Still, you can do a lot worse for fifty bucks on a Sunday afternoon. Working title right now is, “Simon Says Swallow Your Cyanide Capsules Like Good Little Americans”. The rest of the band wants something shorter, but I think I can win them over. Give them a title that really kicks them in the BALLS, you know what I mean? Problem is, even though it’s twenty eight songs total, we still don’t have enough to fill up a side of a cassette tape. And that’s the only format we’re printing it in, by the way. Because anything else would be trendy materialist fluff. You know, I was actually on the fence about putting out any physical material. Like, if you want to hear these songs, maybe get off your ass and go to a show, yeah? Everyone’s so addicted to convenience these days… like man, how pathetic do you have to be to buy into that final Black Sabbath show? Freaking weak, man… Sabbath are just corporate shills now. Not us, though. We’re not even going to promote our first tour. Plan is to just explode onto the scene from out of nowhere, and let word of mouth do the work.

Cradling the Five Star Championship over his shoulder, Kerry can only blink and feign interest by slowly nodding along. It’s clear that he has no idea what the fuck this guy is talking about, and is only listening to his homemade musical proclivities out of politeness.

Kerry Kuroyama: That’s… great, Simon. Really… really interesting stuff you got going on there.

Tillier is no idiot. He can sense that Kuroyama is only humoring him. Grunting unfavorably, he stops the recorder and sets it aside, and his tone immediately grows sharply sarcastic.

Simon Tillier: “Interesting stuff”, huh? Oh, yeah… right… like YOU got real interesting things going on in your life!

Kerry Kuroyama: Sorry, I mean… I’m not really into punk rock, you know? I’m more of a hip-hop guy. And, um… various unassorted Yakuza OSTs.

Simon Tillier: WOW! So VERY INTERESTING, Kerry Kuroyama! So what OTHER interesting things you got going on, hmm?? Oh, got yourself a new Five Star Championship, yeah? Going to defend it tonight in the main event, are you?? Wow. Wow. That must be a REALLY big deal, or something, right?

Kerry Kuroyama: I mean… sure, I guess?

Simon Tillier: Oh yeah, you’re really saving those poor kids overseas with THAT one!! Such a HERO of the people you are! And hey, what are these rumors I hear about a big, special announcement you were intending to make? Is that still on your big, important itinerary tonight, champ?

Kerry Kuroyama: Um… yeah, sure.

Simon Tillier: Well, let’s hear it then, Kerry! Let’s hear about the BIG and INTERESTING thing going on in your super important and fascinating life right now! Tell us what’s more special than a twenty-seven song punk rock opus with the power to change the WORLD!

Kerry Kuroyama: Well… maybe it’d be easier if I let her tell it.

Simon Tillier: …“her”? Wait, WHO??

Female Voice: BOO!

Jumping into frame and poking Simon in the ribs is the Merry Mischief Maker herself, Ami Troy. She’s wearing her customary “Seattle’s Beast Tamer” shirt, black shorts, fishnets, and black combat boots. She grins and pokes Simon in the ribs again.

Ami Troy: Hi Si! I’m the BIG and INTERESTING thing. Thanks to Hank, my managerial license got approved with the quickness and I’m Kerry’s new manager as of tonight! Pretty rad huh?

Simon Tillier: Wait? You? Really?

Ami Troy: That’s right! I’m not just gonna manage the Trash or Kaz now. I’m expanding my horizons. AND I’ve been studying with some of the best managers in the biz, so I know my stuff. Hank, OBVIOUSLY! Mary-Lynn Mayweather, PRIME Hall of Fame manager for Team V.I.A.G.R.A. And even PRIME Hall of Famer Sonny Silver.

Simon looks a little stumped. On the one hand, he wants to keep the sarcastic act going. On the other hand, this is the boss’s daughter, and that might go over like a lead balloon.

Simon Tillier: Oh. Well, seems like you’re pretty prepared.

Ami Troy: Sure am. And in case any of the Whoresmen get any ideas, I’ve got two quick feet and quicker fists that’ll be coming for them. So leave the bullshit in dumbass Daytona’s locker room, GOT IT?

She points her index finger and middle finger toward her eyes, then points them out at the camera before skipping out of the scene.

Simon Tillier: Well… okay, I’ll hand it to you, Kerry, that’s more interesting than I was expecting. But does this mean you’re finally parting ways with that numbskull jock, Scott Hunter?

Kerry Kuroyama: Ehhh, not quite, Simon.

Simon Tillier: …um, wait, what?

Fuh-WOOOOOOOSH-POP!!

Without warning, the exploding ember of a Roman candle set off from off camera streaks into the shot like a sparkling missile and smacks Simon square in the forehead.

Simon Tillier: GREAT GOOGLY ALLIN, WHAT IS HAPPENING!?

The junior interviewer scrambles to his feet and quickly scampers away from the scene while being pelted with more whistling projectiles. A second later, Scott Hunter bursts into view wearing a star-spangled hat and fake beard, with a fizzling Roman candle held tight in his grasp.

Uncle Scott: WOOOOOOOOO!!

Scott takes a moment to slap his Wingman on the shoulder and look into his eyes.

Uncle Scott: I WANT YOU… to KICK that booger-eater’s ASS tonight!

Kerry Kuroyama: (nodding) Okay… I suppose it’s my patriotic duty.

Uncle Scott: WOOOOOOOOO!!

Pulling out a string of firecrackers and lighting the wick, Hunter chases after the fleeing junior reporter. Kerry Kuroyama walks the other way as light explosions in the distance.

Richard Parker: The first round of the Almasy Tournament is Al-most done, RIchard. Just a couple more matches to go, right Nick?

Nick Stuart: That’s terrible. A crime. Have you no decency? There are children watching!

Richard Parker: And speaking of children… we’ve got a whiny little baby named Jonathan-Christopher Hall going up against the next Mayor of Arkahm – Maximillian WIlhelm Kael!

Nick Stuart: I think Rose would tell you a different stor- Wait… do you have a Kael campaign shirt underneath your blazer, Richard?

Richard Parker: Well, after all, Maximilian means “greatest” and who doesn’t want to be associated with the greatest, Nick? I mean just look at Jonathan-Christian Hall … low energy, no aspirations, and who uses three names like that? Bloated. Wasteful.

Nick Stuart: You mean like Maximillian WILHEM Kael?

Richard Parker: That’s different. There’s no hyphen. You see, Nick, if you were an engaged citizen such as myself-

“The Best” by AWOLNATION hits the speakers as the crowd turns toward the rampway in anticipation.

Nick Stuart: Thank goodness.

Richard Parker: Guess we know who you’re voting for.

Nick Stuart: This isn’t an election!

Richard Parker (gasps): How could you say that infront of America – and on her birthday!?

Vince Howard: Introducing first… from Folsom, Louisiana… weighing two-hundred-twenty pounds… he is the REIGNING and DEFENDING Almasy Winner… Jonathan-Christopher Hall!

A rather confused looking Jonathan-Christopher Hall emerges from the entranceway, wearing his typical “I LOVE VICKIE” board shorts. He is talking to himself quietly as he makes his way down.

Richard Parker: See, what did I tell you. Not mayoral material. I mean, you would think he’d wear new gear by now, right? Vickie is with… that other guy.

Nick Stuart: (Sarcasm) Yes, you would think so. (/Sarcasm) Then again, Jonathan-Christopher is still in love with his wife!

Richard Parker: The term they use is Amazing Life Partner, Nick. Have you learned nothing over these past few years? Also, this is all Jonathan-Christopher’s fault, by the way. If he didn’t lose the Almasy Tournament in round one to Brandon Youngblood, he may have never pushed Vickie away to… him.

Nick Stuart: What are you even talking about? The last Almasy trophy is in Jonathan-Christopher’s closet!

Richard Parker: If you say so.

Nick Stuart: Vince Howard JUST said it!

Richard Parker: The announcer? He says a lot of things.

As the announcers bicker back and forth, JCH is at the end of the rampway. He rolls under the bottom rope and sulks in a corner, keeping his eyes locked on the entrance for Max Kael.

Except it’s not Max who appears.

Snark Darkly walks out onto the stage looking like an AI was attempting to create the offspring of Mr. Rogers and Richard Nixon, spitting out this human-enough thing. The crowd in the Fiserv Center begin to reign down boos. Lifting a microphone to his lips, Snark smiles broadly, the corners of his mouth stretching just beyond where human lips limits should be.

Snark Darkly: Introducing my client… TOWERING over his opponent at Six-Foot-Four-Inches and weighing in at Two-Hundred-Sixty-Five pounds… MAAAAAXIMILLIAN. WILHELM. KAAAAAAAAEL!

The lights in the arena cut out, an ominous, low sound drowning out the Milwaukee faithful.

“You should see me in a CROWN!”

As Elephant Gun Riot’s metal cover of “You Should See Me In A Crown” roars out over the crowd the lights on the stage flicker back on. Standing in the center of the stage with his iron crown upon his head is Arkham Mayoral Candidate Maximillian Wilhelm Kael. Wearing an atrocious smile that bisects his long face, Max lifts his arms above his head.

“I’m gonna run this nothing town,

Watch me make’em bow

One by One by… ONE

One by one by…”

Max glissades his way to the ring in rhythm with the song paying little to no attention to the PRIME audience. Lost in his own mad vision of the world around him, Kael moves to the angry words of the music.

Reaching the edge of the ring, Max moves to the steps before climbing them slowly. Reaching the top, he climbs the outside of the turnbuckle and once again raises both of his hands slowly into the air.

“You should see me in a CROWN!

Your silence is my favorite sound

Watch me make’em bow

One by one by ONE

One by one by oooone!”

Slithering down the turnbuckle and into the ring, Max slinks to the center of the ring where he slowly removes his crown, holding it high above his head before moving back to his corner. The music slowly fades while the arena lights return to their original radiance.

Nick Stuart: Max Kael is wearing a literal crown and you’re complaining about Jonathan-Christopher Hall, the reigning Almasy TOURNAMENT Champion not being patriotic enough for you?

Richard Parker: (pauses) Yeah well… I still don’t like those pants.

DING DING

Referee Ashley Barlow signals for the competitors to begin but neither seems exactly keen on being the first to engage.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall slowly rises from the corner, looking at Max Kael and then back down to the mat, kicking lightly at the canvas as a curious – and cautious – Kael looks on.

JCH walks over to Max and lightly shoves the Black Heart of PRIME on the shoulder.

Richard Parker: See what I told you? Low energy. Sad.

Max looks over to his shoulder and then matches JCH shove for shove – except with Kael being slightly bigger, this sends Jonathan-Christopher back into the corner as Max pursues, with Snark Darkly pacing at ringside.

Nick Stuart: JCH is a tournament champion, Richard, he just needs to get a little warmed up.

Richard Parker: No, my leftovers from lunch today need to get a ‘little warmed up’ — Hall needs an energy transpla-

It’s so fast that we hardly see it. Max has JCH locked up against the turnbuckle, but just as he is about to pivot for a hip toss, Jonathan-Christopher Hall reverses and SLAMS Kael to the mat with an inverted Bulldog!

Nick Stuart: Low energy, huh?

Both Max and JCH are up on their feet quickly as Max shakes the cobwebs out of his head, smiling like a Chesire cat as he guards, waiting for JCH to make another move. Meanwhile, the reigning Almasy champion is doing the same.

JCH makes the first move, going to raise his right arm for a strike, but pulls it back as Kael also raises his right arm. The pair circle before leaping forward to lock up and then, just as quickly breaking their holds and stepping back in near-perfect unison.

Richard Parker: This is like one of those optical illusions, Nick. Are we watching performance art or something?

Nick Stuart: Seems like neither man wants to give any ground to the other, except I think Max sees an opening and- no! JCH dodges a gut punch, but just barely.

Max looks upset as Hall tries to capitalize on the whiff by Kael and NOPE! Kael is too quick as he ducks an incoming clothesline and instead SLAMS JCH with an axe handle smash just below his neck and directly onto his spine.

Richard Parker: Jonathan-Christopher Hall has a spine? Could have fooled me.

JCH falls to one knee as Kael raises his clasped hands up once more and CONNECTS once more, dropping the Forever Man all the rest of the way down to the mat!

Hall rolls away quickly as Kael goes for a stomp this time, and tries to regain his balance but Kael is there in a flash!

Nick Stuart: RISING KNEE STRIKE! JCH took that one directly on the chin as Kael grabs Hall by the forearm looking for the short arm clothesline AND MISSES! JCH instead locks Kael’s arm in place and DROPS STRAIGHT DOWN!

Kael screams in pain as his arm bends awkwardly under the weight of the Almasy Champion’s full body weight.

Nick Stuart: Looks like JCH is finally waking up, Richard, what do you and your favorite candidate have to say to that?

Richard Parker: I think you mean he’s WOKE-n up, Nick.

JCH rolls Kael over for a quick cover as Barlow drops to the mat.

ONE!

T-

Kael kicks out forcefully, holding his forearm as he rolls over and onto his feet. Snark Darkly is yelling something at Kael from outside the ring, causing JCH to look over – and it’s just the distraction Max needs!

CRACK!

Nick Stuart: UNQUESTIONABLE KICK! That hit a defenseless JCH RIGHT in the temple and it looks like his bell is rung, Richard!

Richard Parker: Just like the bell will soon be ringing for our winner Max Kael! Come on Max!

Max tries to shake off the pain from JCH’s earlier drop.

Nick Stuart: Max could still be in trouble here Richard, much of his offense relies on those big body blows from his hands and forearms!

Max takes a one-step running start, still holding his forearm, and DOUBLE KNEE DROP! NO! JCH barely rolls away in time, but he’s still down. Kael dives forward from his kneeling position DROPPING a stiff elbow directly onto the bridge of JCH’s nose!

Kael goes to cover, pulling up Hall’s leg with his non-dominant arm and Barlow is on the mat once more.

ONE!

TWO!

TH-

JCH kicks out!

Richard Parker: COME ON! I want a recount! There was a hanging chad!

Nick Stuart: The only “Chad” I see is you, Richard. But Max may have had that one if he had full use of his upper body.

Snark Darkly seethes on the other side of the ring ropes as a possibly concussed JCH tries to pull himself up. As he does, Darkly seems like he wants to make a move but whatever look Jonathan-Christopher Hall gives him causes Darkly to back up slowly!

JCH turns to face Max, his stance aggressive and eyes locked in on his opponent, who throws something in the reigning champions face!

Richard Parker: YEAH! There you go! See what I told you about pants, Nick? You need pockets for pocket sand!

Nick Stuart: Ashley Barlow intercedes, issuing a warning to Max.

Kael holds up his hands in mock defense as he backs his way toward the blinded JCH. As his vision clears, Hall shoves his arm forward, trying to blind Kael back with an eye poke, but as he does, Kael grabs Hall’s arms and pulls him down into a TRIANGLE CHOKE!

JCH screams as Kael pulls backwards as hard as he can. Barlow moves in and watches to see if Hall is signaling he wants to tap but he shakes his head no – or at least as much as one can being held in a triangle choke.

The seemingly recovered Kael continues to pull JCH’s arm further and further from its socket and closer and closer to…

Nick Stuart: No. He wouldn’t.

Richard Parker: You know he would if it means victory, Nick!

Kael opens his jaws and BITES down on the outstretched fingers of JCH, causing the Vow of Virtue to roar in shock and pain! But Kael quickly releases his mandible hold on JCH as Hall somehow finds the strength to begin lifting Max up, first off the mat and then above his waist, and then UP OVER HIS HEAD!

Max quickly changes course and rather than biting JCH’s fingers, he tries to shove his own fingers down Hall’s throat!

Nick Stuart: Hall is a man possessed right now, Richard! This is some alien kind of strength!

Richard Parker: I knew it! He’s an alien! Disqualified! Disqualified!

Kael drives elbow after elbow into Hall’s skull, but it’s not enough! Now, instead of biting Hall’s fingers, Kael shoves his own fingers down Kael’s throat!

Nick Stuart: S.E.M.B! Kael is trying everything he can to avoid what’s coming next!

But he can’t. Fighting through what must be an awful gag reflex, JCH SLAMS PRIME’s Perfect Predator over the top ropes and outside of the ring to the ground below – DIRECTLY in front of a wide-eyed Snarkly Darkly!

JCH throws his head back and pounds his chest as an unmoving Kael lays in a heap several feet below him.

RAAAHHHHH!

Nick Stuart: Was that the crowd or was that Hall who made that sound, Richard!? I don’t think I’ve seen him this worked up before.

Richard Parker: It just keeps getting worse! Now he’s an alien on steroids!? Disqualified!

Rather than being disqualified, a focused JCH slides through the bottom rope and manages to roll a groggy Kael back into the ring – flashing another look to Snarkly as he does.

Once both men are inside the ring, JCH quickly drops for the cover.

ONE!

TWO!

Richard Parker: Not like this!

THR- NO! Kael goe a shoulder up JUST in time.

An incensed JCH looks like he’s about to berate the referee but instead holds a hand up to his head, wincing in pain, giving Kael just the opening he needs to roll out of harm’s way and catch his breath.

Nick Stuart: I think those blows to the head might be catching up to Hall. He better be careful if he wants to continue not just in this match, but in the tournament.

Richard Parker: He won’t get that far, Nick! Kael is back on his feet!

That’s being generous as both competitors look a bit worse for the wear. And it’s Hall who manages to move first, initially walking but then breaking into a sprint as he tries to catch Kael in the corner!

JCH flies upward as Kael ducks, causing Hall to land chest first on the turnbuckle! With his opponent’s torso now directly above him, Kael leaps upwards!

Nick Stuart: An Arkam Uppercut! JCH is dazed – more so than he was anyways as his chest and now chin are clearly giving him trouble.

Hall grabs a hold of the ropes, trying to pull himself to safety as Max begins pulling himself up the nearby turnbuckle!

Richard Parker: What is he doing!?

Nick Stuart: You tell me, Richard – you seem to be his campaign manager!

Kael is perched on the top turnbuckle, watching as JCH leans against the adjacent ropes, and then LAUNCHES himself high into the air.

Nick Stuart: NO!

Richard Parker: NO!

Just as it looks like Kael is about to land a flying elbow and send Hall over the ropes and to the outside, Hall catches Kael in mid flight with a leaping flying back elbow! Max drops like a sack of bricks onto his back with Hall falling next to him.

Nick Stuart: A desperation Chasing Vickie! Kael is out!

Richard Parker: A little on the nose, there Nick, but I’ll let it slide! Come on Max!

JCH manages to raise an arm and lay it over Kael’s chest as Barlow drops to the mat.

ONE!

TWO!

THRE-! NO!

Nick Stuart: Kael’s foot is on the ropes! And SNARK DARKLY is the reason why! JCH had this!

Richard Parker: HAH! And that’s why every candidate needs a good running mate! Snark Snark Darkly for DEPUTY MAYOR OF ARKHAM!

JCH is beside himself as he points down toward Snark Darkly who is feigning ignorance and getting into a war of words with Hall.

Barlow shoves JCH back and tells him to focus on Kael, which he certainly would if he could find him! But Kael has seemingly rolled out of the other side of the ring to get some much needed time and cover.

Hall looks around wildly, running from corner to corner until he finally comes upon Kael WHO BLOWS more sand into JCH’s face from below the ring!

Hall screams in anger and pain as Barlow clearly sees this and holds up two fingers, signaling that was strike number two, and points to the rampway signaling she will disqualify him if he makes one more wrong move. But as Max begins to argue with her, turning out his pockets, which clearly no longer have sand in them, Barlow is oblivious to the fact that two uninvited guests have just arrived in the ring from the stands!

Nick Stuart: That’s Hugo Vale and Daniel Green! What are they doing here!?

Richard Parker: Every good Mayor needs a cabinet, Nick.

Nick Stuart: Oh would you just shut up!

A near blind JCH can’t see the Green Vale Gang or their brass knuckles as Daniel SLAMS a pot shot right into JCH’s temple, staggering the fighter right into the fist of his partner Hugo, landing a SOLID crack of his brass knuckles along Hall’s jaw!

Richard Parker: YES!

Nick Stuart: How is this a democracy Richard!?

Richard Parker: They’re voting with their fists!

The GVG seem about ready to unleash some additional pain but they see Snark Darkly waving them away as Barlow begins to turn around. And when she does Daniel and Hugo have vanished back into the crowd as Hall sways, barely conscious in the middle of the ring.

Then, from behind Barlow, off of the nearby ropes, we see a revived Max Kael launch at the prone JCH, slamming an elbow into the back of his head for good measure!

Nick Stuart: REALITY BENDING ELBOW! He hit it!

Max doesn’t let JCH drop just yet as he locks in a Camel Clutch and then DRIVES his thumbs into the larynx of Hall!

Nick Stuart: MADAME GUILLOTINE!

JCH can barely move, let alone tap, as Max locks in the choke hold even tighter! His eyes ablaze with victory on his mind.

Nick Stuart: He’s going to kill him!

Richard Parker: He needs to be put out of his Vickie-loving misery anyways, Nick!

Referee Barlow drops to the mat, looks at Hall and immediately rings for the bell.

DING! DING! DING!

Vince Howard: Here’s yooooooour winnnnnner and moving on in the Almasy Tournament….. MAAAAAXXXXXIMILLLLLIAN WILLLLHEMMMM KAAAAAEL!

Nick Stuart: Sonofabitch! JCH had this, twice!

Richard Parker: Well, that’s why we have the Electoral College, Nick.

Nick Stuart: ……

Kael rolls out of the ring, battered, bruised, but victorious as Snark Darkly ushers him away quickly and medics begin to make their way ringside to check on the status of the soon-to-be-former Almasy Tournament Champion.

We go elsewhere.

The scene opens on a vending machine, perfectly run-of-the-mill and lacking any form of malevolence whatsoever, as two bags of chips drop into the tray below. A hand reaches in to retrieve them, places them into a waiting lap alongside two bottles of soda, then moves to the wheel at the side of the chair that the buyer is sitting in, side-on next to the machine. The chair spins 45 degrees and a pair of dangling feet come into contact with the legs of another patron waiting in line; a nameless staffer wearing a headset and a black PRIME t-shirt.

Rexton William Bader: Do you not realize I’ve got places to be, asshole? What. What. You didn’t recognize me or something? Like “who might this possibly be backstage at PRIME in a wheelchair”? Dumbshit. I’m an important man, doing important things. When you see me, give me some space. Understood?

The runner immediately takes a step back, holding his hands out apologetically.

Runner: Whoa, sorry man! I thought you were going that way, (he points in the direction the chair is facing) didn’t mean to get in your way.

Rexton William Bader: Now you’re starting to piss me off. Like you can tell which way I’m going just because my wheels are pointing there. That’s quite an assumption, fuckface.

Bader shoves off and rolls forward as though he’s going to drive right through the runner, who deftly jumps to the side.

Rexton William Bader: Oh look at you and your legs. Fucker. [Fuckeh]

Bader continues on his way, propelling himself back through the halls of the Fiserv Center towards Snow’s locker room with drinks and snacks in tow, barrelling right down the middle of the corridor and forcing everyone he encounters to move out of his way.

Rexton William Bader: I’m rolling here. Fuck out the way. My client’s fighting a God damn behemoth tonight and I ain’t got time to sign your tits. Outta the way.

He guides the chair around a corner and carries on down a hallway lined with equipment cases and spools of cable, muttering under his breath as he side-eyes every other door that he passes featuring the names of various talent signposted beside each. He rounds another corner into a corridor lined with tables and is just about to pick up speed when

Sqwueeee!

Rexton William Bader: GAH! DAMMIT!

The chair screeches to a halt, so suddenly that Bader feels his full weight lurch forward as though he’s about to be ejected from his chair. He scrambles to stop the drinks and snacks from flying out of his lap and throws himself against the backrest, craning his neck to confront whoever must be holding on to the handlebars of the chair.

Rexton William Bader: And just what the FUCK do you think you’re-

But there’s no one there.

It’s just him and his chair, no foes or even employees in sight. Confused, he leans over and looks at the left wheel and finds that, sure enough, the brake lever has been applied. He leans over the other side and, to his surprise, finds the lever applied on the right wheel too.

Rexton William Bader: …the fuck is this?

He fiddles with both brake levers simultaneously, ensuring that they haven’t somehow loosened and fallen into place on their own. Each snaps firmly into and out of position, showing no sign of slack.

Rexton William Bader: Oh yeah. Great. Now the chair’s giving me problems. Like I need another headache, dealing with these assholes all day.

With a grumbling shrug he pops the brakes off again and starts to roll off. Just as quickly, the chair comes to a halt again. Pursing his lips, Bader lets out a long, frustrated breath and checks both wheels again to find the brakes have been reapplied.

Rexton William Bader: Fuck you, chair! The fuck you think this is? …seriously though, what the fuck is going on her–

“Not as much fun when you’re the one being messed with, is it?”

Bader sits bolt upright, glancing down the corridor as a voice calls out to him from somewhere. He looks to either side before glancing behind him again in search of the source.

Rexton William Bader: Ha ha very funny. Messing with a paraplegic war veteran. What’re you supposed to be? The ghost of Christmas past or some shit? Gah head. Gah head. Scare me. See how far that gets you. See if I don’t make you pay for my pain and suffering. Gah head. Gah head. Come scare me.

No one steps forward to claim responsibility. While there’s no sounds of movement behind him, bodies mill past the junction up ahead, far too far away and impossible to have approached from without notice.

Rexton William Bader: Jesus. I must be losing it. I’m gonna add that to the case against Lindsay Troy. Mental anguish making me hear shit, thanks to this unsafe working environment. I’m gonna make a note.

He grips the wheels and shoves off down the corridor once more, but something feels different. He picks up speed much more quickly. The chair feels lighter somehow. Curious, he slows his roll and pulls back and forth on the wheels, examining his weight. Something definitely feels different.

He glances to the side, at where his trusty supply of air should be mounted, to find that the oxygen tank has disappeared. He spins the chair 180 degrees, facing back the way he came, expecting to see the culprit standing there with the tank in hand.

But there’s no one there.

Rexton William Bader: Is that you, Snow? That better not be fucking you. Then again I guess that would mean you grew a sense of humor, and we both know that ain’t happening. So, whoever you are, this is your one and only warning: FUCK OFF! [Fahk ahff]

He pats his jacketed ribs as if to confirm he’s carrying a concealed weapon. Then he hears that voice again, so close this time that he could swear the speaker was standing right beside him.

“You looking for this?”

Bader furiously spins back around to confront his antagonist and comes face to face with nothing but air. Bugged eyes flit side to side as a seething anger builds up within him, but before he can manage another outburst he hears the sound of metal rolling across the floor. Cautiously, he turns the chair around to see his oxygen tank roll past the junction behind him, several feet away.

Rexton William Bader: I’m…I’m only gonna warn you one more time, you-

“We haven’t been formally introduced.”

The voice comes from behind him again. Nervously, he grips the wheels of the chair once more and spins around. There, sitting propped up in the middle of the floor, is a garish purple mask. Its expression is blank, its eyeless holes gazing up at him.

Rexton William Bader: Listen. Fuckface. Whoever you are. Seriously this is my last warning.

“You were warned about showing your face here two weeks ago…”

The voice seems to be coming from the mask. Cautiously, Bader wheels himself towards it as it continues to speak.

“…And if you’re still planning on accompanying your client to ringside this evening, I’m afraid it’s not going to bode well for you…”

Bader stops before the mask, a mix of ire and uncertainty in his eyes. He bends over, careful not to tip out of his chair, and after a quick glance around to ensure he’s not about to be jumped, grabs it and sits back with it held firmly in both hands.

Rexton William Bader: Okay okay okay, I’m telling you, this is my SERIOUSLY 100% LAST WARNING before I start kicking some ass in here! WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU!?

“Oh you’ll see for yourself soon enough, Rexton. If you insist on being out there for Snow’s match, you’re going to get a lot more of me than you bargained for…”

Bader looks around again before flipping the mask over in his hands, second-guessing whether the voice is coming from the accessory or somewhere else entirely. He runs his finger along the open mouth, feeling for a speaker.

“You’ve been a thorn in a lot of peoples’ sides for a while now. Tonight? I’m going to show you what a little prick really looks like!”

From the shadows, impish fingertips tap together and the blank expression on the mask suddenly contorts into a fiendish frown, the mouth snapping shut on Bader’s finger prompting him to cry out in shock. He flicks his wrist violently until the mask comes loose and flies through the air, and before it even hits the ground he’s backing his way up the corridor to the junction where his oxygen tank is lying.

Rexton William Bader: It bit me! That fucking thing bit me! Somebody! That fucking thing just FUCKING BIT ME! Look. Look at my finger. Snow! Snow! The fuck are you when I need you!? This is some heebie jeebie bullshit right here! SNOW!

He scoops up the oxygen tank and lays it across his lap, crushing the bags of chips, and rolls his ass right on out of there. When the coast is clear, a diminutive figure cloaked in black emerges from his hiding place and retrieves the mask, securing it over his face.

Minion the Imp: You’ve been warned, Bader…

ReVival moves on.

We’re on to the next first-round matchup of the Seymour Almasy Memorial Tournament, and that means the lights have to go out. Sorry. We soon get the PRIMEview to show a Japanese man. Combed-over black hair, square jaw, towel over his neck. He has but one thing to say. In subtitles!

“PRO WRESTLING IS A SACRED SPORT.”

RAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!

With “Cynic” by Local H blaring, the Anglo Luchador steps out in a green tracksuit and a purple towel, pumping a fist into the air. After a quick jog in place, the masked man heads for the ring, slappin’ hands. He tears his tracksuit off once he gets to the ring and tosses it in a random direction before he slides into the ring.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, this contest is a first round match in the Seymour Almasy Memorial Tournament, and it is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania! He weighs in tonight at two hundred and eleven pounds! HE IS! THE FIRST INTENSE CHAMPION OF THE REVIVAL! HE IS! THE ANGLO! LUCHADOOOOOOOORRRRRR!!!

TAL raises his fist into the air upon his introduction, and lets the crowd’s cheers wash over him.

Nick Stuart: The Anglo Luchador is ready to go tonight.

Richard Parker: He’d better be. We all know what’s coming.

Nick Stuart: An exciting first-round match in the tournament?

Richard Parker: The grinder that makes the glue.

And speaking of Glue…

♫…

RAHHHBOOOAHHHOOOOAHHHBOOOOOAHHBOOOOAHHHH!!!!!!!

♫, ♫

♫…♫, ♫

♫…♫, ♫

♫…oh, shit.

OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI

OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI

OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI

OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI

As “ooh la la” by Run The Jewels featuring DJ Premier & Greg Nice blares through the speakers, teal and copper sparks shoot out around the stage. A series of nicknames flash across the screen:

THE YOUNGEST LEGEND ALIVE

HALL OF FAMER

PRIME WRESTLER OF THE YEAR 2023

THE BEARDED DRAGON

THE LIZARD KING

THE ACE

LE PROTAGONISTE

LE GRAND CHELEM

THE NECK COLLECTOR

F L A M B E R G E

Vince Howard: Aaaaaaand his opponent! Hailing from Strasbourg, France!

RAAAHHHHBOOOOOOOOOO!!

Vince Howard: Weighing in at 206 pounds…Theeeeeeeee NECK…COLLECTORRRRRRRR! FLAAAAAAAMBERRRRRRRRRRRGE!

RAAAHHHHBOOOOOAAHHHHHHOOOOAHHHHH!!

FLAMBERGE steps through the ropes with his tag team championship over his shoulder. Joe Fontaine and fabby follow suit in close order, FLAMBO giving Joe his full attention and fabby absolutely none. He soaks in the loud negative (or misunderstood?) reception from the crowd and confidently takes a lap around the ring before stomping up the ring steps and stepping through the ropes.

He stands in his corner, staring daggers at the Anglo Luchador. Behind him, Joe is giving him a good old shoulder rub. However, there is something amiss about Joe that Nick and Richard absolutely need to discuss.

Nick Stuart: Is Joe wearing crocs?

Richard Parker: Yeah.

Nick Stuart: …Why?

Richard Parker: He’s with FLAMBERGE, so I think it’s a subtle statement of alignment.

Nick Stuart: …I hate it here.

With both men in the ring and Joe Fontaine generously given time to get off the apron and back to the floor, Jimmy Turnbull calls for the bell.

DING DING

FLAMBERGE comes right out of the gate with murder in his heart, not helped by Joe Fontaine at ringside chanting “KILL! KILL! KILL!” as a form of encouragement.

His right hand comes out like a dagger, and anyone else probably would’ve been introduced to the ground in an intimate way if it’d hit them. For the Anglo Luchador, though, he’s able to dodge the punch, ducking under it and running off the ropes behind FLAMBERGE. FLAMBERGE turns, only to come face-to-face with the old luchador grabbing him by the arm and jumping onto the second rope. A quick hop to the top rope and TAL sends FLAMBERGE to the mat with an arm drag.

Nick Stuart: TAL using his agility well here.

Richard Parker: Well, I wouldn’t want to be caught by a man who literally puts necks in a display case once he collects them.

FLAMBERGE lands in a slide and comes back up to his feet. He runs at TAL with the intention of doing what Joe Fontaine is suggestion (you know, the whole “KILL, KILL, KILL” thing), only for TAL to use his arm to take his leg out from under him with a leg sweep. He goes for the cover, only for FLAMBERGE to kick out even before referee Jimmy Turnbull can get down to count. FLAMBERGE scrambles up, only to get caught in a side headlock takeover. TAL holds on, cranking the Lizard King’s head as he does so.

To say that a man attempting to claim his neck causes FLAMBERGE to flare up in anger would be an understatement. The Frenchman gets to his feet and shoves TAL into the ropes. A heavy shoulderblock between the two men leads to neither man getting knocked off their feet. For a moment, the two men stare at each other, before TAL gestures that FLAMBERGE gives it a go. Joe Fontaine encourages his tag team partner on in the Glueminati side of the ring as FLAMBERGE obliges him and runs into the ropes.

Once again, a collision. Once again, not much else happens.

After a few seconds of jaw jacking between the two competitors, FLAMBERGE becomes the one provoking TAL into running the ropes. TAL obliges, running into the ropes an—

THUD.

It’s a horrible noise, the hollow sound of bone hitting bone. Or in this case, a knee hitting a skull. TAL takes this hard and is knocked through the ropes.

Nick Stuart: What a sickening strike by FLAMBERGE on TAL’s skull!

Richard Parker: Honestly, that attack probably did more damage to FLAMBERGE than TAL. After all, there’s more bone than brain in that man’s head.

TAL lands in a seated position on the apron, and FLAMBERGE grabs him in a chokehold and lifts him up to his feet. He uses his deceptive strength and a kick in the back of the leg to literally hang TAL out to try in the chokehold, his feet dangling off of the apron.

Nick Stuart: A chokehold from FLAMBERGE! He’s literally hanging TAL off of the apron with it!

It’s only when referee Turnbull’s count gets up to four that FLAMBERGE releases the hold, dumping TAL out to the apron. FLAMBERGE turns to argue with Turnbull about exactly how much oxygen a luchador actually needs, and in the meantime, Joe Fontaine puts a couple of Crocs to TAL’s head before walking away as though he’s taking a walk around the ringside area. By the time Turnbull turns to look, TAL is holding his head in pain and Fontaine’s nowhere to be seen.

Richard Parker: It’s so nice of TAL to clean Joe Fontaine’s Crocs like that.

Nick Stuart: That is NOT what happened and you KNOW it.

Richard Parker: I mean, it’s not the fashion choice I would have made, but…

FLAMBERGE dips outside of the ring so he can throw TAL back in, then slithers into the ring behind him like a snake through water. He mounts him and does a bit of telling time, in that he brings his elbow up to about noon and then drops it down in his head at around dinner time. He does this a few times, from 12 to 6, until he finally gets up off of TAL after about five of those.

After another discussion with the referee, this time over how many 12-6 elbows a luchador can endure in one day before FLAMBERGE’s arm gets sore, FLAMBERGE pulls TAL to his feet. TAL, however, suddenly pops up and lands an enzuigiri to the side of FLAMBERGE’s head. FLAMBERGE staggers, as though drunk. He even throws a punch in this state, and trust me when I say that the air had it coming.

As FLAMBERGE recovers from giving the air what-for, TAL gets him with the right jab and then the left jab, and FLAMBERGE is rocked enough that the right cross lands perfectly, sending the Neck Collector spiraling to the mat.

TAL makes a cover, but this only gets one.

Nick Stuart: It’s going to take a lot more than that to put FLAMBERGE away, Rich.

Richard Parker: I was thinking an intercontinental ballistic missile. That might scratch him.

TAL is undeterred, and sends FLAMBERGE into the corner. He comes charging in and lands a running back elbow into the corner. TAL lingers there for a moment, then runs out of the corner, slides to stop himself, and comes running with a second back elbow. By now, FLAMBERGE is on the cusp of forgetting basic mathematics, like what comes after two. Fortunately for him, TAL might be moonlighting as a mathlete because he once again runs out of the corner and then does the slide before nailing the third back elbow.

Three! Three is the number that comes after two. Ah ah ah.

Then TAL pivots and blasts FLAMBERGE in the head one more time with a spinning elbow, which rocks FLAMBERGE enough that he falls forward to the ground.

Joe Fontaine is beside himself at ringside, and we aren’t talking about the fact that he’s standing next to a fan who is dressed exactly like him. Seriously, guy’s probably got his own crocs.

Nick Stuart: The Anglo Luchador is rolling out here, and FLAMBERGE is on dream street!

Richard Parker: Oh no! Traffic’s really bad on that street! I think there was a ten car pileup! Be careful, FLAMBO!

TAL pulls FLAMBERGE up and delivers a quick DDT, putting him on the mat. He rolls FLAMBERGE over and into the cover.

ONE.

TWO.

NO!

You might’ve noticed that Joe Fontaine attempted to slide into the ring to break up the pin, but was stopped by fabby. Likely, if fabby were one to be talking, he’d be reminding Joe that this isn’t a tag match and his interference could cost FLAMBO the tournament. But instead he tries to pantomime it instead and Joe tells fabby to shut up and let him cook.

Richard Parker: I can’t believe fabby would speak out of turn like that.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think he said anything, Rich.

Richard Parker: And yet, somehow, still too much.

Inside the ring, where no nonsense is happening, TAL has decided to hit FLAMBERGE like he’s running him over with a Toyota. A Tacoma, probably. Which is to say that he’s trying to hook FLAMBERGE up for the Japanese Ocean Cyclone Suplex. If he hits this, it’s probably going to be over.

But FLAMBERGE fights it. He shakes an arm loose, and then he rotates his hips. Hard. Call it the power of youth, someone TAL’s age would probably throw their hips out trying to do the same thing. Anyway, considering that TAL’s head was between FLAMBO’s legs, this has the effect of wrenching his neck and causing him to stagger out of the hold.

FLAMBERGE takes advantage in the only way he knows how.

It’s time to collect.

He leaps into TAL for the guillotine, and…

Nick Stuart: MARIE ANT—NO! A NORTHERN LIGHTS SUPLEX!

TAL bridges the suplex, and Turnbull counts.

ONE.

TWO.

KICKOUT!

FLAMBERGE kicks out grasping at TAL’s head, still trying to claim that neck. However, TAL knows how dangerous FLAMBERGE is. He’s experienced him plenty of times in the past. Thus, he remains elusive and out of FLAMBERGE’s grip. Both men get to their feet again, and FLAMBERGE tries to come in with a double leg takedown. TAL leapfrogs, though, and FLAMBERGE hits the second ropes.

There, Joe Fontaine gives the best encouragement he can give his tag team partner and heterosexual lifemate.

Joe Fontaine: Quick, FLAMBO! Submit your opponent with your incredibly effective Marie Antoinette submission maneuver! It’s named for someone French!

Richard Parker: …I feel the strangest sense of déjà vu.

Joe is forced to duck when TAL comes flying in with a tiger feint kick – better known by a San Diego area code – and kicks FLAMBERGE’s face into his lizard brain’s face. Which doesn’t have a face and is just a hostile voice in his brain, but y’know. TAL lands seamlessly on the apron and runs up the top rope. TAL isn’t actually known for his high flying and is more of a grounded luchador, but at this moment, he’s doing whatever it takes to win. And when FLAMBERGE gets up, he flies.

Nick Stuart: TAL OFF THE TOP WITH A CROSS BODY!

He flattens FLAMBO underneath his own body weight, but the momentum carries the former Intense champion off of a potential cover. TAL doesn’t care. He’s loaded up the lariat and he’s ready to unload it all over Le Protagoniste’s face. Not a sex thing. When FLAMBERGE gets up, he takes the unloaded lariat right in the face. Also not a sex thing.

Nick Stuart: LARIAT! TAL ALMOST TOOK FLAMBERGE’S HEAD OFF WITH THAT ONE!

Richard Parker: Oh no!

TAL scrambles on top for the cover.

ONE.

TWO.

KICKOUT!

Once again, FLAMBERGE gets his shoulder up.

TAL gets up and calls for a little help from a Japanese car manufacturer, before pulling FLAMBERGE in for the Japanese Ocean Cyclone Suplex. He crosses the arms, dots the T’s, and gets FLAMBO up in the air for the suplex.

There’s just one problem. Two, actually.

The first problem is that TAL strays too close to the ropes, and Joe Fontaine dabs right in his face. That’s a problem because nobody should let Joe Fontaine dab in anyone’s face. It’s rude. Referee Jimmy Turnbull yells at him to get off the apron, and Joe does. He does because of the second problem…

…which is that FLAMBERGE gets an arm loose. You never want a loose FLAMBERGE.

Nick Stuart: TAL can’t get the suplex!

FLAMBERGE drops a 12-to-6 elbow on TAL’s head, but TAL keeps holding on. A second one loosens TAL’s grip enough that FLAMBERGE is able to drop down behind TAL, and then he grabs TAL’s head and flips him over onto his stomach with a judo throw.

TAL hits the ground and scrambles up to his feet, only to meet a hard knee from FLAMBERGE that puts him on his back. FLAMBERGE lands on top for the pin.

ONE.

TWO.

THR-NO!

Nick Stuart: TAL got knocked loopy with that knee, but he’s still in this somehow!

FLAMBERGE pulls TAL up to his feet just long enough to bounce off the ropes. He aims the axe kick for TAL’s head, but TAL manages to evade and grab FLAMBERGE from behind with a wrist clutch. He pushes FLAMBERGE forward and then yanks him back for the…

Nick Stuart: DRIZZLE-MAK—NO! MARIE ANTOINETTE!

As TAL goes to throw the right cross, FLAMBERGE unexpectedly leaps into TAL’s arms and hooks the head for his deadly guillotine choke. TAL isn’t ready to take this lying down, though, and he goes right for the same Northern Lights suplex counter.

Something terrible goes wrong for the Anglo Luchador, though.

Sure, he gets the suplex again. But FLAMBERGE holds on, and before TAL realizes what’s happened, the Neck Collector does what he does. He twists around violently as a gator would death roll its prey, snapping TAL up in the Marie Antoinette properly.

TAL has nowhere to go, but he refuses to give up. His arms flail in the direction of trying to punch FLAMBERGE in the ribs, but his punches have less and less effect as he tries. Eventually, he tires himself out, and FLAMBERGE reasserts the hold, and… Jimmy Turnbull has no choice.

DING DING DING

It takes a few moments before Jimmy can pry FLAMBERGE’s arms from around TAL’s neck. Joe Fontaine high-fives his doppelganger on the outside and then enters the ring to celebrate the victory as though the victory was also his. It isn’t.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen… the winner of this match, as a result of a referee’s decision… FLAAAAAAAAMMMMBERRRRRGGGGGEEEEEE!!!

It’s FLAMBO’s.

FLAMBERGE lies on his back while Fontaine encourages him to get to his feet to celebrate. It was a hard-fought win, and TAL definitely hadn’t gone down without a fight.

Nick Stuart: FLAMBERGE picks up the big win and he’ll be moving around in his first-ever Almasy tournament!

Richard Parker: Big win for lizards and lizard-adjacent creatures, gotta say.

As FLAMBERGE finally gets to his feet and raises his arms in victory, ReVival 71 moves onwards and upwards.

Striding away from the VVIP Suite, down a long stretch of hallway in the Fiserv Center, is none other than Ami Troy.

Imagine how dope it is to be Ami. Mom runs a multi-million dollar professional wrestling organization, you handle the social media and other techy-related things and get paid for it, etc. Plus, you’re gonna be making your managing debut tonight alongside your boyfriend in his very important Almasy tournament match. Life is sweet, and she projects the warm energy that comes from that as she walks.

Hugo Vale: Well, well! Just the woman we were coming to see!

Hugo Vale normally would never shout, but he was at the other end of the hallway, and he was carrying a large box, gift wrapped with blue and gold marbleized wrapping paper. Beside him is Daniel Green, who winced at Hugo’s volume but otherwise maintained his ever-suave-until-incredibly-violent aura.

Ami cheerfully waves at the boys and walks toward them.

Ami Troy: Hi guys! Whatcha doin?

Daniel Green: Well, Hugo here is feeling unusually grateful for your shouting him out via a hijacked news broadcast, or something?

Hugo grins, extends the extraordinarily wrapped gift to Ami.

Hugo Vale: A token of our – hmm… appreciation? I suppose?

Imagine having felt appreciative so little in your life, you had to find the word.

Ami Troy: Oh! This is so sweet, Hugo, thanks! You didn’t have to, honestly, any time I can annoy Alexei even a little bit I’ll do it.

She takes the box and starts unwrapping the paper.

Ami Troy: This paper is so pretty. So how do you guys like it here so far?

Daniel, suppressing the slight annoyance that Ami had thanked only Hugo, tapped the gift with his index finger.

Daniel Green: Careful, now. That wrapping paper was imported from Milan. Don’t tear.

Hugo grins at Daniel.

Hugo Vale: It’s more or less what we expected. Currently, we are merely counting down the days to our becoming PRIME Tag Team Champions. Biding our time, as it were.

Daniel Green: Hugo’s right. Only curveball’s been wrestling these oldheads. You expect them to do one thing, the logical thing, only for them to do the opposite. Feels like playing poker with guys who don’t even know the rules, let alone the odds.

Hugo Vale: Damned Bandits. Damned Tsonda.

Daniel Green: Fuck ‘em… er, excuse my language.

Ami Troy: I feel like Nedward should’ve prepared you both better for the Bandits and Uncle Chan. But I guess that’s what happens when you’ve got your head stuck up your own ass.

She shrugs and carefully removes the box from the wrapping paper, then sets the lid aside.

Ami Troy: Oh! Oh wow!

Ami sets the box on the ground and lifts what appears to be a square canvas out of it. The camera swivels around to reveal an ostentatiously painted oil portrait of the Green Vale Gang. The boys are in front of a roaring fire, Hugo seated in a velvet chair, Daniel off to the side with his arm resting on the back, both drinking brandy and smoking cigs… but Hugo’s jawline is noticeably more masculine and square.

If the pint-sized purple powerhouse is at all weirded out by this, she’s doing her very best not to show it.

Ami Troy: Wow this is amazing! The line work and expressions are terrific, who did you commission for this?

Hugo Vale: I painted it myself actually.

Ami Troy: No way.

Daniel Green: I expect that will be worth something someday.

Hugo shoots a look at Daniel, subtle but meaningful.

Daniel Green: And that day is today. You could sell it tomorrow for a lot of money, but you shouldn’t. You won’t.

Ami Troy: You shouldn’t be wasting talent like this, for real.

Hugo shrugs, tosses a hand in a blase manner.

Hugo Vale: Yes, I’ve been told that before. Truth is, I was passionate about it once, but I prefer to make my art in the ring now.

He says this without any idea of how pretentious it sounds.

Hugo Vale: Check out the other gift in there.

Ami looks in the box again and grabs an envelope.

Ami Troy: “Vrede?”

Hugo nods excitedly.

Hugo Vale: I know they say that uhm… what’s his name? The other rookie? Lymphoma, right?

Daniel Green: Lymphoma Jiles.

Hugo Vale: Yes! I know they say he’s the golden ticket, but madame, they are sorely mistaken. In your hands is the true golden ticket. A gift card that offers you access to the most exclusive spa in the Netherlands, Vrede. Danny Boy was able to get his hands on it long after I’d given up.

Daniel Green: They’re only open for four hours a day, three days a month. You’ll get a notification that an appointment time’s become available, and you’ll have approximately twelve hours — they’re very strict about punctuality — to board a PJ to the Netherlands, and then it’s just a three hour car ride and a short trip via helicopter to the spa.

If you thought this was some sort of gag gift upon hearing Daniel’s description, you were wrong. They just simply have no concept of how impossible that might be for someone not named Daniel Green or Hugo Vale.

And they await Ami’s reaction with hopeful eyes.

Ami doesn’t even bother trying to do the math in her head. Math’s dead in PRIME, remember? What’s the point? Besides, it wouldn’t be polite, trying to figure out logistics and costs and explaining all of this to her boyfriend which she will absolutely have to do. So instead, for right now, she says:

Ami Troy: Sweet! Thanks guys, I can’t wait to go!

Hugo Vale: We managed to go twice last fiscal quarter. It’s a solid spot. 8.5 out of 10.

Daniel Green: Their exotic pistachio collection is the best you’ll find in that part of the world. You’ll say to yourself, there’s no way these nuts should cost seven hundred dollars a tin, but then you’ll eat a few and understand why.

Hugo Vale: I’ve told them they’re undercharging. Feels like I’m ripping them off.

Ami Troy: These were really thoughtful gifts, Hugo and Daniel, thank you.

Suddenly, a booming set of footsteps begin descending down the hall.

Ned Reform: Boys! Back away from that hellspawn at once!

Ned arrives from behind the Green Vale Gang, and looks Ami in the eye, like he knows exactly what’s going on.

Ned Reform: What, need advice for how to break up with your boyfriend, or something? Seeking advice from these talented young men is a fine idea, young lady, but I won’t have you poisoning their careers with your presence further. Advice from anyone other than your mother should work wonders, by the way. That is to say, if you’d like advice from someone whose career began prior to the start of the Spanish Inquisition, you could come to me as well.

A beat.

Ned Reform: You understand? Your mother is old, I’m trying to say.

Ami Troy: Wow, Nedward, I’m amazed you showed up. You definitely didn’t show up at UltraViolence or two weeks ago in Daniel’s match against my Uncle Chandler. If you had, I bet the results would have been different. So much for putting that Big Yale Brain to work. It’s almost like walking across the quad of an Ivy League one time doesn’t mean you actually graduated from there.

She sticks her tongue out and brushes by him, gifts in hand.

Ami Troy: The only thing more passé than your old jokes is that sweater vest, dipshit!

Ned recoils. The Green Vale Gang hide their grins.

We cut away.

Backstage.

Smoke dances from the end of Rob Williams’ cigar as he sits, trying his best to meditate in preparation for his upcoming title match.

Enter Sebastian Gold.

Rob can feel the presence – the bad vibes exuded by Gold, like the Penn State locker room or the scene of some other great tragedy. He opens one eye and then sighs deeply, blowing out recycled smoke.

Rob Williams: Hey-

Sebastian immediately cuts him off.

Sebastian Gold: I don’t wanna hear anything from you. Just listen. The last time I tried to help you, you put me through a table. Then you put me through another table and set me on fucking fire; look at my back and you’ll see the scars that’ll never heal from what you did to me. All while lying about having terminal brain cancer?? Not to mention, the last guy I decided to trust almost killed my best friend. And that Pineapple Upside-down asshole is supposed to be your ally!  You understand, I can’t trust a word you say.

The elder man snorts, ashing his cigar on the floor. It causes Gold to flinch slightly, remembering when Rob put a similar cigar out on his back.

Rob Williams: Well, other than all of that Mrs. Kennedy, how was the drive? Go on.

Sebastian Gold: Unless…I want a rematch. No tables. No hitting me in the nuts three times and DEFINITELY no fire. Just you, proving you can face me in a clean match. Do that. And I’ll think about trusting you again.

Rob Williams: All of the stuff you could ask for, and you want a rematch? Done. Name the time and place.

Sebastian Gold: Yeah, a rematch! You fight me clean, that’s showing real change, ya get me? Now go win that Five-Star strap from Kerry so I can take it off your hands once the Almasy’s done.

Sebastian looks the old man right in the eye.

Sebastian Gold: Don’t make me regret trusting you.

With that, we fade back to the action.

The show feed picks back up ringside with Nick and Dick.

Nick Stuart: What a night it’s been so far, and it’s about to get even better! Up next, not one, but TWO PRIME Hall of Famers are set to do battle against each other. Jason Snow. Hessian. A rematch from a prior date, now meeting up once again in the first round of the Almasy. Stakes? Sure, you got them.

Richard Parker: Full disclosure, I’m still not over Hessian betraying us all and standing behind the crumb piece of shit. Yes, I know it’s been a while now but my ass is still chapped over it, and I don’t think it will ever get better.

Nick Stuart: I think it’s safe to say you’re not the only one who feels that way.

The building is plunged into darkness as the lights go out in the arena to a flurry of excited whoops and cheers from the audience. A few seconds pass before the air fills with the rumbling of drums and a visceral guitar tone. White light fills the mouth of the entranceway suddenly, pulsing rhythmically in time to the drumbeat and illuminating thick plumes of fog pouring down to the floor and spilling across the stage.

“YYEEAAHHH!!”

As Lemmy belts out a mechanical roar two silhouettes appear in the ether, one massive and one much smaller, and the cheers become frenzied throughout the arena. “Kingdom of the Worm” by Motörhead kicks everyone’s lungs right in the balls for several seconds before the looming figures start to shift, growing both larger and smaller in the entranceway as the house lights begin flashing electric blue.

“You remember, You remember me, yes,”
“I remember what we are, I remember only scars,”
“I remember only stars, I remember hell and mother,”
“I have seen the eye of god, Youth trust gone forever.”

The cameraman on stage gets down low, aiming the shot high towards the great shade as it bleeds through the smoke out onto the stage proper, gazing hypnotically at the ring whilst softly mouthing the lyrics as wisps of smoke dissipate around him. The crowd erupts at the sight of the giant, drawing his gaze as he stops at the top of the ramp and looks the audience over while Vince Howard’s voice cuts clear through the noise, prompting him to close his eyes, bow his head and splay his hands out before him. By his side, the dwarven figure draws the hood of his cloak to reveal a mischievous purple grin.

Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring, accompanied by MINION THE IMP! Standing seven feet two inches tall and weighing in at three hundred and seventy pounds, he is the former two-time Universal Champion and the twentieth inductee into the PRIME Hall of Fame…the Murder Show…HHHEEEEEEEEEEEESSSIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAANNNN!!

The giant raises his hands up and clenches them into fists, thrusting both arms down with a breaking gesture as he snaps his head back and unleashes a guttural roar met with equal passion from the fans. He tenses his thick, flaccid neck and arms and they bulge taut with solid muscle and ropey veins until he relaxes and starts pacing down the ramp towards the ring while the electric storm continues to broil around the darkened arena.

“See only the master, risen, risen,”
“After all the silence, all of him laughing”
“After all the strangers, beaten, driven,”
“Try to place all things, in a certain rhythm”
“Do as the book told you see the pages torn”,
“Make the spell upon them, in human form,”
“So we come to call it, the great & awesome dance,”
“Do you see before you, the Kingdom of Romance.”

The giant stops at the foot of the ring, grabs the top rope and pulls himself up onto the apron as Minion hovers around ringside. Hessian takes a stoic glance around before wiping his feet and flinging one leg after the other over into the ring. A large spotlight finds the giant as he enters with a stomp that continues across the ring as he raises both arms and leans into the ropes on the opposite side, bellowing back out at the crowd with wide wild eyes.

“You remember, You remember his face,”
“You remember what I am, I remember only weeping,”
“I remember only sleeping, I remember tearing flesh,”
“I can only taste the devil, Your tears when you cry,”

Hessian paces around the ring presenting himself to the fans on each side with a roar and a double arm raise before turning to hardcam and approaching the centre of the ring. A wide shot smoothly closes in on the cold mean gaze of the Murder Show as he locks eyes on everyone watching at home and throws his arms up, roaring right down the camera and into homes around the world as we zoom out with an added rippling shockwave effect. “Kingdom of the Worm” cuts off early with the closing line:

“ALL MEN MUST SUFFER!”

Multiple spotlights cut through the darkness in that moment, all across the stage, ramp and ring. Countless beams projecting the outlines of human bodies in light form dazzlingly strewn all around the Murder Show. The crowd echo the line back with thunderous applause as Hessian heads to his corner while the corpse-lights fade out and the house lights return to normal.

Nick Stuart: Surprised Jiles isn’t out here in some capacity.

Richard Parker: Mabe Rexton William Bader isn’t so bad after all?

The crowd settles.

No music is played.

In fact, all that can be heard is the squeak of a wheel.

Then, the squeak of a person.

Rexton William Bader: HELLO MILWAUKEE!!!! HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY! HERE’S TO HESSIAN CHOKING ON MY BIG FAT BRAT!

BOOO~!

One sided as it may be, but, hilarity ensues at the top of the ramp. Yes, that is to say Rexton does indeed find himself funny. As for Big Hess and Minion, well, not so much. Luckily or unluckily, depending on which side of the Hall of Fame fence you stand behind, Elvis Nixon musters everything he has and keeps Big Hess inside the ring and more importantly from starting early.

Rexton William Bader: I see the women in the stands are taking this Independence Day a little too seriously by actually thinking their voice matters! HAHAHAHA! BOO ALL YOU WANT! 1776 called and wants their fashion sense back! Filthy wenches!

BOOO~!

Jay and Rex reach ringside, and then Snow takes the steps up after sharing a few words with his manager. Minion quickly finds the outside of the ring and takes up a steadfast position inside of Rexton’s shadow.

Nick Stuart: Here we go! Battle of the Hall of Famers! Round one rolls along!

Richard Parker: Let it snow.

Nixon goes over the rules, which is just him nodding to each competitor to make sure they are ready to go. They nod back, and after one more Rexton barb that gets thwarted by Minion, Elvis calls for the bell.

Nick Stuart: Snow got the better of Hessian the last time these two PRIME legends competed against each other– can he do it again tonight and move on to the second round of the Almasy? He is coming off a high triple threat win at UltraViolence against, so momentum is on his side.

Richard Parker: He’s gonna fry the big bitch Bandit.

Nick Stuart: Conversely, Hessian is also riding the wave of victory having defeated The Vale Gang in tag team action with Tony Gamble. So, I guess time will tell.

DING DING

The Hess Express takes off, flying across the ring to run over Jason Snow. Snow is no rookie though, and quickly ducks between the ropes to bring Elvis Nixon between them. Hessian hits the breaks. Snow smiles wide. Nixon is the man in the middle counting to five. Minion is lurking, and somehow Rexton has got himself another live mic.

Rexton William Bader Big Hess! HA! More like, Big Mess. Of shit. In his pants.

Rexton tries to talk some more but somewhere, someone, presumably with power, makes the decision to cut his mic.

Hessian retreats back to the center of the ring. Nixon gets out of the way. Snow postures like he’s about to meet The Express head on, and right before he can… he drops down to the canvas and rolls underneath the bottom rope. Of course, now on the outside, The Original Villain shares a word or two of encouragement with his manager.

BOOO~!

Minion puffs out his chest and walks over to break up the soiree. As such, Rexton wheels around on the outside away from him, and Snow demands Hessian take a few steps back before he reenters the ring.

NIck Stuart: Classic bad guy tactic or is Snow this afraid of Hessian? You be the judge.

Richard Parker: coughclassiccough.

In order to get to the killing sooner rather than later, Hessian obliges Snow’s request and retreats to the furthest possible corner of the ring. Snow enters the ring again, and finally it seems like a wrestling match is about to take place.

The two former Champions lock up in the center of the ring, and Snow gets pushed back to the corner with little to no resistance.

Nick Stuart: Hessian has him trapped!

The Hess Express winds up and swings, but Snow ducks down low and dodges out from the corner. He quickly gets position behind Hessian and kicks him in the back of his knee, and then again at the back of his leg before retreating across the ring.

Richard Parker: Stick and move. Wear the bigger man down. Like I said, CLASSIC.

Big Hess shakes the sting from his leg, cracks his knuckles, smiles wide, and charges in once more. He goes for a massive lariat, one that would have sent Snow soaring into the third row, but The Original Villain is able to yet again duck underneath the attack. He slips behind Hessian and chips away at him with a series of kicks to his lower body before retreating to safety.

Nick Stuart: Snow has a plan and he’s sticking to it.

Richard Parker: What’s that? Changing his finisher?

Ha.

Jason and Rexton have a brief bit. Brief because Snow turns his back to share in a quip, and while he does that, a slightly agitated Big Hess charges in once again. Snow sidesteps, and Hessian goes crashing into the turnbuckles chest first.

Nick Stuart: If that would have landed it might have killed him.

Big Hess reels back. Snow lands a few more blows to the lower body. Dodging, dipping, and the rest of them all the way to safety. Instead of waiting on the defensive, Snow tests the water and charges in while Hessian is recovering/regaining his composure. A kick, a dodge, and an ill-fated punch attempt later, and Hessian finally finds himself on the offensive.

Nick Stuart: Hessian caught Snow’s punch out of thin air! Snow looks like a deer that’s been caught in the headlights!

Richard Parker: Here comes the pain.

Dirty Dick is not lying. Hessian squeezes Snow’s hand like he’s trying to grind every bone in it. The agony Snow feels quickly brings him to his knees, and causes him to cry out. Then, maybe in an attempt to save his eardrums, Big Hess, with his free hand, reaches up and drops down the proverbial hammer across Snow’s head.

CRACK!

Outside of the ring Minion points a finger towards Rex and lets out a Nelson laugh.

Richard Parker: I think Snow might be 5’11 now.

Nick Stuart: Maybe 5’10. Oh, and he’s been busted open.

Before Hessian can try a pin attempt, a white towel comes flying into the ring from out of left field and hits Elvis Nixon in the face. It seems the person playing in left field, Rexton William Bader, has seen enough and decided that Snow should live to fight another day. However, before Nixon can call for the bell, and upon closer inspection, the towel has EGG BANDITS SUCK EGGS printed on it.

Which of course, causes Hessian to change his focus.

Before Big Hess can exit the ring and further cripple a cripple, Elvis Nixon is hit with another white towel. This time around it’s Minion who is the one throwing it, and scribbled on it reads, “MORE LIKE ORIGINAL VAGINA”.

The word VAGINA is blurred out for the broadcast.

RBW goes ballistic on the outside, threatening to run over everyone’s toes.

Back inside the ring, Snow lands some more attacks on the slightly distracted Hessian. He once again targets Ian’s lower body, landing kicks to the back of the knee and his achilles. Hessian swings wildly, misses, and the ensuing opening allows Snow to jab his thumb into Hessian’s eye.

Nick Stuart: I bet that hurt.

Ian reels back in pain. Minion rallies. Rexton cackles. Nixon admonishes. Snow ignores, and lands a few chops to the chest of the Hess Express. After about the third, Hessian has had enough. He no-sells the pain, reaches out with both hands, grabs Snow, wraps him up from behind, and with authority delivers a German Suplex that sends his opponent bouncing off the canvas.

Nick Stuart: Correction, I bet that hurt even more.

Richard Parker: Snow might have been ten feet in the air just then!

Nick Stuart: This one could be over!

Hessian drops down to make a pin.

ONE

TWO

Nixon stops the count because Snow somehow gets his foot on the rope. Hessian lumbers his way upright with a noticeable wince while doing so. Then, he reaches down to help Snow up to his feet, only to scoop him up and slam him back down. After the power move, Hessian grabs at his knee like it’s on the verge of really bothering him.

Nick Stuart: All those attacks on Hessian’s lower body from earlier in the match are starting to show up now.

Richard Parker: Doesn’t really matter if Snow can’t stand up to take advantage of it.

Hessian looks over his downed opponent, measuring him up before dropping an elbow from outer space across his sternum. He sticks the landing and holds the finish.

ONE

TWO

Nick Stuart: Snow got his shoulder up at the last second!

The Murder Show nods, almost impressed, almost enraged. He gets back to his feet, once again wincing while doing so. Instead of helping Snow this time around, he waits for him. Snow crawls towards the ropes; using them to get himself upright. Hessian charges in and damn near decapitates Snow with a clothesline! However, the force is so great, and the impact so severe it sends The Original Villain over the top rope and crashing down to the outside.

Worse yet, Snow lands on top of Minion, breaking his fall and taking out Hessian’s support.

Nick Stuart: If Tony hadn’t competed earlier in the night I’d say right about now is when he’d be peeking his tiny head out from underneath the ring.

Richard Parker: If you just jinxed us I’ll kill you.

Nick Stuart: Oh shit. He is writing this thing, isn’t he?

Ha.

Hessian heads to the outside. He grabs Snow and tosses him back into the ring like he is a piece of paper. Then, Big Hess checks in on Minion who after taking that bump isn’t going to be much help for the rest of the match. Rexton wheels his way over, and starts to besmirch the monster of men. Which, all things considered, is actually pretty ballsy of him. It’s smart, too, since it gives Snow the needed time to recover. As such, OV steps out on the outside of the apron, runs along it, and then dives shoulder first into Hessian’s back.

For his efforts, Snow comically slides down Hessian’s back, who might have moved forward an inch. Ian turns around, looking to swat the fly that just hit him. The second he does, Rexton wheels his chair into the back of Hessian’s legs, which shakes out to being the equivalent of getting rolled up on by a shopping cart.

Ouch.

The pain is real. So real it causes Hessian to quickly and awkwardly roll back inside the ring. Nixon, while checking in on Hessian, has his back turned to the outside and doesn’t see Rexton slipping Snow a foreign object. Said foreign object then finds the inside of Snow’s tights, and he rolls back in the ring with everyone inside of it none the wiser.

Nick Stuart: Did you see that?

Richard Parker: See what? I didn’t see anything.

Nick Stuart: Rexton passed something off to Jason Snow and whatever it was is now stashed in his tights!

Richard Parker: Was it a sock?

Ha.

Nick Stuart: Now why would he… NO! It looked like brass knuckles!

Minion is still out.

Nixon has order. Somewhat anyway.

Hessian is ready to end this.

Snow is still bleeding, but yes he very much so has an ace up his sleeve… or tucked away in his tights. All he needs is opportunity, and with Minion no longer a part of the equation he has exactly that. Rexton starts to deride Elvis Nixon over his preferential treatment towards Hessian. Nixon might be a senior official, but even he can’t stand the shrill scream of Rexton William Bader.

Richard Parker: More like Rexton William BADGER, am I right?

With the referee’s attention away from inside the ring, Snow motions for Hessian to come and finish him off. Hessian takes the bait, because, well he’s over seven feet tall and isn’t afraid of anything. Upon approach, his one leg gives out bringing him to an abrupt stop.

Snow doesn’t hesitate. He cocks back and instead of going to his tights he unloads a superkick that is sure to catch a certain someone’s attention. Though the kick lands flush, it doesn’t knock Hessian down, but instead brings him to a knee. Nixon goes to turn and check in on the situation, but Rexton calls him something past derogatory and Snow’s window to use the foreign object tucked away in his wrestling trunks reopens.

Hessian is wobbled. His leg has been better. He’s down on a bad knee, struggling to shake free of the webs.

TWHACK!

Snow’s punch lands flush and sounds like a gun going off from inside the ring. Whatever is inside his fist, or wrapped around it, soon thereafter exits. Meanwhile, Rexton stops his relentless chiding and turns into the most charming, silent man in the world. Nixon turns to see Snow, exhausted, draped over a prone Hessian.

BOOO~!

ONE

TWO

THREE!

DING DING DING

Richard Parker: Good. Serves him right for taking up with the Bandit lot, and all that Banditry he’s been a part of.

Nick Stuart: Another HUGE win for Snow, and he’s moving on to the second round of the Almasy.

Snow slowly rolls off of Hessian, and gets his hand raised by Nixon.

Vince Howard: Here is your winner, from Parts Unknown, Jasooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnn SNOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Rexton, like Richard Parker, is thrilled at the outcome. Snow soon joins him on the outside to celebrate as they make their way back up the ramp.

Minion is up on his feet, and has climbed back inside the ring to check on Hessian.

Nick Stuart: Tough break for Big Hess. He was in complete control of the match and in the blink of an eye he wasn’t.

Richard Parker: Womp-womp. He’ll be fine. I‘m sure there’s a whole mess of dirty laundry on the USS Bandit just waiting for him to clean.

Ha.

The show cuts elsewhere.

It’s been a long, hard night. Matches going deeper and deeper into the night. Buckets and buckets of fluids poured out after extraneous hours of exertion—pleasure on the faces of many, and agony on the faces of the rest.

ReVival 71 is deep in the throes of… the Almasy. What did you think I was talking about (pervs)?

The Neck Collector himself stalks the halls of the Fiserv Center, uncertain as to why many keep mentioning this stupid… Independence… Day. He is not American. He cares not. He just wants to collect necks and earlier in the evening… well, spoilers.

As he storms through the halls, he mutters French curse words under his breathe, like baguette and oui oui (we think those are curse words, we failed French 101 in our freshman year of college thanks to Lynn Warner who had curves like… you know what, not a story for this time. Let’s move on).

Turning the corner, his head is down, and he is unaware that someone is waiting outside of his locker room, with a lead pipe in their hand.

Oui Oui indeed.

As he approaches, his head tilts up slightly, and he’s taken aback by the sight in front of him. Because the person holding that lead pipe is none other than The Second Coming, Rose. Who, the last time we saw her (if you remember) was laid out prior to the Farthington vs. Jiles match at UltraViolence.

Judging by the look on her face (though, many suggest this is always the look on her face), she is none too pleased.

FLAMBERGE: Not now, Rose.

Rose: I fail to see when there is a better time. Considering you’ve been ignoring my phone calls and text messages. I don’t know about you, but I tend not to forget or let it go when a certain somebody attacks me from behind.

Rose locks eyes with the French Phenom and a moment passes between them, tension building in the process.

Rose: And I think I have a pretty good idea who did it. It rhymes with Cecilworth. (pauses) Oh, I think I did that wrong. Let me try again. It rhymes with Farthington. (snaps her fingers) Shit, did it again. Well, I guess the cat is out of the bag. So you’ll have to excuse me that I’m not interested on handling things on your timetable. I’m sure you acted completely normal when Nate Colton filled the FLAMBOghini with pennies or with the likes of Max Kael and Brandon Youngblood.

FLAMBO seems to be stunned and still fairly annoyed.

FLAMBERGE: I will give you the “pass” for this feeling you are expressing as you are clearly very heated about this whole thing, and the heat can scramble the rational brain. Perhaps you need to consider taking a different message than the one you are taking now.

Rose: A pass? (chuckles) Okay, Julien. And what message should I be taking? Enlighten me, ‘ol wise locker room leader.

FLAMBERGE: It is as I mentioned before – you need to leave this one alone. Walk away. Enough of the classic “Rose Path of the Most Resistance” you always seem to do in the PRIME. You are on a dangerous path to a destination you cannot reach.

She takes it and slowly begins to nod her head.

Could this be Rose finally listening to reason?

The smile on her face suggests otherwise.

Rose: You know what, you’re right, I do tend to choose the Rose Path of the Most Resistance, as you put it. I run head first into my problems and don’t think of the consequences of my actions. I mean, I did with Ivan and look at me now. I did it with Tom. (beat) But if I learned anything from my father, it’s adapt at all costs. So, I think you’re right. Actually, I had an idea you might even say that.

FLAMBERGE looks confused. Rose reaches into her back pocket and produces an envelope, sealed. She taps it against the chest of the Neck Collector aggressively.

Rose: That’s why I wrote down my feelings this time and put them in a letter. To the man who took the time before his championship match to lay me out backstage. Maybe it was a warning. Maybe he was pissed. Maybe he thought I was going to take the last sticky bun at catering. All I know is, it wasn’t enough for him to be the one behind taking my father out or for him to cost me the three-on-three match a few months back with his cheap shot comments. You and I both know this has been a long time coming.

She hands the envelope to a begrudging FLAMBERGE.

Rose: Give him that the next time you see him and let him read it. It’ll blow his mind, I guarantee it.

FLAMBERGE holds onto it as Rose turns away and then pauses.

Rose: Oh, and Julien.

She turns back towards him.

Rose: Decide where your loyalties lie. You can stay with Farthington and the Glue, but you will be my enemy. Or you can think about the person who came to you, who went to your house and met your mother, who actually cares about you as a person, and decide to forge your own path. Choose wisely, Julien.

She holds out the lead pipe for a moment, before handing it to him.

Rose: I’d hate to have to use this against you, too.

With that, the Second Coming turns on a dime and walks off, leaving the Neck Collector holding two objects he wasn’t holding before and not sure what the hell is actually going on.

FLAMBERGE: Elle ne comprendra jamais, n’est-ce pas?

He looks at the pipe in his hand, and he looks in the direction where Rose left. His eyes do the creepy one-lid-at-a-time blink.

…

He grips the envelope hard, and it’s halfway to a full crumple. But otherwise, he’s stuck in place. And that’s the image we’re left with.

We cut elsewhere.

Vince Howard: The following match is scheduled for one fall, and is for the PRIME 5 STAR CHAMPIONSHIP! The winner will also advance in the 2025 Seymour Almasy Memorial Invitational. Introducing first…

The opening riff of “Man in the Box” by Alice in Chains rips through the silent arena. Fire lights up the entrance ramp and Rob Williams steps out from behind the curtains.

Vince Howard: Representing the Poor Whoresmen…the challenger…he hails from Decatur, Georgia! He weighs in at 240 pounds…he is “The Legend!” ROOOOOOOOOOOOB WIIIIILLLLLIIAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMSSSS!!!

One might expect Rob to have back up as he makes his way to the ring. Surprisingly, he does not. Instead, just pure focus as he tries to loosen up his stabilized wrists.

He continues down the ramp, head down, hair hanging in his eyes. At a few points along the way he stops in his tracks. He looks out into the crowd as if something catches his attention, but he doesn’t directly look at anyone. He steps into the ring, and as he does…

The Fiserv Forum goes black…

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

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

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

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

The PA bumps with “Blouses Blue” by Konrad OldMoney and Sleep Steady. Light suddenly fills the arena when the PRIMEview powers up to a view of animated green and gold scales whooshing by. After a moment, a gilded DRAGON flies into full view, and ROARS into the screen!

KRACKA-BOOOOOMMM!!

A flashing pillar of levin suddenly EXPLODES over the stage, accompanied by a colorful array of green, silver, and gold pyrotechnics. A series of spotlights arrange themselves into a triangular pattern, with the point of focus resting upon the head of the rampway.

When the pyro smoke clears, two figures gradually come into view. The first is KERRY KUROYAMA, proudly wearing the Five Star Championship around his waist and clad in newly customized gear with golden star motifs to compliment the regular emerald and black. Standing beside him is AMI TROY, leaning in slightly with her arms crossed and wearing her characteristically wry smile while showing off her finest “SEATTLE’S BEAST TAMER” halter.

Nick Stuart: The Emerald Apex is HERE!

The duo accept a greeting of loud cheers from the thousands of Milwaukee fans in attendance. After savoring the reaction for a few moments, Kuroyama dutifully unhooks the title belt from his waist and hoists it over his head. More pyros. More cheering. Then the belt goes over his shoulder as he begins to descend along the rampway with Ami at his side.

Nick Stuart: What an ovation for the new Five Star Champion and his newly announced manager… Ami Troy!

Richard Parker: He traded in his Wingman and the drop bear for the Boss’s daughter?! Bold strategy… but at least he’ll know exactly who to blame when this all goes south!

Nick Stuart: I strongly doubt that would be the case, Richard, IF it goes that way! Nevertheless, few can overlook Kerry Kuroyama’s steady rise through the PRIME ranks ever since his arrival to the company. And after claiming the Five Star Championship at UltraViolence, and without a loss on his singles record for the year 2025, this still young talent has fully established himself as one of PRIME’s most respected and most feared talents of the modern era!

Vince Howard: His opponent…accompanied by his manager, Ami Troy… he hails from Seattle, Washington, and weighs in at two-hundred and thirty two pounds… representing VAE VICTIS…the 5 Star Champion…he is…THE EMEEEEEEERRALD APEX… KEEERRRYYYY! KUUURROOOOYYYAAAAAMMMAAAAAAA!!!

Kerry’s eyes remain fixated squarely on the ring as he comes down the aisle. When he reaches ringside, he hops straight to the apron and steps through ropes with all the briskness and tenacity of a caged lion.

He climbs the turnbuckle and raises the Five Star Title once more to a massive pop from the crowd. Crossing the ring to repeat the action on the other corner, he momentarily pauses to stare down the challenger Williams with a face that plainly gives off FAFO energy. Then he climbs the next turnbuckle, and raises the belt to more cheers.

Nick Stuart: Abundantly clear that the fans here in Milwaukee are going to be partisan to the 5 Star Champion–OOOOOOOH!

Richard Parker: Now that’s–

Nick Stuart: –Kuroyama LAUNCHED the 5 Star Title right at Rob Williams head–

Richard Parker: –missed! Missed!

Nick Stuart: –and ABSOLUTELY CRUSHES him in the face with a HEAVY forearm smash–

Richard Parker: Oh this is getting good right from the jump!

Nick Stuart: Kuroyama! Kuroyama smashing forearms and elbows into the head, the neck of Rob Williams, and the official for this contest , Ashley Barlow, is busy trying to set point of order–

Richard Parker: WILLIAMS bulling forward driving Kerry into the corner OH THAT IS BRUTAL!

Nick Stuart: The 5 Star Championship was a decoy for the assault, and Ami Troy–

Richard Parker: She’s going to keep that as a weapon, you just know–

Nick Stuart: Except she’s putting it at the time keeper’s table and is SLAMMING her palms into the ring apron to cheer on her charge! And Milwaukee is ROCKING even after everything they’ve seen on this night of professional wrestling!

While Rob Williams manages to bull rush Kerry into the corner with fierce velocity, The Emerald Apex maintains tacit control by grabbing hold of a muay thai clinch. If The Legend is going to do anything, he better do it quickly, because within the next blink, Kuroyama launches a massive knee that cracks right through the sound barrier, ripping into the body of the challenger and former 5 Star Champion.

Barlow sees what is going on. She merely shakes her head, signalling for the bell.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: And this final bout in the Almasy first round, the 5 Star Championship match, is OFFICIALLY under way! And Rob Williams is trying to throw some blows into the kidneys of the 5 Star Champion OOOOOH! OOOOOOF! Another knee finding purchase in the body of Rob Williams and The Legend wilts to the canvas!

Richard Parker: And the boss’s daughter is loving that. She’s freaking pantomiming to it all on the outside.

Nick Stuart: Williams is hurt, he’s grimacing, and Kuroyama, Kuroyama, he’s bellowing smoke, he’s breathing fire, and he’s lording over Williams, lording over the Whoresman, lording and Williams is doing his damnedest to shuffle on his backside, to move and get away, and OH! DRIVING FOREARM from KERRY KUROYAMA!

Richard Parker: Elbows like that cut your flesh to ribbons. And Rob Williams…we all he’s been repping that hard road life. That might be some leather…but it might well be thin as paper…

Nick Stuart: Kuroyama maintaining the pressure, maintaining the momentum, he’s been running ESPECIALLY hot…over a year with only a singular loss in singles competition, a loss avenged by capturing the 5 Star Championship over Steve Harrison at Ultra Violence, and you can see, those heavily tattooed arms of his are straining the neck of The Legend with a headlock. Side headlock on the canvas, with the legs splayed out and a sit. And he’s WRENCHING that hold heavy.

Richard Parker: And Williams is doing his best to try and fight his way out. He’s bracing against that hip of Kuroyama, he’s pushing against him, and that heavy tapping, it keeps the wrists very much locked in a strong point. So at this juncture, he’s getting his optimal amount of leverage from them and–

Nick Stuart: Williams getting those fingers into the waist of Kuryama’s tights–

Richard Parker: –but he’s doing that for grip and as you JUST saw, he’s using it to get back to a standing base, though he’s still having to fight from underneath–

Nick Stuart: Kuroyama’s roughly the same size as Williams, but he has to feel so much larger as a result of having that strong base locked in over top of the former 5 Star Champion–

Richard Parker: –OH! Nick, might want to change that–

Nick Stuart: Williams LIFTING Kuroyama…TRYING to lift Kuroyama with a heavy back suplex but the 5 Star Champion IS NOT letting free! And every attempted lift, he just torques it heavier and heavier and…back to the canvas…SIDE HEADLOCK TAKEOVER by Kuroyama, and this contest is back to where it started for Rob Williams!

Richard Parker: And Williams is irate! Fists slamming the canvas. Spit flying from his maw. He’s trying to do something but he’s flat as a pancake on his stomach now and at Kerry eKuroyama’s mercy–

Nick Stuart: Wait a minute. Wait a minute!

Richard Parker: –well look who is coming down the aisle.

It’s not a Whoresmen party without Whoresmen, right? Well, they’re on their way. Leading the charge? Intense Champion Fred Dick, worse for wear after his own Almasy and title contest earlier in the evening. Not far behind him, the challenger in said match, Anna Daniels. They aren’t side by side, but they are definitely leading this pack. However, they might be dwarfed by the rhinestone bespoke anabolic battletank right behind them; Daytona Diamonds.

Daytona is pounding his chest and saying cowboy shit, perhaps because he was shot up with another round of cowboy juice (aka Horse Roids). Fred Dick is menacing. Anna Daniels is even more menacing. And then, there’s the fucking Lasgana Boys…

Kerry maintains the side headlock as Ami does her job as manager, pointing out to Ashley Barlow what all is transpiring. There’s even a call to get more officials down, or some Enemigos, to ensure the sanctity of the match is upheld. When Barlow says she can’t do that, Troy kicks the ring steps, and shrugs her shoulders. The camera catches her clearly say “Fine, I’ll maintain order myself.” Some might laugh at this. After all, she’s just one SMOL people now around a group of psychopaths adept at this kind of shit.

The booing in Fiserv quickly turns to cheers as the Whoresmen begin to spread out around the ring.

Why?

Scott Hunter.

Clay Byrd.

Henry Keyes.

From the crowd, Vae Victis emerges. Anna Daniels and Scott Hunter. Fred Dick and his Lasagna Boys and Clay Byrd. Daytona is in his own flexing world at the head of the ring. And lingering just behind Ami is the Fist of DEFIANCE.

Nick Stuart: Just like that, JUST like that, before anything could even happen, The Whoresmen are neutralized–

Richard Parker: Don’t say anything yet, don’t count those chickens before they hatch, because ANYTHING can happen, and–

Nick Stuart: LASAGNA BOYS!

Richard Parker: And Fred Dick is demanding they hit his own partner so that Williams will automatically advance in the Almasy! Brilliant!

Yes, indeed. It’s almost as if this was planned, and told to Fred Dick nearly hundreds of times so he remembered to do it. The Lasagna Boys are on the apron, about to get in the ring. In the process, Kerry lets go of the hold. The Boys aren’t exactly the most brilliant chickens in the world (after all, they are Lasagna), but in trying to enter the ring, the manage to have a bit of trouble.

The 5 Star Champion is here to help them.

Yakuza kick to the face of Lasagna Boy #1, sending him from the apron and into the rail in a violent display. Lasagna Boy #2 manages to get in the ring, but the moment he does, the 5 Star Champion launches himself into his frame, lifting him up and planting him with a ring rattling Kuroyama Drive I! And as he gets up!

Nick Stuart: WILLIAMS!

Roll up.

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

In the midst of the scramble, Williams charges backwards, gathering momentum on the carom off the ropes, and when he arrives, he ANNIHILATES Kuroyama with a lariat that rattles his damn teeth loose. With the 5 Star Champion on the canvas, he begins to pelt him in the back of the head with boots from his, well, cowboy boots. Heavy shots. All before stomping with his heel to try and crush away the head of the Emerald Apex as if he were some rattlesnake in need of being put down. Does anyone go to help the Lasagna Boys? No. Does Henry Keyes make sure to grab hold of #2 and pull him from the ring? Yes. With a splat on the outside.

But Ami is more focused on her charge, getting his brains stomped in by Rob Williams. The Legend is leaving no quarter as he pushes the advantage, driving an elbow down into the current 5 Star Champion, and then, ripping him off the canvas, getting a hold of him in a standing headscissor.

Kuroyama tries to plant his feet.

It doesn’t matter.

Stump puller piledriver!

COVER!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

THREE!

Three?

KICKOUT at the very last second by the Emerald Apex.

Williams snorts. Grabbing hold of Kuroyama, he gets hold of him in a front face lock, looking to swing him over for some Old Time Rock and Roll–

Only for Kuroyama to tangle arms and backslide him to the canvas.

ONE!

TWO!

NO!

And both men are up to their feet, Kerry the slower on, and the brutal elbow to the mush causes him to spit outward. Another front facelock, but this time, Williams powers him up and snaps him just as quickly into the canvas with a brainbuster! Another smashing elbow to the downed Kuroyama is followed up by Williams, again, lifting Kerry to a stand, this time with a waistlock from behind–

GERMAN

SUPLEX

WITH BRIDGE

ONE!

TWO!

THR–NO!

The viciousness of the offense has struck a cord with Daytona; he’s smashing the ring apron with both hands, and the velocity is akin to something that would chop wood. Fred Dick, actually, is checking on his Lasagna Boys, especially #1, grabbing something from their pants. Yes, their pants. The Kraken is maintaining order through his sheer presence. Clay Byrd has his eyes trained on everything, darting back and forth, waiting for a Chicago style bullshit fest to break out at any moment.

But all that doesn’t matter.

You know why? Because all I want…all WE want…

Is some of that good ole Rock and Roll.

That kind of music just soothes the soul.

We’re reminiscing about the days of old…

Those days of old, when Rob Williams planted Cecilworth Farthington and became 5 Star Champion. And he can taste it now. Chasing after the Tag Titles, he’s thirsty for gold. And Kerry Kuroyama is in a BAD way. Staggering upward, Kuroyama wildly swings and then plants a knee to the canvas, his legs having given out. Rare in this run of success has someone hammered him with this volley of brutal offense. And Rob Williams is ready to strike.

Front facelock.

Lift.

Brainbuster!

NO!

Kerry’s leg grapevines. Roll through!

ONE!

TWO!

NO!

Williams with the late kick out! And as he rises–

YAKUZA KICK OUT OF NOWHERE!

Williams doesn’t go down from that.

ANOTHER YAKUZA KICK!

That one drops him. Kerry works to get ahold of him, smothering him, getting hold of him and lifting up the challenger. He tries his damnedest to get him where he needs him, but in the attempt for the Judgment Bolt Bomb, instead, Williams drops, nailing a jawbreaker on Kuroyama.

And he’s down.

Daytona, gets on the ring apron and Barlow goes to meet him.

What Fred Dick was doing becomes clear; he slides a pair of brass knuckles to Rob Williams. And The Legend reaches out for them.

Scott Hunter intercepts.

Daytona knows the plan. And he is PISSED! He tries to grab hold of Barlow, but she pushes off of him, managing to slip just away.

A good thing too. After all, she would have gotten caught in the KILLER lariat that Clay Byrd just leveled Daytona with, sending him to the arena mats. The Behemoth quickly steps through the ropes and dives on Diamonds.

Bedlam. Milwaukee is filled with an uneasy feeling. Especially as Williams, gets ahold of the 5 Star Champion, ready to end this damn thing with Old Time Rock and Roll once again. The front facelock is there.

Heavy blow to the kidney from the Emerald Apex breaks the hold.

A little space.

YAKUZA KICK!

Williams is still standing.

But not for long…

KUROYAMA DRIVER II!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING!

Vince Howard: Your winner…ADVANCING in the Almasy…and STILL 5 STAR CHAMPION! KEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERRY! KUROYAMA!

Nick Stuart: And in the bedlam, Kerry’s INCREDIBLE RUN continues, but it took him pulling out all the stops surviving a brutal exchange from Rob Williams to get this done!

Richard Parker: It pays to have friends, especially one you have to have friends to offset other people’s friends.

Kerry is out of the ring, with Ami putting the 5 Star Champion over his shoulder. And in the shot? 5 Star Champion Kerry Kuroyama, staring down his second round opponent in the 2025 Almasy Invitational…PRIME Intense Champion Fred Dick.

And with that…

WE’RE

ON

BREAK

(fer a little bit 🙂 )