ReVival 73

Normally, the very first segment on a ReVival is a little thing we like to call the “Cold Open.”

A lot of the time, it sets the tone for the rest of the show. It draws the fans in – both those in the arena and the ones watching at home – by grabbing them by their sweet lil faces and saying “HEY, PAY ATTENTION, SHIT’S ABOUT TO GET GOOD, YOU’RE GONNA WANNA WATCH THIS.”

But we don’t have a Cold Open this week.

Nobody called it.

It’s still sitting in the rundown.

Blank.

Lonely.

SAD.

So instead of getting something wonderful to pique your interest before the night gets underway, you’re going to get something very stupid instead.

“Hell yeah, Johnny, you got this, you’re gonna cream this fuckin’ dork.”

Featuring these two morons.

“Fuckin’ right. Dumbass is gonna wish he never showed up to Louisville tonight.”

Bet you wish George or Colin or even Brian wrote something now, don’t you?

(I know I do.)

(Well, not Brian.)

(Definitely not Brian.)

We’re backstage in a locker room with Mikey “The Business” Giuliano and “Wrigleyville’s Finest” Johnny Dorn. Johnny’s dipshit ass doesn’t know he name-dropped the wrong city, but he does know his match with Crash Jackson is minutes away. You’d think he’d be heading to the Argyle position, but he’s not.

Instead, he’s standing in front of a folding table and rubbing his hands together.

Pre-match ritual time, baybeeee.

On the table are ten shot glasses filled to the brim with what looks like piss. Sane people will tell you it tastes like it too. Mikey’s standing next to him, holding a bottle of Jeppson’s Malört, a look of pride on his face.

Mikey Giuliano: Alright bro, let’s see how many of these you can do before that dweeb comes back and tells you you gotta go kick some ass. On three. One. Two. Three.

Johnny immediately starts slamming back the shots, and Mikey’s right behind him to refill the glasses. He picks one up, puts one down. Up. Down. Up. Down. The taste of diesel fuel, expired milk, and ball sweat mixed together don’t phase him one bit.

Dorn gets to the end of the line, runs around the table, and starts up again.

Johnny Dorn: I’VE NEVER FELT SO ALIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE!

He keeps hammering back the shots. Mikey keeps pouring.

He reaches the end of the line again, and Johnny runs back around to the start.

KNOCK KNOCK

Matt Mills pops his head into the room and does a double-take.

Matt Mills: Uh. You’re up, Johnny.

He looks at the disaster in front of him.

Matt Mills: Maybe you shouldn’t–

Johnny Dorn: Fuck off, nerd! I’M ABOUT TO GO POPEYE ON HIS ASS!

Mills makes himself scarce in a hurry. Johnny looks back at Mikey and shoves him in the chest.

Mikey shoves him back.

Johnny Dorn: AAAAAAAHHHHH!!!

Mikey Giuliano: GO GET ‘EM, BRO!!!!!!

They both laugh.

Johnny rips the door open and storms down the hall, whooping it up.

In the locker room, Mikey cradles the nearly empty bottle of Malört like a baby and wipes a tear away from his eye.

Mikey Giuliano: That’s my boy!

ReVival is now… underway.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1rqfNpZwU4XxmDeJ3mqM6pNnoShZpd64x/view

You want signs? You’re going to get signs!

GOOD FUCKING TSLUCK
I CAME FOR SNOW AND DIAMONDS / BUT JUST MY LUCK! / I GOT SNOW AND DICK INSTEAD
SNOWDICK II: THE ONE BEFORE THE TRILOGY
I GOT AN IDEA, HOW BOUT YOU GIVE ME THE DAMN SKETTI BUCKET, AND I BEAT EVERYBODY
SEBASTIAN GOLD IS COOLER THAN COOL JILES
SEBANGA GOLD IS BAKING AT 375 FOR FIFTY MINUTES
I GOT SIGN AND MADE THIS HIGH FOR CRASH!
RIA IS BACK, LET THE STABBIN’S COMMENCE
LET ME TSING YOU THE TSONDA MY PEOPLE
MY OTHER RIDE IS A TSONDA TSIVIC
WHEN LICE GO TO SCHOOL THEY GET SENT HOME IF THE NURSE FINDS FRED DICK IN THEIR HAIR
ANOTHER REVIVAL. ANOTHER MAIN EVENT WITH A ROOKIE AND A VETERAN. WHAT GIVES?
DICK CANCER FOR ALMASY FINALS
MY FAVORITE ITALIAN PLACE SERVES THE “JILES SPECIAL”, IT’S ALFREDO WITH EGGS AND A SHITTY ATTITUDE
DUE TO TARIFFS, WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT THE QUARTERFINALS OF THE ALMASY ARE NOW THE TWO-DIMES-AND-ONE-PENNY FINALS.
WE ARE NOT FANISLAVS OF STANISLAV
NED REFORM THINKS ALL DOGS ARE BAD DOGS
WHERE DOES NED REFORM GET HIS WATER? / from a WeLL aCtUaLLy
CRASH PUTS KETCHUP ON HIS HOT DOGS BUT JOHNNY DORN PUTS IT ON HIS WIENER

The sound of trumpets (….the trumpets…) fill the arena as “Industry Baby” by Lil Nas X begins playing. “Wrigleyville’s Finest” Johnny Dorn swaggers out from the back looking absolutely obnoxious in a Chicago flag draped over his shoulders and ring gear to match. He spins around on the stage so all the heathens can get a good look at what someone from a REAL CITY looks like before marching down to the ring and talking shit the entire way.

Vince Howard: Introducing first…From The Greatest City in the world, Chicago, Illinois. Weighing in at 215lbs.

Vince Howard: JOHNNY DORN!!!

Vince Howard: And his opponent, weighing in at 238lbs…

The arena lights drop into darkness, save for the backlights in the entryway, as a mix of curious silence and spontaneous cheers comes over the crowd. 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

Vince Howard: From Buffalo, New York, representing Nobody’s Heroes, CRASH!!!!!

The bell dings as Volbeat’s “A Warrior’s call” floods the airwaves 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

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

He leaps the top rope and lands with a thunderous rattle before pacing around the ring and nodding his head repeatedly. He stops in the middle, facing the crowd.

FEEL THE POWER OF THE WAAAAARRIOOOOR!

Crash steps towards the crowd, slamming his fist into the air and yelling along with the song.

FIGHT!
FIGHT!
FIGHT!
FIGHT!

He turns to the opposite side of the arena and offers the same sentiment.

LET’S GET READY TO RUUUUMBLE

Much more fist pumping begins 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 locks in on his opponent with an alarming stare, holding a violent gaze and snarl that raises red flags all over the place.

DING DING

The bros circle and size each other up. They lock up and Johnny quickly takes control with a side headlock followed by some stiff jabs to Buffalo’s Finest face. He throws Crash against the ropes, then down to the mat with a Japanese arm drag.

Nick Stuart: Well, the crowd may not like Johnny Dorn, but this kid does have some moves.

Richard Parker: Johnny Dorn was trained by Lindsay Troy, herself. Which makes him both a nepobaby and an asshole.

Nick Stuart: An intriguing combination, but will it lead him to victory over Crash?

Johnny doesn’t let up and hits Crash’s back with an elbow drop, once! Twice! Three Times a-NO! Crash rolls out of the way and Dorn hits his funny bone on the mat. He flops around in pain as Crash kips up to the roar of the fans. Crash hits the ropes and nails Johnny with flying crossbody just as he recovers. Dorn curls around his midsection like a dying pillbug but Crash doesn’t let up. He opens Johnny up with a few well-aimed kicks then executes a beautiful standing moonsault. He goes for the pin!

ONE!

TW-

KICKOUT!

Dorn rolls out of the ring and makes a big show of catching his breath by the apron. He calls for a time-out but the ref informs him that’s not a thing.

Nick Stuart: Is Dorn already out of juice?

Richard Parker: Excuse me, Nick. He is practicing self-care after Crash Hack-son recklessly endangered him with that moonsault.

Nick Stuart: You mean…hit him with a wrestling move?

Richard Parker: Disgusting.

Crash is gonna continue with the disgusting behavior because right now there’s a highflyer in the ring and a heel ringside. Crash does what wrestling law decrees and runs full-speed, jumps through the ropes and SUICIDE DIVE-NO!

Nick Stuart: WHAT!?

Richard Parker: YESSSS!

Turns out Johnny wasn’t as out of breath as Crash thought. With full energy he catches Crash and uses his momentum to SLAM HIM TO THE STADIUM FLOOR. The crowd gasps.

Nick Stuart: My god! Does Crash still have a spine after that?

Johnny picks a stunned Crash gives him a few stiff uppercuts. The malice is apparent in the Polo Bro’s eyes as he grounds the flyer with a vicious lariat, then picks him back up for a ticket straight to the ring post. Crash’s shoulder hits the post hard and he grasps it in pain. He tries to breathe through it but Johnny’s giving him no air. Dorn wraps the injured arm around the ring post and tries to tie a knot to the horror of the fans. Ashley Barlow screams at Johnny as Crash screams in agony.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Nick Stuart: Dorn with more punishing offence and the crowd isn’t having it.

Richard Parker: What you’re seeing is excellence, Nick. These people boo because they’ve never seen excellence in their lives. If they had, they wouldn’t be in Kentucky.

Eventually, Johnny relents, and he slides back into the ring to soak in a choir of boos from the crowd as Crash tries to get some feeling back into his arm at ringside.

Richard Parker: Crash should just forfeit and go back to his pathetic Heroes.

Nick Stuart: Bit harsh, Rich.

Richard Parker: Anyone who call themselves a Hero deserves to have their arm broken on a ring post. I didn’t make the rules, Nick. But I do enforce them.

Crash is about to roll into the ring to stop the count when his injured arm, as if it senses something he doesn’t, reaches out behind him. Crash’s head whips around and, sure enough, there’s an adorable young fan in head-to-toe Crash merch, tears in his eyes, holding out a dawg for his Hero. Crash rushes over a gulps it down with impressive, disturbing efficiency.  He stretches his now perfectly healed arm, just in time for him to elbow a sneaking Johnny in the face.

Nick Stuart: Can’t fool the Hotdog Hero! Johnny tried sneak up on Crash but that boy’s basically got superpowers now. Dorn may be in trouble.

Crash slides Dorn back inside the ring. Dorn is up fast, but Crash is faster. He jumps so nice, so smooth to the top rope and BOOM.  THE LFG DDT! The flying DDT plants Wrigleyville’s Finest who may be out cold. But just to make sure, Crash springboards off the middle rope and smooshes Dorn with a Senton!

Nick Stuart: Crash nailing Dorn with yet another perfect ariel maneuver. I don’t know how Dorn recovers from this assault.

Richard Parker: There! You said it yourself, this is a disgusting assault on the part of Criminal Crash here. Where are the authorities??

Nick Stuart: Watching in the crowd probably.

Crash whips Johnny into the post and takes a moment to soak in the adoration of the fans.

Nick Stuart: It’s been a difficult few weeks for Buffalo’s Finest, and the crowd wants to let him know they love and appreciate him.

Richard Parker: Ew.

While Crash poses in the middle of the ring, Johnny recovers enough to back himself out fo the corner and turns his attention to the ring post. It’s tough to tell what he’s doing at first, but it almost looks like he’s taking a cap off the ring post and taking something out…and it’s…a bottle?

Nick Stuart: What is that…how….Did JOHNNY DORN STASH MALORT IN THE RING POST??

Richard Parker: Genius!

Nick Stuart: You can do that???

Richard Parker: You can when you’re from Chicago, bitch!

Crash turns to finish off Dorn but runs right into Big Boot from Dorn. Crash is laid out and Dorn stomps him mercilessly, the malice of Malort burning like black coals in his eyes. He hooks both of Crash’s arms and-

Nick Stuart: GREETINGS FROM WRIGLEYVILLE!

Richard Parker: CRASH IS TOAST!

The sit out double underhook powerbomb seems to kill whatever momentum Crash had left. Dorn smiles in assured victory and doesn’t even bother hooking the leg.

ONE!

TWO!

THR-

KICKOUT!

Dorn can’t fucking believe it. He pounds the mat and yelling at Ashley. When his temper tantrum is done, Crash is almost to his knees. Dorn adopts a low stance like a viper about to go in for the kill.

Richard Parker: This is it, Nick. Can’t wait to see Crash burn!

Dorn charges in for the SHOT OF MALORT.

BUT NO! CRASH COUNTERS! A SUPERKICK TO JOHNNY’S FACE sends the Malört out of his mouth! He collapses helplessly to the mat as Crash, clutching his midsection, makes the long climb up the ropes.

Nick Stuart: Crash is taking his time, the hurt’s clearly showing. Will he make it? Will be able to hit the…

CRASH!

DOT!

COM!

Nick Stuart: In the middle of the ring! He goes for the cover.

And the crowd chants along:

ONE!

TWO!

THREEEEEEEEEE!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Here is your winner by pinfall, CRASH!!!!!!!!

An exhausted Crash raises his fist in bloody victory.

Nick Stuart: Johnny Dorn makes an impressive debut, but today, Hot Dogs triumphed over Malort.

TAL comes out to give his fellow Hero a hug. He points to him and raises his arm high. The crowd lose their minds for the victorious Hero.

And Revival 73 moves on.

Allow me to paint you a word picture.

We’re backstage.

Tada!

But enough about the former Mrs. Jace Parker Davidson, we have a segment to get through.

Four people stand in front of a PRIME backdrop, chief among them is Matt Mills because he’s the only one armed with a microphone. He wears the expression of a man who is contemplating whether he has died and gone to the bad place where he’s forced to conduct Steve Lemieux interviews, as if that is his own special version of hell, or if he’s just unlucky enough to keep getting these assignments.

Matt Mills: I’m Matt Mills, and I’m joined here tonight by Steve Lemieux, as well as two men who aren’t on the PRIME roster.

One of those men, the tall one with the mustache named Rick, very obviously frowns at that particular detail.

Also the man is named Rick, not the mustache. Just so we’re all clear about that particular detail.

Matt Mills: Steve, you were unsuccessful in your match against Ivan Stanislav two weeks ago.

It’s not a question, and it’s clear from the expression on his face that Steve still isn’t over the loss. For Steve’s part, his is the expression of a man who has just soiled his pants in public and has resigned himself to the knowledge that very soon everyone will. For the record his pants are perfectly clean, he just has that air about him.

Matt Mills: But it wasn’t without incident, as Luc Labelle played a key role in the ending of that match.

The fourth man in frame, the one called Ollie, nods along and puts a reassuring hand on Steve’s back.

Rick Hardbody: Whoa whoa there, Matty. Let’s back the truck up a second. It’s great you wanna remind Stevie Sandwich of the worst, most embarrassing failure of his time here, but that ain’t where the money is. Cameraman, bring it in close? Get real tight with it.

The cameraman does not, in fact, get real tight with it.

Rick Hardbody: August 29th. St. Paul, Minnesota. Flynn Cup. The whole world is gonna find out what we already know, and that’s the fact that this…

He makes a sweeping motion with his hand between Ollie and himself.

Rick Hardbody: Is the best damn tag-team to walk across God’s green, you get me? Fifteen other teams. Thirty smacked asses. That means sixty cheeks are ‘bout to get reeeeeeeeal red, if you know what I mean.

Ollie Cade looks like he would rather be anywhere else. Dangling from his fingertips on the edge of a ravine. Swimming naked through shark-infested waters. Walking a tight-rope over the caldera of an active volcano. Lee Best’s mansion. Literally anywhere else.

Rick Hardbody: And it’s gonna be a saaaaaad day, when each and every one of you run up against Twink Juice…

He jabs a thumb towards his partner.

Ollie Cade: (under his breath) Dude, the fuck?

And then two thumbs at himself.

Rick Hardbody: And Big Ricky Dangerous. Ya heard it here first, Matty. Now talk to the sandwich man!

Matt Mills, eyes now wide in a combination of confusion and disbelief, turns his attention back to Steve Lemieux. Meanwhile, Ollie Cade is having a very quiet yet very animated conversation with his partner. It probably has something to do with that brand new “Twink Juice” nickname he didn’t know he had.

Steve Lemieux: Hi, Matt.

Steve looks at the floor. If it’s any indication of how he’s feeling, know that he didn’t even bring his own microphone to this interview. So you know it’s dire.

He sighs, big and heavy.

Steve Lemieux: Let’s talk about some topics.

Before any topics can be discussed, there is the sound of an engine and a car horn if that horn was configured to play the melody of “La Cucaracha.”

Matt Mills: What the…

And then everyone is forced to jump out of the as Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq. – the self-proclaimed only lawyer-doctor in professional wrestling – comes barrel-assing into frame riding a Rascal scooter.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Hello, yes! I’m sorry for running late, but the parking situation back here is atrocious.

He hops off the scooter and stands between Matt and Steve, which means he’s about to hijack an interview that was already way off the rails. He taps Mills on the shoulder in a friendly manner.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Thank you for making your delicious Fiber One breakfast cereals, General. It helps this old man get things moving today.

There is now a mental image in Matt Mills head that wasn’t there a moment ago, and he’s none too happy about it.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: But now is not the time to talk of a nice morning BM. We are here to talk about Stefon Lummox!

Rick Hardbody: Same thing, tee bee haitch.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Shush, you. As professional wrestling’s only lawyer-doctor…

But not everyone’s lawyer, that’s another guy.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: …I would be delinquent in my duties if I did not point out the horrible crime that occurred two weeks ago! The entire world saw it! Don’t say you didn’t, we all know you did. Stefon was having a perfectly capable wrestling match…

Both Rick and Matt look like they want to laugh. Rick actually does end up giggling, but Mills has enough journalistic integrity to hold it in. Ollie just shakes his head at the two of them.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: …when who should interfere but that dastardly, no-good Labubu Belafonte! Now I have it on good authority from many fine websites that labubus are the devil, and the last thing we need is to have some satans running around ruining perfectly capable wrestling matches.

It’s here where Matt Mills interjects.

Matt Mills: That’s what I was just asking Steve, to get his thoughts on Luc Labelle’s interference.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Hrm. Yes, I see. Interesting.

He taps his chin thoughtfully.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: I don’t know who any of those people are.

It’s here where Matt Mills regrets all of the life choices that led him here, to this moment.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: But that is beside the point! The point is that Labubu Belafonte has committed many crimes against Stefon Lummox, and there is only one way to settle them! Trial by combat!

Ollie Cade: (sighing) Oh no.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Oh yes! Consider this a challenge, Labubu. Are you brave enough to step into the ring with Stefon Lummox and settle things the way they do in the pacific northwest? With axes? And lumberjacks? And perhaps a sasquatch? That’s right, we are challenging you to a lumberjack match!

All the color drains from Ollie’s face.

Rick takes two steps back and has to brace himself against the backdrop so he doesn’t fall over from laughter.

Steve… Well, Steve just looks confused.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Will you meet Stefon in the middle of the forest in the middle of the ring in the middle of Indianapolis in the middle of Ascension? Will you be a sasquatch, or will you be a sasquitter? A bigfoot, or a bigrunnerawayer?

Steve looks from man to man, hoping one of them will explain what’s going on.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: But now I must be off, for I have a match to go commentate. Toodleoo!

And with that, Zeke hops back on to his Rascal and scoots his aging ass out of the scene. “La Cucaracha” can be heard fading into the distance as he rides off.

And with that, we move on.

Let’s get it.

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

A piercing siren rings out as a blue Fleur de Lis fades into existence on the big screen. As the bluesy riff of Émeute Dans La Prison blares through the arena, images of Montreal flash along to the beat. The first few are glitzy, glamourous landscape pictures of the skyline, but they gradually shift more and more into the underbelly of the city, until images of low-income neighbourhoods adorned with graffiti are playing on the Tron.

Vince Howard: Introducing first… He weighs in tonight at 91 kilograms and hails from Montreal, Quebec, Canada…

Richard Parker: Kilograms? What is that in pounds?

Nick Stuart: I don’t know, Richard.

Richard Parker: Ugh! We’re like twenty seconds in and I have to do math?

The chorus kicks in and out marches Luc Labelle, an almost-permanent scowl etched onto his face. He’s a killer, but not a silent one, as he jaw-jacks in French with any fan that dares to boo him. The man just doesn’t shut the fuck up, no matter whether or not anybody can understand him.

Vince Howard: LUUUUUUUUUUUUC LAAAAAAAAAA BELLLLLLLLLLLEE!!!

When he finally rolls into the ring, as intense as ever, the young man can’t help but to shit-talk either directly to his opponent’s face or right into the camera. He runs his mouth any chance he gets, all things that the network would surely censor if he were to say them in English. Can he cash the checks that his mouth has been writing?

Vince Howard: Representing the Red Army. She stands at five feet and ten inches tall and weighs in at one hundred and thirty-five pounds. Hailing from San Diego, California… she is THE SECOND COMING! ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSE!

A gentle yet deliberate electronic pulses as if it’s underwater. A soft synth pad floats in and expands, filling all of the cracks that are left behind before reverberating electronic elements creates a dreamy world.

I still got your lip balm in my Jacq
Time to throw that shit away

Stepping out from the backstage area is the Second Coming, Rose, as “bb.” by Naika plays through the stadium. The fans are on their feet, cheering her on, as she moves to the center of the stage. She stands there, focused and determined, wearing a pair of red army tights with ROSE painted on the sides in red and a black sports bra.

Oh, I, oh, I’m in my bag
Getting finer by the day
And I don’t ever wanna feen you anymore

She drops to one knee on the stage as the spotlight lands upon her. Her left fist touches the metal stage and she punches it twice, feeling the electricity in the air.

When you’re going through the motions
Losing focus, losing grip
Pick myself up off the floor
I’m not hurting anymore…

The buzz from the fans grows louder.

I swear, for a second there
I forgot what a bad bitch I was

She then explodes to her feet with a sudden step forward as pyro and fire go off behind her.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

What a bad bitch I am
I’m feeling good
Right on track

She marches to the ring, eyes locked and focused, ignoring everyone around her except for what lies in front of her. She rolls under the bottom rope and hits the ropes twice before moving to her corner, determined.

It feels so good to be bad

The music then fades.

Nick Stuart: Fans, I would like to take a moment to let you know that we have been… umm… “joined” at the commentary table by Dr. Zeke D. Badguy.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Hello, yes. Hello.

DING DING

The two combatants circle each other to a mixed reaction from the crowd. Neither Rose nor Labelle seem eager to make the first move, instead taking the time to jaw at each other. More than once Luc Labelle says something that causes referee Jimmy Turnbull to cock his head like a dog hearing a loud noise, but that’s because he doesn’t understand French. Meanwhile, Rose just looks angry.

So, you know, just Rose things.

Labelle makes the first move, snapping off a savate kick to the thigh before Rose can move to block it. Instead of defending she rolls with the move, turning the momentum into a spin so she can connect with a discus elbow strike in return. The move catches Labelle off guard and for a moment he appears rattled.

Rose appears angry. Yes, still.

Nick Stuart: Labelle with the opening salvo tonight, and Rose doesn’t look happy about it.

Richard Parker: Counterpoint: When does Rose ever look happy?

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Hello, yes. I agree that Violet should not be happy, because I would also not be happy if I had to buy Luluc Lalemon’s many yoga pants at such high yoga prices.

What happens next? Glad you asked. The answer is a lot of physicality. Rose follows up with a stiff forearm shot. Labelle responds in kind with one of his own. Rose retaliates with a knife-edge chop to the chest. Again Labelle retaliates, a second forearm coming very close to knocking the omnipresent scowl from Rose’s face. Does it succeed? No.

Nick Stuart: Okay, I believe you’re thinking of Lulu Lemon, which has nothing to do with Luc Labelle.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: He is misappropriating a brand identity!

Nick Stuart: What? No. That’s not what I’m…

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Bootleg yoga pants are a crime!

Richard Parker: Mmmm. Yoga pants.

The Montreal Main Event pulls Rose into a lightning fast snap DDT, driving her to the mat. He immediately moves for the cover, and now it’s Jimmy Turnbull’s turn(bull) to do Jimmy Turnbull things. By that I mean count. He counts. He’s a counting man. Jimmy Numbers, they call him.

ONE!

Okay, you got me. No one calls him that.

TWO!

Rose kicks out, and then rolls to the outside to compose herself and regroup a little. Labelle stands near the ropes, taunting her a bit to get back in the ring. Outside the ring, Rose waits until referee Turnbull positions himself between the ropes and Labelle, warning the young man back to allow his opponent to get back into the ring. He puts his hands up and backs away, but as soon as Rose slides in Labelle pushes past the referee and unloads with a roundhouse that connects with the head of The Second Coming.

This time Rose isn’t able to move with the strike, instead it violently whips her around and exposing her back to Labelle. Double L grabs a waistlock, and bridges back with a German suplex.

Jimmy Numbers, do your thing!

ONE!

That is your name now, Jimmy. Do not fight it.

TWO!

Again Rose kicks out, but Labelle only increases the pressure. He drags Rose back to her feet and positions her for an exploder suplex that throws her into the turnbuckles. Rose crumples, and when she starts to pull herself to the center of the ring in a show of defiance, Labelle grabs her by the ankles to prevent her from going any further.

Still holding Rose’s leg, Labelle positions her into a step-through grapevine before grabbing both of Rose’s arms.

Nick Stuart: Labelle perhaps setting up for a surfboard…

He pulls Rose slightly up off the mat, and then presses his other foot on the back of her neck and stomps down hard into the canvas.

Richard Parker: Or, you know, not.

Turnbull takes a moment to check on Rose, but she waves him away.

Nick Stuart: Tremendous burst of offence by Luc Labelle here in the early going of this match, Richard, but don’t count Rose out of this yet.

Richard Parker: It’s not my job to count, Nick. That’s Turnbull’s gig.

See? Even Richard knows. Jimmy. Numbers.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Yes, yes. There is very much wrestling moves happening, but what I want to know is whether he will accept the challenge of fighting Stefon Lummox in the woods with an axe surrounded by many trees and things that live in trees.

Nick Stuart: Is… is that how you think a lumberjack match works?

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Hello, yes. Yes. Is it not?

Richard Parker: Only if you want your client to die.

Labelle pulls Rose back up to her feet and draws her into position for a second exploder. This time Rose blocks the move, and in one fluid motion she pivots and takes out Labell’s legs, driving him face first into the middle turnbuckle with a drop toe hold variation.

Labelle grimaces and checks to make sure he’s not bleeding from the impact, but the delay gives Rose enough time to reinforce her own offense. A basement dropkick connects with the back of Labelle’s neck, spiking him face-first into the turnbuckle for a second time and causing his back to bend at an unnatural angle.

Rose is unrelenting. She pulls Labelle up from the corner and shoves him towards the center of the ring. He stumbles, uneasy on his feet after two rapid introductions to the unforgiving steel of the turnbuckle, and turns just in time to have his head nearly taken off by a jumping leg lariat.

This time it’s Rose’s turn to make a cover.

ONE

TWO

Labelle kicks out, but Rose doesn’t give him a chance to breathe. Again she’s on him, pulling him to his feet and firing him off into the ropes with an Irish whip. She measures him for a superkick.

Nick Stuart: Shades of her father!

But Luc Labelle manages to hit the brakes in time to catch her foot.

Nick Stuart: It’s blocked!

Richard Parker: Shades of her father, for sure.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Nonsense, I have not seen Daisy turn into mist even once since this match began!

Rose backflips out of the grab, turns, and then catches Labelle in the temple with a pele kick. Labelle staggers back, because man his head is catching a lot of blows this match. Unfortunately, that continues with a double arm DDT from the Second Coming that plants Labelle to the mat.

Nick Stuart: Rose – that’s her name, by the way, Zeke – in control now. She’s going high risk…

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Now is not the time for the bungee jumping and the extreme sports, Cherry Blossom. You can do that on your own time!

Nick Stuart: What?

Richard Parker: I mean, bungee jumping is a high risk activity, Nick.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Indeed.

Nick Stuart: Why are you agreeing with him?!

Richard Parker: I mean I’m just saying.

Nick Stuart: What the hell did I do to deserve dealing with the two of you right now?

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Did you make an infernal pact with a creature from the nether? Because that would certainly spell imminent doom for you. As professional wrestling’s only lawyer-doctor I would be happy to review any such contracts. I am licensed in the ethereal, after all.

Okay, so here’s what happened during all that broadcaster nonsense just now. With Labelle down on the mat, Rose stepped out onto the ring apron and ascended to the top turnbuckle looking for a big move, but the Montreal Main Event had enough sense to know that it was coming and roll out of the ring to safety.

Rose hops down from the turnbuckle and moves to where Labelle is regrouping on the ring apron, but he quickly grabs her by the head and snaps her neck down across the top rope. He rolls under the bottom rope and drills her with a second roundhouse kick. Just as before the move causes her to lose her balance, this time allowing Labelle to draw her up into a vertical suplex.

Nick Stuart: Delayed vertical sup-OH GOD!

He snaps her straight down to the mat with a brainbuster. The crowd gasps in horror, given the history of that move in PRIME.

Nick Stuart: Fans, I’m sorry, but after being ringside for what Paxton Ray did to Jonathan Rhine three years ago, I can’t help but get nervous every time I see that move.

Richard Parker: Honestly, I’m with you on this one, Nick.

Fortunately, the fact that Rose is slowly moving on the canvas is enough to assuage any fears that she suffered the same fate.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: It is bad enough that Luluc Lalemon is making the bootleg yoga pants, and causing many injustices to my client Stefon Lummox, but this is a bridge too far. Someone should throw the book at him.

Labelle makes the cover.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Well, what are you waiting for? Do neither of you have any books that you keep on hand for throwing?

ONE

Nick Stuart: N-no?

TWO

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Bah!

THR-NO!

Rose gets her shoulder up at 2.9. The collective tension of the crowd is released in a round of applause. There may not be a lot of Rose or Red Army fans in attendance, but there is still relief in knowing the brainbuster didn’t claim another victim.

Labelle, the frustration now mounting, pulls Rose to her feet and readies for another attack. Rose slips behind him, grabs a waistlock, and runs him into the corner chest-first. The Second Coming releases her grip, takes two steps back, and launches a superkick at the back of Labelle’s head.

OOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHH!

Nick Stuart: Good lord! Rose damn near took his head off with that!

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Yes, hi. As professional wrestling’s only lawyer-doctor, I can confirm that removing someone’s head will end their life. Also it is illegal in forty-nine states.

Nick Stuart: What?

Richard Parker: What state is it legal in?

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Texas.

Richard Parker: Okay, yeah, that tracks.

Rose shoves Labelle down to the mat and moves to the corner, looking for something big to try and end this before it escalates any further.

Nick Stuart: Wilt to NO!!!

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Ah yes. My favorite of the Fast Race Car Crime Family movies.

Richard Parker: Okay, even I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Too Willed Too Know. It’s the one where everyone stops doing race car crimes and seeks enlightenment.

Richard Parker: Alright, no offense, but that one’s a stretch.

Nick Stuart: Seriously.

I knew that when I wrote it, guys. Calm down. Jesus.

Anyway.

A quick recap. Rose had ascended to the top rope again and attempted the Wilt To Bloom inverted phoenix splash. Despite having received some potent offense this match, the move was near-perfect. The only problem was that Luc Labelle had rolled away at the last second, causing Rose to impact the canvas instead of her opponent.

Labelle capitalizes immediately, pulling Rose up into another brainbuster.

Nick Stuart: Oh no, not again…

Only this time Rose gouges Labelle in the eyes, raking violently to get out of the hold. She’s able to break free.

And then things start to break down.

With Luc Labelle complaining about his eyes, Jimmy Turnbull moves in to check and make sure he’s okay to continue. The problem is that Labelle is also furious at this latest development, and is flailing about trying to get his hands on his opponent. Seeing this, Rose drives her shoulder into his midsection. Labelle stumbles back, and an errant elbow clips Jimmy Turnbull. It’s not enough to take him down, but it is enough to stun him, and that’s all the opening Rose needs.

She slides out of the ring and dashes to the broadcast table, pulling the cane free from the hand of Dr. Zeke.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: That is theft, Azalea! I need that stick for walking!

Meanwhile, Luc Labelle has regained his sight and storms towards the side of the ring. When he reaches for Rose between the top and middle ropes…

WHACK!

He’s met with the business end of the cane.

Rose throws the now broken cane aside and slides into the ring, making a quick roll-up cover and bellowing for Jimmy Turnbull to start the count. Having regained his own senses, Turnbull slides into position.

ONE

Nick Stuart: Rose is about to steal one!

TWO

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: That will be two thefts! So many thefts to prosecute!

Labelle starts to try and fight his way out of the pin, but Rose grabs a fistful of tights for extra leverage.

THREE!!

DING DING DING

Rose immediately bails to the floor, raising her arm in victory as she backs up the ramp. Instead of a scowl, there’s a smirk of smug satisfaction plastered on her face.

Vince Howard: The winner of this match… ROOOOOOOSE!!!

Labelle pounds the mat in frustration and stares daggers at Dr. Zeke, knowing full-well that despite not being involved it was his cane that swung the tide in his opponent’s favor tonight.

Nick Stuart: Rose picks up a win here tonight, and Luc Labelle doesn’t look happy about it.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Which one of you is carrying me to the back? Poinsettia broke my walking stick and I will require assistance.

Richard Parker: 1-2-3 not it!

Nick Stuart: (ignoring all of this) We’ll be back with more action right after this!

We fade.

We open on a stillframe image of stylized art, depicting a serpentine green dragon flying majestically among golden stormclouds. Partially obscuring the view, the jewel-studded face of the Five Star Title of PRIME lightly bobs to the rhythm of footsteps.

Then the view pulls back, revealing the image to be printing upon the back of a t-shirt. Clearly, a Kerry Kuroyama t-shirt, as the art is the same as his back tattoo. The front also probably has some insipid phrase like “FIGHTING FOR THE FEW” as a half-assed attempt to sound inspiration.

And naturally, the only man cringy enough to be caught dead wearing a Kerry Kuroyama t-shirt… is the Five Star Champion himself.

A camera man is following close behind the Emerald Apex as the latter steadily lurks through the hallways backstage at the Rupp Arena, the Five Star Championship belt slungover his back. His moves in his usual air of silent stoicism, but the calm exterior does little to dampen a presence that is anything but benign.

His face is as hard as a mountain, and his eyes are as furious as a storm. Production crew members, picking up on the heavy FAFO vibes he’s giving off, hug the walls and give him his space while he marches on toward his intended destination.

Said destination ends up being a nondescript door. He stops outside of it, and leans in.

Is that… music he hears?

Steeling himself for the unknown, he pushes his way through and for a guy who hangs around with Scott Hunter, he’s shockingly surprised at what he sees.

A pipe organ. A little old church lady in an ‘80s-style dress, 1880s that is. And a masked man in a three-piece suit, all black.

What’s more surprising is what he hears.

“No More Tears” on the church pipes.

And a certain Italian-American luchador pretending he is a part of a precolonial Mexican civilization with a name that suggests he’s more from England than any other country.

Yes friends, The Anglo Luchador is still mourning Ozzy Osbourne.

TAL: lightly sobbing while singing  THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW IS A CRACK IN THE SKY

Church Lady: furiously playing the organ

Kerry takes a moment to give the camera that deadpan, slightly pained, “this is my life” stare, before looking back to TAL.

Kerry Kuroyama: Hey…

TAL: A STAIRWAY TO DARKNESS IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE

Old Lady: even more furious playing

As you can see, they don’t notice.

Kerry Kuroyama: (much louder this time) HEY!

The organ-playing abruptly stops. The Luchador is shaken as if he were in a trance.

TAL: Oh, it’s you.

Kerry Kuroyama: Sorry if I’m interrupting the uh… what have you. I just wanted you to hear the news from me first.

TAL: Oh, you’re finally lifting my IHOP ban?

Kerry rolls his eyes because that’s the only reaction someone of his stature can have at this very moment.

Kerry Kuroyama: No… regrettably, that’s not my call to make.

The Luchador sadly sighs again. The indignities keep on coming.

Kerry Kuroyama: I did, however, meet with LT just a few minutes ago. Seems as though management has pegged the next in line to come swinging for this up in Indianapolis…

He pulls the championship belt from his shoulder and holds it up slightly.

Kerry Kuroyama: Seems as though it’s going to be… you.

The Luchador’s eyes light up and he outstretches his hands towards the sky.

TAL: PRAISE BE TO THE DARK… ah shit, hold on.

The Luchador outstretches his hands towards the ground.

TAL: PRAISE BE TO THE DARK LORD!

Old Lady: You know, sonny, you were right the first time. Mr. Osbourne actually was highly spiritual and never espoused belief in Satan’s superiority. You’re thinking more along the lines of highly aggressive protests against the status quo by bands like Venom and Mercyful Fate.

Both The Luchador and Kerry look at the woman in disbelief, maybe even one could say in awe.

Old Lady: Oh close your mouths you heathens. That was over 40 years ago! How old do you think I am?

They nod to her and then at each other.

TAL: She’s got a point.

Kerry Kuroyama: Yeah, I’ll take your word for it. Anyway, you’re not the only one who’s pleased by this news. I’ve been waiting for this rematch for over a year…

He nods. Despite being “pleased” with the match-up, his face is as stern as ever.

Kerry Kuroyama: …best of luck at Ascension. One athlete to another.

The Luchador nods slowly himself before looking straight at his PPV opponent’s face.

TAL: Thanks, and I hope I don’t disappoint you in the ring, even if I do hope to leave you disappointed after the match.

He reaches his hand up slowly and tentatively at first before shrugging his shoulders and mouthing “fuck it” and extending his hand enthusiastically.

TAL: May the best wrestler win.

Kuroyama stares quizzically at the open hand.

Oddly, after a moment, a smile creeps across his face.

Then a light chuckle. Uncontrollable giggling. Eventually, he ramps up throwing his head back and unleashing a full-throated belly laugh.

When he finally recomposes himself, the Five Star Champion shakes his head.

Kerry Kuroyama: “Say hello to the rest of your team for me.”

He delivers the words with an almost cryptic intent. As though he’d been holding onto them for a long time.

With that, Kuroyama turns and heads for the exit.

Kerry Kuroyama: Also… “See You on the Other Side”, or get the hell out.

The Luchador shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

TAL: You get to request a song when your buddies let me go to IHOP again, aight?

Kerry shakes his head as me makes his exit.

Old Lady: Shall we get back to “No More Tears?”

TAL: Nah, stick in the mud there kinda ruined the vibe at the end there. Let’s go with some Sabbath. You know “Snowblind?”

Old Lady: Know it? I lost my virginity to it!

The Luchador goes to say something snarky, but catches himself.

TAL: You know what, good for you. Let’s go.

The old lady starts playing the opening chords, but we can’t stick around for an entire performance of heavy metal on a church organ. We go elsewhere.

Crash Jackson with a fresh plate of dogs enters Nobody’s Locker Room. But before the Hotdog Hero can chow down, he smells something that makes him pause. That’s not hotdogs…it’s Lasagna.

He turns on the lights and sure enough the whole room is filled with roasting pans piping hot with Lasagna. And in the middle of them, sitting on the floor, his customary Gold headband now red, is Sebastian Gold.

Crash: Bash!

Gold shakes his head as if coming out of a daze.

Sebastian Gold: Crash?

Crash runs over to his friend and starts shaking him.

Crash: Bash? What happened to you?

Sebastian Gold: Someone was hurting me. But not anymore. I’m home now, Crash.

Crash: Yeah, of course, home with the Heroes, where you belong!

Sebastian Gold: Yes. I have.

Gold’s jab hits Crash’s jaw like a missile. Buffalo’s Finest staggers back, clutching his face in disbelief.

Sebastian Gold: I’m home. With Fre-e-e

Maybe it’s the sight of his friend in pain, the nostalgic smell of hotdogs. But the real Sebastian flashes briefly in Gold’s eyes. He struggles against completing the word. He shakes.

Sebastian Gold: I’m Las-ls–se—Saaaaa-

Fred Dick: Chef Boyardeez Nuts!

Sebastian drops to the floor like a stringless puppet. Crash turns to see Fred Dick, Miguel and Toderick behind him.

Fred Dick: I ‘member you. Lawd yes… Yew that investigatory journalist what showed up on my first ever PRIME show and beat my ace all over the locker room all because I stole a little money from a nine-year-old girl with leukemia. Well, guess what? I stole the mind from a grown man. So what did I learn? Huh? Nothin’. Fug you. And fug hot dawgs. That phrase, by the way, what I just uttered with my own mouth? Thats the “shut down” phrase. I also have a “start up” phrase for him, and a “sleeper cell” phrase. Point is? Nobody’s Heroes is fuggin’ DONE, son. And Gold? Well, his brain is MY oatmeal to play with. Come on, Lasagna Boys! Drag his ace back to the Baffroom, we gotta start him up and get the next episode rollin’.

Crash can only look on in shock. TAL emerges from the shadows in a black and white suit with a boom box blasting Ozzy.

Crash: What do we do now?

Revival moves on.

Scott Hunter’s dressing room is alive with energy. Thumping 80s-style techno music shakes the walls, a disco ball spins overhead, and a multicolored laser light show is bouncing all around like an LSD trip gone mad.

Not really.

Scott is rifling through his duffel bag on a bench in his dressing room because he’s almost positive he brought a bag of Funyuns with him for a snack, but he can’t find them anywhere. He can’t fight without his pre-match Funyuns. This had only happened to him once before. It started a chain reaction of unlikely events that ultimately found him in Vae Victis, in becoming Kerry Kuroyama’s best friend, in co-adopting a koala, owning a timeshare in West Palm Beach, and other events that are… well, unlikely.

While rummaging his hands through the items in his bag, one of which was definitely not the same teddy bear he slept with as a child that he still definitely doesn’t carry around with him everywhere, he notices a small piece of paper taped to the locker behind the bench.

On the paper, in back lettering, are the words “Simon is waiting out in the hall to give you some last-minute prep. Go find him. – KK”

An odd thing for Kerry to do, setting up Simon to help him prepare for Ivan Stanislav, but Kerry is a veteran of the business, and his most trusted friend. Surely he wouldn’t steer him wrong.

And so, Scott leaves everything right where it is, hurriedly leaves the dressing room, and bounds down the hall in search of Simon Tillier.

Rounding a corner, Scott runs headlong into…

Alexei Ruslan.

Hunter might be looking for Simon Tillier, but it’s clear, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Ruslan is looking for Hunter. Ruslan takes one step back, pulling his head back a bit so that Hunter doesn’t barrel into him, and snarls.

Alexei Ruslan: There you are. The “man of hour.” The “fool of decade.”

Ruslan bares his teeth and tilts his head to the side.

Alexei Ruslan: You were flying high with that no-contest match against Starshy Praporschik Stanislav, before, hm? When all your Vae Victis enablers made mockery of what was a sure-fire victory for The Red Army. But oh… Scott Hunter…

Ruslan rubs his hands together.

Alexei Ruslan: Oh, we have been waiting for this. Hayes Hanlon would have been nice, but we will take you instead. Patiently, and with great restraint, have I, and Ivan, waited for the chance to knock your block off.

Ruslan doesn’t stop. He’s got a lot to get off his chest. He smiles, a thin, cold smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Alexei Ruslan: Do you understand how humiliating this match is? That my comrade, a legend, multiple Universal Champion, Ivan Stanislav, must share a ring with the likes of you not once, but now twice?

Ruslan jabs a finger in Hunter’s face.

Alexei Ruslan: You are not a challenge. You are not a threat. You are a punishment. A punishment for any well-meaning professional wrestler on this Earth. A punishment for all the hard-working men and women who bring honor to this sport. You are a punishment for allowing this company to enable your farcical existence!

Ruslan snaps.

Alexei Ruslan: Ivan Stanislav has crushed empires. And tonight, he, and I, and The Red Army, have to settle for you. And when this night is over, when you are broken, not just beaten, but broken, remember this moment. This hallway. The silence before the slaughter.

With a winning, cold, almost manic sneer that ruffles his mustache, Ruslan straightens his back, trying so hard to look taller and bigger than Hunter. He doesn’t. But the hat helps.

Alexei Ruslan: Do you have anything to say for yourself? Hm?

Scott, who has been simply staring at Alexei throughout his entire rant, blinks a few times, then shakes his head disapprovingly.

Scott Hunter: No, no, no. I mean, Simon, that’s a pretty decent Alexei Ruslan. But if you really wanna nail the impression, you need to be more annoying, with a much more ridiculous accent. You also need to smell a little more like cabbage. And the clothes are a little TOO good. This looks like real Soviet stuff. Alexei is more Party City clearance rack costume. I think it’s called ‘basic communist’ and I would say you’re a size youth large.

Scott perks up at one observation.

Scott Hunter: The dumb mustache is perfect, though! And the bad breath??? Spot on!

Alexei’s mouth opens. Then closes. For a full beat, he stands there. His eyes cut to the camera, directly at it, and he’s staring into our souls. Then, he looks back at Hunter with an even sharper, unrestrained voice.

Alexei Ruslan: “Size youth large?” You insignificant, uncultured mop of a man! I have worn this uniform since Grozny. This mustache? It has witnessed regime changes! You blathering moron! Do you have any idea what awaits you later on tonight?!

Ruslan grits his teeth.

Alexei Ruslan: It is a sentence for eradication. You are not funny! You are not clever! You are a sideshow freak about to be stamped out for good!! You are the first card to fall in the house of cards that is Vae Victis! And they will look upon your broken, battered, and shattered body tonight and realize that Ivan Stanislav and The Red Army will never stop marching!!! Got it?!

Scott Hunter: That’s fantastic!! You’re really hitting on some great stuff, Simon!! ‘Uncultured mop of a man’, ‘Grozny’, ‘blathering moron’, and you even pronounced mustache as ‘moo-stash’.

Scott nearly pulls a ribcage muscle laughing.

Scott Hunter: Classic Alexei….

But then he has an idea.

Scott Hunter: I have an idea. Maybe get a little more personal. Like, really try to rile me up! Maybe bring up something about my childhood. Oh, hey, my dog died when I was 11, use that! But not too harsh. I loved that dog. And don’t bring up that I still sleep with a teddy bear at night, because I probably don’t even do that.

Ruslan erupts. Gesticulating and spitting as he lifts up on his toes, even his mustache starts to fray.

Alexei Ruslan: You think this is some joke? Staring down the barrel of a gun that Ivan Stanislav himself is holding?! You complete catastrophe of a man! You stand there, with that stupid, vapid grin, with your Fido stories and weird teddy bear flashbacks?! And you expect me to play along?! I have committed ideological purges with more compassion than what Ivan is going to do to you tonight!!

Scott’s eyebrows shoot up as if in sudden agreement.

Scott Hunter: Oh!! You know what? The grin. You’re absolutely right. This is about preparation. I need to play my part if this is gonna work.

Scott suddenly tenses up and adopts a fighting pose, a very surrious look on his face. Alexei, still spitting with rage, sneers at him as if daring him to do anything. Just when the tension is at its peak, Scott leans in…

…grabs Alexei’s coat jacket and pulls it up over his head, Happy Gilmore style, then slaps his hat off of his head and tousles Alexei’s hair for good measure.

Scott bounces back and forth like a prizefighter.

Scott Hunter: You like that?? There’s more where that came from…

He bobs his head back and forth, too, raising his hands into a “quote” gesture with his fingers as he says…

Scott Hunter: ‘ALEXEI RUSLAN!!!”

Scott feigns and jabs at the air around Alexei, who dodges each shadow boxing ‘blow’ with the most confused expression imaginable.

Just when it seems Alexei’s eyes may pop out of his head in frustration and anger, a loud voice bellows from down the hall behind Scott.

‘SCOTT!!!!’

Scott spins on a dime. Way down the hall, a good fifty feet or so, stands Simon Tillier.

Simon Tillier: (yelling) What are you doing?? You were supposed to meet me like twenty minutes ago!

Scott drops his hands to his sides and stares at Simon. He turns his head and stares at Alexei. Then Simon again. Then Alexei. Then Simon.

Alexei still looks like he wants to rip Scott’s head off, so Scott winces, then carefully pulls Alexei’s jacket back down into its proper position and lightly pats the wrinkles out of it. Bending over, he picks up Alexei’s hat and places it back on his head, taking care to do a poor job of fixing his hair as he does so.

Scott Hunter: So look, I actually think your ‘moo-stache’… ummm… I mean, ‘mustache’ is really cool.

While Simon Tillier waits impatiently down the hall in front of Hunter, from behind Hunter, another voice booms.

It’s deep.

Eastern European.

Probably in the chest of a man who is, at least, 400 pounds.

“HEY!”

Ruslan, nearly as red as his tie, snaps out of his stupor and ruffles his mustache with his upper lip.

Alexei Ruslan: You son of—

Scott Hunter: (with a ‘kind’ smile) Well, Lexy ol’ boy, Simon’s waiting!… Be careful, Ivan looks mad!

Scott gives Alexei a quick pat on the cheek and saunters away toward Simon.

Stanislav rapidly grows in size as he rushes towards Ruslan, and therefore, after Hunter, who obliviously walks down the hallway behind him. But Alexei stops Ivan with a hand.

Alexei Ruslan: Wait… wait…! You wreck him now, Vanya, and you just know Lindsay Troy will use it against us in this tournament.

Ivan curls his upper lip while he stares at the retreating Hunter. So close, yet so far away. He places his hands on his hips.

Ivan Stanislav: You were supposed to put fear of Stalin into him. What happened?

Alexei stares through Ivan for a moment and adjusts his tie. He gulps and tries to find the words. Finally, he simply mutters:

Alexei Ruslan: I do not think you would understand.

The Russian Bear looks confused at first, but he narrows his eyes and watches where Scott Hunter and Simon Tillier round a corner, and the confusion gives way to a steady, simmering rage, while we head elsewhere.

Nick Stuart: Folks, I’d be a liar if I said I had any idea what to expect from this next one.

Richard Parker: Anna Daniels, Fred Dick’s fellow Whoresman, taking on Sebastian Gold, Fred’s newest Lasagna Boy. Your guess is as good as mine, Nick.

Nick Stuart: It’s the hyper-brained Time Lord, taking on the oatmeal-brained Golden Boy, up next on Revival 73!

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. Behind her, Fred Dick, Toddrick, and Miguel walk down with her. 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.

Fred turns to the Lasagna Boys.

Fred Dick: Alright, God damn it, now we gotta walk back up that fuggin’ ramp and walk down the Golden Boy. Go on neow, getcha asses up that ramp.

Fred and the Lasagna Boys slowly walk up the ramp.

Vince Howard: And her opponent…

Fred Dick: HEY! YEW SHUT THA FUG UP ‘N WAIT A DAMN MINUTE!!! WE GOTTA GET BACK TO ARGYLE!!! DON’T SAY A WORD UNTIL WE GET BACK TO ARGYLE!!! NOT A PEEP, VINCE!!!

Vince Howard: …

Fred and the Lasagna Boys get back to Argyle.

Vince Howard: And her opponent…

We built this city! We built this city on Roooock and Roll! Built this city! We built this city on rooooock and rooooooOOOOLLL!!!

Vince Howard: (reading from a card) He is merely a physical expression of Fred Dick’s absolute will! SEBAGNAAAAAAAA… GOOOOOLLLLDDDD!!!

Sebagna Gold steps out from the back. He wears a Scottie Pippin Bulls Jersey that ends at his mid-riff, leaving us wondering, is he free-balling under there? He hits a series of really impressive karate moves on the entrance ramp as Fred Dick and the Lasagna Boys step out. Fred strokes his chin, impressed.

Fred Dick: Sick ‘er!!! Sick ‘er my Lasagna Boy!!!

Sebagna Gold: ROO!! ROO ROO ROO ROO!!!

Sebagna Gold runs down to the ring, slides under the ropes.

Anna Daniels smirks – then remembers it’s Elvis Nixon in the ring. She side-eyes him as he calls for the bell.

DING DING

Anna looks at Sebastian Gold suspiciously. Is he really in there, somewhere? Is he faking all this? She allows him to shadow slap box in his corner. Approaches him, almost like the late, great Steve Irwin would approach an alligator. Slow, deliberate.

Gold, meanwhile, runs out of the corner and SLAPS Anna across the chest, hard. Again! Again! Anna reels backwards, before a drop toe hold sends Gold’s face into the turnbuckles, his face colliding with the bottom one!

Nick Stuart: Can I just, speak, for a moment, about what exactly we are seeing from the former Alias Champion?

Richard Parker: You can, but you don’t have to, because it’s clear to the entire world – he’s simply evolved.

Nick Stuart: Into Fred Dick of all people?

Richard Parker: No. Rather, into a mere physical expression of Fred Dick’s absolute will.

Nick Stuart: …Have you become a Lasagna Boy?

Anna, meanwhile, sends a couple of vicious stomps into the small of Sebastian Gold’s back. Then, she places a knee on that very spot and pulls his arms up behind him!

YUBI YUBI!

Richard Parker: Oh god dang those finger bends really look like they hurt.

YUBI YUBI!

Richard Parker: Honestly they upset my stomach a little.

YUBI YUBI!

Richard Parker: Anna, please, for the love of God…

Not for Richard Parker’s sake, but because she can’t simply win the match with painful finger bends on a guy who truly believes he’s Fred Dick, Anna relents, but not before sending a falling knee right back down into the small of that back!

Anna drags Sebastian up to his feet.

SMACK!

Slaps him right across his fucking mouth.

And that… that almost seems to JAR awake the real Sebastian Gold, who immediately launches into a series of round house kicks, teep kicks, and elbows, until Anna is in the corner!

Sebastian is working her body with his patented offense, and Anna eventually falls forward.

Sebastian leaps to the top rope!

He sits perched like an anti-hero in a comic book film, just waiting for Anna to slowly wobble up to her feet, and–

GOLDENSTEINER!!! GOLDENSTEINER!!!

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

THREE– NO!!! Anna kicks out just in the nick of time!!!

Nick Stuart: Now there’s the Sebastian Gold we all know! There’s the Sebastian Gold we all fell in love with!

Richard Parker: Speak for yourself, Nick! I’m a Sebagna Gold man through and through.

Sebastian leaps to his feet, and, he looks down at his shirt. Why is he wearing this jersey? He should take this jersey off, that doesn’t represent him, that–

Suddenly his eyes blink slow.

He throws a wild slap at Anna, who notes that Sebagna is nowhere near as competent a slap-man as Fred is, and they easily side steps it, and side kicks him in the hip, pushing him into the ropes!

Anna Daniels sends Sebastian Gold over the top rope with a clothesline!!!

Right into the waiting arms of Toddrick and Miguel!!!

Put yourself in their position, for a moment. You are holding your brother, your fellow soldier to the Lasagna cause, in your arms. In the ring before you, your master’s best good friend is launching their self over the top rope to destroy you.

You can either

a) drop your fellow soldier in this hellscape of the mind you wander to the floor and dive out of the way

Or

b) eat the shit sandwich Anna Daniels is about to deliver.

If you chose option a? You’re a bad friend.

And the Lasagna Boys?

Well, they’re bad friends.

They drop Sebastian, fall to the side, and Anna’s suicide dive sends them soaring over Sebastian and into the guard rail.

Nick Stuart: Oof!!! That had to hurt!

Richard Parker: Whose side are these Lasagna Boys on!?

Nick Stuart: Clearly, no one’s!

It looks like Fred has the same questions Richard Parker does, as he chastises the Lasagna Boys and helps Anna up to their feet.

Elvis Nixon warns Fred not to interfere. He yells one of his profanity-spiced word salads at Elvis in response. Sebastian Gold slowly begins climbing to his feet as well!

SUPERMAN PUNCH BY ANNA DANIELS!!!

She takes swift advantage, dragging the only just-dropped Sebastian Gold to his feet and rolling him into the ring.

She moves to his feet. Steps through them. Folds his ankles. Rolls him over.

Nick Stuart: Wheel of Morality by Anna Daniels!

Richard Parker: Anna’s been working his back every chance they’ve had, Nick! This one might do Sebastian under.

Indeed, the elevated cloverleaf/lion tamer hybrid is not only something to behold as an aesthetically pleasing vision, but very much a stress test on the small of Sebastian’s back that she beat the hell out of earlier. Sebastian, to his credit, does not tap – but he doesn’t fight either.

We zoom in on his face. His eyes, we watch the fire in them extinguish. And almost zen-like look in them, if they weren’t also so empty. They are pathetic, his eyes, the lacking of substance behind them.

And then, suddenly, they narrow – sharpen. Out of the Sebagna and into the Sebastian we watch the fire rise back in his pupils.

Sebastian then begins doing the only thing he knows he can do.

Fight, claw, and scratch his way towards the nearest bottom rope.

And he does.

Slowly, painfully, agonizingly, he claws towards that bottom rope.

And surely, Anna realizes that he is going to reach it.

So they do the most brutal thing they can think of doing.

They let go of the hold…

And curb stomp the small of Gold’s back!

Richard Parker: Hehehehehehe!!! I love that!

Nick Stuart: Why the hell did you laugh like that, though?

Richard Parker: You’re always trying to embarrass me for expressing joy.

Anna drags Sebastian up to his feet–

And suddenly Sebastian comes all. The way. The fuck. Alive.

Roaring elbow to Anna’s jaw!

A kick to the gut sends them forward! A knee to the face sends them back up! And a roundhouse kick puts them on their back!

Gold is feeling it!

HE SCREAMS!!! PRIMALLY!!! Like an animal that is experiencing freedom after being caged.

The crowd is eating it up. They cheer him on as he points to the top rope. He’s gonna go for the Gold Crush! He starts for the turnbuckles and–

Jing-a-ling, jing-a-ling

What’s that boy?

Jing-a-ling, jing-a-ling

Daddy ‘Sagna has dinner ready?

Nick Stuart: Does… Fred Dick have a tiny little bell and a plate of dog food?

Richard Parker: He sure does Nick.

We watch Sebastian Gold fight against himself. There’s a base instinct in there, saying not to go get that food. But there’s a significant layer of programming telling him when he hears that bell, he has to go to make a happy plate.

Sebastian starts for the food, then backs up.

Jing-a-ling, jing-a-ling.

He starts forward again.

Right about the time he’s there, he shakes his head. Shakes the cob webs out.

Backs away and–

Jing-a-ling, jing-a-ling.

He can’t fight it anymore.

He puts his head through the ropes, succumbing to his worldwide humiliation when–

Hey, Miguel is on the apron on the other side of the ring, clearly trying to interfere! Elvis Nixon won’t let him in the ring.

Which leaves his back turned when Fred pulls the plate of dog food away before Gold ever eats it (thank God), and Toddrick splashes hot sauce in Gold’s eyes!!!

Sebastian Gold: AAAAAHHHH!!!

Sebastian Gold reels backwards right into a–

Nick Stuart: BACKSTABBER BY ANNA DANIELS!!!

Richard Parker: And now Miguel hops off the apron! These Lasagna Boys are catching onto the business, Nick!

Nick Stuart: Anna has both legs hooked and here comes Elvis to make the count!!!

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

THREEEEEEEEE!!!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: Heeeere is yooooour winnerrr… ANNAAAAAAA!!! DANIELLLLLSSSS!!!

Nick Stuart: So not only is Fred Dick brainwashing Sebastian Gold, he’s actually screwing him out of matches now, too!

Richard Parker: This is all Sebastian’s fault, Nick. Don’t forget, he’s the one that chose to pursue the Intense Title after completing the Alias gauntlet! He’s the one who interrupted a Baffroom Fights episode to make that clear to Fred. If he hadn’t done that, he wouldn’t be in this mess. Plus, Anna is Fred’s home.

Nick Stuart: And that justifies brainwashing the guy?

Richard Parker: If he had chosen the Five Star, would he be in this mess?

Meanwhile, Anna pulls her arm away from Elvis Nixon as she’s joined by Fred, Toddrick, and Miguel. They celebrate in the ring as Sebastian, in full Sebagna mode, looks absolutely relieved that he didn’t win – as if he was ordered not to.

Nick Stuart: How about we cut to freaking anything besides this?

OK. We move on.

Following an exciting bout between Sebastian Gold and Anna Daniels, we head backstage to find the Masters of the Moscowverse making their way down one of the halls inside Rupp Arena. The pair appear to be conversing as they walk, and we pick up on the tailend of said conversation.

Randall Schwartz: So wait, lemme make sure I get this right…Hessian is HOW big?

Kenny motions putting his hand up way over the head of The Entertainer, an indication that brings a look of concern on Randall’s face as he gulps air.

Randall Schwartz: Now wait a minute, all you told me was this guy was gonna be a big hurdle. You did NOT tell me he was…oh great googly moogly.

He points down the hall, turning Kenny’s attention to the arriving Tony Gamble and the man quickly striking fear into the heart of Schwartz, Hessian. Randall turns to Kenny, already starting to quiver in his proverbial boots.

Randall Schwartz: You owe me a thousand apologies for this one, Ke–hello!

Randall stops to greet the Egg Bandits, now standing right across from their opponents later tonight.

Tony Gamble: Well if it isn’t Kenneth and Randy…our victims for the night.

The Murder Show folds his arms across his chest, as The Grin chuckles softly – waving his hands out in front of him.

Tony Gamble: No no no…I’m sorry…our formidable opponents.

There is a moment of tension that builds, but is soon cut off by a nervous chuckle from Schwartz, who nods with a wary smile.

Randall Schwartz: Oh, so you uh…you caught wind of that huh?

Kenny gives him a bit of side-eye, smacking him on the back to try and build up his courage.

Kenny Freeman: Have some gumption, Randall.

With that, he turns his attention to the Bandits.

Kenny Freeman: Ain’t that the truth, bud. Your boy Jiles seems to love talking his smack via the newswire, and we just needed to make sure he knew we came prepared.

He looks back at Randall, who is sweating with sweat by this point.

Kenny Freeman: Randall, the box.

The Entertainer’s eyes widen as he does his best to collect himself, rushing to the nearest doorway as Tony and Hessian look on with a bit of confusion. Just a moment later, Randall returns with a box…but not just any box.

Kenny Freeman: The Food-O-Matic 3000.

The Bandits roll their eyes as Randall sets the box down in front of them.

Randall Schwartz: We, uh…we’re ready to…

Kenny Freeman: Entertainer, I got this.

He smirks as he points to the box before continuing.

Kenny Freeman: What we started years ago with your pals Jiles, Bobby Dean, and Doozer, we finish here tonight by making omelettes out of you two go–

Randall whispers something into Kenny’s ear, something along the line of “don’t call them gooners, it’s weird,” as Kenny quickly pivots.

Kenny Freeman: You two goobers, in front of thousands here in Lexington, Kentucky…

He pauses for a hometown crowd pop. He gets one, almost out of spite, and then continues.

Kenny Freeman: …and millions watching at home on the ACE Network. How does that grab ya, gentlemen?

Tony Gamble: Omelettes?

Tony reaches up on his tiptoes and slaps Hessian’s big barrel chest with the back of his hand.

Tony Gamble: You believe this freakin’ guy.

Hessian glares.

Tony Gamble: I’ll tell you what, Kenneth. How about…no.

Before Kenny or Randall can respond, Tony continues.

Tony Gamble: I’m not sure why you think you need to make sure Jiles needs to know you’re prepared, because I’ll be honest with you’se guys…he laughed.

Ha.

Tony Gamble: And the whole reason I gave you our gameplan was so you would be prepared. So, no, we’re not sleeping on you, but you’re dreaming if you think you have any chance of beating us…

Hessian steps forward, the sound of metal collapsing in on itself as his big boot crushes the Food-O-Matic 3000.

Tony Gamble: Ever.

The Masters look on in horror at what the Murder Show has done. Kenny is the one struggling to put on a brave face now, stammering for a moment before clearing his throat.

Kenny Freeman: That…that is gonna cost you fellas a cool 200 buckaroos.

Randall Schwartz: And we’ll take it right out of your asses later tonight.

This gets a glare mixed with confusion from Gamble, Hessian, and even Kenny.

Kenny Freeman: Say what, now?

Randall Schwartz: Huh?

Tony Gamble: A whole two hundred, huh. Pocket change for a couple of hall of famers like us.

That all too familiar grin, as the Permascar Superstar jabs his index finger in Randall’s direction.

Tony Gamble: But you just wrote a check your ass can’t cash.

Hessian steps forward, methodical,  deliberate, as he approaches the Masters of the Moscowverse then past them as the Grinemigo follows close behind.

Tony Gamble: You didn’t say a damn thing, but I’m pretty sure you made Randall crap his pants.

Hessian: Exactly.

Randall, for his part, looks at Kenny once more.

Randall Schwartz: We uh…we have some time before the match, right?

Kenny nods.

Randall Schwartz: Good, good. I need to change my pants.

Kenny’s face grows a look of disgust as Randall saunters away with precisely the sort of walk that one would expect after facing one’s fears.

ReVival rolls on, and we move to…oh, no.

Sketti in a sink.

Freddy in a three piece suit.

You know what time it is, hoe.

Fred Dick: We don’t haaaaaave a jingle yet, but this is my fuggin shooooooow!! Johnny Dorn sucks and Chicago’s a shidhoe, and this is my fuggin’ shooooww!! It’s Baffroom Fights and ya better be ready, it’s mothafuggin’ Freddy and a Bucket of Skettiiiiiiii… which you win if you kick my ace! Bahaha!!!

Fred Dick river dances.

For like, ever.

For like

This

Long.

And then he stops, suddenly, and snarls.

Fred Dick: I tell ya whut… I’m fuggin’ sick and goddamn tired of it. People comin’ on my show, disrespectin’ MY ACE??? Naw, dat shid don’t sit right with me. It sit about as right with me as a tummy full of diarrhea. Speakin’ of diarrhea, Johnny Dorn – I’d tell ya go to Hell, but ya live there already, and ya proud of it! You fuggin’ human seagull. Showin’ up just to fug with me and take my food. Sug an ace, Johnny. Sug. An. Ace.

Fred clears his throat.

Fred Dick: That bein’ said, tell ya whut – next person that walks through that door? They gettin’ dat sweet ace whooped up and god damn down this baffroom by the Innovator of Lavatory Violence, Intense Champeen, and Almasy Quarterfinalist, Fred Dick. ‘What’s on the line,’ you ask? A sketti prize sittin’ in that sink over yunder.

Fred stares at the door in anticipation.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

In walks two incredibly dapper young men. They waltz right by Fred and to the bathroom sinks, one of them regarding himself in the mirror.

Hugo Vale: Honestly Danny Boy, I loathe public bathrooms, but I can feel a strand of my hair is just out of place.

Daniel Green: I simply don’t see it, man.

Hugo Vale: And why the fuck is spaghetti sitting in the sink?

The Green Vale Gang.

Fred Dick: That there is a Sketti Bucket. And the three of us is ‘bout to damn fight for it.

Daniel and Hugo look at each other, and laugh through their noses, turn back towards the mirror while Hugo plays with his hair.

Hugo Vale: No.

Fred Dick: No?

Daniel Green: Absolutely not.

Fred Dick: …y’all sure?

Hugo Vale: Never been more sure of anything.

Daniel Green: They should invent a word for how sure we are.

Fred Dick rubs the back of his neck.

Fred Dick: Well why the hell not?

Hugo Vale: Uhm, gross?

Daniel Green: Uhm, eww?

Hugo Vale: Uhm, spaghetti is a worthless and terrible prize?

Daniel Green: Uhm, we wear watches you can’t pronounce?

Hugo Vale: Uhm, your face tattoos are not cool, like, at all?

Daniel Green: Uhm, your hair is clearly glued on?

Hugo Vale: Uhm, you emit a foul and unpleasant odor?

Daniel Green: Uhm, you provide unnecessary representation to dumpy, inbred weirdos everywhere?

Hugo Vale: Uhm, the way you speak both confuses and makes me want to jam a sewing needle into my ear canal?

Daniel Green: Uhm… you consistently clog at least two of the locker room toilets each and every show, and then make a big production of it, getting mad at the hypothetical person who did it, even though everyone knows it was you?

Fred Dick: I eat a lot of strange and unusual proteins. They bind ol’ Fred up! Is that a fuggin’ crime ‘er somethin’?

Hugo Vale: No, but it should be. You’re one grotesque creature.

Fred is nearly in tears. He made up his mind five insults ago that he was gonna cut Hugo’s head clean off and flush it down the toilet. But Daniel? Daniel brought up his hair. Fred would murder him slowly, and tender-like. He would skin Daniel alive with cutlery he’d stole from a Golden Corral while cooing and telling him everything was going to be okay, that it was all a bad dream, and right about the time his body would descend into shock? Fred would waterboard him. Rich fucking pricks… They’d find their bodies, though. No matter how good Fred would hide them. They always find rich people’s bodies. He’d have to pin it on the Lasagna Boys. Well, it was a good run wasn’t it? Not necessarily legendary, but, certainly memorable.

But before Fred could even start to enact his murder plot, we hear a familiar voice.

Mark Paul Gosselaar: Ohhhh FREEEEDD…

Fred’s ears perk up.

Fred Dick: Now that’s that sumbitch Mark Paul Gosselaar…

Fred turns his head, gasps.

Fred Dick: Mark Paul Gosselaar! Whut the hell’re you and that shidhead lil’ boy doin’ in the states?

Mark Paul Gosselaar, NOT the one from Saved by the Bell, but rather the one who has sustained himself on a strict diet of arena beers and portable, single-serving beef stews for two decades, stands before Fred Dick in a KISS t-shirt that is a little too small for his body, jorts, white crocs, and a Marlboro Lights bucket hat.

His son, merely 12 years old, wears the exact same outfit.

Fred Dick: Yew KNOW I left yo ace back in Canada fo’ a damn reason! Two, ackshulleh! One bein’, I generally hate Canadians – AND Swedes, and I know you’re at least one of those. And two bein’, I specifically hate your no-good, stankin’ guts! And that lil’ monstrosity you call a ‘child?’ Yeah, he’s gonna burn in Hell for all damn eternity. Why? On account of he’s a lil’ bastard, and he ain’t got sense enough to find the Lawd. Lemme tell ya sump’m, Junior – the Lawd ain’t hard to find. You better get right with JESUS CHROIST, boy!!! …Cause the path you goin’ down? Path to Hell, big dawg, straight up.

Mark Paul Gosselaar: Hey now motherfucker, first off, don’t you DARE be talking at or about my boy in front of me or behind my back! He’s a good boy when he ain’t snitchin’ on his old man, tellin’ fibs on Daddy about  puttin’ him in sharpshooters and Calgary crabs for not taking the empties to the recycling depot before it closed LIKE I DAMN WELL FUCKIN’ TOLD’JA. Time is money! And second of all, the Gosselaar clan is Canadian, and we’re proud as all hell of our country… when the government ain’t freezing our bank accounts and telling us how we gotta stay home with our annoying families. So YEAH, I’m taking those garbled words of yours as disrespect. And by the way, you’re uglier than I remember, and I am FARRR drunker than I was the last time I bested ya, so explain that, huh?

Fred Dick: Canadians have small wieners and ain’t got no damn navy or Wool Street or fuckin’, uh, what ain’t you fuggers got up there? Y’aint got no guns neither, ah haaaa! Can’t even blame it all on priors neither! The gubbermint got’cher bawlllllsss, BOY.

Mark Paul Gosselaar Jr.: Dad… can we go? We’re missing the show and I don’t wanna be around the strange man anymore.

Mark Paul Gosselaar takes off his belt in one swift motion, like a whip or something, trying to be as dramatically cool as possible, and catches his young son in the cheek, but he no-sells it, almost like he’s been conditioned to.

Mark Paul Gosselaar: But son, there’s ‘bout to be a show RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW. Better than any show out there in the arena, and more at stake, too!

His eyes fall on the sketti sink.

Mark Paul Gosselaar: Guess who’s goin’ to bed with a full belly for once tonight, kiddo? … That’s right — your ol’ man.

MPG allows his jorts to fall to his ankles. He steps out of them, hooks them with his foot, and flings them in Fred’s face in a show of wanton disrespect. Truth be told, he hadn’t washed those jorts since he bought them back in ‘04, and he doesn’t shake when he’s done pissing, nor wear undies, so that crotch? She be pungent, oh yeah.

Fred Dick: Oh, fug no. You’re not gonna cuck me with dem jorts, Mark Paul.

Fred drops his own trousers, revealing luscious, silken, purple boxers.

Hugo Vale: I’ll bet those cost five dollars.

Fred Dick: I’ll bet yew can shut tha fug up while I whoop Mark Paul’s ass right in front of his boy. Mark Paul Gosselaar – you know the rules. LET’S. GET. IT. ON. HIYAAAH!!!

Fred slaps the shit out of Mark Paul Gosselaar’s neck, which causes him to cry out in a high-pitched, somewhat serene, operatic wail, before he kicks Fred in the stomach, and DDT’s him on the bathroom floor.

Fred appears out cold.

Mark Paul Gosselaar: Hey, you rich fuckers, I got an idea – how about I take a liquid hot shit on Fred, and you give me 500,000 dollars.

Daniel and Hugo look at each other.

Daniel Green: 5,000 dollars.

Mark Paul Gosselaar: Oof, thats not quite enough for a liquid hot shit. How about, y’all give me 5,000 dollars, and I do a penis fart on this Fred guy, me and Junior take the Sketti, and we call it a day?

Hugo Vale: Penis WHAT???

Mark Paul Gosselaar: It’s when you fart out of your penis hole.

Again, Hugo and Daniel look at each other.

Daniel Green: Deal.

Mark Paul Gosselaar stands over Fred’s head, points his (camera blurred) weiner down at Fred.

Then? He strains.

And strains.

And STRAAAAAINSSSSSS…

toot.

Daniel Green: …

Hugo Vale: …

Mark Paul Gosselaar did, it seems, successfully perform a penis fart.

But he strained too hard, didn’t he? And he pushed liquid hot shit out of his butthole anyway, huh? Yes he did. Yes he did. He pushed that liquid hot shit right out of the butt and it landed square on Fred’s neck and chest area.

“Sprayed,” is a word you might use to describe the way he shit on Fred Dick.

Mark Paul Gosselaar: Alright, gimme my money.

Daniel Green: Yeah… no… We won’t be giving you any money.

Mark Paul Gosselaar: But you said…?

Daniel Green: I know, but… I was lying… so…

Mark Paul Gosselaar: …

Daniel Green: …

Hugo Vale: …I loathe the commonfolk.

MPG claps his hands.

Mark Paul Gosselaar: Welp, come on Junior, push your way by them pussy-boy pricks and grab that sketti – don’t put it over, no matter what.

Mark Paul Gosselaar Jr.: Ok, thanks Dad! Love ya!

Mark Paul Gosselaar: Don’t be thanking me yet. That’s MY supper. We haven’t figured out your supper yet. Might never figure it out. We’ll see. But, son, I am hammered, and you might be on Uber duty.

Daniel Green: Fascinating. Do white trash always have their tween sons call Ubers when they’re wasted?

Mark Paul Gosselaar: Hey, FUCK you. He ain’t calling an Uber. He’s BEING my Uber. Taught him to drive the ol’ Chevy when he was seven.

CRASH!!!

No, not the hot dog enthusiast.

That’s the sound of 1, 2, 3 Lasagna Boys falling through the ceiling tile and colliding with the bathroom floor.

Toddrick.

Miguel.

Sebastian Gold – and, as it happens, the only one who didn’t get knocked out by impact.

He stands up, dusts himself off.

Sebastian Gold: Alright, which one of you am I supposed to beat up for Daddy ‘Sagna?

Hugo and Daniel discretely point towards Mark Paul Gosselaar, who benches.

Sebastian Gold: And what the fuck is that smell?

Hugo and Daniel discretely point at Fred on the floor.

Sebastian sighs.

Sebastian Gold: He’s gonna make us de-louse him again now.

Sebastian drops his ass with a roundhouse kick, shakes Fred awake with the very tip of his boot.

Fred, dazed, comes to, smells himself, notices the shit all over his neck and chest – doesn’t seem to care too much.

What he does care about, however, is what he always cares about.

He won!

Fred Dick: I won!!! Bahahaha!!! I won!!! I won!!!

Fred runs over to the sketti bucket. Even covered in shit, he reaches his hand in that bucket and eats a handful of sketti.

BIG THUMBS UP.

Fred Dick: Now THAT… is some good Sketti. And Sketti that good? Well, it must be from Sketti Bucket!

A dejected MPG watches as Fred pours out a little sketti onto a baby-changing table and hoovers it up like a Hungry Hungry Hippo between wet burps and teary-eyed cackles. He’d never contemplated losing, not to ol’ Fred, not to anybody. What would he tell his succubus wife? How would he ever get his son to respect him again?

Well, it was real simple, as MPG saw it.

He wouldn’t go home to his succubus wife and her beer-counting ways. He’d go to Reno. Get shittered there. Maybe get killed in a drug deal gone wrong. He didn’t know, couldn’t call it. But it didn’t really matter, right?

He ruffles his young son’s hair one last time, then places a hand on his back and slowly pushes him toward the pasta-ravenous victor.

Mark Paul Gosselaar: Go with Fred, Junior, he’s your Daddy now.

Mark Paul Gosselaar Jr.: But daaaad—

Mark Paul Gosselaar: Not a word. Go with the pervert that bested your father in a baffroom fight. It was… foretold.

MPG wanders off in his boxers in search of spilt beer, as his kid chases after him.

Fred Dick turns to GVG.

Fred Dick: Y’all wanna put the Sketti over?

The Green Vale Gang look at the shit-covered Intense Champion.

Hugo Vale: No.

Fred Dick: Y’all sure?

Daniel has already walked out of the bathroom. Hugo quickly darts out himself.

Fred turns to his three lasagna Boys.

Fred Dick: A’ight. Go on, take me back to the de-lousin’ station. Gotta get all niiiiiiice ‘n’ purdy fo’ my big quarterfinals maaaaaatch~!!

We cut away.

The showfeed jumps from A Nightmare on Sketti Street to King COOL and his trusty Bandits. They are backstage, out and about in the wild, and are in mid conversation.

Big Hess and Tony Two Books are set to compete next, and as such are dressed for battle.

King Crumb still has a little ways to go before his MAIN EVENT duel, so it’s a funeral black jumpsuit for him.

Cancer Jiles: Just know one thing, my brethren, if that gigantic slob tries to stick his stupid snout where it doesn’t belong, I’ll be down there to kick off his face before he even knows what hit him. That’s a fucking bet.

Tony and Ian nod righteously.

Cancer Jiles: I don’t care. I mean it. I have no problems at all with reacquainting my foot to the side of his giant, Avalonesque, melon of a head. Even with everything that is on the line later tonight, I’ll do it.

More righteous nodding.

Cancer Jiles: That said, I don’t think he’s going to. Certainly not if he has any plans on advancing.

Suddenly, a voice is heard off screen. It is not big and burly, like a Russian’s voice, but soft and tepid, like a nice guy from Vietnam.

Chandler Tsonda: Shouldn’t you be focusing on other things, Jiles-Not-The-Fun-One-From-Buffy? Like, I dunno, if you’re going to sit next to Nick or Dick on ReVival 74?

Ha.

Ian turns his gaze, and his murderous intention towards Chandler. The Grin slides into a nearby shadow, and all of a sudden is lying in wait. Jiles cracks a knuckle, and his T-shades begin to frost.

The Model Citizen points around to various bandits.

Chandler Tsonda: Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. You’re cool.

He is pointing to no one, a random corner of the wall.

Chandler Tsonda: That’s the spot where Avalon would be, if he were still doing whatever court-mandated community service landed him with you goblins.

There is applause.

It is by one person.

He has sunglasses on.

Cancer Jiles: Oh Chandie Man, my brave little gas-leaker. So full of hope, and so full of spunk you actually thought it was a good idea, or better yet, a safe idea to walk on over here and interrupt us with you plebian drivel. Please, come closer so we can hear you better.

One can assume Chandler realizes that by now Tony Gamble is indeed fully doozered into the shadows, and Vickie Hall remains unaccounted for. Plus, you know, Hessian. As such, The Model Citizen takes a few steps back to reevaluate his situation.

Cancer Jiles: Oh look, he knows how to think after all. Later, let’s find out if he knows how to beg.

The Model Citizen puffs his chest, albeit from a safe distance.

Cancer Jiles: Take it easy, Chanlander, you got a big match later on tonight with a lot on the line. There will be plenty of time to get egg on your face, I promise. Don’t be foolish. No reason to rush in.

Chandler goes to speak, however, he is too slow on the draw and Jiles continues goading him.

Cancer Jiles: You should know, I’d celebrate winning via ten count the same way I would after kicking you in the face, so it would be wise to continue acting in a way that prevents me and the boys from stuffing you in a locker and calling it a night. That said, there are some empty lockers just down the hall.

Chandler Tsonda: (grins) I wouldn’t have any less than the full complement of your egg beaters trying to knock me down.

Tsonda’s got the Hollywood face on, but he’s got a wary eye on his six.

Cancer Jiles: A brave request. Also a foolish one. If you insist.

Tsonda raises his arms as if to say he’s had enough. He starts to slowly step backwards, never letting his guard down, and never taking his eyes off the band of bandits before him.

Chandler Tsonda: You know, Jiles, a lotta people would pay big money to see us duel, for the first time, under the bright lights at a show like Colossus. Almost makes a fella sad to be the conductor of your funeral march tonight.

Almost.

The Viet Viper then looks his fellow Hall of Famer up and down. He waggles eyebrows towards Jiles.

Chandler Tsonda: At least you dressed for the occasion.

King Crumb watches as Chandler scurries off around the bend. Tony emerges from the shadows. Ian remains in kill mode. Vickie climbs out of a nearby locker, a last ditch contingency plan should things have gone astray.

Cut back down to the ring.

Nick Stuart: ReVival 43 continues, ladies and gentlemen! Right now, we’ve got tag team action on the way! Gamble and Hessian of the eGG Bandits vie against the Masters of the Moscowverse of the Red Army in a battle that may determine future contendership for the Tag Team Championships of PRIME!

“Born Over This” by Divide Music hits the PA. Without delay, Tony Gamble bursts forth from the curtain, while the towering Hessian soon emerges next. As they come down the aisle, Gamble berates and jaw-jacks with the jeering fans on the other side of the barricade. Stone-faced and focused on the ring, Big Hess quietly marches after him.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is a tag team match scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, coming to the ring, at a combined weight of five-hundred and fifty seven pounds… the team of TONY “THE GRIN” GAMBLE and THE MURDERSHOW, HESSIAN… together, they represent… the EGG BANDITS!!

Nick Stuart: The unlikely duo of Tony Gamble and Hessian have had their differences. Be as it may, they managed to score a win over newcomers the Green Vale Gang back at UltraViolence.

Richard Parker: When Bandits start cooperating and finding their synergy, BAD things happen, Nick.

Nick Stuart: Well, we may have to expect bad things to happen to their opponents if that occurs tonight!

The trap mix of the Soviet Union anthem pumps in next through the speakers. When the curtain parts aside, the pair of Kenny Freeman and Randall Schwartz shuffle through together. They both pump their arms at the head of the rampway to mostly jeers, while tiny red sparklers go off behind them.

Vince Howard: And the opponents, weighing in at a combined three-hundred and thirty-six pounds… the team of KENNY FREEMAN and RANDALL SCHWARTZ… representing the RED ARMY, they are… the MASTERS OF the MOSCOWVERSE!!

Nick Stuart: Freeman and Schwartz haven’t been in tag action since April, after the longtime tag partners scored a win over the Intruders.

Richard Parker: Hopefully they can repeat that success tonight, and bring a bit of much-needed pride to the Red Army! I absolutely REFUSE to acknowledge this “Purple Army” nonsense, by the way!

Nick Stuart: OK…

The Masters come down the aisle, Freeman looking a bit determined, while Schwartz mostly works up the crowd while shucking and jiving. They step into their ring and keep to their corner while Gamble talks trash and Hessian coldly stares from across the ring.

The presiding official quickly goes through his final checks while both teams talk out the opening participants. It comes down to Tony Gamble for the Bandits and Kenny Freeman for the Masters. With everything in order, Jimmy cues for the bell.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: Here we go! Freeman and Gamble, out of their respective corners… and they launch straight into the collar-and-elbow!

Both competitors immediately begin wrangling each other around in a circle, until an impatient Gamble leans in and tags Kenny across the jaw with a forearm, stunning him long enough to slap on the side headlock. Tony looks proud of himself as he wrenches down on the hold, but Freeman keeps his cool.

Nick Stuart: Freeman’s hand is getting there in through Gamble’s grip… and he reverses out into a hammerlock! And there’s a back elbow by Tony to counter!

Richard Parker: Which actually connects, because Freeman is one of the few on this roster short enough to swing at his head!

Nick Stuart: Snapmare puts Kenny Freeman over onto his back!

Tony’s scarred face wears a lopsided sneer of contempt. But when Gamble bends over to grab the head of Freeman once more, his own head finds itself caught in a curled up legscissor. With a surprised yelp, Kenny throws him over onto his back.

Nick Stuart: Headscissor counter by Freeman! Now here’s Tony back to his feet… runs straight into an arm drag! Back up… ANOTHER arm drag! Up again… and–NOPE! This time he thinks better of it!

Richard Parker: Not falling for that again…

Nick Stuart: Gamble’s back is smarting, and Kenny Freeman is looking confident and slick right now! Now he tags out to Big Hess after reevaluating the situation.

Hessian looks mildly surprised by this tag, as though he didn’t expect it to come this soon, but Tony insistently requests he deal with this. Begrudgingly, Big Hess steps over the ropes.

Richard Parker: Calling in the big guns!

Nick Stuart: Here comes the Murdershow!

Freeman’s confidence immediately breaks. He fritters in place, caught between not knowing how to deal with the seven-foot-tall giant and wondering if he should leave the task to Randall. Schwartz looks less than eager to get in there himself. Meanwhile, Hessian steadily marches over to the center of the ring.

Nick Stuart: What does Freeman do now?!

Richard Parker: Run for the hills, obviously!

Nick Stuart: Too late!

Before Kenny can react in time, the Murdershow’s massive paws seize him by the head and lift him off his feet.

Nick Stuart: BIG HEADBUTT!

Freeman flops lifelessly back to the mat, while the crowd “OOHs” painfully. Hessian promptly peels him back up.

Nick Stuart: Freeman is up… Hessian with a SCOOP SLAM!

Richard Parker: Oof…

Nick Stuart: Up again… ANOTHER scoop slam!

Richard Parker: Oof!

Nick Stuart: Here we go again… BIG PRESS from BIG HESS… and he SLAMS Kenny down with authority!

Richard Parker: Just trying to pound a HOLE through the ring using Kenny Freeman as a human sledgehammer.

Hessian nonchalantly turns back to his corner and shrugs at Tony. See? Easy as that. With the job finished, he promptly tags back out.

Richard Parker: And now that Big Hess has “leveled the playing field”, Tony’s right back in the ring to mop up what’s left…

Nick Stuart: An easy lay-up for the Grin, after a huge assist from the Murdershow! Running elbow drop tags Freeman on the back of the head, and now Gamble rolls him onto his back and makes the cover!

One!

Two!

Kickout by Freeman!

Frustrated, Gamble pops to his feet and punishes Freeman with a series of stomps before pulling him up by the head and pushing him off the ropes. With Kenny in motion, Tony dips his head to pop him up on his return, only for K-Free to go over his head with a leapfrog.

Nick Stuart: Freeman in motion… jumps into the ROPES… and a SPRINGBOARD MOONSAULT drops the unsuspecting Gamble down onto his back! Freeman hooks the legs!

One!

Two!

Gamble gets the shoulder up!

Richard Parker: All that work done by Hessian to bring this match under the Bandits’ control, and within seconds, Tony Gamble just hands it back to the Moscow Masters!

Nick Stuart: It was quick thinking on the part of Freeman that got him to turn the tables on Gamble… now he makes the tag to the Entertainer, Randall Schwartz!

Randall quickly gets into the ring while Freeman extends Gamble’s arm for his fellow Master to give it a sharp kick, then goes out to the apron. While Tony staggers and clutches his arm, Schwartz clips his leg with a chop block to cut him, then proceeds to take him by the head and slam it repeatedly into the canvas until Jimmy Turnbull is forced to step in and break things up.

Nick Stuart: Turnbull calling for a break here. Schwartz has his hands up, pleading innocence, but the official is not buying it!

Richard Parker: I believe him.

Nick Stuart: You believe the front pages of the New York Post, Rich.

With the official’s intervention, Gamble finds the opportunity to slip out under the ropes, clutching his head and angrily muttering obscenities that the camera can’t quite pick up. Schwartz rolls out after the Grin, peppering his chin with a few punches to throw him off his base.

Nick Stuart: Gamble to the ringside area to catch a breather, but Schwartz is keeping the pressure on, lighting up Tony with a few jabs! Now Gamble throws back a few of his own!

Richard Parker: That’s all he can stands, and he can’ts stands no mores!

Tempers flare over as both competitors collar each other and lay in even heavier shots into each other. The brawl escalates into the two of them throttling each other’s necks. Turnbull leans through the ropes and demands they bring it back into the ring. Tony and Randall squirm their way back under the ropes to comply with the official’s order, while still continuing to strangle one another.

Nick Stuart: The struggle brings its way back into the ring as Randall Schwartz and Tony Gamble are both remorselessly trying to CHOKE the LIFE from the other!

The choke battle continues on the mat as Schwartz and Gamble continue to recklessly roll around like drunk angry dads ruining a little league baseball game. Turnbull shakes his head in dismay. Eventually, the two of them find their footing and rise up to their feet together while throttling away.

Then, simultaneous, they reach for each other’s faces.

Nick Stuart: DOUBLE EYE RAKES!

Richard Parker: They both had the same terrible idea!

Nick Stuart: And now both are stumbling BLIND around the ring!

Gamble staggers one way while Schwartz stumbles in the other, both men groaning in agony and clutching their faces. Unable to see anything, Tony falls to his knees and crawls for his corner. Meanwhile, the Master of Fluff begins swinging blindly through the air ahead of him. Turnbull barely dodges an errant right hook that almost clips his head.

Hearing his footsteps, Randall Schwartz advances…

Nick Stuart: Now Schwartz the OFFICIAL on the run!

Richard Parker: The fool thinks he’s swinging at GAMBLE!

Nick Stuart: And don’t look now, but I think someone else is looking for the tag…

Through blind (pun slightly intended) luck, Tony manages to make it to the corner, and reaches up for the hand extending out to him. But instead of his palm being slapped, he finds himself being seized by the wrist and yanked up to his feet.

Nick Stuart: Gamble’s in the WRONG CORNER! And FREEMAN LAYS OUT THE GRIN with the CLOTHESLINE OVER THE ROPES!!

Across the ring, Randall’s fit of wild swinging finally ends when his knuckles inexplicably crash into an impenetrable wall of meat.

The chest of Hessian.

Nick Stuart: And SCHWARTZ is in the wrong corner! And the MURDERSHOW nearly CAVES HIS HEAD IN with a BRUTAL HEADBUTT!!

Richard Parker: Well, the good news is that at least they both know where they are now!

Blind and dazed, Gamble and Schwartz struggle to get to their feet and meet in the center of the ring. Tony swings, but Randall collapses face-first to the canvas before he can connect, leaving him reeling wildly and falling sloppily in his own corner. Hessian reaches down and tags himself into the action. Across the ring, Schwartz crawls over to the red corner and makes the tag to Kenny.

Nick Stuart: Hessian in! Freeman in! The Murdershow marches across the ring… he isn’t fooling around here! But here comes K-Free, quickly CLIMBING UP and coming OFF THE TOP… and the MISSILE DROPKICK connects!

Richard Parker: And it barely STAGGERED Big Hess!

Hess grabs his chest and reels back a few steps, but is otherwise unphased. Undeterred, Freeman scrambles up the turnbuckle once more, diving off again with a forward flipping dropkick that catches the Murdershow in the face!

Once again, Hessian staggers… but doesn’t go down!

Nick Stuart: Once more from the top rope… and STILL not enough!

Richard Parker: He’d need to be driving a bulldozer to knock that monster over!

K-Free springs to the top rope once more and dives off with a cross-body press, landing square into Hessian’s chest…

…unfortunately, the Murdershow doesn’t go down as planned.

Nick Stuart: Hessian CATCHES Kenny Freeman on the third attempt! Went to the well too many times, and now he has him right where–WAIT!! FREEMAN TWISTING HIS LEGS AROUND to HESSIAN’S BACK… he’s GOT THE ARMS… and YES!! TAKES THE BIG MAN DOWN WITH A CRUCIFIX ROLL-UP!!

Richard Parker: He needed every last one of his staggering hundred-sixty pounds to pull that off!

Nick Stuart: SHOULDERS ARE DOWN!!

ONE!

TWO!

And Hessian KICKS OUT!

The lighter Freeman pops to his feet and stays on Hessian, driving elbows into the big man’s temple as he rises up to his feet. Then Kenny pulls him up the rest of the way and pushes him off the ropes. Big Hess runs three steps before suddenly remembering he’s three-hundred and seventy pounds, puts on the brakes, and yanks Freeman into a short-arm clothesline that nearly turns him inside out.

Richard Parker: Nope!

Nick Stuart: OOH, MASSIVE clothesline by the Murdershow… now he gets Kenny Freeman right back up, lifts him up HIGH, and HOLDS HIM for a STAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING HESSPLEX!! And Hessian hooks the leg to make the pin! Could THAT BE IT?!

ONE!

TWO!

THR–NO!! Freeman pops the shoulder!

Hessian shakes his head, but pulls Freeman back up and launches him into the near corner. He crosses the ring, makes the “TOOT-TOOT!” motion with his arm, and charges ahead…

Nick Stuart: Hessian is about to punch Kenny Freeman’s ticket aboard the HESS EXPRESS–NO!! Freeman SLIPS THROUGH THE ROPES at the last second!

Richard Parker: Derailed!

Nick Stuart: Hessian staggers off the impact… now Freeman, from the apron, quickly going up top… here he comes with a TORNADO DDT THAT BRINGS THE MURDERSHOW DOWN!

Richard Parker: I can’t believe he finally figured it out!

Nick Stuart: I can’t believe he had enough left after that brainbuster it off! Nevertheless, Kenny into a lateral press to make the cover…

ONE!

TWO!

HESSIAN BENCHES HIM RIGHT OFF!

Freeman crawls for his corner. Rather than follow him, Hessian looks to his own, where Tony Gamble appears to finally be recovering. He slaps him so hard on the chest, the Grin nearly falls off the apron.

Nick Stuart: And the Murdershow just tagged Tony Gamble back into the match!

Richard Parker: Tony barely looks conscious right now!

Nick Stuart: Big Hess doesn’t seem to care!

Effortlessly, Hessian pulls his tag partner over the ropes. Holding Tony by the arm and the waistband of his tights, he slowly begins to spin himself. After a few rotations, he picks up speed, winding himself up while spinning like a top.

The centripetal force has Tony flying in a wild circle several feet off the ring surface. He reacts as one might expect.

Tony Gamble: AaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH–

Nick Stuart: What is Hessian DOING?!

Richard Parker: Giving Tony Two-books one of his popular airplane rides?

Nick Stuart: Hessian is spinning around like a top… and across the ring, Kenny Freeman tags in Randall Schwartz!

Just as Schwartz makes it through the ropes, the twirling Hessian LAUNCHES Gamble across the ring, sending him through the air like a screaming human missile while BLASTS The Entertainer in the ribs with a spear that takes him out of his boots.

No, really. The collision is so violent, one of Randall’s boots comes flying off and out of the ring, smacking Parker square in the face.

Richard Parker: OWWW!! What the HELL WAS THAT?!

Nick Stuart: HOLY TORTELLINI!! Randall Schwartz was nearly just BROKEN IN HALF after Tony Gamble was straight TORPEDOED INTO HIM! And a BOOT to RICHARD’S FACE to BOOT! Now Gamble crawls over the chest… and hooks the leg for a cover!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!!

DING DING DING

As the music hits and the crowd expectedly jeers, Hessian dutifully pulls his tag partner back to his feet so that Turnbull may raise their arms in victory. Gamble wavers on rubber legs, as he is clearly dizzy from all the spinning.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the winners of this match, by pinfall… TONY GAMBLE and HESSIAN… the EEEEEEGG BANDIIIIIIIIITS!!!

Nick Stuart: A solid win tonight for the high-and-low tandem of Gamble and Hessian, giving a dub on behalf of all eGG Bandits!

Richard Parker: Ugh…

Nick Stuart: Masters of the Moscowverse fought with every bit of their wit and experience, but the Bandits found a bit of their chemistry in the final stretch to pull it off.

Richard Parker: Big Man throw Tiny Man. That’s a heck of a chemistry…

Nick Stuart: Stay tuned, ladies and gentlemen! The more action, including the quarterfinals to the Almasy Tournament still to come!

ReVival moves elsewhere…

We find ourselves at a staging area somewhere in the Rupp Arena. Standing in front of a cloth backdrop with a large ReVival logo across it, microphone in hand is one of PRIME’s premier conversationalists, Angelica Brooks. Looking ever professional, she flashes a dazzling smile before speaking.

Angelica Brooks: Ladies and gentlemen… RIA Lockhart.

The crowd roars as RIA steps into frame…at least most of them do. Accompanying the cheers are a few scant boos, most likely due to the Psychoberry’s harsh words and questionable actions towards one Nate Colton. Lockhart turns towards slightly shorter Brooks, sending a grin of her own the interviewer’s way.

RIA Lockhart: Angie! Feels like it’s been awhile! How ya been, babe?!

Angie nods, offering a genuine smile RIA’s way.

Angelica Brooks: It has been a bit, yes. And I’m fine, thank you for asking. Let’s get to it, RIA; you asked for time to speak and I’m sure most of what you have to say is going to be directed towards Nate Colton.

A smirk from Lockhart, one somewhere in the middle of bemusement and annoyance. She wastes little time mulling over her words.

RIA Lockhart: Jeez, no waiting from you, huh Ang? Not gonna ask me any of the usual tired bullshit? Why am I back? Where have I been? What are my goals etc etc? Okay, that’s fine.

Lockhart rolls her neck left and right, the faintest crack picked up by the camera. She sighs before turning from Angelica to face the camera. Her rainbow colored eyes bore a hole into the lens of the equipment.

RIA Lockhart: There’s a lot of frustration, if not outright anger, towards Nate on my end. He knows why, even if he wants to play the innocent little victim. Did I cross a line with how I approached him? Maybe. But maybe I wanted to make sure I really had his attention? Some men need you to beat them over the head with the point before they get it. So yeah, I did-

Something or someone has clearly caught the Psychoberry’s eye, as the sudden loss of words and shift in focus has made obvious. She turns, pensiveness having taken over her face. Despite her new company, RIA can’t even force a fake smile… as Anna Daniels draws opposite her, Angelica’s mic about the only barrier between the two. The Muse has a smirk on her face, the events of her match against Golden Lasagna Boy not really affecting her much.

Anna Daniels: It’s almost like you don’t get it yet, RIA. Angina over here…

She points to Angelica.

Anna Daniels: …didn’t ask you the usual questions because she doesn’t give a fuck. She doesn’t care how you are or where you’ve been or what you’ve been doing. She doesn’t care about your–

Air quotes.

Anna Daniels: –“shocking” return beating up Fred. We don’t even think she cares about this whole thing about you and Nate and Kohime’s broken heart. This place doesn’t give a damn about whatever explanation that comes floating out of your mouth for going after their Z-tier golden boy. And quite honestly? They don’t deserve one.

The barrier begins to thin considerably as she gets closer and closer to her “little sister”.

Anna Daniels: The only thing that matters is action.

Before anybody can attempt to grasp what the hell she’s even talking about, Anna grabs RIA’s face and plants a vicious little smooch on her lips. Just as quickly, the moment is gone.

Anna Daniels: See ya soon, puddin’ pop.

With that, Anna shoves her away and supermodel struts out of view, leaving nothing but confusion in her wake. RIA does… nothing. Nary a sound, much less actual formed words, escape her throat. Not a single muscle twitch or flex, no movement attempting to stop Daniels or to even procure an explanation as to The Muse’s behavior.

Angelica Brooks: RIA?

The redhead places a gentle hand on Lockhart’s shoulder. Almost as if she’s a robot that’s been powered on, RIA reaches up and touches her own lips. She stays facing the direction Anna had made her exit from.

RIA Lockhart: What the hell just happened?

Angelica squirms a bit, the fallout from the situation clearly awkward for her. But she is a professional. After a steady inhale, the utter confusion that had temporarily gripped Brooks’ face evaporates, calm expertise taking hold instead.

Angelica Brooks: RIA. You were talking about Nate Colton.

Lockhart’s gaze, but not necessarily attention, turns towards Angie. She stares for a moment, unblinking, practically a living photo. When she finally does blink, RIA shakes her head violently, a grunt rumbling out of her throat as she does. A few more blinks and her own stabilizing breath seems to get her back on track.

RIA Lockhart: Right. Colton… I did what I needed to do. What one of his siblings should have done. What Kohime should have done. I don’t regret that slap. If anything, I regret that it hasn’t seemed to knock any god damn sense into him!

“Do you really think that little of me?”

Looks like it’s Interrupt RIA Lockhart Night at the ballpark, ‘cause it’s happening again. Twice in the same interview, no less. Rude.

The camera zooms out to get a look at our interloper…sure enough, it’s the New Diamond himself, Nate Colton. And he…does not look pleased.

No, he looks mostly sad. And hurt. But there’s something else, bubbling just underneath the surface…

Nate Colton: I’ve been trying to fix this, you know. I’ve called, I’ve texted, I’ve done everything short of flying a plane with a huge “I’M SORRY” banner hanging off the back. But she won’t answer, and that’s…fine. She doesn’t have to. It’s her choice.

He says that bit through gritted teeth, so you can tell he means it.

Nate Colton: But nobody else talks to me either! My family won’t even talk about her with me, like I’m The Man Without A goddamn Country. They’re Philip Nolaning me, RIA!

Turn your Colton Dictionary to page 12, where…oh, he’s still going.

Nate Colton: I want to make this right, or at least give her the apology that I owe her. But I need help to do that, and nobody wants to be helpful! And the least helpful thing of all is when someone who I thought was my friend starts dragging around our personal lives in front of the entire goddamn world!

RIA lets out a frustrated sigh before drawing slightly closer to Nate.

RIA Lockhart: You really don’t get it, do you? You think I wanted to do this? You think I like trashing you? Nate, I viewed you as one of the best of us! I ain’t talking in ring, I mean as a person! And yet, you hurt her. Kohime is one of the sweetest fucking people I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing! You hurt her, I’m gonna make you regret it. That fucking simple.

Her words carry a certain amount of anger to them. Yet, there’s also an undercut of sadness, disappointment. Even Lockhart’s eyes bare a certain amount of anger and supplements l sullenness.

Nate Colton: You’re going to make me regret it? I have regretted it every goddamn day. Every time I turn my head and she ain’t there, it’s like getting punched right in the gut, way harder than anyone’s ever hit me in the ring. Feeling like shit is the one thing I don’t need help with.

The Psychoberry takes a moment, a huff coming from her person. She looks up to Nate Colton, her eyes tracing on his.

RIA Lockhart: I want to believe that, Nate… But your actions? The way you try to ignore this shit and brush it aside? Naw. What I’m about to say is something I NEVER thought I’d say, especially not to you… You, Nate Colton… are a coward.

Nate Colton: The fuck did you just say to me?!

Oh…dear. That thing, that hidden emotion, bubbling just underneath the surface? Well now, it’s ready to blow.

Nate Colton: You don’t know a goddamn thing about me, do you? The load I have to carry every waking moment of every day. The kind of pressure I put on myself, that the world puts on me, because of who I am and what I can do. And I carry all that with a smile on my face, even though I am dying without her. Because there are people who look up to me, and I can’t bear to break their hearts any more than I could breaking hers.

If there’s one thing that can be said about RIA Lockhart, it’s that she’s empathetic. Unfortunately, that means she can feed off of negative emotion as well. And this energy? It’s certainly not positive.

RIA Lockhart: What you have to bare?! What you have to deal with?! Oh boo fuckin’ hoo! People were crowning you, Lizard Boy and Buff Freddy Mercury as the future of the company for years! What about me?! I’m all of two fucking years older than you and a god damn whopping seven months older than Hanlon! But me?! Fuck that bitch, she’s not at that level!

Another step. Colton and Lockhart are mere inches apart as she glowers up at him.

RIA Lockhart: Spare me your sob stories. I didn’t have a family in the business. I wasn’t blessed with your size or natural ability. But I still made shit work! And no matter who I was in a relationship with… Chad Kyle, Sid Phillips or Angel Quinley… I was honest. I wasn’t a fuckin’ little bitch like you’ve been lately!

Nate Colton: Well, there it is. You don’t wanna listen. You don’t wanna help. You just wanna punish me. Well, you know what?

WIth a quick move, he peels off his satin jacket, tossing it against a nearby wall.

Nate Colton: Fine. I deserve it. Go ahead, knock me on my ass. But do me a favor, and GET OFF. MY. FUCKING. BACK.

The Psychoberry chuckles, shaking her head. She turns away before throwing another slap! But unlike their last face to face, the Next Diamond catches Lockhart’s hand. Her eyes widen before Colton swings his arm, flinging the trans woman against the flimsy background. The cloth and thin metal piping holding the display together flop over pathetically.

Yet despite the strength on display from the eldest Colton offspring, RIA manages to land on her feet. In doing so, she skids back. Her foot brushes against one of the pipes, and in a fluid motion she kicks it up and grabs it out of the air. A wicked smile curls on her lips.

Nate Colton has forgotten who she is. Time to remind him.

The New Diamond charges in, looking to press his advantage. Instead, the Psychoberry swings the pipe into his ribs. It’s thin enough that it acts more like a whip than a blunt instrument. It won’t break his ribs…but it’s gonna sting like hell.

THWACK!

Nate Colton: Ahhhh!

He doubles over, giving Lockhart a free shot at his back.

THWACK!

That’s gonna leave a mark for sure. Usually you’ve got to pay top dollar for a whipping like that, and RIA’s handing them out for free.

If only Nate was a more appreciative customer. On the next swing, he grabs the pipe, stopping it mere inches from his face. I think he’s about to use his safe word.

Nate Colton: FUCK OFF!

Hmm. That doesn’t sound very safe.

Also not safe is the way he yanks the pipe from her hands and sends it clattering down the hallway, a little too close for Angelica Brooks’ comfort. She skips over the projectile and dashes down the hall, looking for security.

She doesn’t have to look hard; they were on their way as soon as the backdrop got taken out. Nate and RIA have only just started duking it out when a wave of masked men flood the scene.

Oh, so it’s that kind of movie.

…

Wait. No, it’s not. It’s the kind where PRIME’s top security force separate the combatants and lock them down.

The camera pans over to Angelica, who’s just come back into view. Even a seasoned professional like herself can’t believe how quickly and completely this fell apart.

Angelica Brooks: As you can see, this situation between RIA Lockhart and Nate Colton has gotten utterly out of control! Let’s move on while the Enemigos restore order.

RIA Lockhart: YOU SON OF A BITCH! I’LL KNOCK YOUR FUCKIN’ TEETH OUT!

Nate Colton: COME ON AND FUCKIN’ DO IT, THEN!

Angelica Brooks: …it might take a while.

Cut to…

We cut elsewhere where Steve Harrison is sitting in his locker room with Doc standing in front of him. Doc holds a stethoscope in his hand and a serious look on his face as he looks down at Steve. Steve sits with his arms folded and his eyes closed as he seems to be deep in thought before his big match.

Doc: I just need to check your heart rate, Steve.

Harrison opens his eyes and stares daggers into Doc’s head.

Steve Harrison: I don’t think doing this for the one millionth time is going to show anything different. I had an anxiety attack and fainted for a little bit.

Doc: You never know. I just need to make sure one more time before your match that everything is good.

Harrison stands up and looks down at Doc.

Steve Harrison: (Menacingly) Nothing is good.

Doc gulps and takes a step back. He begins to sweat a little as he realizes The Miracle Man is not smiling at all.

Doc: I…uh, I mean—this is for YOU. You know I am always on your side.

Harrison begins to laugh without a shred of happiness being heard. He stops just as abruptly though as he continues to keep Doc on edge.

Steve Harrison: Where have you been recently? Where is Jack? WHERE IS REBECCA, DOC?

That echoed. Steve begins to shake in anger after that. Doc puts his hands up as he attempts to look docile to this manic monster that Harrison is beginning to become.

Doc: I was with your mom…I mean The Marine Biologist, you know working on our relationship.

Steve Harrison: Fuck you.

Doc: What?

The Immortal Jellyfish pokes Doc right into the chest,

Steve Harrison: FUCK. YOU.

Doc steps back again and mouths ‘ouch’ towards the poke. Harrison removes his finger and turns his back on Doc.

Doc: I know things are odd right now but don’t forget that I have always been on your side and I always will be.

Steve Harrison: It’s all words. All of you play with such shiny words meant to calm the person you’re talking to. I am not stupid.

Doc nods.

Steve Harrison: Oh, you agree?

Doc: I don’t think you are stupid.

Steve Harrison: Yet you play stupid games with them, Doc.

Doc shakes his head completely confused at what is happening now.

Doc: I am confused, Steve. I don’t understand anything but trying to keep you healthy.

Steve Harrison: That is why SHE agreed. I obviously played a hand that wasn’t as strong as I first perceived.

This intense stand off is interrupted by a surprising sight – a roaming Universal Champion, who sticks his head into the locker room and mutters “damn, no hot tub here either.” Cecilworth is ready to depart just as quickly as he arrived on whatever mission he has decided to fill his day with this week, but looks up and notices the awkward air of the room between Doc and Harrison. He tries to figure out the best foot forward as both of them stare at him, clearly in the middle of something.

Cecilworth Farthington: Oh, hi guys! I’m just looking for a thing. I need the thing. I heard there was a thing and now I want access to the thing. You know how it be.

This does little to reduce the amount of staring in Cecilworth’s direction. He tries to cut the awkward air by whistling through his teeth.

Cecilworth Farthington: Big match tonight. Not ideal for our wants and needs, but I trust you and the sword to give each other hell. You know what’s waiting… that spot in the final four. That created four Universal Champions last time! Welp, I got to go, have fun out there!

Cecilworth starts to pivot out the room, half of his body wrapped around the door, now pointing himself in two different directions. He leans in, and offers an almost conspiratorial whisper.

Cecilworth Farthington: But maybe you just give ole FLAMBO a bit more hell, eh? Sounds good!

And just like that, just as quickly as he appeared, Cecilworth is gone once more, still muttering about tubs that are hot. Doc watches as the Champion dashes away to whatever great adventure awaits him next. He looks back at Steve.

Doc: This is why I always told you to not sniff glue.

For the moment that seems to have calmed matters down between Steve and Doc. The Man of all Miracles releases a long breath and shakes his head.

Steve Harrison: I will table all of this for later. He was right about one thing…this is a big match and should be the only thing I care about. It’s unfortunate though…

Doc: What is?

Harrison smiles.

Steve Harrison: I think I have to fuck up the lizard, Doc.

Doc just nods, as his understanding of lizards is confined to when he was a kid and grabbed a tail and it fell off and kept moving. It was a moving experience that helped push him into the medical arts. That was probably all a lie but it makes sense as an origin story. The Miraculous Man of PRIME, the Beautiful Bald Man, the Tentacle of Tentacles took a step out of the locker room and looks at the camera.

Steve Harrison: FLAMBO, I inform you, do not let the painting become you. Instead be one with the painting and pray it eases your pain at night because this is going to be rough…on both of us, friendo.

Harrison walks away towards the entrance as his music will be hitting soon for everyone to cheer their heroic or neurotic Bandit hunter and overall great guy who stands up for the little people against the Vae Victus elitists.

ReVival moves along.

Vince Howard: The following match is one fall and is a third round match in the Almasy Tournament!  Introducing first, standing at 6 feet and 4 inches tall and weighing in at 250 pounds… THE MIRACLE MAN! STEEEEEEEEEEEEVE! HARRISON!

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.

Nick Stuart: And it’s time to kick off the first of our four Almasy Tournament matches, and this is a doozy of one. FLAMBERGE will be trying to climb back up the mountain top while Harrison is looking to take his experience as the Five-Star Champion to propel him up to getting a Universal Title match.

Richard Parker: Two style clashes as well. Let’s get it going.

Vince Howard: And his opponent…

♫…

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

♫, ♫

♫…♫, ♫

♫…♫, ♫

♫…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:

PRIME WRESTLER OF THE YEAR 2023

THE BEARDED DRAGON

THE LIZARD KING

THE ACE

LE PROTAGONISTE

LE COURONNE TRIPLE

THE NECK COLLECTOR

F L A M B E R G E

The Frenchman soaks in the loud reception from the crowd and confidently takes a lap around the ring before stomping up the ring steps and stepping through the ropes.

Vince Howard: Hailing from Strasbourg, France, he stands at 6 feet tall… he is the NECK! COLLECTOR! FLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMBERGE!

Richard Parker: FLAMBERGE looks ready, locked in.

Nick Stuart: Agreed. Elvis Nixon doing his final checks.

Before Elvis signals for the bell though… he is interrupted.

A gentle yet deliberate electronic pulses as if it’s underwater. A soft synth pad floats in and expands, filling all of the cracks that are left behind before reverberating electronic elements creates a dreamy world.

I still got your lip balm in my Jacq
Time to throw that shit away

Out from the back, fresh off her match against Luc Labelle earlier in the evening, steps Rose. She strolls down the ring as FLAMBERGE glares up the ramp, one eye blinking before the other. She blows him a kiss as she walks around the ring and looks at Fabby who has procured a baseball bat. She ignores him before sitting down next to Richard and Nick.

Richard Parker: Do we have a special guest?

Nick Stuart: I guess so.

Rose: Hi boys, let’s have some fun.

FLAMBERGE moves towards the announcer’s table, still glaring at her. She waves at him and then mouths he should turn around. FLAMBERGE does so, trying to put it out of his mind while Fabby stands next to the announcer’s table, still holding his baseball bat.

Nixon signals for the match to start.

DING DING

Both men are cautious and slowly size one another up, even with the sound of the bell signaling the start of the match. FLAMBERGE, arms extended, slowly approaches Harrison before putting him into a collar and tie-up. The two men jockey for position, with FLAMBERGE feverishly working through the grip that Harrison has on him until he is able to use his superior technique to transition to a side headlock. Harrison, taller and heavier than FLAMBERGE, backs him into the corner, causing Nixon to call for a break. FLAMBERGE is slow to give such a break, but eventually steps backwards, ready for whatever Harrison might come up with next.

Nick Stuart: And I think we can call Round One between these two as a draw.

Richard Parker: FLAMBERGE would be happier if Harrison just offered up his neck.

Rose: I don’t think that would make FLAMBERGE happier by any stretch of the imagination. You’re implying this is a man capable of being happy. If I know him, much like myself, happiness is something that feels unobtainable when you’re trying to obtain everything all at the same time.

Nick Stuart: Well, that’s something to think about.

Richard Parker: I’d rather not. Sounds too dark and depressing. Sounds like Rose shopped at Hot Topic a lot.

Rose: I seem to remember you being in there once or twice, spying on girls.

Richard Parker: I, um–

Rose: Just kidding, America.

The two men circle each other once again before FLAMBERGE connects with a quick arm drag takedown. Harrison powers up immediately, even as FLAMBERGE wrenches the arm of the Miracle Man. Harrison, showcasing his strength advantage, makes his way to his feet. FLAMBERGE quickly transitions into a waistlock and attempts a takedown, but Harrison manages to use his weight to block it and then reverses it with a standing switch. FLAMBERGE yanks at the hands of Harrison only to connect with a drop toe hold as a counter before floating over into a front facelock.

Richard Parker: The technical expertise of FLAMBERGE is giving him a slight advantage in the opening stages of this match.

Nick Stuart: FLAMBERGE trying to keep Harrison grounded as much as possible. You can see there is some frustration from Harrison, but he’s managing to keep his cool thus far.

Rose: What I’m looking for in a match like this are the intangibles. Who can keep their cool the longest, who manages to figure ways out of a situation without getting frustrated or flustered.

Nick Stuart: Sounds a lot like you’ve been watching Survivor.

Rose: I mean, there’s a lot of overlap.

Richard Parker: You’d get voted out on day three, I think.

Rose: And you would be asked to leave by production.

Harrison fights his way back up to his feet and backs FLAMBERGE into the ropes, forcing another clean break. The Lizard King acquiesces and backs up slowly, but immediately shoots forward for a single leg takedown. Harrison sprawls out though, using his size to push the Neck Collector down, before standing over him with a smirk.

Rose: Oh, he’s not going to like that.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think anyone would.

Rose: Richard normally has to pay for that.

Richard Parker: HEY!

With FLAMBERGE on the mat, Harrison yanks him up to his feet before delivering a belly-to-belly suplex, sending him straight into the canvas. FLAMBERGE manages to roll through and pop up to his knees before connecting with a quick leg kick to Harrison’s thigh. The Miracle Man absorbs the kick and grabs FLAMBERGE, driving his knee into his midsection before putting him into a front facelock. He lifts him up for a vertical suplex and holds him up there, showing off his strength. The Lizard King, though, manages to slip out behind Harrison before landing a jumping roundhouse kick to the back of Harrison’s neck and skull. Harrison stumbles far forward, falling to his knees, before he spins around. He catches an attempted follow-up kick from FLAMBERGE before pulling him in and connecting with a dragon suplex. The Lizard King writhes on the mat from the impact before rolling back to his knees, and he scrambles up, surprising Harrison with a double-leg takedown.

Nick Stuart: Back and forth we go, FLAMBERGE fighting through the high-impact moves that Harrison is connecting in the opening stages of this match to keep the pressure on Harrison.

Richard Parker: I’d like to go back to a previous erroneous comment that suggests I pay to be… what… humiliated?

Rose: Correct, but Richard, we’ve moved on. There’s action happening in the ring. Seriously, keep up.

Richard Parker: You have impugned my character.

Rose: Oh like you know what that means.

Nick Stuart: Richard, stop looking it up on your phone.

FLAMBERGE goes for a series of forearm and elbow strikes to the face and skull of the Miracle Man, but Harrison manages to dig his feet underneath the chest of FLAMBERGE and kicks him off before getting to his feet. The Neck Collector is just as quick to his feet, though, but Harrison manages to mow him down with a powerful clothesline. The Lizard King refuses to stay down on the mat for long, though, as he bounces back up and then slings himself off the ropes before ducking underneath a second clothesline attempt. As Harrison turns around, FLAMBERGE is there waiting for him and connects with a high-angle hip toss. It’s time for Harrison to show his own resilience as he powers back up quickly before delivering a devastating Saito suplex. FLAMBERGE quickly crawls towards the ropes, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs.

Rose: Oh, come on Julien. Now is no time to retreat. Get back to your feet and get him!

Nick Stuart: I must say, it’s been quite confusing listening to you tonight compared to your past remarks about FLAMBERGE. You seem to be cheering him on tonight.

Rose: Yes, of course. I don’t want him blaming me if he is eliminated from the Almasy Tournament.

Richard Parker: Well, your presence down here has seemed to attract the attention of Fabby.

Rose: Ah. Yes. Fabby.

Nick Stuart: Does it bother you that he’s holding a baseball bat and staring directly at you?

Rose: No. Because it’s, well, Fabby.

The Neck Collector uses the ropes to pull himself up. Harrison comes up behind him, but is caught with a back elbow flush to the jaw. Spun around from the back elbow, clutching at his jaw, gives FLAMBERGE the opening he needs as he connects with a precise kick to the back of the neck, sending Harrison crashing to his knees. The Lizard King quickly follows this up with a series of targeted twelve-to-six elbow strikes to Harrison’s trapezius muscles. Each strike sends a shock wave through Harrison’s body, which is etched into his face. FLAMBERGE quickly traps Harrison’s left arm and delivers stiff headbutts to the shoulder joint, weakening Harrison with each strike that he sends.

Richard Parker: And FLAMBERGE is taking it to Harrison and increasing the intensity to boot. I imagine Harrison is feeling what it must feel when a snake has you trapped.

Nick Stuart: I imagine not a good feeling.

Rose: I don’t know, Nick, do you want to know what it feels like to be trapped by a snake? I can regal you with a tale or two.

Nick Stuart: You’ve been trapped by a snake before?

Rose: Metaphorically, Nick. Use that brain of yours.

Richard Parker: Yeah, Nick!

Rose: Quiet, heathen.

FLAMBERGE then drags Harrison up to his feet, still trapping his left arm, before executing a hammerlock suplex, driving Harrison’s arm into the mat in the process. The Miracle Man tries to get away from FLAMBERGE, but the Lizard King is relentless in his pursuit. He continues the assault with kicks and stomps to Harrison’s now vulnerable left arm. Each snap of his boot across the shoulder puts Harrison into a more and more perilous position. FLAMBERGE reaches down and applies a standing Kimura lock, wrenching back on the damaged arm. Nixon checks on Harrison, who refuses to give up, understanding that capitulation now may be what allows them into the next round of the Almasy tournament.

Nick Stuart: This could be a pivotal moment for Harrison. He could shred his shoulder up here and be unable to compete even if he was to win tonight.

Richard Parker: Well, that would be rather impressive because if Harrison’s strength is gone, his ability to suplex FLAMBERGE around this ring has vanished, getting that victory is going to be an even more uphill battle.

Rose: Always underestimating us, boys. As if we don’t have a higher pain tolerance than most. I mean, Richard, I see you struggling with lifting your bag into the overhead compartment of a flight most weeks. Please don’t compare our ability to overcome pain to yours. It’s a joke.

FLAMBERGE continues to wrench back on the arm of Harrison before releasing the hold and delivers a series of strikes to the neck with his forearm. FLAMBERGE tries to drag Harrison up to his feet and attempt a Judo throw, but Harrison’s legs give out from the sustained assault on his joints. FLAMBERGE, seeing that there’s a victory in sight, quickly goes for his triangle choke setup, but Harrison, in desperation, powers FLAMBERGE up and drives him down with a side suplex, leaving both men sprawled out on the canvas.

Rose: Well, well, well. The Miracle Man seems to have found some inkling of strength after all.

Nick Stuart: Who are you rooting for? FLAMBERGE? Harrison?

Rose: Rooting for? That’s a stupid question. You may root for someone. These fans may root for someone. Us in the back could care less at the end of the day.

Richard Parker: So… FLAMBERGE.

Rose: I’m going to let Fabby hit you with the baseball bat if you don’t stop talking.

Harrison is the first to get to his feet and slowly drags FLAMBERGE up into a front-facelock before lifting him for a brain buster. He holds him there for a moment before spiking him on his head into the canvas. Harrison immediately floats over and follows it up with a series of forearm shots to FLAMBERGE’s jaw, stunning the smaller French Phenom. Harrison quickly drags FLAMBERGE up to his feet and whips him into the corner before connecting with a running knee lift. As FLAMBERGE stumbles out of the corner, Harrison spins him around, hoists him into the air, and delivers a spinebuster into the center of the ring. Harrison then goes for the cover, and Nixon slides in for the count.

ONE!

TWO!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: And FLAMBERGE gets his shoulder up with plenty of time.

Nick Stuart: Harrison taking it to FLAMBERGE and hoping to catch him with a quick pinfall there.

Rose: That is the name of the game, Nicholas. Get the pinfall. If it takes one right hand or thirty powerbombs, it doesn’t really matter. The history books simply put down the victor’s name and we all move on to what’s next down the road.

Richard Parker: You must be a treat at parties.

Rose: You wouldn’t know considering you’ve been banned from all of them.

Nick Stuart: Is that why I don’t see you at the after party anymore, Richard?

Richard Parker: I mean…

Harrison, not deterred by his inability to put FLAMBERGE down for a three-count, immediately flips FLAMBERGE over and puts him into the STF submission hold, wearing down FLAMBERGE’s back. Nixon checks on Flamberge, who grits through the pain, refusing to submit. Harrison wrenches back on the jaw and neck of the Lizard King, but can tell that he’s going to need to do more work if he hopes to get the Neck Collector to submit. He releases the hold and watches as FLAMBERGE tries to make his way to his feet before connecting with a powerful clothesline. FLAMBERGE powers back up to his feet, refusing to stay down, which only sets him up for another suplex as Harrison lifts Flamberge for a belly-to-back suplex, driving him into the canvas.

Rose: I must say, this back and forth is quite intriguing…

Nick Stuart: Is it? You don’t have a dog in this fight?

Rose: I don’t see any dogs in the ring, Nick.

Nick Stuart: Someone you’re supporting?

Rose: Well — oof, Harrison driving his knee into FLAMBERGE’s face right there, I’m just casually doing your job for you, Nick — I’m not in the Almasy, now am I? Like, the only one not in the tournament, which is quite strange. I could care less who wins or loses. I’ve long considered Julien a friend though and would be upset for him if he were to lose this match.

Richard Parker: He doesn’t seem to be all that friendly with you.

Rose: Many could say the same — an elbow to the back of the neck from Harrison, you two really need to step up your game — about Nick and yourself. We all know the truth though.

Nick Stuart: You do?

Rose: We all do.

Harrison then rises to his feet, taunting the crowd for a minute while pressing his boot against the back of FLAMBERGE’s neck. He then lifts him up and puts him into a rear waistlock before going for a German suplex. The Lizard King, though, blocks it, wrapping his leg around the inside of Harrison’s leg, before spinning around onto Harrison’s back. Before Steve can realize it, he has the Neck Collector on his back, putting him into a rear naked choke, wrapping his legs around his torso, catching Harrison completely off guard.

Richard Parker: And just like that, FLAMBERGE is squeezing the life out of Harrison!

Nick Stuart: You can see the panic in Steve’s eyes, he knows he needs to do something fast or this will be game over.

Rose: I mean, if you have a bug on your back, what do you do with it?

Nick Stuart: Kill it?

Richard Parker: Eat it?

Rose: You truly are some subprimordial being, aren’t you Rich?

Richard Parker: That sounds like a compliment.

Nick Stuart: It wasn’t.

Harrison, having buckled to his knees, takes a moment as Nixon checks on him. He does everything he can to pry the arms of FLAMBERGE from his neck, but finds it impossible to do so. He uses his last bit of strength to push off the canvas onto his feet and then runs backwards into the nearby corner, squashing FLAMBERGE between him and the turnbuckles. This forces the Lizard King to release the choke. Harrison, freed from the grasp of the Neck Collector, stumbles forward and turns around, but as he does, Flamberge stumbles out of the corner and goes for a spinning heel kick.

Nick Stuart: And Harrison narrowly ducks the kick from FLAMBERGE!

Richard Parker: All instinctual there from the Miracle Man!

Nick Stuart: It truly doesn’t matter.

Rose: Sometimes, you’ve got to let your instincts kick in. Too much thinking is a bad thing.

Harrison then wraps his arms around FLAMBERGE before connecting with an overhead belly-to-belly suplex that launches him across the ring. The Neck Collector skids off the canvas before his body ricochets off the turnbuckles. He uses that little bit of momentum to get right back to his feet before connecting with a jumping roundhouse kick to the skull of the Miracle Man. Harrison is staggered from the shot as he stumbles around, but refuses to go down.

FLAMBERGE gets back to his feet, only to be met with a throat punch that stops him dead in his tracks, sending him to his knees. Harrison then goes for his Enlightenment knee trigger to the dazed FLAMBERGE. The Neck Collector narrowly moves out of the way at the last second before slamming his forearm into the midsection of Harrison and goes for an exe kick to the back of the neck only for Harrison to move out of the way, put him into a rear waist lock and connect with a release German Suplex.

Rose: I must say, these two are truly leaving it all out in the ring.

Nick Stuart: Yes, they are. Also, I don’t think Fabby has moved an inch.

Rose: Nope, he’s still standing there with a baseball bat as if he’s going to actually hit me with it. How sweet.

Richard Parker: Sweet? Sweet?! That guy is a lunatic.

Rose: Honey, look at the industry we’re in. We’re all a bit crazy.

Harrison reaches down and pulls FLAMBERGE back up off the mat, putting him into a rear waistlock, only for the Neck Collector to break free with a series of back elbows that catch flush against his right orbital bone. FLAMBERGE then goes for the jujigatame armbar, but Harrison manages to power out of the armbar attempt and deadlifts FLAMBERGE into a powerbomb position. Flamberge sends down a series of thundering right fists to the skull of the Miracle Man before countering the powerbomb into a hurricanrana, sending Harrison the ring.

Richard Parker: Both of these men are looking for an opening to put the other away and are just coming up short each time!

Nick Stuart: One mistake, that’s all it takes.

Rose: Ah, yes, mistakes.

Nick Stuart: That’s it?

Rose: What, did you think I was going to tell you any of mine? Dream again, Nicky.

Harrison then rolls to his feet and charges forward with a big boot, only for FLAMBERGE to duck underneath it. FLAMBERGE then comes up behind Harrison and goes for a dragon suplex, only for Harrison to block it and before connecting with a back elbow to FLAMBERGE’s face. Harrison then turns around and goes for his ‘It’s a Harracle’ Crossface Chicken Wing Suplex. FLAMBERGE, though, slips out at the last second and rolls Harrison up with a small package. Nixon begins to count quickly.

ONE!

TWO!

TH– NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: And FLAMBERGE almost caught Harrison by surprise with that one.

Richard Parker: Harrison just kicked out in the nick of time.

Rose: Alright, gents, it’s been fun.

Richard Parker: Wait, what are you doing?

Rose: Women things, Richard. You wouldn’t know anything about that.

While Rose steps away from the announcer’s table, both competitors scramble to their feet. Harrison swings wildly with the clothesline, only for FLAMBERGE to duck underneath it. FLAMBERGE quickly catches Harrison in a front facelock as he turns around. Before Harrison can do anything else, FLAMBERGE quickly transitions into the guillotine choke. The Marie Antoinette is locked in!

Meanwhile, Rose snatches the baseball bat away from Fabby, who quickly runs away.

Richard Parker: Harrison is trapped! And Fabby is gone!

Nick Stuart: Harrison is trying his best to muscle out of it, but once you get locked into the Marie Antoinette, it is game over.

Nixon checks on Harrison, who is doing everything he can to uncurl the forearm currently pressed against his throat.

It’s inevitable though.

And Harrison taps out.

DING DING DING

Nick Stuart: And FLAMBERGE has pulled off the victory!

Richard Parker: He moves onto the next round of the Almasy where he will square off against either Scott Hunter or Ivan Stanislav.

FLAMBERGE releases his hold on Harrison, who drops to both knees, sucking in as much air as he can. FLAMBERGE pats Harrison on the back and Harrison looks up, seeing his hand extended to Harrison. The respect between the two is there as Harrison takes it before rolling out of the ring and heads backstage.

Vince Howard: Your winner… and moving onto the next round of the Almasy Tournament… FLAMBERGE!

Rose then hops onto the ring apron, still holding that baseball bat and tapping it against the ropes.

Nick Stuart: Folks, I don’t think we’re quite done here yet.

How right he is.

Rose stands in the ring, across from FLAMBERGE. His hands are on his hips and he looks less than impressed after the difficult match he just encountered.

Her left hand contains a microphone. Her right hand contains a baseball bat. fabby has been run off. An amused look on her face.

Rose: Getting to watch you up close and personal was truly a treat. Your command in that ring, your ability to get out of tough situations. [Congrats on your victory/Next time, I’m sure you’ll get them]. Now, though, we’ve got other business to discuss. Because, you see, two weeks ago you called me an idiot. Me? An idiot. I mean, I’m called lots of things. An idiot though, wouldn’t be high up on that list. Not if you know what’s best for you.

FLAMBERGE stands there, his eyes locked upon the Second Coming.

Rose: You know, I think you have an accountability issue. I think it’s easier for you to blame everyone else for your problems instead of taking responsibility and figuring out how to improve from it. I mean, you think the right course of action for me after being laid out at UltraViolence is to slink away and forget all about it. Let me ask you, Julien, is that how you would operate? If Nate Colton came and knocked you out, would you just shrug your shoulders and move on with your life? Or would you go after him?

FLAMBERGE, wincing as he feels the fresh effects of his challenging match against the Miracle Man, heads toward the ropes and motions for a microphone from a ringside attendant.

Once he receives it, he bop bop bops the top to make sure it’s working properly, before returning his gaze to Rose.

FLAMBERGE: Ouais, very cool of you to hop into this ring after this insane high-stakes match with this baseball bat and this self-entitlement, Rose. I swear, as the time passes, it dawns on me more and more that you are the worst friend I have.

Rose instinctively squeezes the bat a little tighter, glaring across the ring at the Frenchman.

FLAMBERGE: Lest we forget, cherie – the first conversation we ever had, the one back in France, was when you asked me for the personal favor – a favor that involved the only family I had that I still cared about. Ever since then, it has continued to be the “take, take, take” from you – you tell me how I am only given the “pass” by you as if I owed you, you want me to be your letter carrier, you want me to choose between my Glue friends and you, you want me to say you are wise and intelligent for stomping on the ankles of the Mustache with a pipe – and meanwhile, over and over again, you ignore the one thing I have ever asked of you, to leave this stupid crusade against Cecilworth Farthington alone.

He stops to catch his breath – it’s been a lot of talking already after such an arduous match. Rose shoots daggers at him with her eyes.

FLAMBERGE: You are toxic, Rose. You are toxic and you ARE the idiot for continuing down this path. I look back on the events of the UltraViolence, and do you know what I think?

There’s commotion ringside – a few fans at the barricade behind Rose see something that is apparently blind to Rose or FLAMBERGE.

FLAMBERGE: I think that the biggest shame in all this, is that the lesson might have to be taught twice.

Rose inches toward the Neck Collector, a smile on her face.

Rose: You know what I think, Julien? I think its time we put all of our cards out on the table. Toxic? Oof, you really hurt me with that one. It’s amazing to me because I seem to recall when Fontaine was injured by Kael, you went full force after him. So explain to me the difference. Because while you throw words like toxic and idiot out, you are a hypocrite.

She then produces the letter she gave to FLAMBERGE.

Rose: I took this off of fabby just now before he ran off. Why don’t you go ahead and read the letter and let me know what you think afterwards?

FLAMBERGE takes the letter, and without even looking at it, staring squarely into the Second Coming’s eyes, he rips it in half and tosses the pieces over his shoulders.

FLAMBERGE: I will never do something you ask of me again.

THUMP

CRACK

The slap from Rose — after she drops the microphone —  comes fast and furious. It stings, momentarily and cocks FLAMBERGE’s head to the side, but his head spins back in Rose’s direction just as quickly. Before anything else can happen though, our favorite Glue member interjects.

Fontaine? No. FLAMBERGE? No. fabby? Never. Dirk Dickwood? It would be neat, but no.

It’s a seven foot monster of a man wearing a black turtleneck and matching slacks. His bald head shines and gleams in the arena lights. He steps over the ropes behind Rose, and the fans start to yell out in anticipation of an “Oh No” sort of event.

With a quick swipe, the man knocks the bat out of Rose’s hand. Startled, she turns, finding the stomach of a very large fellow – and so she slowly cranes her neck up, and her eyes widen…

Nick Stuart: IT’S HANK!! It’s Hank??

Richard Parker: Phil Atken’s Chief of Security!

Nick Stuart: …you remember his job title?

Richard Parker: I rewatch that clip of Dusk’s skull getting dunked through the ring by Hank at the first UltraViolence at least once a month!

Hank, the largest boy you ever saw, grabs Rose by the throat, lifts her impossibly high, and absolutely throttles her with an enormous Choke Bomb. She literally bounces off the mat from the impact.

FLAMBERGE looks up at Hank, and their eyes meet. Hank nods to FLAMBO, who takes an extra step back to provide more space for the man to operate.

Rose stirs, slowly crawling towards FLAMBERGE, reaching for his boots, showing that she still has some fight left in her…and FLAMBO finally returns the nod to Hank.

Hank snatches Rose back up off the mat, gives her the double goozle, and spikes her skull once again with a hellacious Choke Bomb.

The crowd don’t know how to react – is this a vicious assault on a young upstart trying to gain revenge for what once happened to her father? Is this a justified retaliation upon someone who’s been an enormous thorn in the Glueminati’s side after numerous warnings? Or is it a muddled gray area?

Either way, whether it’s cheers or boos or a blend, it’s LOUD.

FLAMBERGE slowly approaches Rose, who is now out cold on the mat. He bends down and lifts up her right wrist, before dropping it – it splats back down without any input from Rose. He’s ditched his microphone at this point, though the camera is close enough to him that we catch what he says as he looks up towards Hank.

FLAMBERGE: Maybe we call this one “Civil Rose”?

Hank seems to like it.

The camera pans over a bit, and the last shot we see is half of the torn letter that Rose had asked FLAMBO to read – the letter once intended to be delivered to Farthington. One she correctly assumed he wouldn’t deliver. We can’t see all the text, but we can clearly see one line, which reads:

“I never thought you would be the one to betray me”

After a few moments, we transition away.

Imagine, if you will.

You’re a young man, getting your first real taste of the wrestling industry. Not just penny-ante indy shows; you’ve been part of those for years. No, this is the real deal. The big time. The A-number-one promotion in the world, where your older brother happens to be one of the biggest stars.

This is a huge opportunity. The guy who taught you how to tie your shoes, how to shoot a free throw, how to fish…now he’s showing you the ropes here at the very pinnacle. Most people never get a shot like this all their lives, let alone at your age.

But then he runs off to “take care of something”…and then, he doesn’t come back. So you’re all by yourself in the locker room…and that’s fine, but you can only take so much of Crash saying “bro” and Steve Lemieux’s weird noises and The Anglo Luchador’s dated references. (Seriously guy, how old are you?)

So you decide to take a walk. Maybe you’ll check out catering; they had some really good stuff in Chicago. Or maybe you’re hoping to see that emo chick who was working near the Argyle position. But even though you were super careful about following the signs (to catering; they don’t put up signs to help you meet cute emo chicks, which…rude) and staying near security like your brother told you a thousand times, you end up wandering around the halls of the Rupp Arena.

Lost.

Blake Colton: Ah, jeez.

Look, in your defense…this place is a hell of a lot bigger than the Evansville National Guard Armory. Easy to get lost back here, especially if you’re not used to bigger arenas…and have a poor sense of direction to start with. But you know what? It’s OK. No problem getting back to familiar territory, you just need to retrace your steps.

Blake Colton: Umm…

Only that’s easier said than done, because all these hallways look the same and your steps could have come from anywhere.

You know what? It’s fine. No need to panic.

Blake Colton: No…no no no no…

No need to panic, I said. It’s fine. What’s the worst that could happen?

…

…Oh. Yeah, that’d be pretty bad.

Well, that’s not going to happen. Not again. He knows you’re off limits; if he gets anywhere close, he’ll get fired and sent home…if your brother doesn’t find him first.

So. Relax. Deep breaths. Unclench those muscles. Stop sweating so much. Forget about the screaming, the fear, the incredible pain…

You’re not listening, are you? Buddy, this isn’t going to work if you won’t listen. It’s going to be fine, I said. He’s probably nowhere near here; he’s got a match coming up pretty soon and isn’t going to risk his chance at the Almasy semifinals. Certainly not for a kid who’s not even a real wrestler yet…no matter who his brother is. Right? Right.

…

…Right?

So now you’re coming up to an intersection, but just before you get there you peek around the corner to see if anyone’s coming. There isn’t, and you breathe a sigh of relief…until you hear the heavy bootsteps coming from the opposite direction, and something tells you it’s not that cute emo chick. Yes, she had some big chunky boots, but not the kind that are used for kicking in doors. And before you know it, there’s a massive shadow, cast by a massive man who’s suddenly looming over you…

Now then.

Imagine, if you will.

You are over seven feet tall, and the hallway is too narrow. This happens often. Your shoulders brush the walls. Your head grazes signs. The world was not built for you. Even here, in the beating heart of the American empire, the ceilings feel like a cage.

You are surrounded by enemies, and are on the cusp of a major contest in your career.

So you walk. Slowly. Heavily. Each step is deliberate. You’re one of, if not the, biggest and strongest members of the roster, and still you could be swarmed at any moment if a group of gnats somehow grew coordinated. So you step, loudly. It’s as much a defense mechanism than anything else.

Let me know that something big and dangerous is nearby so they can turn around and walk the other way.

But then, you see him. He’s not small. Not as small as you remember him. But yes, you remember him. Especially the scream.

You don’t think of the name. You don’t say the name. Names are meant for men who matter, and this is just a boy. But you remember the scream, the crunch, and laughing when you two last met.

It felt good at the time. Necessary. Tactical. He was a message for the brother. Stay away. There are costs. Some say his brother “won.” But you know better. When you’ve lived as long as you have, you understand: The brother suffered more for that “win” than you ever did, and he has a long life ahead of him to deal with it.

So you let the young man bump into you and nearly fall over. You stare down at him. You square your jaw. Narrow your eyes. You let the full weight of your Russianness settle into your face. Unblinking. Unapologetic.

No emotion. No recognition. Because truthfully?

You don’t know how to feel.

You see your own broken brother, Kliment, for just a moment. Broken. Bleeding. Battered. And you hate it.

Are you sorry?

Would you do it again?

Would they make you have to do it again?

You let the silence answer.

That is how you win.

And then, when the moment has settled like dust in the air and the gravity has taken hold?

You speak.

“You should look where you walk, boy.”

And then you walk, pushing past him like he was a cardboard cutout. Not fast. Not urgent. Just forward. Always forward. It’s best to leave him behind, along with the scream and the crunch, and focus on anything else.

But then he does something you don’t expect.

Blake Colton: I’m…I’m not afraid of you.

An obvious lie. You can see his shaking hands, his quivering lip…but there’s also something new behind the boy’s eyes. A sense of defiance that wasn’t there the last time you dealt with him.

Yes, he’s still afraid. But not as much as he was.

And definitely not as much as he should be.

You stop. Let him look at your back and allow the air to thicken around you. You’ve seen fear your entire life, and when you were his age, you experienced it yourself. You’re not a stranger to it. Then, when you’ve allowed him to start at your back, to let him realize that his words are hollow, you turn.

You gave him the grace of not having your attention.

Now? He does.

Still, give him a chance. One more.

You draw your fingers through your beard and allow the sound of the bristles to echo between the both of you. Then, you point a large finger down at him and take one step back, towards him.

Ivan Stanislav: I have seen you before. But where, I wonder?

Give him the chance to walk away, but make sure he understands how trivial he is. Just a boy, standing in the shadow of a man who has watched mothers die and governments fall.  A man who has buried brothers. Who has killed men.

A man who has lived through horror and despair and tragedy, so much so that this boy and his feelings are nothing more than a mist in the window of memory.

The boy sets his jaw, desperately trying to look tough. He puts the image in your mind of a child wearing his father’s clothes…hoping so much to be his father. To be his brother. To put to use the lessons they have taught him. More likely, he’ll soil himself as soon as you step toward him again.

…

And yet, he stands.

He knows who you are, and what you are capable of. He knows he lacks even the strength, prowess, and courage of his ineffectual older brother.

And yet, he stands.

You’re not sure if this boy is aware that you’ve known, this entire time, just who he is. It doesn’t matter if he’d believe it anyway. That’s the nice thing about those younger than you, everything is a teachable moment.

You know the Rupp Arena well. You’ve wrestled in it before. Built back when buildings meant something. When your Soviet Union existed. Concrete walls. Strong Kentucky construction. No flimsy plaster or plywood to deal with when you want to throw someone against something, not through something.

You growl at him.

Ivan Stanislav: You were louder, last time.

You see your words crash into him like a ton of bricks and allow yourself to take one, large, step closer. You’re closer to him than he probably expects. He isn’t familiar with your stride. And it hurts when you say what’s next, because now you know how much it hurts you.

Ivan Stanislav: Does your mother still hear your screams?

Now, then.

Imagine, if you will.

You were hoping for a nice, easy night. Maybe a quick interview, and then giving your little brother more important life advice, like the importance of leaving big tips for the attendants and thanking the stage hands for all their hard work.

Instead, what you got was a good dragging from someone who’s supposed to be your friend. When you tried to clear the air, things got out of hand again and ended with a lengthy chat with Dametreyus (and a duck, apparently? No idea what that’s about.)

Then you get back to the locker room, ‘cause your kid brother is completely unsupervised and of course he’s not there even though he knows damn well how dangerous it is to wander off alone. So you go out looking, with disaster scenarios running through your head the whole time.

FLAMBERGE is choking him out, just because of his last name. Max Kael is whispering madness into his ear. Fred Dick is turning him into lasagna. Vickie Hall…that’s it, really. Just…Vickie Hall.

Now your pace is picking up, your heart is beating faster, your jangling nerves turn the catastrophizing into full-blown Technicolor nightmares. You see the blood. You hear the screams. You relive the worst night of your life, over and over again with every step.

Then, you see it.

The worst night of your life, about to happen again.

A switch flips, and new images come up from your psyche. The events from the second worst night of your life, real and imagined. The things you wanted to do, things that involved barbed wire and power tools and then you look down at the blood on your hands and you’re not sure if it’s yours or his and more importantly you don’t care because no amount of suffering will ever be enough and suddenly there’s a claw hammer in your hand that you don’t remember picking up but you can feel the impact, you can hear the crunch and you can’t open your mouth all the way because if you do you’ll scream so instead it comes out as a growl…

Nate Colton: Get the hell away from him.

You don’t care how big he is. How much success he’s had. Where he’s been or what he’s won in his life. You just know what he’s taken. From you. From your family. From others. He’s a bully. Not a Bear. He’s a vulture. And worst of all?

He fucking smiles.

Not the kind that shows teeth or means happiness. Just a quiet, almost polite curve of his lips, like he’s holding the door open for you after dragging your brother through hell. He lifts his hands, palms out.

Ivan Stanislav: I was just walking by.

Then, he has the audacity to look at your brother and speak to him.

Ivan Stanislav: Is that not right?

You don’t even bother to look at the kid. There’s gonna be a long talk about this later. Right now, your words are short and to the point.

Nate Colton: Then keep walking.

You know the situation, however. You can say what you want with as much force as you want. But the truth is that you’re still too far away to stop him. Just like before.

Too far away to intervene. Too far away to grab his arms. To take his attention. To prevent him from simply reaching out and hurting those you love. Again. Too late getting here. Too far out of reach. And he’s there.

And you’ve been around long enough to know him, and know that he has all the cards. That’s when you realize that you understand why that big Russian bastard is smiling. Because you’re helpless all over again.

And he knows it.

Just a flick of his arm and it’s the nightmare all over again.

But with just a flick of your arm…

You think about the extra weight in your right hand. That hammer you don’t remember picking up. You’re pretty sure you can throw it that far. If you don’t knock him out, at least it will put him on his heels long enough for you to close the distance.

That’s fine. You’d rather finish this with your bare hands, anyway.

Your muscles tense. You can feel the motion, putting all of your strength and fury behind the throw…enough to send it not just at Ivan Stanislav, but straight through him.

The synapses fire, sending this command of revenge to your right arm. Another second, and it will be too late. You are sure of your power. Sure of your righteous rage.

Are you sure of your aim?

…

Now, then.

A miracle. Or perhaps luck.

Ivan steps away, once. As much as you’d like to say you backed him down, you know it’s not true. He’s doing this for the same reason he does anything.

Because he wants to.

You feel the hair raise on the back of your neck. Is Alexei behind you? Are you about to lose consciousness? Is this a trick? But you don’t dare look away from Ivan. Never again.

Ivan Stanislav: I have much more important matters, anyway. Da svidanya.

He walks away, and just when you don’t think you could be any more on edge he starts whistling that goddamn song again and you can feel it in your teeth and boy wouldn’t it serve him right for you to take this hammer and sink it into–

Blake Colton: Nate?

…

But you’re not going to do that. You’re supposed to be setting an example. Showing him the kind of man you want him to be…

Not the man you’re becoming.

Nate Colton: Let’s get back to the locker room.

You won’t be going with them. Time for you to walk in your own shoes again.

Imagine, if you will…

Cut to ringside.

From the Coltons and MYSTERY GUESTS (I know there are mystery guests, just not who, because I was not told that much), we return to ringside.

Vince Howard: The following match is scheduled for one fall and is a quarterfinal contest in the 2025 Seymour Almasy Memorial Invitational. Introducing first…

The Lasagna Boys (Toddrick, Miguel, Sebastian Gold) step onto the entrance ramp, a microphone in Miguel’s hand.

Miguel: EVERYBODY SHUT THE FUCK UP!!! THE KING OF WRONG STYLE IS HERE!!! BOW YOUR HEADS AND KNEEL, YOU FUCKERS!!!

BOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

“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, with Anna Daniels and a begrudging Daytona Diamonds behind him. He does some shadow slap-boxing, gets a tad out of breath, and strolls to the ring. 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, while his cohort of friends and brainwashed thralls back him up at ringside.

Such a sentiment stops Vince from continuing to introduce Fred Dick. That being said, he is not the only man involved in this match.

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: LEXINGTON KENTUCKY! I’M SHOCKED TO SEE SO MANY PEOPLE FILLING THIS BUILDING! DID YOU MANAGE TO STOP CHASING YOUR COUSINS LONG ENOUGH TO SPEND YOUR WELFARE BUCKS ON TICKETS? DID THEY LET YOU GO FROM THE FARM RIGHT HERE? THE SMELL OF PIG SHIT IS DISGUSTING!

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. The Whoresmen and the Lasagnas don’t. Or they do? Daytona seems to be laughing it up. Anna Daniels could give a shit. Fred Dick is in the shadowboxing zone. The Lasangas…are drooling fucking imbeciles.

This won’t last.

Rexton William Bader: This fat tub of shit in the ring, what is ‘it’ called? Disgusting. I can smell the shit from you all the way up here. You’re lucky you’re facing THE SECOND GREATEST WRESTLER ALIVE, JASON SNOW, and NOT THE GREATEST…THE MASTER…REXTON! WILLIAM BADER! And you know why that is, you dickless slob? Because you…YOU…have Snow’s property. That Intense Championship belt? You think you deserve that? You pig, you absolute menace to common decency, AND I KNOW COMMON DECENCY…your chicken and waffle whoofing ass is on borrowed time. That belt isn’t on the line…but THE SECOND GREATEST WRESTLER EVER, JASON SNOW…he doesn’t NEED that belt! He just needs to beat your stupid, dickless ass, and move on in this tournament for some coward who isn’t around anymore. Seymour Assmasy? Are you kidding us all? Are you kidding ME?

BOOO~!

Rexton William Bader: And you tell that steroid freak that he has no business getting involved in this. He couldn’t control himself and just because he gets all hot and bothered about breaking tables…newsflash, dipshit…YOU LOST. THE SECOND GREATEST WRESTLER ALIVE, JASON SNOW won. He OWNS YOU. And people here in Lexington know it. Despite how disgusting and anti-handicapped you are. If I could, I would rise from this chair and beat ALL of your asses…

BOOO~!

Rexton William Bader: But the only thing getting a rise out of me is that girl that looks like she lost a fight down the make up aisle of the Dollar Tree. You want some, Lipstick? Get on over here…The Master will give you a ride!

Jay and Rex reach ringside, and then Snow takes the steps up after sharing a few words with his manager. Jason then gets into the ring, and the microphone for Bader cuts, because someone has taste and doesn’t want him to keep going.

DING DING

Upon the ringing of the bell, one might expect a burst of urgency, especially with what all is on the line. This…is not the case. Snow merely stands near his corner, expressionless, his eyes piercing given the paleness of his skin. Serial killer visage. Cool and calm.

The Master’s mouth is moving a thousand miles a minute. Epitaphs, brazen challenges, talk of his superiority. His hands grab at his genitals as if to tell Anna Daniels right exactly where they belong. The Muse…is unamused. Daytona is flexing his lats. Surging movement in his shoulders. Striations abound, the chemical tracts pumping filthy steroid infused blood through his ever growing heart. No…not in the context of empathy; we’re talking full on, enlarging the heart, coming-down-the-pike-this-thing-is-exploding-type-shit. It’s not horse meat running through his veins. Dead man walking, he doesn’t even know it yet. And he doesn’t care right now. That can change in a moment. Roid rage does that to people.

The Lasagna Boys are doing…Lasagna Boy things. Toddrick’s gut hung out like an awning, drool falling from his mostly toothless maw. Miguel was thin, maybe even emaciated at this point. Half of his mustache was growing back, but half wasn’t. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it had just been shaved off. And then…there was Sebastian Gold. Or ‘Sebastian Gold’? Sebagna Gold? Is this really happening? Is the former Alias Champion really now a thrall, utterly brainshitted?

Fred Dick is shadow boxing. And huffing. And puffing. And he isn’t in danger of blowing this house in. The sweat he’s worked up is starting to streak the weird iconography painted on his ginger hair and jawl ridden face. It…is time for an ace whoopin. Hopefully he took a shower. Snow can tell us all if The King of Wrong Style actually cleaned up the bowel destruction from Mark Paul Gosselar.

Jason?

Um…Jason?

Comment?

Nothing. Nada. Zilch. The fans are booing. Oh are they booing. This is not a shades of grey match. Fred Dick is…well…Fred Dick. And Jason Snow…well…any sense of a bump in fan adoration has been mitigated by an active partnership WITH A DISGUSTING PIECE OF SHIT CON MAN FAKING ALL SORTS OF HEINOUS SHIT. You don’t get ya’s for this. These two don’t deserve your cheers.

Fred Dick ambles out of his corner, like this is a bout of Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out!!®. Except he’s beatboxing something. Maybe? Maybe it’s simple spoken affirmations from the Intense Champion…

Snow doesn’t move.

Fred opens up like he’s ready to strike.

Like a shock of lightning, the palm of Snow launches with such ferocity that it INSTANTLY drops the Intense Champion. Knocks the snot out of his bulbous nose. Uh oh. Oh UH OH! Frederick Dickard had been building himself up in his brain meat, or the hole where such a thing is supposed to occupy, that THIS time with the Original Villain wouldn’t be like last time. That those punches and kicks wouldn’t hurt anywhere near as much.

He was wrong.

This…this was WORSE.

Fred quivers and shakes. His hands push outward, begging off. This isn’t a bathroom. This isn’t for a bucket of Sketti. This isn’t even for his Intense Championship. It doesn’t matter. The Shid Gremlin wants NO part of this bullshid. None. Zero.

Snow, undaunted, reaches down toward Chicken Lollipop.

Only to get rolled up.

Grab of the shorts.

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Violently so from Snow. Jason doesn’t even get up, instead, grounding his base and launching his shoulder into the collar of Dick, a missile launch with amateur wrestling bravado. Fred doesn’t know what to do with this.
Jason does.

Fists of marble. Fists of stone. They downpour into the forehead of the Almasy’s remaining Whoresman. These blows are not uneducated; they bite into the wound left untended and untreated from two weeks before, from the fork of once specter, now returned Ria Lockhart. Elvis tries to stop the onslaught, but Snow is undaunted. Each blow that falls lacerates. Rips and tears. The Shid Gremlin is at home is the violence, but his head is an unmitigated disaster, the cut pissing blood at an accelerated rate. He tries his damndest to cover up, to get out of this, but Snow is having none of it.

There is no smirk of satisfaction. No acknowledgement. Just cold viciousness. Nixon’s threat of disqualification is all that pulls the Original Villain off of Dick, and in the process, Snow throws a boot right into the bridge of the Intense Champion’s nose.

Splayed out like a turtle, trying to get up, Fred’s arms and legs kick on the canvas, the lights of Rupp Arena barely whispering through the claret. Toddrick manages to get himself onto the ring apron.

Snow’s boot strikes him with a Snake Eyes.

Miguel darts into the ring.

Snow grabs onto him, and in one fluid motion, biels him over the top rope and into a splatter on the outside mats. The chalk outline comes later. A cracking of the neck. A distinct stare in the direction of Daytona Diamonds. A challenge? After ReVival 72, and the roid rage and table?

The Rhinestone Cowboy might care if he wasn’t too busy in his own space with a posedown. Anna Daniels brandishes a knife, which could be used in a multitude of ways, surely.

Suddenly, an explosion of movement; Fred Dick body checks Snow into the corner, launching The Original Villain into the nearby corner, his shoulder and hip smashing into the turnbuckles. The Shid Gremlin lets out a mighty roar…that sounds more akin to a pig squealing, as he launches all three hundred pounds of twisted meals and no sex appeal into Snow with a body splash. His hands rip at the former Jewel in the Crown’s bread, bracing him out, throwing wild slaps across the chest of Jason. Across the face. The head. The shoulder. Every which way, a slap.

The GTT6 Champion isn’t stoic and taking the shots; the blows are heavy, desperate, and they rock his form back and forth like a pinball trapped between side by side flippers. He does, eventually, plant his feet, throwing a brutal punch and landing right into the maw of The Street Cat. The blow sears. Fred tries to recover, but Snow rips him across the chest with a knife edge chop. Then another. Fred tries to tomahawk chop him to the chest, but Snow grabs hold of him by the mutton chops, twisting his hips, and bieling the Intense Champion across the ring.

A violent bounce of the ring. The ropes shake. Everything shakes. Fred pushes his mug into the canvas, pushing himself up right after. A pool of probably Hepatitis lays there, a lake to be avoided at all costs. He thrusts his shoulder into the midsection of The Original Villain, and the sudden burst catches the Hall of Famer off guard genuinely, his eyes darting out. Fred gets to a knee, bellclapping Jason across the ear, causing Snow to stagger away on shaky footing.

The Intense Champion loads up for a chop, hitting Snow across the chest, and then, with a showcase smirk through the river of blood pissing down his face, he thrusts his knuckles into the ball sack of The Original Villain.

Nixon is not amused, grabbing onto Dick and ripping him around, his arms gesticulating that if he tries the one more time, he’s done.

You think Fred gives a shid?

Fug no!

The Intense Champion follows up, blasting Snow across the back of his shoulders with a downward tomahawk chop. And another. Then, with a bit of gusto, he begins making noises. If you follow Atlanta Braves baseball, or Florida State Seminoles, you know the chant. The whooping. The Lexington fans are not having it.

If they don’t want to have it, they can have some of DEEZ NUDZ!

Fred is right at home, grabbing his ballsack, making a total ass of himself, tongue out, lapping at his own blood. See, this wasn’t so bad after all!

Ask him that again.

Why?

Because Jason just blasted him with a kitchen sink hip attack/knee combo, ripping him by the mutton chops and snapping him to the canvas with a russian legsweep. A handprint of blood on The Original Villain’s taped palm. Well, it was there; Snow cleans it off by snapping a slap across Fred’s gut.

The knee drop the follows is just as brutal.

The Original Villain doesn’t stalk his target; he commits action, grabbing hold of Dick and yanking him from the canvas, having him in a muay thai clench and blasting him in the solar plexus with a VICIOUS knee strike. Fred wilts from the blow, huffing and puffing as he powders, rolling out of the ring, toward the entrance ramp.

Snow follows suit.

Howso?

Knee strike right into the back of Dick’s head.

Replays go off showing the jerk, the sheer destruction of the blow, the distortion as his jowls flop forward. Snow lands onto the outside on his feet, and in another quick motion, he grabs hold of Fred, whipping him outward, launching him into the ring steps. The collision is hellacious. The top step comes undone, and Daytona, once in his own world, snaps back to reality. Is there gravity? Diamonds, jacked to the gills and his skin an unnatural hue of red, starts jaw jacking at his rival, trying to get his attention.

Snow doesn’t give a shit.

Bader does. He NEARLY rises out of his wheelchair. Nearly. He definitely doesn’t. Nope. That never happened. Your eyes are playing tricks on you.

Fred tries to pick himself off the outside ring mats, but struggles. He keeps falling down. He pushes Sebagna Gold in the way, but The Original Villain brushes him aside, and throws another barbed punch into the cut on Fred’s forehead.

All is going well until Dick grabs Snow by the waistband of the shorts, pulling backward as hard as he can, driving Jason into the railing. The Jewel in the Crown winner gets his hands out to brace, but doesn’t prevent the blow entirely, his head wrenching backward. Fred scurries as best as he can to his feet, chopping Snow across the lower back, hitting his kidneys.

The Muse has used their knife, cutting a section of the ring mats away, exposing the concrete underneath.

A desperation face lock from Dick.

Fred grabs the ankle of Snow, and with everything he has, spikes him on the exposed Rupp Arena floor with a fisherman suplex.

The blow is brutal. Snow’s body completely slacks. And Fred, he rolls away, seeing his chance. He starts crawling back, blubbering, maybe even crying in the process. His fingers reach for Snow, who, as the second tick away, has yet to move. For the second time, Fred Dick has used a fisherman suplex. The first time allowed him to advance in the Almasy.

Would the second time?

Fred manages to get himself up, then Snow. He rolls him into the ring.

Agonizingly slow. Like a slug. Like a slug fucking. Like a slug fucking but taking it’s time to get to the place to fuck because it doesn’t want to be doing any of this shit. Rexton William Bader is howling at this atrocity. He almost stands up from his wheelchair in protest.

But he definitely doesn’t.

Because he can’t.

He can’t you ableist prick.

You disgusting anti-handicap crusader.

How much of a pig are you, thinking that The Master is lying?

He’s powerless to stop this from happening.

Fred Dick collapses onto Snow, hooking the near leg.

ONE

TWO

THREE!

THREE!

Three?

KICKOUT BY SNOW! At the VERY last second.

Fred Dick throws an absolute shit fit. An absolute temper tantrum. Explosive. He will hold his breath and die in protest! This is SHID! THIS IS SUCH SHID! And Fred, as he flails, watches as Jason Snow, having rolled away, is using the ring ropes to pick himself up.

This…is some Terminator shit right here.

The Original Villain’s expression isn’t stoic any longer; there’s fire in those eyes. Lion of Redtown energy exuded through and through. His boot thirsts for Fred Dick’s blood. And having spent so much of his energy…Fred is feeling that drop of adrenaline.

He…is completely fucked.

Nice run, Shid Gremlin, but you don’t belong in the final four. Snow was a God before he disappeared the first time; what does that make him after he ran the field and won the Golden Turnbuckle Tournament, one of the most arduous accomplishments in the history of professional wrestling? That he ran and won the Jewel in the Crown right before launching off into the longest Universal Championship reign in PRIME history?

The oxygen up at the top is thin, you fat sack of shit. And you get winded just shadow boxing.

This is reality punching the ticket. The dice are rolled.

Snake.

Fucking.

Eyes.

Richard Parker: OH MY HOYT! OH MY HOYT!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING!

An eruption of sound from the crowd filling Rupp Arena.

Both Jason Snow and Fred Dick lay out across the canvas.

Vince Howard: YOUR WINNER…

Did you see that burst of sheer brutal intensity?

Vince Howard: AND ADVANCING TO THE SEMI-FINALS OF THE 2025 SEYMOUR ALMASY MEMORIAL INVITATIONAL TOURNAMENT…

Oh yes you did.

Yes indeed you did.

Daytona on the ring apron and Elvis Nixon instantly going to try and stop him from entering the ring.

Sebagna Gold ripping the oxygen tank from Rexton William Bader.

Miguel rolling it to his Lasagna Master.

Snow launching to crush Fred Dick’s head in all Ryan Gosling in the elevator scene in Drive with Snake Eyes.

Fred Dick hail marying with the oxygen tank, grabbing hold of it and swinging with all his might right into the crotch of The Original Villain.

The tank shooting across the ring, then outside it.

Fred Dick collapsing onto Jason Snow.

Vince Howard: FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED! DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICK!

Rexton William Bader is apoplectic. The Lasagna’s are in the ring, lifting Fred Dick off the canvas like the sack of shit he is, dragging him away, all as his blood soaked head lolls back and forth. Anna Daniels leads the way to the back, and Daytona Diamonds, laughing, hits a pose trailing behind.

Snow, knuckles pressing into the canvas, sneers in their direction. If looks could kill, everyone in his sights would be dead.

Maybe he can make that happen for them for screwing him out of his chance to win the Almasy.

ReVival…moves on.

CATCH UP ON THE ACE NETWORK

As the carnage from Dick/Snow is tended to by the PRIME crew, we move backstage where a an uncomfortable looking Matt Mills is standing beside an already sobbing Sonja Cuchilla.

In fact, it appears she has been sobbing for a while now.

Matt Mills: Ms. Cuchilla, I-

Sonja Cuchilla (wailing): Whyyyyyyy whyyyyy

Sonja reaches over and grabs at Mills’ shirt, yanking it from the safety of a tightly-fitted belt and blows her nose into it with a loud “BLLLTTTHPPH” sound.

The horrified interviewer raises his hands in some sort of self defense manuever and tries to step away, but Sonja pulls the shirt – and Mills – even closer. She dabs at her eyes with a nearby piece of dried and un-snotted fabric, leaving streaks of mascara smudged across the shirt like impressionist artwork.

Sonja lets out a soft sob before stepping backward, looking at Mills.

Sonja Cuchilla: Okay.

Matt Mills (stunned): O… kay?

Sonja Cuchilla (nodding): Yes, you were here to ask me about my dear Blaze?

Sonja seems to hold her back from sobbing again as she steadies herself.

Sonja Cuchilla: A talented, fearsome warrior taken our and abducted to prevent his eventual meteoric rise in PRIME. I mean, who would do such a thing? WHO!?

It is only now we see that Sonja is wearing an elaborately designed and bedazzled “SAVE BLAZE” shirt tightly hugging her toned and formed body from neckline to waistline, leaving little to the imagination. Despite the streaming mascara and red eyes, Sonja looks like she’s prepared for a night on the town rather than an impromptu interview backstage.

Matt Mills: Well, Blaze wasn’t exactly a threat to anyone here in PRIME so…

Sonja Cuchilla (continuing): And someone wanted it to stay that way! The only clues the police have are that his phone lost its signal a few hours after ReVival in Minneapolis and the threat I received from two weeks ago.

Matt Mills: You mean the clothes you found in a closet?

Sonja Cuchilla (frantically): Exactly! But they weren’t just anyone’s clothes, they were his! Someone here knows something about where my Blazey Wazey is!

Matt Mills mouths the words “Blazey Wazey” to himself before shaking his head.

Matt Mills: I know you’re going through a lot, Ms. Cuchilla, but I do have to ask – what reasons do you have to suggest PRIME didn’t just hang up a backup of Blaze’s gear? I mean it was put in a closet. Perhaps he just… couldn’t handle the loss to Ivan.

Sonja Cuchilla (irritated): No, like I said! It was a threat delivered to my office! Why are you harassing me like this!? I’m tired enough from endlessly searching with no one else to help me without this heresy!

Matt Mills: Did you mean hearsay?

Sonja Cuchilla (continuing): And no one will even buy one of these t-shirts!

Sonja points behind her to a massive box of shirts that look like the one she’s wearing in all shapes and sizes, including, for some reason, a toddler onesie.

She quickly begins to sob again and Mills steps back, wanting to avoid a repeat of last time.

Matt Mills: But that’s not entirely true is it?

Sonja’s crying stops on a dime as she looks up, confused.

Sonja Cuchilla: Wait, you want to buy a shirt?

Mills sighs and pinches his nose.

Matt Mills: No, what I mean is that you were ringside with the Pop Culture Phenoms recently and even got yourself involved in their match with the Green Vale Gang.

Sonja’s mascara-streaked face twitches slightly.

Sonja Cuchilla (even more irritated): Yes. But that was because I was invited by my friends who are helping me try to find Blaze! I wouldn’t have gotten involved if they didn’t invite me.

Matt Mills: But I thought you said no one else was helping you find Blaze? And… didn’t the Pop Culture Phenoms say they were using Blaze’s match with Ivan as an audition for their next movie? It seems strange they are so ready to just forget him…

Sonja Cuchilla (somehow even more irritated): No I- I mean yes, but… no it’s not- what are you trying to get at, anyways!?

Matt Mills: I’m not getting at anything, Ms. Cuchilla. I’m just continuing our interview.

Sonja Cuchilla (manic): Why!?

Mills is not sure how to exactly answer a question like that so he goes with the obvious.

Matt Mills: I’m an interviewer. It’s kind of my job.

Sonja blinks incredulously.

Matt Mills: Oh, and also, speaking of Blaze’s gear, those red sunglasses Max Kael put on at the end of the match with the Green Vale Gang… weren’t those….

Sonja stomps her foot on the ground and shoves a very impressively manicured finger into Mills’ face.

Sonja Cuchilla: Look here! I am in grief! I am in mourning! How dare you!? This interview is OVER!

Sonja reaches down in a huff, grabbing a large “SAVE BLAZE” shirt and throws it at Matt Mills.

Sonja Cuchilla: And clean yourself up! You want to be a Hollywood reporter and you dress like this? Disgusting! DISGUSTING!

Matt Mills: But I-

Even if Mills wanted to continue the interview, which he most certainly does not, Sonja is already walking quickly down the arena hallway, carrying her massive box of “SAVE BLAZE” merchandise with her.

Sonja Cuchilla (from down the hall):You’ll be getting a bill for the shirt later! Thanks for supporting the cause!

Matt Mills waits for Sonja to be out of eyesight before holding up the shirt in front of him, shrugging as he makes his way to get changed.

ReVival moves on.

We cut backstage. Only, it’s not backstage. We’re actually in the parking lot somewhere. There, in front of god and humankind and a dumpster, stands Joe Fontaine and his fabby.

Despite the fact that fabby did not go through the rigorous training and education needed to stand in front of a camera and hold a microphone in front of a professional wrestler, he is doing this right now for Joe. Why? Because Joe figured that all of the other interviewers were busy and he had a perfectly good fabby-shaped microphone stand right here.

Joe Fontaine: So, let me make sure I heard you right.

He’s pointing at fabby as he says this.

Joe Fontaine: Even though I definitely haven’t wrestled Cancer Jiles yet, he’s wrestling Chandler Tsonda already?

fabby is desperately trying to point out (through pantomime and American Sign Language) that Joe had in fact already wrestled and was defeated by Jiles two weeks ago. He is not successful, largely because however much of a renaissance man Joe Fontaine believes himself to be in and out of the professional wrestling sphere, the one thing he’s not skilled at is being self-aware.

Joe Fontaine: Like, it’s not for the Golden Ticket, is it? Because I’m pretty sure I won that by now.

It is, and he didn’t.

Joe Fontaine: So what I think is going on is a real counterfeit Golden Ticket situation. A counterfeicket, as most would call it.

They wouldn’t. In fact, fabby gives an exhausted slump to indicate that he wishes Joe would stop smashing together words already.

Joe Fontaine: At least, I think so. I think I understand what Cecilworth means by “brain-scramblies,” actually. Did you know that sound can have a color? I didn’t until two weeks ago. I think it’s called smellyow. That’s the color of sound. Very eldritch.

Joe pauses, and for a moment, it looks like he might mercifully be done talking about this.

Then he opens his mouth again.

Joe Fontaine: And another thing! I’m tired of…

As Joe postulates, the skies darken. fabby glances around pondering the chance of rain, then as he turns back to Joe his eyes bulge as he notices something overhead. A cautious hand reaches out, tapping Joe on the shoulder before the furniture slides back a step.

Joe Fontaine: Hang on, I’m in the middle of a rant that everyone should pay attention to.

fabby tugs at his collar, shuffles his feet and nods his head past Joe, who follows the gesture to the skies above and holds a hand out as though expecting rain to fall.

Joe Fontaine: What? It’s not feeding time, yet. Which is weird, you shouldn’t feed your furniture. It’ll attract ants.

The fabric over fabby’s mouth puffs out and he rubs his wrist over his mask, unsuccessfully wiping away the sweat beading on the inside. Then, when he remembers where they’re standing, a jolt goes through him so palpable that you can practically hear the alarm sound and see the big red exclamation mark flash over his head as he starts tugging on Joe’s sleeve in a panic.

Joe Fontaine: What.

“Ahem.”

Joe jumps at the sound and spins around with his hands poised to deliver some karate. At this point he realizes that the sun hasn’t been blotted out by clouds, nor is it about to rain. Nor was fabby ever concerned with the weather. Although it still might rain, come to think of it.

Hessian: Hello, champ.

Joe Fontaine: Oh. Hey.

Joe looks around nervously, as though looking for a Glueboi to help out with this sun-blotter. He finds none. Just fabby.

Joe Fontaine: Uh, I like what you did with the hair. Very, uh… Very moleman of you.

Wordlessly, although that should go without saying, fabby takes one conspicuous step away from Joe and Hessian. The Murder Show grins and runs a hand over his buzzed dome and through his thick beard.

Hessian: Why thank you, you’re the first person to notice in the twenty or so years since I stopped wearing a mask. I’d be remiss not to compliment you on your flashy suits, you might be one of the sharpest dressed men in the company. I hear that’s the reason Cancer wears shades.

Joe Fontaine: You know what they say, always gotta blind ‘em with the light.

Off-camera now, fabby aggressively pantomimes that no one says that. The Murder Show nods in agreement.

Hessian: Quite right.

Cancer’s Murder Shovel takes a step closer and drapes an arm around Joe’s shoulders, giving him a gentle shake as he leans in.

Hessian: Just gotta be careful you don’t burn out…

Joe smiles back nervously, then suddenly finds himself being ushered along as the giant starts to walk.

Hessian: …or get extinguished completely.

As they saunter off, fabby reaches a pleading arm out to Joe and drops it just as suddenly, shoulders drooping as his attention turns to the dumpster.

Hessian: I’m glad I caught you out here Joe. You know we’re going to be squaring off at some point, we should take this time to get off on the right foot, get to know each other a little.

Joe Fontaine: Oh, alright. Well, I like long walks on the beach yet I live in a desert, I’m the oldest of four, I have a laboratory where the jolf happens, and OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT!!!

He points frantically behind Hessian.

Hessian does not so much as budge.

Hessian: Don’t much care for the desert myself, or beaches.

He flutters a hand through his beard.

Hessian: Sand’s a bastard to clean out. Much prefer plains and valleys. That said, I’ve taken a liking to the open sea since joining the Bandits.

He tightens his hold around Joe’s neck.

Hessian: I’m an only child, no siblings. You’re lucky there. Not many friends either, in fact…

He leans in close again, nudging Joe in the ribs.

Hessian: Between us? I recently had to part ways with the only real friend I’ve ever had, you know why?

Joe Fontaine: Oh man, did Minion have like super aggressive halitosis? That happens. I had to disown a luchador friend of mine because of that.

He looks around, and then he “whispers” in that way where you speak at normal volume but you say “psst” beforehand so you think you’re whispering.

Joe Fontaine: Psst. Not TAL. Between you and me, I don’t think that guy’s a real luchador.

Hessian: If you say so.

The Murder Show chuckles ominously, then after a quick glance over his shoulder at fabby he comes to a halt.

Hessian: But no, not halitosis. More like bad advice. Which I suppose amounts to bad breath when you think about it, so in a way you’re right.

Big Hess pulls Joe in front of him, placing both hands on his shoulders.

Hessian: See me? I’m an old dog. I don’t have as much fight left in me as a strapping young pup like you. I mean, what’re you…

The Murder Show grips Joe under the armpits and effortlessly hoists him off the ground a couple of inches, weighing him up.

Hessian: Couple hundred pounds, if that?

Joe places his hands over Hessian’s wrists and presses down gently, prompting the giant to place him down again. The big man glances back at fabby one more time.

Joe Fontaine: Something like that.

Hessian: But you’re in shape. You’re skilled. You surround yourself with good people you can rely on. Me? I’m over the hill. Only thing holding me together at this point is some titanium and a prayer. I’m not as adept as I once was. I do have good people around me though, at least I do now. Which is why I need to make the most of every opportunity that’s presented to me, because the next one might be the last one.

Joe cocks an eyebrow curiously.

Joe Fontaine: O..kay.

Hessian: So while I’ve got you here, and while we’re getting to know each other, there’s one very important thing I want you to know.

The giant tightens his grip around Joe’s abdomen.

Joe Fontaine: Please don’t let this be going where I think it’s going.

Hessian leans forward and presses his forehead against Joe’s.

Joe Fontaine: The dick collecting thing was a misunderstanding! It was a misunderstanding!!

Hessian: Ssh-ssh-ssssh. Just listen.

He pulls back. Joe squints his eyes, unsure of what’s about to come next.

Hessian: I want you to know that none of what’s about to happen is personal. When we eventually meet and the bell rings, and those tag titles are on the line? It’s not personal, okay?

Joe sighs with relief.

Joe Fontaine: Oh thank god, for a minute there I thought you were going to kiss-

Big Hess’s arms suddenly go taut, and Joe feels the tension around his chest tighten to the point that it drives the breath from him. The next thing he feels is a gust of wind.

Hessian: -it’s just business. I need to succeed.

In the distance behind them, fabby’s eyes bulge as all of a sudden as a shrill Wilhelm-style scream fills the air. His gaze is drawn upwards as a Joe Fontaine-shaped silhouette soars up, up, the sky. He squints as it passes in front of the sun. Then it’s gone. fabby stares back at Hessian to see the giant walking off into the distance…

KABOOSH!!

…then jumps with fright as the dumpster next to him explodes, erupting with cardboard, packing peanuts and plastic sheeting.

fabby pantomimes what everyone else is thinking: Holy shit.

As he stands there stunned at what’s transpired, ReVival 73 continues onwards.

But again, holy shit.

Earlier in the evening, we had captured a glimpse of the Universal Champion, Cecilworth Farthington on a hunt.

A hunt for revenge? Perhaps against the crimes perpetrated by Rose and The Bandits on the last show?

Nay.

That would all sort itself out in the end, it always did. Someone’s neck would get collected or some dead father would get evaporated in the spirit realm, things of that nature. That wasn’t of concern for PRIME’s top champion, not at ReVival 73.

Rather, Cecilworth Farthington was looking to soak his load and the evening of soak hunting had brought him to one obvious location.

He was not in the Gluite (Glub Room?) any more. He had found that to fulfill his desires of this evening, he had to enter the darkest depths of PRIME – The Whoresman Whoreclub… Whoresman Whorehouse… they’re probably workshopping it too.

Yes, happily bobbing away in a hot tub that was likely filled with so many disease infections and non that it would constitute a biohazard by any sane metric, was Farthington. To his side, Lasagna Boys provided a calm fan service, ensuring the champion didn’t overheat, he still had work to do later in the evening after all.

Cecilworth Farthington: Now this is what a champion deserves. A nice relaxing jacuzzi before a hard night of doing the commentating with my voice and throat and etcetera.

Farthington signals to the boys to increase fanning intensity, they don’t really understand what he’s asking for, but they’re there and isn’t that enough?

Cecilworth Farthington: All this pampering by my Farthington Friends, that’s what I’ve deserved but you know, you have so many spinning plates as a Universal Champion that it’s easy to lose sight of self-care. Self care is very important, you lovely lads, and I very much appreciate your services.

Farthington gives his best estimation of a smile to the Farthington Friends (Lasagna Boys?), but it’s the same smile he gives when he breaks an arm, so it’s not entirely reassuring or warm.

Cecilworth Farthington: Sometimes it’s nice to get away from the Glubana, just give me a bit of time to think. The jolf swinging can get really loud sometimes, plus every so often I get a glimpse of FLAMBERGE and I think he may actually want to kill me, so that’s distressing. I put that one away in the horror box that used to hold all the Max Kael thoughts though. Plus now that Hayes is injured, what gin am I going to steal when I’m too lazy to buy my own?

Cecilworth rubs his fingers in a circular motion around his temples.

Cecilworth Farthington: It’s a hard life at the top my Farthington Friends.

Not particularly expecting a response, Farthington starts to float around in his solo tub experience, likely absorbing even more horrors through general contact.

Cecilworth Farthington: It’s just nice that my dear friend LT knew I needed a bit of R&R after such a stressful show two weeks ago and set this all up for me…

Rest and relaxation, however, are about a fragile illusion in a company where the word “Whorehouse” is attached to any location and at least four lawsuits.

The camera swings violently, as if it too is not prepared for what’s coming. Suddenly, the door to the Whorehouse bursts open, kicked wide by the boot of a raging god, a myth given flesh, a statuesque approximation of Peak Yee, Ultimate Haw™.

Yes, children, it’s true.

Daytona Diamonds has arrived.

And guess what?

He’s READY. TO. PARTY.

One arm slung around the shoulders of a leathery blonde in a rhinestone bedazzled miniskirt, the other wrapped around a redhead in a “Moms Do It Better” tank top and an equally bedazzled ankle monitor.

Both are mid-giggle, mid-smoke, and mid-divorce. Daytona is shirtless, obviously, with a rolled-up twenty dollar bill tucked behind one ear and a small bag of MyStErY pOwDeR (note to any tv execs: it’s just flour, we promise. y’know, for baking.) peeking from his waistband like a festive invitation to Regret City.

He stomps in with the swagger of a man who’s just finished a screaming contest in a Walmart parking lot and won. There’s a grin on his face that stretches from ear to ear. His sunglasses are tilted down the bridge of his nose just so and those baby blues are going back and forth between the two women.

Daytona Diamonds: See, y’all? Toldja I had my own hot tub! I usually use it for thinkin’, but y’know, we can use it for other recreational activities.

He winks. The redhead snorts. The blonde cackles so hard the menthol almost comes off cigarette. Right about now is when the cameras are supposed to be fading to black before mistakes, babies, and baby mistakes are made…

…but just as Daytona is about to unbuckle his belt and get to plowin’?

His eyes settle on his hot tub. And Cecilworth Farthington. In his tub. Being fanned. By his Rhinestone Rascals (née  Lasagna Boys((née Farthington Friends))).

And then? Well, then comes the rage.

Daytona Diamonds: …THE FUCK YOU THINK YOU’RE DOIN’, YOU HIGH-FALUTIN’ SHITBIRD?!

The Lasagna Boys (née Farthington Friends((née Rhinestone Rascals))) scramble. The Single Mothers of Kentucky duck and take cover. Daytona Diamonds marches headlong towards the tub and the awaiting champion.

Cecilworth Farthington: I thought I was relaxing, as is the champion’s choice, which is where the champion can choose whatever he wants to do whenever he wants because of contracts and so forth but now you’ve brought a ruckus to my lovely jacuzzi room.

Cecilworth’s tone is petulant, it’s as if you can actually hear the rolling of the eyes. Also you can see them. Due to this being a television show. Farthington’s eyes are drawn to the special powder of special power.

Cecilworth Farthington: And this is a terrible location to bake a cake to boot! I assume these are the bakers… not even wearing hairnets, very unsanitary.

Cecilworth decides it’s probably best to deal with the matter of the man frothing and raging before him, instead of considering the implications of jacuzzcake.

Cecilworth Farthington: What do you think gives you the right to interrupt my precious time with my Farthington Friends? I have to go commentate on a Cancer Jiles match soon and those things are very stressful for me, okay? I need this time to float out my worries and strifes.

Daytona Diamonds: The right? THE RIGHT?! IT’S MY FUCKIN’ HOT TUB IN MY FUCKIN’ WHOREHOUSE, YOU GODDANG ALBINO OTTER!

He’s almost foaming now, each stomp towards the tub sloshing more chlorine onto the tile. His eyes are wild. His muscles flexing on their own accord. His pants… alarmingly low given that they were about to come off and all. Speaking of, the redhead peeks out from beneath a well-placed table.

Redhead: So… we getting in that hot tub or…?

Daytona Diamonds: SHUT THE FUCK UP, WENDY!

Almost immediately, the tears start streaming down the redheads cheeks. We don’t know this and neither does Daytona, but her name isn’t Wendy. For a moment, she considers her lot in life and her decision to be there and then, away from her children, in this crooked little room with these crooked little men, but we’re not going to get into all that.

Daytona Diamonds: Goddangit, see what you’ve done now?! You made Wendy cry!

Cecilworth Farthington: I’m sorry I made one of your bakers cry, but that’s why you have two. Bakers always be crying, am I right? Smart to bring a back up, albeit a less good one, just in case the first crashes out.

Daytona Diamonds: They ain’t bakers, goddangit! They’re single Kentucky moms! It’s the best state for single moms and you’re ruinin’ my night of unmitigated slamfucki–

Daytona stops himself. He takes a deep breath. Counts to three. Collects himself. (Note: There’s a vein wiggling in his forehead. It’s bouncing up and down. Truth be told, all those deep breaths and attempts at calming down aren’t doing jack shit.)

Daytona Diamonds: Look. Look. How’s ‘bout you just… get outta my tub, scurry on along, and we call it even steven, huh? Make it real easy peasy, no harm, no foul, no nothin’.

Cecilworth looks at the hulking figure before him, and almost considers this sweet deal for even steventude…

Cecilworth Farthington: Look, you came barging in here, scared away my Farthington Friends and I’m just here trying to chillax to the kael in my jacuzzi. If you come back in five… ten minutes tops… you can have a shot. I’m a very generous Universal Champion. Some people wouldn’t let others use the cuzz, but I’m a thoughtful guy. I have to go say some words into a microphone soon and this can all be yours. If you’re a good boy!

‘Member that bouncy little vein from before? The one in Daytona’s forehead? Yeah, well, now it’s not wiggling so much as it’s convulsing. Daytona’s whole body stiffens. He gets all trembly, staring knives through the Universal Champion. Everything gets real quiet safe for the gentle bubbles of the hot tub and the whispering sobs from the nearby single Kentucky mom.

And then? Well, then Daytona’s fist collides into the rim of the tub hard enough to crack the fiberglass.

Daytona Diamonds: You motherfucker. FIRST OFF, they ain’t no Farthington Friends! They’re the goddang Rhinestone Rascals! SECOND, that ain’t no jacuzzi, it’s a hot tub and you best put respect on its name! AND THIRD, I don’t care if you’re the fuckin’ Universal Champion or the Prince of Egypt or John Wayne hisself, it’s MY. FUCKIN’. TUB and you’re keepin’ me from PLOWIN’ PUSS in it!

Rage, rage, rage against the bubbling delight. The Rhinestone Cowboy, full of piss and vinegar and probably enough cocaine to kill a silverback gorilla, turns on a heel. He storms past his single moms, he punches a few more stray objects that get in his way. He’s screaming. Guttural noises mixed with the occasional, barely intelligible word.

Daytona Diamonds: My fuckin’ tub! MY FUCKIN’ TUB! This ain’t over, Farthington! Mark my words, you just made a goddang enemy for life! Just you fuckin’ wait! I’m gonna take everything from you, you sonuvabitch! EVERYTHING!

And just like that, in a fit of rage and hubris, Daytona Diamonds marches out of The Whorehouse, leaving Cecilworth to soak in the tub as the poor single mothers of Kentucky and equally poor Lasagna Boys (née… aw hell, you get the joke) come out of hiding.

Cecilworth Farthington: Look at this mess, it’s all leaky now. You can’t be having a leaky cuzzi. LT’s going to hear about this one!

Farthington looks at the circus of humanity that has been left in his company, takes a beat…

Cecilworth Farthington: I really should get ready for the main event.

As we fade out, the last thing we hear is Farthington pondering how he can “Ask Jeeves” to arrange an important business meeting for ReVival 74. Could be a defunct website, could be a butler he knows. Another mystery.

ReVival moves on.

“Burning Heart” by Survivor hits.

Nick Stuart: Last time these two met, Scott Hunter and Ivan Stanislav went to a no contest.

Richard Parker: IVAN WAS ROBBED!

Fog has filled the arena. A full Dusk entrance amount of fog. There’s fog everywhere. Someone broke the glass of the ‘in case of Dusk’ box to get this much fog on the floor of an arena. A singular spotlight hits the entrance ramp, and slowly, rising out of the fog in the center of the entrance ramp is Scott Hunter’s head.

Vince Howard: First, from Miami, Florida…

Scott Hunter keeps rising from the fog, like a towering colossus of a man.

Vince Howard: …he stands at six-foot three…

Slowly… and he just keeps rising.

Vince Howard: …and weighs in at two-hundred and forty-five pounds…

Scott Hunter is rising.

Vince Howard: Representing Vae Victis…

Scott Hunter is rising.

Vince Howard: SCOTT! HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNTER!

Scott Hunter throws his hands in the air as the fog rolls away. Scott looks to be over ten-feet tall. Scott is revealed to be sitting on the shoulders of Clay Byrd. Kerry Kuroyama and Ami are on the right side and RIA is on the left.

Nick Stuart: All of Vae Victis is here… the entire group…

Richard Parker: Trying to cheat.

Nick Stuart: They might just remember the last time.

RIA begins shouting and cheering as yellow and blue pyro explode up and down the entrance ramp and sparks begin falling from the ceiling. The spotlight stays on Scott as Clay walks him to the ring and sets him up on the ring apron.

Nick Stuart: What an entrance for Hunter.

Ring announcer Vince Howard turns his attention back to the entryway and brings the microphone up to his lips, but he stops as he sees Alexei Ruslan jogging down the entryway. Vince opens his mouth to speak, then decides he’d better not as Ruslan slides into the ring and pops to his feet. Ruslan lifts a hand for the mic (which Vince throws his way) and then shoo’s the ring announcer away.

Richard Parker: That’s what I like about Alexei, he’s willing to do whatever job is necessary here in PRIME. The man really is a jack of all trades.

Nick Stuart: The man is full of jack sh–

But Nick is cut off when Alexei belts his voice into the microphone and booms.

Alexei Ruslan: Ladiiiiessss and gentlemen!!!

Nick Stuart: Oh boy…

Ruslan turns to stare at the hard cam and places his hand over his heart.

Alexei Ruslan: My name is Alexei Gregorovich Ruslan. I have great honor to introduce a true legend to this fine sport of ours! I know, you think there are some in PRIME who are legends. Yes, maybe a name like Farthington comes to mind, or perhaps Avalon, or maybe even, dare I say, Troy. But those names, short-lived as they are, pale in comparison to the name of someone else.

Richard Parker: Who could it be?!

Nick Stuart: Are you for real right now?

Alexei Ruslan: You see, those other names I mentioned are small potatoes compared to this man. Why, he has been in wrestling business longer than many here in PRIME have been alive!

Richard Parker: Okay, starting to think he’s an older wrestler…

Alexei Ruslan: And while some of the “important” members of this roster might be famous, he is a national hero! I cannot think of anyone else who is considered a hero on national stage.

Ruslan grins as his eyes burn with mischievous joy.

Alexei Ruslan: It is a shame that this man’s legacy and time must be wasted on this contest tonight, with no-less than a fool named Scott Hunter!

Ruslan cuts his eyes down at Hunter, who stands on the outside of the ring, all business.

Alexei Ruslan: And yes, most of you hate him. Most of you revile him. But make no mistake, all of you still want to see him. There is not a soul in this arena, or anyone who has stood across the ring from this man, who has left unchanged.

Ruslan sneers.

Alexei Ruslan: Every one of them, without fail, has looked into his eyes and realized a truth about themselves. They are fragile. They are insignificant. Even the so-called big men of PRIME, with their muscles and bravado, are nothing but lapdogs and yes-men beside him. He is the commander of an ideological army that has endured for over two decades.

Alexei booms now, drawing his arm out.

Alexei Ruslan: He is unbeatable! He is undefeatable! He is indefatigable!! He is Russia’s favorite son. He is The Russian Bear. He is The Soviet Giant!! He is The Red Scare made manifest.

Alexei places his hand over his heart and almost looks… sincere?

Alexei Ruslan: And… he is also my friend. Ladies and gentlemen…

Ruslan sweeps his hand toward the entryway as the lights dim red and the red banner appears on the PRIMEtron.

Alexei Ruslan: From Arkhangelsk, Russia! He is a former two-time PRIME Universal Champion! He is the number one ranked wrestler in 2025! He is the leader of The Red Army!! He stands 7’1” tall and weighs in at 400 lbs! He is IIIIIVAAAAANNNNNN STAAANNNISLAAAAVVVV!!!!

The PRIMEtron bleeds red. It’s a seeping flood, the screen itself hemorrhaging ideology. Then…

BOOM!!

Pyro erupts in a straight vertical line across the stage, like a steel curtain of fire. The opening chord of the “Soviet National Anthem” detonates through the arena, and for a moment, it sounds more like a declaration of war than a piece of music.

Behind the smoke and flame…

A shadow.

It does not walk. It looms.

Ivan Stanislav steps forward from the haze, an immovable force wreathed in ideology. His massive frame, clad in his black shirt and pants, and crimson suspenders, absorbs the light around him. His expression is carved from stone. He does not smile. He does not wave. He doesn’t even roar.

He stares.

The crowd erupts, not in joy, but in a rising cacophony of hatred mixed with fear. They know what this man can do. They’ve seen what this man has done. How many times have they had their hopes dashed because of this mountain made human? Boos crash down like a tidal wave, but Ivan doesn’t flinch. The Red Army Choir, singing his beloved national anthem, overwhelms their vitriol.

He endures.

Richard Parker: I thought maybe Alexei was talking about Ivan, but now I’m sure!! Nick, that’s not a man. That is a statement!

Nick Stuart: Your buffoonery aside, Richard, I hate to admit it, but Alexei’s not wrong. Love him or hate him, Ivan Stanislav is a living legend. Not just in PRIME, but in this sport. He’s outlasted everyone his size. He’s outlived most of his enemies. And for a man of his stature, you’d be hard pressed to find a resume that stacks up to his own.

Richard Parker: Exactly! Which is why Scott Hunter is toast.

Nick Stuart: Maybe. But Hunter didn’t flinch the last time they faced off and I don’t think he’s flinching tonight. He made Hayes Hanlon submit. He fought Ivan to a draw. You line those three men up… Ivan’s the only one without a win over the other two.

Richard Parker: If you’re talking about UltraViolence 2022, let’s not rewrite history. Hanlon used the ropes. Everyone saw it. It was a technicality, not a victory.

Nick Stuart: Uh huh.

Richard Parker: And even if you want to pretend it wasn’t, where’s Hanlon now? On the outside of the Almasy looking in. Meanwhile, Hunter’s about to learn what happens when you sneak past the Bear once too often. This isn’t a match, Nick. It’s a reckoning.

The crowd rejects the hulking Russian Bear with fury, but even through their hatred, some can’t help but stare. He is, without question, the largest human being they have ever seen in person. A living monument. A myth made flesh.

Ivan snarls, his gaze sweeping across the arena like a judgment, and then he turns.

Deliberately. Slowly.

He ascends the steel steps, each one groaning beneath his weight, and steps over the top rope with the ease of a man stepping through a doorway.

In the ring, Alexei Ruslan greets him not with words, but with an embrace. A tight one. A comrade’s embrace.

Then, with practiced familiarity, Alexei takes Ivan’s wrist.

Together, the Russians raise their arms, high above the jeers and flashing lights.

It is not celebration.

It is declaration.

Nick Stuart: There they are. Few names in this sport are more inseparable than Ivan Stanislav and Alexei Ruslan. You think about all the great breakups, even just in PRIME. Jared Sykes and Hayes Hanlon. Paxton Ray and Jonathan Rhine. Coral Avalon and Joe Fontaine. But those two? They’ve survived every storm together.

Nick Stuart: And you know… if they were different. If they weren’t who they are? It might be something to admire. Maybe even envy.

Richard Parker: You sound jealous already, Nick!

Ruslan tosses the microphone out of the ring, barely making an effort to get it near the timekeeper. His full attention is on Ivan now.

He steps close, takes hold of the Russian Bear’s suspenders, and speaks to him quietly, never once breaking eye contact. It is not a pep talk. It is something older, quieter. A ritual.

When he finishes, Ruslan straightens Ivan’s suspenders with care, then gives him a firm nod.

Only then does he glance at Scott Hunter. One look. One smirk.

Then he slips out of the ring and takes his place alongside the ring.

Ivan Stanislav turns his head, locks his eyes on Hunter, and raises one hand.

He beckons.

DING DING 

Nick Stuart: This has all the makings of a disaster.

Richard Parker: Yeah, that psycho Byrd is out here. He spilled my Diet Coke with his face two weeks ago.

Nick Stuart: The entire army is out in force tonight, Vae Victis didn’t forget the last encounter. They’ve shown the entire tournament that they wouldn’t be pushed around. And they have the returning RIA at their side.

Richard Parker: The Army are saints. Alexei Ruslan and Ivan Stanislav demand absolute devotion to the cause.

Byrd walks to a neutral corner before dropping down outside of the ring, RIA does the same on the opposite side. RIA snags a chair from the timekeepers table and sits backwards on the chair staring into The Army. Kerry and Ami take to Scott’s corner. Inside the ring, Hunter and Ivan glare across from each other. Scott, covered in gold glitter smirks and gives the former Universal Champion a nod.

Nick Stuart: Well, here we go.

Richard Parker: The disrespect.

Ivan lumbers forward and holds a massive arm out to Scott. Showing a grip for a test of strength. Alexei is on the outside shouting to Ivan, encouraging him to kill the American dog. Scott walks up to Ivan and starts to stretch his hand out. Ivan tries to lunge for Hunter as he gets close, Scott manages to step to the side and Ivan stumbles towards Scott’s corner. Hunter shakes his head and gives Ivan a little mocking clap.

Nick Stuart: Ivan is eager to get into Hunter.

Richard Parker: Wouldn’t you be? After that farce of a match the last time these two met?

Nick Stuart: You mean when Scott Hunter gave Ivan everything he could handle and then another two helpings?

Richard Parker: Agree to disagree, Nick.

Ivan storms out of the corner, he looks for another engagement but Hunter backs away from the giant. Ivan has had enough and begins walking towards Hunter, Scott darts and Ivan once again storms into the corner. He damn near rips the turnbuckle off with his fury, and he turns back and glares at Hunter. Alexei jumps up onto the apron and is yelling at Ivan, who finally turns towards him and nods.

Nick Stuart: Hunter hasn’t even broken a sweat yet.

Richard Parker: When Ivan catches him, that kid is as good as dead.

Ivan walks to the center of the ring and points down to the center of the ring and waves Hunter over. Vae Victis stays cool as a cucumber though. Hunter shrugs his shoulders and sits down on the middle rope. He points to the ground and waves Ivan in. Stanislav just stands there staring back at Hunter. Who blankly stares back at Ivan. Ivan’s impatience begins to grow, Ruslan is shouting at Hunter but Scott just waits.

Richard Parker: Huh… wha… hey…what the… get your hands…

Nick Stuart: I think someone has something…

Clay Byrd: Look at this jerk. Come on Ivan! You can catch him! GO GET HIM YOU BIG RED-

*BZZT!* 

Nick Stuart: We have some technical problems with Richard’s headset.

Hunter does a cartwheel. Yeah, that’s where we’re at. You can faintly hear Richard Parker shouting about his second straight week with a spilled Diet Coke. Scott’s cartwheel has taken him to a new corner, and Ivan just rotates. Hunter starts to have a little fun with it and moves to the right then the left, watching Ivan pivot like a turret. Hunter starts to side step around the ring and Ivan follows quickly, and finally has had enough. He lunges when Hunter is at the midway point in the ropes. Scott’s had enough fun and takes off at a full sprint. Ivan comes up with air and Scott comes off the ropes and absolutely pastes him in the chest with a picture perfect drop kick.

Nick Stuart: And here we go… Ivan staggered by a terrific Scott Hunter dropkick.

Ivan is staggered, Hunter pivots to the ropes 90 degrees from the last one and hits the ropes, coming in at the staggering Ivan like a 6’4” missile. He smashes into the stumbling Stanislav and rams him into the corner. Ivan is rocked, and Hunter rushes to the center of the ring before turning around for another high impact dive into the corner. This time on the way in he’s met with a size 22 boot to the face. The boot brings Hunter to a stop and he stumbles his way back to the center of the ring.

Nick Stuart: Stanislav’s boot just hit the breaks on Scott Hunter’s explosion.

Ivan storms out of the corner and takes a big looping swing with a clothesline at Scott, but Hunter ducks under. Scott hits the ropes and comes back with a fury and flurry. Right hands are flying into the side of Ivan’s head and the blows drive Stanislav backwards to the ropes. He throws Hunter across the ring and Scott turns towards Ivan shouting and pointing at the center of the ring.

Nick Stuart: Hunter is calling Ivan to the center. He wants the big man to come get him.

Richard Parker can be heard yelling ‘that’s the last thing he’ll ever do’ faintly in the background of Stuart’s microphone. Ivan is furious and barges into the center. The Rupp Arena is rocking as Hunter smashes into Ivan with right hands. Ivan is forced to launch Hunter away from him again. Alexei jumps up onto the apron and pats Ivan’s shoulders with a trusty towel and pours some water on the back of his neck. Like a full cornermen’s kit comes out of that trench coat at lightning speed. Kerry takes a moment to give Hunter some quick words of advice and encouragement from the apron. Byrd can be heard yelling in front of commentary ‘FUCKIN’ KILL ‘EM SCOTTY!’ The arena is absolutely buzzing with anticipation.

Nick Stuart: Since when did we have rounds?

Hunter comes racing out of the corner and Alexei goes scampering off the apron to the floor. Ivan is ready for Hunter this time though, and fires a massive left hand out and grabs Hunter by the throat. He whips Hunter around and slams him into the corner. Ivan smashes a huge hand across Hunter’s bare chest, once, and then twice. Hunter tries to escape down the ropes holding his chest, but Ivan grabs him by the neck and tosses him back into the corner. He smashes a boot into Hunter’s neck and leans into it. Turnbull comes over and begins counting Ivan who smirks at Hunter and doesn’t acknowledge the referee.

Nick Stuart: Ivan caught him and put on the absolute brakes. He’s slowed this one way down.

Alexei jumps up onto the apron trying to distract Turnbull, but Jimmy ignores him and keeps to the count. Ivan breaks the choke and Turnbull begins ushering Alexei off the apron. Ivan sees the opportunity and lays a giant hand across Hunter’s throat and begins choking him while Alexei buys another few precious seconds. Scott’s gasping and Vae Victis is furious. Ami furiously pulls out her phone and taps away, while Kerry is on the apron shouting at Turnbull from across the ring. Jimmy turns around and Ivan lets the hand go, and smashes Hunter in the chest again with another brutal slap.

Nick Stuart: Alexei Ruslan with the distraction and Ivan taking advantage. It’s a classic and it cost Hunter precious seconds without oxygen.

Richard Parker: VERY PRECIOUS SECONDS! HE’S A GENIUS! ALEXEI IS A GENIUS!

Nick Stuart: They can hear you, Richard.

Richard Parker: Oh, hmm, yes, well. Alexei is a genius, some would compare him to Sergei Korolev. I think he might be brighter.

Hunter stumbles out to the center of the ring and Ivan Stanislav swallows Hunter into a bear hug. Stanislav manages to wrap both of Hunter’s arms in the bear hug, and lifts Hunter into the air, squeezing the absolute life out of Scott Hunter. Scott’s eyes are wide with pain as Stanislav arches his back and squeezes.

Nick Stuart: Brutal but slow pace from Ivan here, he’s really got Hunter’s pace way down.

Richard Parker: He’s not going to let Hunter run all day, you gotta stop him somehow.

Ivan begins taunting Hunter while squeezing. He’s shouting at Kuroyama at ringside, Byrd, RIA. He shouts to Turnbull as Hunter begins to waver. Turnbull reaches up and picks Hunter’s head up and lets it drop. Kerry begins furiously pounding on the apron, as Turnbull turns and counts one. Byrd, Ami, and RIA all join pounding the apron and the crowd begins to come alive.

SCOTT! SCOTT! SCOTT! 

Richard Parker: Tell these idiots to shut up, he’s done for.

Nick Stuart: Looks to be so…

Turnbull leans in and lifts Hunter’s head a second time, Hunter’s head falls down by Ivan’s shoulders again, his long brown hair looping down and covering his face. Turnbull turns and holds up two fingers. Clay and Ria are both shouting for Scott and encouraging the crowd while Kuroyama is just staring into the ring. Outside Ruslan is smirking and laughing. Turnbull lifts Scott’s head for the third time.

Nick Stuart: NO! NO!

Scott keeps his head up straight and wide eye stares at Ivan. The crowd explodes and Scott Hunter bites Ivan Stanislav on the bridge of the nose. Turnbull starts shouting and counting, Ivan’s grip loosens and Hunter’s right arm is free. He frantically begins driving shots down into Ivan’s face. Each one loosening the bear hug a little bit more. Ivan finally lets go and Hunter is on and rocking.

Nick Stuart: This building just exploded!

Richard Parker: SHUT UP YOU IDIOTS! SHUT UP!

Hunter heads to the ropes and comes back with a huge head of steam. He plants Ivan with another drop kick that sends the big man rocking back into the ropes, Ivan bounces off and comes back towards Hunter who manages to whip him over with a huge powerslam.

Nick Stuart: SCOTT HUNTER JUST POWER SLAMMED IVAN!

Richard Parker: It’s like a trip with rotation!

Nick Stuart: HE SLAMMED HIM!

Scott hooks the leg and Turnbull breaks into the count.

ONE!

TWO!

….

………

……………

……………………..KICKOUT! 

Richard Parker: THANK GOD!

SCOTT! SCOTT! SCOTT! 

Hunter storms back to his feet and Ivan is quick to get up, shaking off the cobwebs. Hunter grabs a leg and snaps Ivan over with a dragonscrew. Ivan slams into the mat and Hunter lines up an elbow drop on Ivan’s knee. Scott drops it down and starts looking towards a figure four, but Ivan rotates his way to the ropes with his long arms.

Nick Stuart: Hunter almost got Ivan there!

Richard Parker: Slow him down Ivan!

Stanislav is back to his feet, and Hunter comes roaring in again. He slams Ivan with a knee to the upper chest that sends him back to the corner. He goes halfway to the center and comes back and smashes Ivan with a flying forearm. He sprints all the way to the far corner, and comes sprinting at Ivan. He leaps into the air for a splash. Ivan lunges out of the corner and catches Hunter midair around the waist. Hunter frantically starts throwing rights, but Ivan rotates and plants Hunter to the canvas with a thunderous belly to belly suplex! The air leaving Hunter’s lungs is the air from the entire building.

Richard Parker: The sound of silence.

Nick Stuart: Hunter’s been down in this match before, don’t count him out yet.

Ivan hooks the leg and Turnbull counts.

ONE!

KICKOUT!

Ivan is furious.

Richard Parker: EVEN IF YOU CAN YOU SHOULD WAIT!

Nick Stuart: HUNTER IS IN THIS!

Scott scrambles out from under Ivan, and Stanislav uses Turnbull to get up. Scott scampers to the corner and the brief Ivan distraction allows Alexei to toss a handful of sand into Scott’s eyes. Hunter grabs his eyes and Stanislav smashes him into the corner. Hunter tries throwing right hands, but he’s clearly blinded by the grit.

Nick Stuart: NO!

Clay Byrd storms into action across the ring but is met by Freeman and Schwartz. He tosses Randall somewhere into the third row and storms towards Alexei. RIA begins taking shots at Dawkins.

Richard Parker: This is broken down!

Ivan lifts Hunter into the air and sends him crashing down to the mat with a Red Scare!

Nick Stuart: NOT LIKE THIS!

Hunter hits the mat and rolls, Ivan turns and to his absolute horror Scott Hunter is coming back to his feet. Ivan grabs Hunter again and smashes him to the canvas with a second Red Scare and falls down on top of the motionless Hunter. Turnbull drops to the canvas and counts.

ONE!

TWO!

…..

………….

……………………

THREE!

DING DING DING 

Enemigos are everywhere, Vae Victis swarms into the ring and Byrd rushes Ivan out of the ring through the middle ropes. There’s no celebration, the crowd is booing and jeering. Trash begins flying and Byrd is screaming at Alexei.

Vince Howard: Your winner… Ivan Stanislav.

Alexei raises Ivan’s arm in the swarm of Enemigos while Vae Victis fumes.

For some reason, we’ve cut backstage to the same place we were before Scott Hunter and Ivan Stanislav did battle. That being the parking lot. More specifically, we’ve found the dumpster wherein Joe Fontaine had been Chaos Dunked by a seven foot tall rage machine from the meteor-blasted lands of Parts Unknown.

fabby, uselessly, is still standing around as though he’s trying to help. He isn’t helping. Did you expect him to help? He’s furniture. Furniture doesn’t really do things.

Joe Fontaine: Ugh…

Well, Joe’s conscious. That’s not the best for him. Mostly because he can vocalize his disgust about one aspect of his predicament.

Joe Fontaine: I think there’s expired STRONKuums in here.

Still, you can see a hand reach out of the dumpster, and Joe Fontaine emerging from its depths a moment later. He has a literal banana peel on top of his head, worn like a beret. His suit didn’t exactly sparkle or bedazzle like it usually does, largely because of the whole dumpster situation.

Joe Fontaine: When I get my hands on that jerkface mountain goblin…

An incredulous fabby looks like he has a headache from the notion that Joe would actually be able to do anything if he “got his hands” on Hessian. At least get your jolf on first. Through some heroic effort, Joe manages to roll himself over the top of the dumpster’s lip and fall to the ground with the grace and care of a flightless bird attempting flight.

But alas. Sometimes, the dumpster you know is better than the one you don’t.

SLAM!

A door somewhere off-camera flings open hard enough that it bounces off the concrete wall. The camera jerks in time to catch a vision of Daytona Diamonds storming into frame like the wrath of God filtered through pre-workout and unresolved daddy issues.

He’s shirtless, obviously. Gleaming. Breathing hard in a pair of blue jeans held up by a belt with a ridiculously large buckle in the shape of a rattlesnake wrapped around a broken heart. There’s a look in his eyes, a twitch on his brow, a snarl on his upper lip before he greets Joe Fontaine the only way he knows how.

Daytona Diamonds: HEY DICK MARMOT!

He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even look at fabby, who wisely turns into scenery. Daytona marches straight towards Joe Fontaine, hands balled into two twin fists.

Joe, belatedly, pulls the banana peel from his head as Daytona approaches him.

Joe Fontaine: Who calls people “dick marmot” in this day and age?

There is not, however, what you would call an answer in the traditional sense of the term. Instead, without another word, The Rhinestone Cowboy reaches down and grabs Joe by the lapels like he’s trying to rip open a Christmas present he knows will be disappointing. Daytona’s knuckles are white. His face is red. His abs are doing more acting than half the roster.

Daytona Diamonds: THIS HERE’S A LESSON! IF I EVER CATCH YOU OR ANY OTHER GLUEMINATI PECKERWIOODS IN MY GODDANG WHOREHOUSE AGAIN, I’M TURNIN’ Y’ALL BACK INTO HORSE HOOVES!

Lift.

It’s almost beautiful to see.

Like a figure skater elevating his partner up into the air for a wicked spin.

But no, this isn’t two partners demonstrating their talent.

Time may freeze for poor Joe Fontaine as he’s held high above the Rupp Arena floor, but as soon as it unfreezes…

SLAM.

Right back into the dumpster. Harder this time. The kind of slam dunk that feels personal. The lid flaps. Somewhere, a Spanish announcer screams “GOOOOOAAAAL!” Daytona paces back and forth, still vibrating with murderous rage.

Daytona Diamonds: You tell Cecilworth… tell ‘im, if he wants to play games in MY FUCKIN’ HOUSE, he better bring a bigger pair of pants, a stronger jaw, and a notarized apology! Or next time, you’re gettin’ mailed back to him in pieces! Glittery! Garbage! Pieces!

He straightens himself. Adjusts his belt buckle. Lets out a heavy sigh. And then, as if nothing happened at all, Daytona turns and walks away.

Joe, groaning from within the dumpster, only weakly responds.

Joe Fontaine: …do you… have a notepad… so I can write all that down?

An elongated “ughhhhhh” escapes the dumpster before it falls silent.

Let’s head to our main event!

The lights dim down in the Rupp Arena once more, sending the signal to all the fans in the crowd, even those waiting in line for alcoholic milkshakes, that they should shift themselves back to their seats something fierce, because it’s main event time.

Nick Stuart: Despite these two men both being a major part of this iteration of PRIME, there’s been very little in the war of words between Chandler Tsonda and Cancer Jiles, beyond collateral damage in Tsonda’s battles with Coral Avalon.

Richard Parker: He can’t keep getting my hopes up every week that I’m about to see his last match, that just isn’t fair.

Cecilworth Farthington: Tell me about it! He’s edging us! That’s the term, right, edging? I WANT MY RELEASE.

Richard Parker: I thought you wanted his release.

The camera cuts from the fans hyped and settling into their chairs to the commentary table, where we see that the Universal Champion has joined the broadcast booth for another one of Jiles’ Almasy contests.

Nick Stuart: If we’re to take Cancer Jiles at his word, and a word that I would put a massive health warning on, his career is once more on the line as he defends the Golden Ticket bounty. You have to know after everything Chandler Tsonda has been through since his return to PRIME, the agony of his battle with Ivan, the personal weight that has been sucking him down, that if he were to win tonight, if he were to defeat a fellow Hall of Famer, take the Golden Ticket, hell, take Jiles’ career, he will be sitting atop the PRIME mountain once more.

Cecilworth Farthington: Lots of avalanches on mountains, best to be careful when you’re at the top.

Richard Parker: So long as I see the end of Jiles, I lust for it, it will be beautiful. I desire it so.

We move on from Parker’s unemployment lust and to the lyrics of some music.

“I said ‘kiss me, you’re beautiful’
These are truly the last days'”

The weathered voice from the beginning of Godspeed You! Black Emperor’s “Dead Flag Blues” fades into the short acoustic section that begins Coheed & Cambria’s “Welcome Home.” After twelve seconds, the guitars thunder in and start to kick ass, as gold and green pyro goes off in perfect timing with the power riffs.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda has had a heavy life as of late, we’ve seen what war with the Red Army done to him, yet it seems that with every round he progresses in this Almasy, his life becomes a little bit lighter.

Richard Parker: Don’t be fooled by the smarm and bravado, at his heart, he’s still an incredibly broken man, no matter the face that he puts on for this crowd.

Cecilworth Farthington: My father used to put on lots of faces, still never quite sure where he got them from.

Nick and Richard do their best to move on from Cecilworth’s comment. As the PRIME*View displays the words “Model Citizen” in white over a black background, Tsonda swaggers out from behind the curtain. He soaks up the fan’s reaction at the top of the ramp, smirk painted across his face. And amidst the haze of pyro, smoke, and green & gold lights, he sprints to the ring, slides in under the bottom rope. Tsonda bounces on his toes, mouthing something that’s inaudible to anyone but him.

Nick Stuart: Cecilworth, as an active competitor, what sort of words of encouragement do you give yourself before a match?

Cecilworth Farthington: Words of encouragement? No, you pray to Labubu for another plentiful harvest, that’s what he’s doing in the ring right now. Those little demon teletubbies really listen.

Richard Parker: (whispering and hoping Cecilworth doesn’t notice) I’m worried he’s got chlorine brain from that tub.

Tsonda takes his place in his corner, looking dead ahead to the entrance way and the farce that he knows awaits him. The lights inside the Rupp Arena slowly draw to a dim. Smoke begins to billow at the top of the entrance ramp.

BLACK.

The temperature drops. The air chills. The mood changes.

Nick Stuart: Here we go.

The Crumbotron comes to life and illuminates the arena with a picture of a GOLDEN TICKET. After it spins around a couple of times a montage of superkicks that seemingly never ends plays. While the video unfolds, a spotlight clangs on that shines down upon the fogged up entrance way. The spotlight is, of course, in the shape of an egg. Next, an invigorating, pulsating, reverberating, electric guitar raucously riffs its way throughout space and time. Then, Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, singer and songwriter of “I am the Cool” begins to sing…

“I’m the one your mama warned you about,”
“When you see me, I will leave you no doubt.”
“I’m the coolest man that ever walked this earth,”
“I’ve been the coolest since the day of my birth…”

Nick Stuart: Is tonight the night? The last time we hear Screamin’ Jay?

Richard Parker: Can’t believe I have to cheer for Chandler Tsonda.

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!!!! BOOM-BOOM!!

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!!!

…………..BOOM!

“…I AM THE COOL!”

Nick Stuart: There he is! Cancer Jiles! Love him. HATE him. Hope he dies a miserable slow death, whatever the case may be, there is no denying the spectacle that follows The Golden Ticket.

Cecilworth Farthington: It’s the death one. Definitely the death one.

Nick isn’t wrong. It is a spectacle. The place is on their feet, showering Jiles and his flock with exponentially dubious adoration.

BOOOshitbagcrumbbumeggloserOOO!!!!!!!!!!

King COOL, The Murder Show Hessian, and Vickie the Valkyrie all hit a group pose, and then disperse for a moment so the MAIN EVENT can release a short burst of his poison mist into the air.

Richard Parker: Stupid mist.

Cecilworth Farthington: It’s more viscous than you’d expect too. Really unpleasant business. I think it has gotten thicker since he got with Vickie too.

The COOLYMPIAN starts to confidently make his way down to the ring. Head high, huge smile, spotlight on him, and a big, rock hard dick taped down to his leg. Vickie and Hessian are following closely behind him. Once the trio reaches ringside, a short pep talk ensues. Jiles then passes off the T-shades to Big Hess, gets a lovely smooch for good luck from his vixen, and slides under the bottom rope.

Nick Stuart: It’s here! Round Three! MAIN EVENT! Two Hall of Famers! A Golden Ticket, and a trip to the semifinals are all on the line!

Richard Parker: And that idiot’s career! Don’t forget that!

Cecilworth Farthington: It’s the only reason I’m out here. You think I’d be doing commentary about this man after what he pulled with poor Joe otherwise?

The ref tries to check Jiles for anything foreign, but obviously the latter’s history prevents such. Plus, King COOL is too busy calling Chandler Tsonda a watch model to have his boots properly checked, which most likely means he has some sort of trick up his proverbial sleeve.

Nick Stuart: Little gamesmanship here by Jiles, as is customary for him before EVERY match.

DING DING

The buzz in the air can truly be felt in the Rupp Arena, the crowd knows that there’s a rare match happening before their very eyes. Two established and legendary figures in PRIME, in a first time true one on one exchange. Of course that excitement is quickly brought to a close when Tsonda and Jiles face off and jawjack a lot of trash in each other’s directions just as the bell rings. It’s clear both men are getting a bit heated in the exchange of intellects, such as it is, but it’s Cancer Jiles who shows that his alfredo blood is running hot tonight as he immediately goes low and looks for a kick straight to the precious and likely insured peen of Chandler Tsonda.

Tsonda, no rookie at this game, unlike his opponent, is quick enough to catch the boot of Jiles with his thigh. Jiles begins to hop on one leg, much to the delight of the crowd. He considers his pathways out of the fine mess that he has just gotten himself into and begins to allow his yolky glands to swell up, yet before any dangerous mist can spray forth, Tsonda pokes Jiles right in the rights, drops his leg free again and brings the Golden Ticket holder down to the mat with a spinning kick right across the jaw of Jiles. Jiles gets a little rocked and falls back to keister, scooting back on his butt and begging off Tsonda.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda certainly has the bank of resources and the ability to scout like no other wrestler and I think he’s quickly showing that he’s scouted Cancer Jiles in the opening moments of this contest/

Richard Parker: Please god, I don’t ask for much…

Cecilworth Farthington: Yes, Richard’s god, give him what he wants, he seems like a nice guy.

The whimpering of joy that Richard emits due to a Farthington compliment is uncomfortable and borderline censorable. Back inside the right, Jiles continues to scoot back as Tsonda continues to chase. As Tsonda gets within range of grabbing distance to haul Cancer back up, Jiles is able to drill a boot right into the knee of Tsonda. Tsonda wobbles a bit but continues his pursuit of the downed Jiles, so Jiles responds with a second boot and even more force right to Chandler’s knee. The second boot sends Tsonda staggering backwards with just enough clearance for Jiles to sweep the leg from behind and trips Tsonda backwards, falling into the ropes. The Golden Ticket holder looks at Tsonda, who is now resting, sitting on the middle rope and decides he’s going to try something. That something is rushing in at Tsonda, booting him straight in the gut, sending Tsonda through the top and middle rope and onto the apron.

Nick Stuart: Even if you have Cancer Jiles scouted, he’s still a survivor, he knows how to keep himself in the game.

Cecilworth Farthington: The roach continues to live. It’s hard to watch. I really need to find where we left that spray the last time.

The cockroach slithers back up to his feet as a winded Tsonda attempts to shake off the cobwebs, using the ropes to help him back up on the apron. Wanting to take advantage of the opening and avoid giving Tsonda the space to breathe, Jiles grabs the back of the luscious locks of Chandler Tsonda and using the top rope to help his purchase, uses all of his might to send Tsonda’s skull soaring down backwards right into the apron.

Cecilworth Farthington: Scientifically speaking, that’s the hardest part of the ring, so you really don’t want your skull all up in that.

Nick Stuart: That level of analysis is why you come back to the booth time and time again.

Cecilworth Farthington: Thank you!

Nick thinks better of trying to indulge the conversations further as Tsonda’s skull whacks down on the HARDEST PART OF THE RING (™). The screaming in admiration from Vickie at ringside is enough to deafen the first five rows. Vickie blows a kiss to Jiles, who does not pay any attention to this, as he’s rather busy drilling his boot into the ribs of Tsonda over and over again. Jiles’ strikes seem to have a bit more precision than the normal wrestling bout, clearly hoping to open up old wounds from a Tsonda whose body has gone through much many things in the past few months of PRIME. It’s clear that Chandler is trying to shake off the assault from Jiles, but it’s having a bit more of an impact than he would hope. Elvis Nixon finally decides he should intervene in these shots through the ropes and begins to demand Jiles back away from Tsonda.

Jiles of course obeys the words of Nixon, for he’s the sort of guy who will always follow the rules. Less ideal for Chandler Tsonda though, as while Jiles keeps the attention of Nixon, showing what a good boy he is as he backs away from the situation, it gives just enough of an opening for Big Hessian to pull the leg of The Model Citizen, sending his jaw into the edge of the apron and putting the two time Hall of Famer down on the outside mat. Elvis Nixon turns around and notices that Tsonda isn’t where he was just a few moments away, but Hessian throws up his hands from the distance he had quickly created. Nixon attempts to investigate further, but Vickie’s shrieking at ear drum bursting volume causes him to abandon his lines of inquiry rather quickly.

Richard Parker: Surely she’s breaking some kind of noise ordinance right now. Can we get her out of here? I need my hearing for things.

Nick Stuart: It’s always a numbers game with The Bandits…

Cecilworth Farthington: Let’s be honest Nick, it’s a numbers game in most PRIME matches. That is why Glue jolf now. Well, that and Joe’s very proud of Joe’s Golf and we want to encourage him.

Jiles slithers out of the ring in a basilisk like manner as he looks at his prey on the ground below. He tosses in a few more forceful boots to the back and the ribs for good measure. Satisfied with his general “assault” approach to this match, Jiles rolls Tsonda back into the ring, follows him in and hooks the leg.

ONE!

TWO!

Tsonda throws his shoulder in the air with a lot more energy that The Golden Ticket holder would like. Cancer Jiles would like Chandler Tsonda to demonstrate a little less fight right now if that’s all the same to you. Jiles stares daggers at Elvis Nixon, who holds up two fingers to ensure the Rupp Arena crowd are certain the match hasn’t ended in such a wet fart manner, which causes them to stomp their feet in excitement and try and give their energy to The Model Citizen. Jiles slaps his hand three times, but Elvis Nixon waves him off. What surprises Jiles is that when he turns his attention back to his opponent, his opponent isn’t there. He’s equally surprised that he now seems to be rolling around the mat and getting dizzy, as Tsonda pulls him quickly into a small package.

ONE!

TWO!

Jiles manages to power out of the hold, and the relief roar provided by Vickie is more bear-like than human.

Nick Stuart: Jiles is trying to target the reasonably fresh wounds that Tsonda is still healing from after WARCHAMBER. No man comes out the same in that match and our former Universal Champion and current Golden Ticket holder seems to be showing he knows that all too well.

Richard Parker: But Tsonda is also proving that if you give him even one inch of an opening, he knows how to get you.

Cecilworth Farthington: Please, take a whole mile Mr. Tsonda. Rid us of this terrible plight.

A mildly embarrassed and irate Jiles is back on his feet quickly after the pin attempt and this time he looks to rush into Tsonda with an almost Yakuza-kick style boot right between the ribs of The Model Citizen. This time though, Tsonda has enough time and manages to roll out of the way. Jiles’ leg ends up caught in the second rope due to the force and momentum he came at Tsonda with. Taking advantage of this moment, Tsonda leaps up into the air, grabs the back of Jiles’ skull, and swings his opponent back into the ring with a swinging neckbreaker. This horrifies Vickie, obviously very concerned at ringside that Tsonda would dare to mess with the hair.

Richard Parker: I swear an airplane jet is quieter.

Cecilworth Farthington: If I had access to a decimeter, I’d be lodging a complaint.

Nick Stuart: Vickie Hall may be trying to deafen us all but it feels like the momentum of this match is shifting in the two-time Hall of Famers’ way and if that’s true, none of us will have ears to hear by the end of the evening.

Clearly certain that her complaints haven’t been heard, Vickie jumps up on the apron and bellows for the attention of Elvis Nixon. Nixon tries to place himself in the middle of her and the action, but it quickly becomes clear that if he wants to avoid bleeding today, he needs to address her directly. As Vickie takes the attention away from the match, Chandler Tsonda positions himself to take control, pulling the dazed Golden Ticket Master back up to the ground. What happens next is something rather remarkable. Jiles looks and sees that Nixon is distracted, and he feels a little yolky. Like a squirrel storing nuts for winter, Cancer Jiles cheeks swell up and he pulls the Coolympian Yolk out from deep within.

Richard Parker: Seems like getting that yolk up is giving Jiles some trouble. Maybe he shouldn’t have provided a demonstration on his way to the ring.

Cecilworth Farthington: Everyone knows it takes a while to get the yolk glands going, that’s basic science they teach to every kid in the country.

Nick Stuart: COOLYMPIAN YOL… NO! I CAN’T BELIEVE IT.

At the moment of spitatude, Tsonda bends down and Jiles completely whiffs on his yolk. It splatters onto the side of Vickie, who doesn’t seem to notice as she is in the middle of demanding to talk to Elvis Nixon’s supervisor. Jiles is rocked and stunned by Tsonda’s quick evasion, but he’s even more stunned by what happens next.

Cecilworth Farthington: Where was he hiding that? I did think Chandler was looking a bit more… endowed… this evening.

Richard Parker: inaudible due to cackling to himself too much.

Nick Stuart: That’s something we haven’t seen in a LONG time. He’s spraying Jiles right in the eyes with a Shot of Style. Jiles is being blinded by the hairspray.

Quickly noticing what’s happening, Hessian gently guides Vickie off the apron, allowing Nixon to swing around back to the match. Unfortunately for Jiles, the spray can is already out of the ring and somewhere in the fifth row of the Rupp Arena by this point. Jiles claws at his eyes, trying to wipe everything out. He’s not able to do so quick enough to avoid the Golgotha Drop implant DDT straight to the mat.

With Cancer Jiles now flat out on the mat, Tsonda ascends to the top rope. He looks back at The Golden Ticket holder’s position, making sure his next decision is on point. He thinks about the idea of taking down Jiles, taking that Golden Ticket for himself, being the narrator of the cautionary tale of Cancer Jiles. Satisfied with the positioning and the calculating, he bends down on the top turnbuckle and…

Instead of The Model Citizen hitting The Citizen, Big Hess comes in clutch for Jiles once more, shaking the bottom rope, but given the size and assumed force Hess would provide, Tsonda begins to shake and crotches himself right on the top turnbuckle with his back to the ring.

Richard Parker: Someone should really do something about this. I mean not me, but someone! I’m meant to be enjoying Cancer Jiles final right here!

Nick Stuart: If any of The Bandits are about, you know they’re the equaliser. Tsonda is trying to do this on his own but without anyone in his corner, that’s a tall task in the modern PRIME environment.

Cecilworth Farthington: This is why Glue Friends Stick Together, Nick. It’s just wise tactics.

Nick Stuart: Your numbers are seeming a little bit light after…

Cecilworth Farthington: IT’S FINE! EVERYTHING IS FINE!

A bleary eyed Jiles, still trying to clear his eyes of a Shot of Style, has Vickie roll a water bottle to him as he writhes on the mat. He begins pouring the water right into his eyes, doing his best to clear up some of his vision. He sees the position that Hessian has kindly left Tsonda in and begins to scale the turnbuckles himself. He hooks Tsonda’s arm around his head and falls backwards with a brutal back suplex and drops Tsonda straight onto his neck. Jiles wants to continue on the attack, but despite the damage done, as Cancer draws near, Tsonda wraps himself around Jiles like some kind of desperate cobra and puts his entire energy into leaning back into a European clutch pinfall. There’s no count though, there should be a count, but there’s not.

Richard Parker: GET YOUR HEAD IN THE GAME, NIXON! This is supposed to be a special night.

Nick Stuart: Chandler Tsonda used what little he had in the tank with this flash pin attempt, after the drop from the top rope, I don’t know how much longer he’ll be able to keep this locked in.

Cecilworth Farthington: Solid 7/10 European Clutch. I might even go as high as 8 when I watch the footage back.

The answer is “not very long” as Cancer Jiles breaks up the clutch with a traditional punch straight to Tsonda’s throat, that’s enough for Tsonda to break the pin and collapse back to the mat. Jiles realises he can’t quite follow through on the throat attack though, because Elvis Nixon is currently in mid argument with Hessian over that whole rope shaking scenario that just happened.

To Jiles, he now sees an opening.

And the cockroach loves an opening.

Tsonda is slowly recovering from the crumpled heap he became from the top rope slam and is slowly trying to shake the cobwebs, getting back up as Jiles stalks his prey once more. Taking measure, he knows what he wants his next move to be.

Nick Stuart: Elvis Nixon is still occupied with Hessian on the outside and that means Mr. Golden Ticket sees opportunity.

Richard Parker: See, this is the thing, he’s already on the offense, he doesn’t need to take shortcuts.

Nick Stuart: The cheating and the misery it causes I think may cause him a greater joy than anything else in the world, even his beloved Vickie.

There’s a snort from the normally composed Nick Stuart, who himself can’t believe what he just said.

So this is where something remarkable happens.

Elvis Nixon waves off Hessian and returns his attention to the ring, just as Cancer Jiles lines up and delivers a powerful full force kick straight to the balls of The Model Citizen. Nixon sees it just as he turns his attention back to the ring.

Ding ding ding

There’s a confused murmur from the crowd as they hear the ring bell.

Richard Parker: Wait, wait, wait… can it be? Oh god, can it be? I have prayed for this day! Or close enough.

Cecilworth Farthington: What’s happening now? What just happened?

Nick Stuart: I think we need an official call to make sense of this.

The Rupp Arena is a mixture of stunned, confused, excited and somewhat horny. So in many ways, a typical Kentucky night. Tsonda is leaning against the ropes on the ground, clutching his Model Citizens. Jiles is standing dead still, in the exact spot that he connected the kicks, not even sure what just happened himself. Elvis Nixon has already hopped out of the ring and is conferring with Vince Howard.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, PRIME official Elvis Nixon…

Richard Parker: Yes… yes… yes… come on… come to daddy.

Vince Howard: Has DISQUALIFIED Cancer Jiles from this contest.

Richard Parker: incomprehensible excited yelping.

The words of Vince Howard are only slowly starting to wash through the alfredo hair and right to the skull of Jiles, who appears to be in a moment of complete shellshock.

Nick Stuart: Cancer Jiles can’t believe he’s been caught, not getting caught is his speciality but a miscue between him and his Bandits at ringside…

As the news starts to dawn on Vickie, all glass items in a five mile radius are vulnerable to crackage and destruction at the level of yelping that is about to be unleashed to humanity.

Vince Howard: …therefore your winner of this match, claiming The Golden Ticket Bounty and progressing to the semi-finals of the 2025 Almasy… CHANDLER TSONDAAAAAAAAAA!

Tsonda looks over at Nixon, clearly not wishing to have won the match this way. Elvis Nixon shrugs his shoulders in a “the rules are the rules” manner. For his part, Jiles hasn’t moved a single inch. He might as well be a statue at this point, maybe that Rocky one in Philly.

Cecilworth Farthington: Happy days are here again, Nick! Happy days are here to stay. We have rid ourselves of our infestation. What a glorious moment. I want to let this sink in… I could not be happier right now. If my penis was any larger, this announce table would be floating right now…

Nick Stuart: Definitely not a mental image I needed, but I understand the sentiment. My broadcast colleague is certainly a bit excitable himself.

Richard Parker: Hummina hummina hubba hubba.

As Nick Stuart becomes concerned that his long time friend has turned into some form of Hanna-Barbera cartoon, Elvis Nixon walks over to Chandler Tsonda, who has managed to pull himself up against the ropes, despite some tender issues. Nixon raises Tsonda’s arm into the air and the Rupp Arena are both supporting this victory and shocked that this is how the match went down.

Cecilworth Farthington: He’s gone! He’s actually gone!

Nick Stuart: If you take Cancer Jiles at his word, we have just seen his last match, and it was by his own hand.

Jiles has still not moved even an inch from his final match position. Vickie was rolling around on the outside mat, wretching in agony for a big, but Big Hess picked up over his shoulder and slung her like a sack of potatoes. The camera cuts to the announcer desk with Cecilworth Farthington and Richard Parker being perhaps the only two men in the entire arena to give the match result a standing ovation.

Nick Stuart: Surprising and controversial opinion or not, ****that means that Chandler Tsonda now has the Golden Ticket and a shot at the Universal Championship! Win or lose the Almasy, he’s set for PRIME’s ultimate opportunity.

Cecilworth Farthington: Sorry, Tsonda has done what now…

A man’s facial expressions have never changed as quickly in a flash as Cecilworth’s manages to do as his brain switches from elation at the humiliation of Jiles to the dawning that Chandler Tsonda may be breathing down his neck in the near future. Farthington has the kind of face where you feel like you should really start playing the “Curb Your Enthusiasm” theme song.

Nick Stuart: I think Cecilworth forgot what the Golden Ticket was for.

As Farthington processes the hole he has now found himself in, the camera cuts back to the ring to Tsonda with his hand still held up by Elvis Nixon, a mixture of emotions running through both him and the fans. The wall of confused noise matches the equally perplexed Model Citizen as he jumps out of the ring, shrugging his shoulders and concurring with some of the fans around him about feeling unsatisfied with the finish.

Nick Stuart: Folks, we will see you next time for the semi-finals of the Almasy and no doubt a lot of fallout from what just happened in tonight’s main event. We will see you at ReVival 74 where we’ll all learn together who is heading for a collision course at Ascension.

The final camera shot captures Jiles in the ring, still solid as a rock, unmoved since ding.

PUCKER.

KISS.

GOODBYE.