ReVival 74

When you are in charge of a situation, particularly one as chaotic as running and operating a wrestling show, your office can be a place of beautiful respite. Somewhere to go and collect yourself for a few moments, a place where you can manage what is in front of you. In many ways, a private and tranquil space. Well, this is normally the case, unless there’s some Russian monster beef man trying to break down the door and then his pet snake is trying to say all these annoying words and that really ruins the respite.

The point is, for Lindsay Troy, on a night where she would later be claiming 15 MILLION DOLLARS in fines, she thought it best to get in a few moments of preparation before the insanity that normally unfurls the minute ReVival goes on air.

So, imagine you are LT, much on your mind, many things to do, a busy sort of person. You open your office door (a great big Steel Door, one that is Of Doom) and the following scene happens in front of you…

The first thing she sees, as it is obviously a bit of an eye catcher, is the giant hot tub that has managed to be set up in front of her desk, fully functional mind you. How do we know it’s in operating order? Two men are already inside it, bubbles splashing wildly and they try to jockey towards the “key thinkin’ position,” each man unwilling to yield. So, now your office is also soggy, so that’s rad.

If this wasn’t affronting your senses enough, off to the side is a yelling Fred Dick, who has just noticed LT entering the office. The Lasagna Boys/Rhinestone Rascals/Farthington Friends are waving their hands wildly as Fred bellows, uncertain of how to respond to the situation. There’s a lot of gesticulation and loud voices on the go.

So you turn to what you hope is going to be one quiet corner of the room and see a giant cowboy man wearing a hat that is a size that should be considered illegal. Clay Byrd stands in the corner of LT’s office, twirling around a jolf club in the general direction of the Whoresmen and Whoresmen-adjacent faces in the room, going “vroom” the entire time he is spinning it. It really is going vroom, spinning at such a force that it could potentially knock a head off should it manage to make contact with anyone.

The two men soddening your beautiful office are of course Daytona Diamonds and Cecilworth Farthington, who have insisted that the hot jacuzub be brought directly to your office to help address a small dispute that the men are in the middle of in terms of wet-time access.

This is definitely not the bullshit you needed, definitely not on a night where the Almasy Final hangs in the balance, plus all of the sweet delicious fine money you’re about to be in possession of.

So you look at the madness that is happening in front of your very eyes, take one big sigh, try to steady your voice and ask the obvious…

Lindsay Troy: Guys, what the fuck?

Daytona Diamonds: THIS IS MY TUB! I PAID FOR IT WITH BLOOD MONEY AND A GODDANG WESTERN UNION WIRE TRANSFER! And Percival Featherbottom thinks he can just fuckin’… manifest his destiny all over it?! NUH-UH! Ain’t no pasty, tea-sippin’ little peckerwood gonna get away with squattin’ in my suds like some kinda bubble bandit! Rhinestone Rascals! Help me drown him!

Cecilworth Farthington: First of all, my brilliant and darling Farthington Friends are hardly going to try and kill me with the big wet. That’s illegal and a crime and crimelegal and as the only holder of the PRIME Rule Book, it’s also against five different PRIME bylaws. Second, as Universal Champion, it is stipulated that you have access to any jacuzzi that is present in any arena, as long as you hold onto the title. Third, tea is icky and gross and tastes like grandpa. LT! Tell this man about the bylaws!

The Queen of the Ring pinches the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes. Maybe if she keeps them shut long enough, everything will magically disappear and her office will be back to normal.

And quiet.

Unfortunately, Fred Dick has taken this as his cue.

Fred Dick: Honestly LT? I blame muh self. Hand up, it’s on me. Y’know, you brainwarsh a couple career stoners and errbody wanna borrow ‘em. ‘Hey, Fred, I need to use the Boys,’ Well I only got three boys, and MY ACE needs to use ‘em! Next thang y’know, my own Lasagna Boys on dey bullsheeid, talm bout, ‘Daddy Sagna, can we go hang out with Uncle Toner?’ ‘Daddy Sagna, Siphyllis Fardington says we’re his helpful friends and we can fan ‘im while he relaxes in a tub.’ First of all, you two ain’t even allowed to have no friends. Lasagna Boys is on a strict as hell ‘No Friends Besides Daddy Sagna Allowed’ policy. Siphyllis, I’m disappointed in you. You spose to be the Universal Champion, and you got the audacity to make friends with my thralls? No! Quit it! And Toner, you already got hoes in different area codes who will carry yo’ tubs, and I bet if ya ask real nicely they’ll sug ya off clean. Well, I got an ace that YEW TWO can sug on! And trust me when I say, I got half a mothafuggin’ mind to make yuns! Now, if that’s all there is to say?

Grumpus: (actually Fred talking out of the corner of his mouth in a Prohibition gangster accent) and Fred means IF that’s all there is to say, seeeee…

Fred Dick: Then LASAGNA BOYS… MOUNT THA FUG UP.

The Lasagna Boys, as if programmed, immediately exit the room. Fred tosses a wink at Lindsay Troy. A suggestive wink, but not too suggestive. It was an ‘I would if you would’ wink. Then he points at Daytona and Cecilworth, a veiled threat.

Fred Dick: See my power?

He points again and then, thank god, he leaves with his Boys. Meanwhile, Daytona meanmugs Cecilworth from across the tubcuzzi, splashing a small tidal wave of bubblewater towards the Universal champion.

Daytona Diamonds: Well, ain’t that just goddang great! Now we ain’t got nobody to carry the tub back to the Whoreshouse! Y’see what you did, Rupert Tealeaf?! Sonuvabitch!

Cecilworth Farthington: This is on you for not treating those beautiful boys with the dignity and respect that they’ve earned as top tier fanners and high quality Farthington Friends.

Lindsay Troy: Oh my God, why is this happening? Why?

Nobody answers the obvious rhetorical question. Instead, Daytona’s growing anger sends an errant wave sploshing over the side of the hotuzzi, and the Queen is forced to jump out of the way to avoid her clothes getting soaked.

Lindsay Troy: Both of you stop it, right now. Daytona, don’t say another goddamn word until I say so. Cecilworth, bb, you couldn’t have had Hank send a text to have me go to you instead of dropping by my office with a whole ass jacuzzi?

Daytona tries to stay quiet. Like, really. But some things…? Well, some things simply cannot go unsaid.

Daytona Diamonds: IT AIN’T NO JACUZZI, IT’S A GODDANG HOT TUB! THIS WHOLE PLACE LOSE ITS GODDANG MIND WHILE I WAS IN CHINA OR SOMETHIN’?! SHITFIRE!

The Lady of the Hour sloooooooooooowly tilts her head in Daytona’s direction.

Lindsay Troy: Didn’t I just tell you not to say another word? I’m about to hold your head underwater and drown you. Then you won’t be able to call it anyfuckingthing.

Cecilworth for his part, in a rare circumstance of reading the room, decides to take some inspiration from Hank and obtains a sudden case of the silence. Daytona, meanwhile, has a vein popping out of his forehead the exact size and circumference of Texas, gritted teeth and skin gone red, those mental dice clattering around in his head as they try to decide whether to land on ‘attempted homicide’ or ‘play it cool, kemosabe.’

Daytona Diamonds: Lindsay, I’d like to see you fuckin’ tr–

For once, Daytona stops himself before he can finish spouting his usual venom. Instead, he just nods his head before settling back against the jets and closing his eyes. He’s even taking a few deep breaths, using the tub for its exact and intended purpose: thinkin’.

Daytona Diamonds: Listen, Queenie. I know you and me, we ain’t never seen eye to eye ‘bout nothin’, but even you gotta admit a man’s hot tub is his castle. And when another man like, say, Little Lord Crumpetshire comes settlin’ his ass on your jets, claimin’ your bubbles as his own? Well, that’s the same as stealin’ a man’s horse. Or his gun. Or his goddang soul.

Daytona throws an accusatory finger at Cecilworth, unintentionally splashing another wave across LT’s rug.

Daytona Diamonds: Now, you can fine me, suspend me, hell, drown me like you just promised, but I ain’t gonna sit here and let Algernon Twiddlesticks the Third get away with this… this crime ‘gainst his fellow man. I’ll just put it to you straight, Queenie. There’s only one way I see this endin’…

Daytona stands tall, massive arms crossing over that equally massive chest. He’s not even looking at LT. His eyes are fixed on Cecilworth and, boy howdy, they ain’t happy. See how they’re narrowing? That’s how you know.

Daytona Diamonds: Me and him. Ascension. If I win, I get that pretty little belt he’s had wrapped ‘round his waist. All the glory, all the gold, every single bit of it. And if he wins…?”

A pause. A tremble of hesitation. He has to force the words to come out from his mouth.

Daytona Diamonds: …then the tub’s his. My jets, my bubbles, my kingdom. All his. Forever.

Cecilworth contemplates the angry and bizarre words from the big hunk of beef man who is ruining his beautiful jacuzzi time.

Cecilworth Farthington: That’s the loudest shutting up I’ve ever heard. Now my ears are making a weird vibrating hum.

Farthington looks at Troy, almost apologetically.

Cecilworth Farthington: I mean I think I still have a champion’s right to tub, as is in the PRIME Charter. However, he has been very rude these last two weeks, so I do not mind trying to pop his muscle limbs like they were a non-erect Popeye, or at least that’s how I think it worked.

The Boss thinks this over for a moment, then addresses the Anabolic Outlaw.

Lindsay Troy: If you lose, what’s going to stop you or the rest of the Whoresmen from buying another tub?

Mr. Biceps-Bigger-Than-A-Ten-Pound-Baby snaps his attention to LT, a look of momentary, shocked offense on his face before he collects himself enough to reply.

Daytona Diamonds: Well, firstly and foremostly, Lindsay, that wouldn’t happen ‘cause me and the rest of the Whoresmen got somethin’ ol’ Paddington Fartmonger ain’t got: honor and integrity, ‘specially when it comes to the recreational involvements of water. ‘Member that jet ski of mine? You think I’ve ridden another one since?

Daytona raises an eyebrow to The Queen, but he doesn’t give her the chance to answer.

Daytona Diamonds: Secondly, it ain’t ‘bout just buyin’ another tub! It’s ‘bout THIS tub! The Original! The One True Soaker! The Thinkin’ Tub, goddangit! You can’t just run down to Sears and buy destiny! You can’t swipe your credit card and replace a man’s sacred jets!

Lindsay Troy: Uh huh. Well, considering this is PRIME, and the dipshits I employ fight each other for stupid reasons and with stupid stipulations every other week, like ketchup on hot dogs in Chicago, then fine. This is fine. You can have your Uni or Jacuzzi stipulation if it means you’ll get out of here faster. Like, right now, faster.

Cecilworth Farthington: Don’t you worry, I’ll defeat the jacuzzi defiler so you never worry about this problem again. This is really on him if you think about it. Still, spa this weekend?

Lindsay Troy: Oh yeah, definitely, I confirmed with them earlier today.

And at that, the inevitable, all caps snap. Steroids, am I right?

Daytona Diamonds: OH, I SEE HOW IT IS! Y’ALL MAKIN’ WEEKEND PLANS TOGETHER NOW, HUH?! AIN’T THAT JUST LIKE A TROY?! SPA THIS, SPA THAT! LITTLE CUCUMBER WATER? GONNA GET YOURSELF A HOT STONE RUBDOWN WHILE OL’ DAYTONA’S

FIGHTIN’ FOR HIS GODDANG RIGHTS?!

Daytona climbs out of the tub, soaking wet and dripping all over LT’s office floor. Accusatory fingers fly like bullets from a six-shooter, one pointed at LT, one at Cecilworth, one at the still thankfully quiet Clay Byrd.

Daytona Diamonds: Favoritism! Clear as crystal, Queenie! He gets spa weekends, I get fines and threats of drownin’! You don’t want a wrassler, you want a goddang pool boy!

Storming towards the door, all muscle and rage, a soggy trail of footprints in his wake, The Rhinestone Cowboy turns one last time at the threshold, shaking his head before he spits on the ground.

Daytona Diamonds: Don’t you worry! Y’all enjoy your fuckin’ mani-pedis, huh?! While Bandersnatch Beefwellington is gettin’ primmed and propered in the spa, I’ll be gettin’ ready for Ascension, baby! Hell, I’ll see you and ol’ Terracotta Pigeon later on tonight just so’s you know’s what you’re in for! YEEHAW!

He flexes because, I mean, of course he does. We’re talkin’ muscles bulgin’ like they’re about to rip through the skin. It would be intimidating if he weren’t still dripping with hot tub water, y’know? With that, Daytona slams the door closed behind him so hard the walls shake.

Lindsay sighs with her whole entire body, then looks over at Clay, who is still twirling the jolf club.

Lindsay Troy: Why didn’t you hit him with that at any point during this debacle?

Clay Byrd: Vroom.

The Queen throws her hands up, exasperated. Why does she even bother?

On that note, let’s start the show…

Nick Stuart: WELCOME EVERYONE TO THE NATIONWIDE ARENA IN COLUMBUS, OHIO!!! THIS IS REVIVAL 74!!!

Richard Parker: Up first? Sexy Sage and Hot Garbage!

Actually, first, signs.

Duh.

ROOKIE MISTAKE
SO LONG JILES, AND THANKS FOR ALL THE CRUMBS.
LIVE LAUGH CRUMB
DON’T SMILE BECAUSE IT ENDED, CRY BECAUSE IT HAPPENED
KERRY AND RIA, THE MOST ASSTASTIC TAG TEAM SINCE SYKES AND HANLON… …WAIT OH NO
TSONDA, TSAVE US FROM THESE UGGOS
DREAM DUNK CONTEST: JORDAN, LEBRON, DOMINIQUE HESSIAN, DAYTONA, HANK
VIETNAM VS RUSSIA; FRANCE VS DICKTOPIA
I WANTED A FRUITOPIA AND INSTEAD I GOT A LASAGNA FLAVORED DICKTOPIA. IT WAS INVERTED. DON’T ASK
I ORDERED CHICKEN AL-FRED-O AND THEY SERVED ME WEIRD LASAGNA
A GRUMPUS ISN’T UNIQUE IN OHIO, THAT’S JUST HOW ALL THESE PEOPLE LOOK
EVERY DAY IS LABOR DAY WHEN YOU JOIN THE VALIANT STRUGGLE OF THE PROLETERIAT. OK I WROTE THE SIGN ALEXEI NOW WHERE’S MY MONEY

Inexplicably, both men already stand in the ring and in their respective corners.

Vince Howard: The following contest is scheduled for oNe faLL!!! Introducing first, from Peoria, Illinois. Standing 5’9, weighing in at 189 pounds of dad bod majesty… STEVE!!! LEMIEUX!!! …and his opponent. From JOSHUA TREE, CALI-FOR-NI-AY! Standing 6’4, weighing in at 201 pounds. THE BODDHISATVA!!! SAGE!!! PONTIFF!!!

Richard Parker: Always a good ReVival when we start things off with Lemieux getting his dumb little ass kicked, Nick!

Nick Stuart: You never know, Richard. Lemieux does have a win on his resume, after all.

DING DING

Right out of the gate, Sage traverses the ring as though he were sprinting across a plain. A spinning wheel kick drops Steve Lemieux like a sack full of taters. Mr. Beefst immediately grabs onto the ring post and just holds it for dear life while Sage stomps a mud hole into the poor guy.

Richard Parker: So far so good.

Nick Stuart: What’s gotten under your skin about Steve Lemieux?

Richard Parker: You mean besides the fact he’s built like a cheeseburger, has zero athleticism, and shares a ring on the biggest stage in professional wrestling with legitimate wrestlers who have worked their entire lives to be here?

Nick Stuart: All you’re doing is describing Fred Dick.

Action continues inside the ring, though the action is much of the same. Sage Pontiff, grinning and stomping a mud hole, Steve Lemieux, crying and getting a mud hole stomped in him.

Sage grabs Lemieux by the ankle and tries to pry him away from the ring post. To Lemieux’s credit, he holds on for dear life really well — some might say its his greatest strength.

But Sage does manage to yank Steve away — only, Steve then grabs the middle ring rope.

Sage sighs, and begins pulling Steve’s ankle yet again. But this time, it proves much more difficult to rip Steve away due to the ropes tautness and give. The rope bends in towards the ring with every yank of Steve’s ankle, forcing Sage to step further back and pull.

Nick Stuart: One of the damndest things I’ve seen in a while, Richard. Not gonna lie.

Richard, however, is transfixed, as is the rest of the arena, because everyone cant help but notice how, if Sage lets go of Lemieux’s ankle at the wrong time?

It’s gonna be like an arrow fired from a bow.

Oops.

Guess what just happened?

Haha. Yup.

CRASH!!!

Nick Stuart: JESUS GOD ALMIGHTY!!!

Imagine, if you will, how an unathletic simpleton might find collide into a guard rail his body was flung into. Face first, just totally eating shit – his body falling limp behind his smashed face pressed against the railing. An upright fetal position if there ever was one.

Nick Stuart: Sage!!! Don’t do it man!!!

Richard Parker: Oh my God this is actually going to be fucked up.

What the hell are they talking about?

Oh, Sage Pontiff is on the top turnbuckle, facing the outside of the ring, looking down at a sobbing Steve Lemieux, still in an upright fetal position, face pressed against the cold steel of the outside of the ring!

HE LEAPS!!!

Nick Stuart: NOOOOOOOOOOOH MY GOD!!!

CRASH!!!

Richard Parker: …aha. Ahahaha. Ahahahahahahahaha. AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! AHHHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA!!! HOLY JESUS!!!

Sage Pontiff just missile dropkicked the back of Steve Lemieux’s head, which in turn collided with the guardrail hard, fast, and… very painfully.

Steve Lemieux: OH OUCH!!! OHHH, OOOHHHHH FUDGE!!!!

See?

Steve looks at someone in the front row.

Steve Lemieux: Am I bleeding???

They nod.

He is. And now he can see it. The blood is in his eyes.

Richard Parker: Steve Lemieux wearing the Crimson mask? I like it! He should wear it more often.

Sage Pontiff isn’t done. Even though Ashley Barlow starts counting both men out, he simply grabs a handful of Steve Lemieux’s hair, and looks back at Ashley.

ONE!!!

Sage Pontiff slams Steve Lemieux’s face into the guard rail.

TWO!!!

Sage Pontiff slams Steve Lemieux’s face into the guard rail.

THREE!!!

Sage Pontiff slams Steve Lemieux’s face into the guard rail.

FOUR!!!

Sage Pontiff slams Steve Lemieux’s face into the guard rail.

FIVE!!!

Sage Pontiff slams Steve Lemieux’s face into the guard rail.

SIX!!!

Sage Pontiff slams Steve Lemieux’s face into the guard rail.

SEVEN!!!

Sage Pontiff slams Steve Lemieux’s face into the guard rail.

EIGHT!!!

Sage Pontiff slams Steve Lemieux’s face into the guard rail.

NINE!!!

SAGE PONTIFF RUSHES BACK TO THE RING AND ROLLS UNDER THE ROPE!!!

TE—

…

Then he rolls back out of the ring.

Ashley Barlow sighs.

ONE!!!

Sage Pontiff slams Steve Lemieux’s face into the guard rail.

Nick Stuart: This is… this is sadistic.

Richard Parker: I don’t like admitting this given how I hated on him a bit ago, but I almost feel bad for the guy at this point.

Indeed. The same process plays out. With every number Ashley Barlow shouts, Sage Pontiff slams Lemieux’s face into the guard rail.

And when she reaches Nine?

He once again rolls under the bottom rope into the ring.

Ashley Barlow tries to plead with Sage to bring this match back to the ring.

But Sage is on a different plane of existence right now from Ashley. He doesn’t care about bringing the match to the ring. Rather, he is very much enjoying forcing all of the blood in Steve Lemieux’s body out of his forehead wound. The guard rail is his canvas. And Lemieux’s blood is his paint.

So he does the exact same thing again.

Nick Stuart: THAT’S ENOUGH!!! THAT’S ENOUGH ASHLEY!!! CALL THE MATCH!!! PLEASE!!! ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!!!

When Ashley Barlow reaches 9 this time, and Sage slides back into the ring, she tells Sage that she’ll be forced to bring a stop to the contest if he refuses to make this a wrestling match. Sage actually acknowledges her this time, with the slightest nod, before he rolls out of the ring.

Nick Stuart: Oh god, if he does this again I think I’m going to be sick.

Richard Parker: Sage, brother, now is the time for your sexy, enlightened ass to show some grace, man. Come on man. Don’t do it, bro!

Sage grabs a handful of Steve’s matted hair once again.

ONE!!!

But this time, he brings Steve up to his feet. He walks him over to the ring and lays him on the ring apron.

TWO!!!

Sage looks up at Ashley Barlow.

SMACK!!!

And CHOPS THE SHIT out of Steve Lemieux’s chest.

THREE!!!

He does it again!!!

FOUR!!!

Again!!!

FIVE!!!

AGAIN!!!

SIX!!!

AGAIN!!!

SEVEN!!!

AGAIN!!!

EIGHT!!!

AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AND— STEVE LEMIEUX KICKS AT SAGE!!!

Nick Stuart: OH MY GOD!!!

NINE!!!

STEVE LEMIEUX KICKS AT SAGE AGAIN AND ROLLS IN THE RING TO GET AWAY!!!

Richard Parker: SAGE WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?!?

TEN!!!

DING DING DING

Nick Stuart: I cannot believe what just happened.

Richard Parker: Sage… Sage, Sage, Sage, Sage, SAGE!!! WHY MAN!?!?!

Nick Stuart: Too overconfident??? A brainfart??? Was he confused??? I don’t get it. He had the match won the entire time and just… didn’t get back in the ring on time.

Vince Howard: YOUR WINNERRR… BY COUNT OUT… MR BEEFST!!! STEEEEEEEEEVE LEMIEUUUUUUXXXXXX!!!

Steve can’t believe it. He also can’t see because of the blood in his eyes. Where did his glasses go?

Oh well.

We cut away from ringside.

…Previously on…

…THE NEWS…

☠️☠️☠️☠️

Max Kael: And you’re certain this will cover them up?

Max stares into the well lit mirror in front of him as a PRIME make-up artist named Megan looks over Max’s face. Strange black tears run down his cheeks, pulsating ominously. The artist lifts a brow and shrugs.

Megan the Make-Up Artist: Uh… well I’m not really sure. This looks more like a skin infection,I would recommend probably seeing our medical team?

Snark Darkly: Oh it’s fine, Megan, just a little experimental tattoo like effect. My client is just uneasy about his new look and wants to ease his audience into it.

Megan recoils as Snark speaks, gliding into frame with his hands clasping together.

Megan the Make-Up Artist: Whatever you say. I’ll do what I can but, you know, when you wrestle, this will wear off.

Max and Snark share a look before Max shrugs.

Max Kael: Paint me like one of your French whores!

☠️☠️☠️☠️

…Snark Darkly Presents…

… THE WON ACTION NEWS TEAM…

That hard hitting, high action NEWS music blares out as we get opening shots of all the ONE ACTION NEWS TEAM members.

The Herald, Sub-Marquis Bentley Tennyson Primrose-Farthington!

Kai, the lovely baby-momma of Bryan Dawkins.

Kirk the Sportshead, reanimated head of Lowell Dot Com.

And of course Mayoral Candidate and NEWS Anchor…

Maximillian Wilhelm Kael!

The intense NEWS music cuts as we are taken to the NEWS DESK, seated behind which is Max Kael in his usual three piece black suit and #D60000 red tie.

Max Kael: WORMS of PRIME, welcome to a returning WON ACTION NEWS hosted by me, your Arkham Mayoral Candidate, Maximillian Wilhelm Kael! We’ve got a packed show so we’ve got to get this juggernaut moving. Let us start with the obvious.

Clearing his throat, Max points toward the ceiling.

Max Kael: We’ve upgraded the NEWS STAGE with a brand new skylight!

The camera pans up to show the large glass skylight above the stage. It’s unclear why this was necessary and what kind of trouble it creates for the lighting crew but there it is. Big glass roof window. The camera pans back down to Max.

Max Kael: Moving on, let’s introduce our first guest on THE NEWS! She’s been making a big splash the last few weeks in PRIME… It’s Sonja Cuchilla!

The camera cuts over to what looks to be a museum-like replica of the Florida Everglades, complete with mossy waters, mangroves, sawgrass marshes and pine flatwoods. You can hear the croaking of frogs and even see the camera lens fog up a bit as a series of spotlights swing back and forth over the marsh like searchlights until they find what they’ve been searching for.

Standing along on a boggy tree stump, eyes wide, is none other than Sonja Cuchilla.

Dressed from head to toe in a dazzling white dress that shimmers light across the surface of otherwise muddied waters, the aging actress does her best Fay Wray impression, squirming and writhing away from hundreds of miniature King Kongs… that is to say blood thirsty mosquitos.

Sonja Cuchilla: I thought this was supposed to be the Tonight Show!

Max Kael: Yes, well, you probably shouldn’t think, it’s bad for expectations.

Sonja Cuchilla: I talked with Jimmy Fallon’s producer!

Snark Darkly peels bleeding darkness back from what are supposed to be teeth to flash a “smile” that 0 out of 5 dentists would recommend.

Max Kael: Oh shit, I don’t think anyone cares, ON TO QUESTIONS!

Max pulls out a stack of cards, shuffling them as he giggles to himself.

Max Kael: What is Lake Placide For? Do you have any Lake Turbulent For? Is this one of those “what is a butt for?” questions where you retort with something like “For pooping”? You know, that’s not important.

Kael tosses a card over his shoulder, moving to the next question.

Max Kael: Pop Culture Phenoms, how do you become one? Do you have to be bitten by a radioactive producer during a couch casting? Or cut yourself on a cursed script? Have you ever heard of poppers and do they have anything to do with this?

Sonja begins to emit some sort of shrieking, wailing sound that is a cross between an ambulance siren and the zeroed-out drone of a TV bars and tone. Quite impressive really to be able to hit an F3 and C6 at the same time.

As the sound pierces Max’s earpiece, he throws the device off to the side of the set and then quickly jumps up to his feet, peering over his desk at the edge of the swamp that’s manifested on the NEWS stage.

Max Kael: Well, if the “Pop” in Pop Culture Phenoms doesn’t stand for Poppers and the abbreviated PCP isn’t in reference to that sweet, sweet angel dust, maybe you really are an actress after all!

Sonja stomps her feet on the stump she’s marooned on, temporarily belaying her vocal transgressions.

Sonja Cuchilla: THANK YOU!

Max Kael: AH! Well, don’t thank me quite yet! Not until you meet our next guest!

Max eagerly claps while Sonja holds her nose as a giant bog bubble bursts in front of her.

Max Kael: In order to add to the authenticity of this whole thing I actually hand picked an alligator, we’ve named him Mr. Lake Placid IV 2025, straight from Boggy Bob’s Alligator Emporium! Shout out to Boggy Bob and his excellent Alligator crew. Ole Mr. Lake Placid should be looking for his evening meal soon!

The camera zooms in on a pair of green, reptilian eyes rising above the water and staring directly at Sonja. With nowhere to run, she just screams, first in terror and then in anger.

Sonja Cuchilla: THAT’S A DAMNED CROCODILE! LAKE PLACID TAKES PLACE IN MAINE, PENDEJO! NOT FLORIDA!

Max checks his notecards, tipping his head slightly, then tossing the pile over his shoulder with a shrug before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pair of red sunglasses. He taps them on the news desk as he stares at Sonja with a mildly bored expression.

Max Kael: Well, I did try my best, no reason to be rude. You know what? Maybe if we had the actual star of the film here to answer a few questions… heh-heh.

Sonja Cuchilla: You mean, Elise? Is THAT what this is about?

Sonja looks up, eager at first that Elise may be nearby, but then her expression drops. Not because of the monster nipping at the hem of her very expensive dress, but because of the monster just feet away from her grinning from ear to ear. He waves his hand dismissively, chortling to himself.

Max Kael: Ooh, no, no. Not her. Him.

Daniel Green and Hugo Vale step out onto the NEWS STAGE dragging someone with a black bag on their head with them. They deposit his mysterious figure onto the couch next to Max’s desk before stepping back, smug expressions on their face.

Kael springs up from his desk and slides across the floor as he moves behind the couch. He leans down, his long fingers gripping his “guests” shoulders as he looks back at Sonja.

Max Kael: Allow me to introduce our next guest… heh-heh… he’s had a REAL nice sabbatical but he’s back to make his big return!

Pulling away the bag Max reveals Blaze Claymore, though he’s looking exactly like you’d expect someone to look if Max Kael has been in charge of their health. Black tears run down his pale face, eyes staring off as though in a catatonic state.

Max rustles Blaze’s hair before prancing back to his desk as Sonja, suddenly speechless, just looks on in horror, both frozen in shock but unable to move due to her new best friend Mr. Lake Placid IV 2025.

Max Kael: Now I was having a very enlightening conversation with young Blaze the other day, about Elise Areas; we’ve joined an exclusive book club you see. Uuuuunfortunately dear Claymore’s literary capabilities hit their limits a little quicker than I anticipated.

Frowning, Max casts Blaze a mildly disgusted look before turning to Sonja, batting his eyelashes as a cruel smile stretches over his silver teeth.

Max Kael: You, Ms. Cuchilla, are gonna help fill in the blanks that poor Blaze couldn’t. And I’d spill the beans quickly, hunny.

Cupping his hand to the side of his mouth, Max turns toward Sonja, pointing at Mr. Lake Placid IV 2025

Max Kael: … or you might be part of our new segment ACTION NEWS ALLIGATOR FEEDING.

Sonja Cuchilla’s shock gives way to uncontrollable violent shaking, filled now more with rage than with fear as she looks over to see the near catatonic Blaze swaying back and forth on the couch next to Max.

Sonja Cuchilla: Why are you doing this to me!?

Max Kael: Hey! I’m asking the questions here. And… wait… to you?

Max looks over at Blaze and throws his head back in laughter, pinching the brow of his nose.

Max Kael: Darling-DARLING. This ain’t no thang. So selfish! Snark, you’ll help her to see the truth, won’t you?

From behind Sonja manifests the unpleasantly pleasant Snark Darkly, a strange and ancient book held against his chest. At Snark’s approach the alligator quickly retreats, seemingly frightened off by the strange old man.

Max Kael: Now all I need you to do is read a few lines from that book. Think of it as… as a script reading for a future role! Easy. Peezy. Lemon-squeezy.

It’s hard to imagine a world where the words lemon-squeezy could sound threatening but Max adds enough of a guttural snarl to give it a jagged edge. Snark opens the book, the pages glowing with a disturbing and unpleasant light. Sonja turns, her eyes trying to avoid the book, but the ethereal glow draws her to the book like a moth to flame.

“NNNNNOOOOOOOOO!”

Max’s brow furrows in confusion just before he turns to catch a right fist to his jaw sending him across the NEWS DESK ass over kettle.

Standing over our intrepid host is Blaze Claymore, eyes wild with rage and desperation. Driven by primal instinct, throws himself over the desk and onto Max, swinging wildly at the man who’d tortured him for weeks.

From across the way, Snark Darkly grabs a hold of Sonja’s head, trying to force her to read the words on the page while all Kael can do is cover up from the thrashing attack, screaming for help.

That help arrives in the form of the Green-Vale Gang, Daniel and Hugo, pulling Blaze off Max.

WHUMP-WHUMP-WHUMP

Everyone stops for just a split second as the sound of a large helicopter deafens the chaos.

CRASH!

A shatter causes glass to rain down from the ceiling as the Pop Culture Phenoms come ziplining in from the destroyed skylight like Ghostbusters dropping from the Statue of Liberty to defeat Vigo the Carpathian.

Dressed in camo and dirtied up like Navy Seal abandoned in the jungles of ‘Nam, Elise Ares, The D, and Klein land and unlatch from their ziplines as the helicopter flies away.

Elise Ares: It looks like the party started without us.

The D: Good thing I brought my GUNS.

The D flexes before the trio target the Green-Vale Gang to once again realign the odds.

The pair yank Daniel and Hugo off of Blaze and Max, with Elise and Hugo throwing matching haymakers while The D and Daniel drop to their knees and lock their hands together in position for an EPIC arm wrestling contest where the only thing missing is a Joe Esposito song playing in the background.

Blaze, meanwhile, rolls off the prone Max Kael and makes a mad dash for the marsh, leaping in a single bound and BOUNCING off the head of Mr. Lake Placid IV 2025 to slap the glowing tome out of Snark Darkly’s … hands?

Snark dissipates into shadow and envelopes the precious book before floating over the bog and away from the scene as Sonja, who is slowly regaining consciousness, wraps an arm around Blaze’s waist. An electrical extension cord covered in leaves and fauna drops from the ceiling, causing Blaze to grab a hold and swing like Tarzan, protecting his Jane, as the pair follow in pursuit of Snark Darkly.

Once again, chaos has erupted across the ONE ACTION NEWS STAGE. A fire has broken out somewhere in the background, for some reason. The NEWS “guests” have managed to escape Max’s clutches, followed by the Green-Vale Gang and Pop Culture Phenoms doing their best Jets vs. Sharks impression as they chase each other off stage.

This leaves Max Kael alone, climbing to his feet as he dusts himself off.

Max Kael: That could have gone a lot wor-

From the water near him Mr. Lake Placid IV 2025 explodes out of the water, jaws wide open and pissed off about having his head stepped on. The screen freezes just as the alligator’s mouth wraps around Max’s head though the sound of Max’s screaming can be heard.

This frozen image hangs on the screen for a few moments before we’re shuffled off to a simple message.

..STAY TUNED..

..WE’RE EXPERIENCING TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES..

🐊🐊🐊🐊

With a tonal beep we’re returned to the WON ACTION NEWS STAGE. Max is nearly collapsed behind the NEWS DESK, his suit torn up while his face is covered in scratches. Behind him the Herald is attempting to put out the fire with an extinguisher but can’t seem to figure out how it works.

Max Kael: I already hurt and I haven’t even had my match yet.

Kael groans, leaning forward in his chair tenderly. It looks like he’s been through a pretty terrible time, being attacked by an alligator and all. Brushing his hands through his messy, greasy hair Max turns his green eyes toward the camera.

Max Kael: Well that clearly didn’t go to plan. Blaze Claymore grew a pair of nuts suddenly, who expected that? Stupid Sonja didn’t read the book so that’s a bust and the **God damned ****Pop Culture Phenoms broke my brand new God damned skylight! This kind of malarky is just unacceptable!

He pounds his fist on the desk, snarling the ridiculous words between clenched teeth.

Max Kael: Elise Areas, you abysmal skylight breaking skanky ho, you’ve gone and done made yourself an ENEMY in Maximillian Wilhelm Kael. Ask your reject of a sponsor, that Jack Harmen, what the cost of being an enemy of Max Kael means. You look in his eyes and you see what scars left by me then ask yourself if sticking your nose in my business was worth it. I promise you, it won’t be.

Straightening out the shambles of his suit, Max’s lips curl into a seething sneer.

Max Kael: Thankfully I won’t have to wait until some future date to exact my revenge on your scrawny, dumb-bitch fuckin-shit-fire and taint and he CHOSE HIM RAAAAAAAGH! I’M SO GOD DAMN FUCKING ANGRY!

Like a very sane and stable person, Max begins to pound his fists on the NEWS DESK, having no other outlet from which to unleash his rage. There is a hiss from the swamp next to his desk as Mr. Lake Placid IV 2025 splashes around.

Max Kael: NOBODY GIVES A FUCK, MR. ALLIGATOR! You’re on my shit list too, I swear to god I’m gonna turn you into a fresh pair of god damn boots. I’ll get back to you later. Fuckin’ alligator.

Using his cuff to wipe away at one of the cuts on his face, Max removes part of the make-up revealing black lines running down his cheek.

Max Kael: So tonight I introduce you to my Madame Guillotine, and when the world fades to black you’ll know your big PRIME adventure was over before it could even fuckin’ begin.

Leaning up, Max flashes a broad smile made all the more demented looking thanks to his bloodied, disheveled state.

Max Kael: And that’s the NEWS!

ReVival moves on.

We cut back to the ring with festivities already going. The D is in the ring in a party mood, with Klein by his side and “Return of the Mack” blaring through the PA system.

Nick Stuart: The D did not want to wait until we were back in the ring, apparently, because he’s been partying out here for a good minute now.

Richard Parker: You know, most people would consider not having their entrance airing to be a bad thing, but I think it’s a bold and exciting move to start a party. What do you say at one of The D’s parties? Whoop whoop?

Nick Stuart: I think that’s the Gathering of the Juggalos.

Richard Parker: Why would you know that?

Nick Stuart: I’ve made mistakes in my youth.

Vince Howard, in the ring, can only roll his eyes as The D and Klein dance around him.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall! Already in the ring, accompanied by Klein… he hails from the Sparkling Lights of Hollywood, California! He weighs in at two hundred and sixteen pounds… representing the Pop Culture Phenoms! THIS! IS! TTTTTTTTTHE! D!

The party comes to an abrupt halt, however, because “Fanfare for the Common Man” isn’t what we’d call “party music.” It’s too regal for such a dashing Dandy as Charles de Lacy. He slips out from behind the curtains, with Mickey following close behind. de Lacy sneers as he walks down the ringside, casting judgmental glances at people stupid enough to live in Ohio and wanting nothing to do with the touch of their dirty Columbian hands.

Vince Howard: And his opponent, hailing from York, England! He weighs in tonight at two hundred and forty pounds! HE IS THE DANDY! CHARLES! DE! LAAAAACCCCCYYYYYY!!!

Once they get to ringside, Mickey hops up onto the apron and holds open the ropes for de Lacy, who wipes his feet on the ring apron with contemptuous grace before he enters the ring. He makes referee Jimmy Turnbull assist him in removing his silk robe, and the entire time is pointing out all of the ways he’s doing it wrong. Once the robe is off, Turnbull hands it off to Mickey. Mickey is not pleased with him, and it’s clear on his face. de Lacy does a few stretches while he waits for the referee to begin the match.

After a moment to allow Howard and Klein to leave the ring, Turnbull calls for the bell.

DING DING

The bell rings, and the match begins with Charles de Lacy and The D circling one another before locking up. Although a similar height, de Lacy’s the one with the thicker build, and so the Dandy manages to muscle him into the turnbuckles and force referee Jimmy Turnbull to break things up.

Nick Stuart: Jimmy Turnbull’s gonna have his hands full with this one.

Richard Parker: What do you mean? These two men are definitely above board.

Fortunately for the man only known by one consonant, Charles de Lacy is a gentleman at heart and graciously backs off from the turnbuckles. The D eyes him suspiciously, because he would have definitely started kicking him in the corner, as close to below the belt as possible. Back in the center of the ring, the D goes to lock up with de Lacy again. This time, however, he feints the lock up and goes behind him, hooking in a waistlock. de Lacy slips out of it like water, however, and applies a top wristlock to the D. The D, not exactly a man known for his submission prowess, does the smart thing and backs himself into the ropes.

As the referee goes for the five count, the D pops a cheeky punch right in the de Lacies, which definitely stuns the Dandy. The referee doesn’t see this, but still admonishes the D because he knows something happened there. He just doesn’t have proof.

Nick Stuart: Well, that’s not cool.

Richard Parker: You know what’s “cool?” Cancer Jiles is no more!

Nick Stuart: Yes, as I’m sure you’ve reminded me several dozen times by now.

Richard Parker: I just think it would be neat if we threw a parade.

The D smirks as he takes advantage, grabbing a side headlock and taking de Lacy down to the canvas. His advantage only lasts until roughly the end of the above conversation before de Lacy muscles his way to his feet, taking Mr. The D with him. de Lacy pushes The D into the ropes, and then catches him in the gut with a kitchen sink-style knee, flipping The D over and out of the ring to join Klein.

Outside, Klein and The D commiserate with one another over the audacity of this Dandy. The not-word “dandacity” gets thrown around.

Charles de Lacy’s nose is up in the air with bitter disgust at the display, and so he steps out of the ring on the right side and comes around the corner after The D. Klein sees him and points frantically behind his charge. The D turns and eats a European uppercut right to the face, bowling him over.

Richard Parker: Oh no, I don’t think Charles de Lacy is here for funny lulz at all! I think he intends to murder The D!

de Lacy is indeed trying to murder The D by grinding his boot into his face. As murder methods go, it’s not especially efficient. Mostly because de Lacy knows he’ll get counted out before The D stops breathing.

Nick Stuart: I see that.

The Dandy pulls The D (no Andy) up and throws him back into the ring. The D immediately grabs hold of referee Jimmy Turnbull, and Klein goes to prevent CDL from getting back in himself. Unfortunately for him, de Lacy is a man who has seen just about everything the sport of professional wrestling has to offer, and he blasts Klein with an elbow the moment he tries. Even man the size of Klein is rocked by this and takes a step back.

That allows Director D the opening he needs to fly through the middle and bottom ropes with a dropkick that knocks de Lacy into the guardrails.

Nick Stuart: Huge dropkick from The D! A D-Kick, if you will!

Richard Parker: Nick.

Nick Stuart: What?

Richard Parker: There are children watching.

Who the fuck lets children watch PRIME?

Nick Stuart: …I’m going to ask you to explain yourself.

Richard Parker: I will NOT.

The D takes CDL and throws him back into the ring. He hops up onto the apron and goes up to the top rope, before he drops down on top of de Lacy with a huge frogsplash.

Nick Stuart: B MOVIE!

The D hits the frog splash so hard and so high that he bounces right off of de Lacy’s chest like a pinball. He’s in some amount of pain from his own move, but he manages to crawl over and make the cover.

ONE.

TWO.

KICKOUT.

Nick Stuart: Charles de Lacy kicks out!

Richard Parker: It’s gonna take a lot more than that. Maybe if he stabbed him.

Nick Stuart: Richard.

Richard Parker: What?

Nick Stuart: There are children watching.

Richard Parker: Yeah, I just said that. And that’s the moral to this story. Kids, it’s okay to stab a guy if it means you win!

Nick Stuart: RICHARD.

The D is not interested in stabbing anyone (yet (give it time (it is PRIME after all (stabbing is inevitable)))), but he is interested in the Big D (the D stands for Dub (Big Dub)). So he pulls de Lacy up to his feet, grabbing his wrists as he does so. It looks like it might be time for the A-Lister, but before he can get set to land the move, de Lacy suddenly pulls The D forward and into a big headbutt.

The D falls to his knees, clutching his face. de Lacy pulls him back up and lands a Russian legsweep. He rolls backwards with the moment and then comes down with a huge knee drop that flattens The D and allows de Lacy to make a cover.

It only gets two, however, as The D manages to get his shoulder up.

de Lacy pulls The D up to his feet, and it looks like he’s going right for the hammerlock lariat.

Nick Stuart: Here comes the Stand and Deli—NO!

The D manages to duck under the lariat, and de Lacy committed so much into the lariat that he’d let go of the hammerlock portion. This allows the D to run off of the ropes. de Lacy turns, and ducks under The D’s attempt at a clothesline before running into the ropes himself.

Two things happen.

The first is that the D comes back off of the ropes with an attempt at his leg lariat, With Everything. If this connects, de Lacy might have his lights knocked out. However, the second thing is that de Lacy doesn’t get hit by it… Because he grabbed on to the top rope. The D crashes and burns, and de Lacy moves in for the kill.

He pulls the D into position for the Necktie Social, but he can’t get the legs hooked in as the D is kicking wildly the moment he gets lifted up. Eventually, the D drops down behind de Lacy and gets him with the backslide.

Nick Stuart: BACKSLIDE!

ONE!

TWO!

NO!

de Lacy kicks out, and The D takes advantage of the Dandy being disoriented, quickly wrapping him up and delivering the Contractual Obligation. de Lacy lands a little too close to the ropes for The D’s liking, but he backs into the opposite turnbuckles and then takes off running for a little…

Nick Stuart: D IN YOU—NO!

Richard Parker: Oh, thank god, I was hoping you wouldn’t actually call that move.

The D’s strategy was sound. Put a little D in that face, Beat that D into submission, and call it a day. The problem? de Lacy caught The D in mid-air, and The D lingered up there in sheer panic as he realizes that Charles de Lacy has very bad intentions for him.

Such intentions?

A stun gun into the turnbuckles behind him.

Nick Stuart: STUNGUN!

Richard Parker: Ooooof, that was not a good landing.

Charles de Lacy takes a moment to recover from the damage he’s taken in the match before he pulls The D out from the turnbuckles. The D is on spaghetti legs (some real limp noodles right there (I’m sorry)), and even as Klein is shouting at him to get it together, de Lacy is already signing his death warrant.

Hammerlock.

Lariat.

Nick Stuart: STAND! AND! DELIVER!

The D is knocked ass-over-D-kettle to the canvas in a feat of ragdoll physics you’d mainly find in most ports of Skyrim. He has no idea where he is. In this state, he’s helpless to stop Charles de Lacy from lifting him bodily over his shoulders and setting him in position to die.

What follows Stand and Deliver?

Nick Stuart: THE NECKTIE SOCIAL!

The D takes all of the neckbreaker and is in a state best described as gelatinous. Charles de Lacy slides into the cover, hooking the leg. Klein, on the outside, goes to try and stop this, but as he leaps onto the apron to try and distract the referee, Mickey casually walks by and trips him off of the apron. Klein falls and hits his face on the ring apron.

Jimmy Turnbull is free to make the count.

ONE.

TWO.

THREE!

DING DING DING

de Lacy gets off of The D, clearly wanting to touch this strange man no further. He sits on his knees and graciously allows the referee to raise his arm in victory.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this match…. CHARLES! DE! LAAAAAAACCCCYYYYYYYY!!!

Mickey enters the ring as casually as he did preventing Klein from interfering, clapping elegantly for his man.

Nick Stuart: A solid win for Charles de Lacy! After the showing he put against Nate Colton, he’s proving that he’s got what he takes here in PRIME.

Richard Parker: At least it didn’t end with stabbing.

Nick Stuart: We’re going to have a conversation after we cut to commercial about this.

Richard Parker: Oh no.

Speaking of, we cut to commercial with Charles de Lacy still celebrating his win.

Simon Tillier: Good evening, boys and girls, and maybe — hopefully — the few actual adults out there who still watch this ever-absurd distraction to modern society decaying around us. “Rhymin’” Simon Tillier here to ask the important questions. Like, “What is a buckeye, exactly? Is it a buck, or is it an eye?”

Our ever faithful junior reporter and PRIME’s last bastion of the punk rock mentality finds himself once again in the happiest place on earth — the V-V-I-P Room, standing with a mic in his hand and a defiant scowl etched on his typically boyish face.

Simon Tillier: Then someone explains to you that a buckeye is actually a nut. Which, if I’m pretty honest, is absolutely NUTS! But maybe that’s why the kids these days call it “Ohio”. Anyhow, let’s find someone around here who can answer some slightly more trifling questions. Expand our consciousness to their worldly, egalitarian insight, or whatever.

He glances around the column-lined lounge. The members of Vae Victis are huddled around one corner, talking strats before bats and doing their regular Vae Victin’ proclivities.

Simon Tillier: Well, who do we got here?

Simon first approaches Ami Troy, standing with the Five Star Title in her hands. Strangely, the Merry Mischief Maker appears to be intermittently growing and shrinking by six inches every couple seconds.

Simon Tillier: Hello, Ami. I take it the mushrooms from Alice in Wonderland are kicking in. Um… is your client available to answer a few questions?

Ami shrugs.

Ami Troy: Beats me. Did you try asking him?

Simon looks down. The camera follows.

Kerry Kuroyama is down on the floor, rigidly doing push-ups with Ami standing on his back.

Simon briefly looks confused, until he obligingly gets down on the floor with the Five Star Champion.

Simon Tillier: Um… hello, Kerry.

Kerry Kuroyama: Simon.

Simon Tillier: Is… is this a bad time?

The Emerald Apex shakes his head, effortlessly repping another push-up.

Kerry Kuroyama: Nah… just clearing my head… before the storm…

Simon Tillier: Ah, yes… that’s it. I do the same thing at home. Anyway, I got a two-parter for you tonight.

Kerry Kuroyama: Okay… shoot.

Simon Tillier: Here’s a softball for ya: what’s your plan for this match? You’re facing off against the next challenger to the Five Star Title, the Anglo Luchador — himself a former Intense Champion, along with a former Five Star Champion in “The New Diamond” Nate Colton. So do you absolutely go balls to the wall on these guys to try and get that psychological edge before the Ascension showdown, or what?

Kerry Kuroyama: I mean, Simon… I like to think that if there’s any walls to be had… my balls are gonna be on it… to some degree. Even so… there’s nothing to be gained from that tonight… other than momentum and bragging rights. So… I like to think… this is just an opportunity to feel out the opposition… to get my hands on TAL… figure out how he fights… how he reacts… so that when Ascension comes… and the stars are on the line… I’ll be ready for him.

Simon Tillier: Cool. I think.

Kerry Kuroyama: What’s the other question?

Simon Tillier: Okay, this is the tricky one…

He pulls out his notebook of punk rock lyrics and a small pencil.

Simon Tillier: Can you think of a word that rhymes with “oligarchicide”?

The gears turn in Kerry’s head as he does a few more push-ups, breathing regulated and body as rigid as a plank. After a moment, he shakes his head in defeat.

Kerry Kuroyama: Not sure I can think of one, Simon. Is… that even a word?

Simon Tillier: Really? I mean, I figured since you had experience with being trampled under the boots of oppression and all, you’d be a bit more familiar with the concept…

With Ami’s boots still on his back, Kuroyama pauses mid-pushup and gives the junior reporter the ol’ KerBear STARE.

In a flash, he’s off the floor and back on his feet, sending a certain Mischief Maker briefly airborne.

Ami Troy: Whoa!

She drops safely into Kerry’s arms, and he sets her gently back onto terra firma.

His eyes never leave Tillier.

Kerry Kuroyama: I like you, Simon… but don’t push it. Unless you want to get acquainted with my darker side.

The lightbulb goes off in Simon’s head. Again, he pulls out his notebook of lyric ideas.

Simon Tillier: “Oligarchicide… my darker side…” holy shit, that actually works, Kerry! See, I knew you had it in you!

Kerry Kuroyama: …

Simon Tillier: Thanks guys! Keep on treading, Ami… what else we got here?

Off to Kuroyama’s left, RIA Lockhart stretches; her left arm is locked in front of her right arm, which is stretched across her body. She pushes on it for a moment before releasing and bending her left arm behind her head. RIA’s right hand goes to the elbow and pushes down. As Simon approaches, Lockhart releases the stretch.

RIA Lockhart: What’s up Simon?

Simon Tillier: Not much, RIA. Anyhow, word is that there’s a bit of ongoing tension between both opposing teams tonight. You wanna get into that for me?

The Psychoberry rolls her neck before smirking.

RIA Lockhart: Yeah, I’ll talk about it. As far as Tom goes, this really ain’t personal on my end. If this stuff with Kerry wasn’t a thing, I’d actually be pretty excited to test myself against him. We never did have that singles match… Anyway, I started that statement with IF, didn’t I? TAL disrespected Kerry. I know Ker can and will handle that himself, but for tonight, I have his back in the ring. I was never gonna hold back anyway, but I might put a little extra string on any blow thrown Tom’s away.

The smile on Lockhart’s face fades, replaced by a grim seriousness. Hey rainbow irises scan towards Kuroyama for a moment before snapping back to Simon.

RIA Lockhart: As for Nate, I don’t have much left to say. Tonight, he gets a taste, a small sampling. Fury through my fists. This situation with him, this ain’t just about competition. I’m sending a message. How effective it is, how he’ll take it, I can’t say. But if he can pull his head outta his ass long enough, maybe he’ll really understand where I’m coming from. And real talk? I want him to. It’ll be that much more satisfying to shove it right back up there.

Simon Tillier: Hell yeah, heads in asses is pretty tight. Anyway, is there anything you’d care to say about the ongoing stuff between you and Anna Daniels?

RIA’s intense expression darkens further. She locks eyes with Simon. It almost seems like the red takes up more space than any other color occupying space around her pupil.

RIA Lockhart: No.

Simon Tillier: What about…

Behind Simon, we see Scott Hunter, his blue eyes wild, arms flailing, approaching and staring daggers through Simon’s spike-haired skull.

Scott Hunter: EYEBROW TWITCHING MUFFIN PIRATE!!! UNICORN KISSING GRAVY PROPHET!!! CANDY COATED NIPPLE STRANGLER!!!!

Simon stares at Scott, bracing himself from some form of physical impact. Scott gets within a couple of feet of Simon, the tension building, but then he just turns around and walks back into the background and off-screen, still muttering to himself.

RIA Lockhart: (pulling out a small pencil and paper and jotting something down, whispering) Muffin… Pirate…

Simon just stares at her. Finished with her writing, she stuffs the pencil and paper back in a pocket and smiles.

RIA Lockhart: I’m sorry, you were saying?

Simon turns and looks at Kerry, who shrugs.

Kerry Kuroyama: Believe it or not, the doctors say he’s making progress.

Simon Tillier: Well… I suppose that makes one of us.

With a heavy sigh, Simon pulls out his notepad of lyrics and begins jotting something down while heading for the exit.

Simon Tillier: “Gravy… prophet…” hmm.

He stops writing when he notices he’s walked straight into someone’s looming shadow. When he looks up…

Simon Tillier: Oh hey, it’s “The Cricket” Harry Keebs from that DENIAL wrestling company.

The pink-and-blue majesty of “The Kraken” Henry Keyes, bane of pancakes and reigning FIST of DEFIANCE Wrestling, glares down at the junior interviewer with a degree of contempt that suggests he has some reason to really, really hate the whole punk aesthetic.

Henry Keyes: …where is it?

Tillier blinks.

Simon Tillier: Um… where is what?

The Vae Victis Co-Consul seizes Simon by the lapels of his sleeveless, patched-up blazer and shakes the bejesus out of him.

Henry Keyes: WHERE IS BIG BLUE?! I WANT MY BIG BLUE!!!

The Kraken hauls Simon aside and storms off. Recentering himself, Tillier turns his attention back to the camera.

Simon Tillier: Well I think that’s my cue, kids. As always, I think we gained some insightful commentary on the state of the world at large here tonight. Real quick, before I sign off, just wanna plug my band’s show tomorrow at Ace of Cups! Cover is fifteen bucks! Yes, that’s right, I said FIFTEEN AMERICAN DOLLARS! Don’t cheapen out on us; we’ve got a SCENE to support, you conformist maggots! And with that, once again, I’m “Rhymin’ Simon”, and let’s get this show a-boogyin’ on elsewhere!

On command, ReVival goes elsewhere.

EARLIER TODAY

We find ourselves in a large space with all the trappings of a Conference Room (critically, not a Glonference Room, which is an entirely different sort of space that most of these people would not be invited into). Five chairs have been arranged in a semicircle around a facing the camera.

In the center sits today’s interviewer.

Angelica Brooks: Ladies and gentlemen, I am joined at this time by the final four competitors of this year’s Almasy Invitational.

Seated to the far left is the imposing figure of Ivan Stanislav. Stanislav is dressed in a crisp, crimson uniform emblazoned with more medals across his breast than anyone can count. But most notably, he’s wearing a boiling sneer while he crosses his arms over his barrel chest, making his medals clink loudly. Between Ivan and Angelica sits Fred Dick, inexplicity wearing a fuchsia zoot suit with a matching bowler – Grumpus wears a matching, though tiny bowler himself (itself?). To Angelica’s left/the viewers’ right sits the Model Citizen, Chandler Tsonda, dolled up in a black Hermes suit, and next to him, we see FLAMBERGE wearing a too-expensive-for-what-it-is looking black tee with a deep V-neck, teal lizard-scale pants, a thick gold chain, and a PRIME tag team championship around his waist.

Angelica Brooks: Before we get started here, I wanted to take a moment to inform the viewers at home – and to remind each of you – that physical contact has been prohibited for this discussion today. Now, Ivan – you have a tremendous amount of history with your semifinal opponent, Chandler Tsonda. You are both former Universal Champions, you have both looked phenomenal all tournament – and your previous match was an absolutely brutal encounter. Describe your mindset going into tonight’s rematch, and do you have any preference on who you might face in the finals if you’re able to defeat the Model Citizen once again?

Ivan Stanislav: Eh? Tsonda was Universal Champion? Oh yes, long ago, before he became washed up has-been. Chandler is more Red Army whipping dog than even Anglo Luchadore. Every time we meet, I send him to hospital. This will be no different.

Stanislav smirks and uncrosses his arms, resting them heavily on the table in front of him.

Ivan Stanislav: As for who I would like to face when I am victorious? As much as I would enjoy showing young Julien over there how to actually finish matches, I must defer to my fellow Whoresaw Pact member, Fred Dick, naturally.

If FLAMBERGE was physically capable of a reaction, we surely would have seen it – at best, eagle-eyed viewers might have seen a slight lip curl.

Angelica Brooks: Chandler – you’ve heard what the Russian Bear has to say. Your resume matches up extremely well with every PRIME legend, though it’s safe to say that during this tournament, we’ve seen you take things to another level. You might be the prohibitive fan favorite, but it won’t be the fans wrestling Ivan Stanislav. From your perspective, what’s going to be different this time around against Ivan?

Chandler Tsonda: Just one clarification, Brooks, if I may.

The interviewer assents with a nod.

Chandler Tsonda: I did not, under any circumstances, “hear what the Russian Bear has to say” because while I’m aware that eight-foot pile of bricked shit was making noise and probably words, I was imagining his deeply satisfying death the entire time.

The Model Citizen clears his throat, like he was just singing scales. Angelica Brooks stares straight ahead; she’s heard it all, even well-dressed dudes casually murder-fantasizing each other.

Chandler Tsonda: You asked what’s going to be different. I hurt him, wounded him, in WARCHAMBER. It’s not enough. He has to lose something. And not just a tooth. So I’m gonna take his tournament from him. What’s the thing they say, it’s hard to beat the same team three times in a season? When I put Russian Shrek down for uno, dos, tres, it’s gonna be plain as day that he’s winning battles, and I’m winning the war.

Angelica Brooks: I’d like to direct this next question to FLAMBERGE. FLAMBO – we all remember your electric 2023, where you ran the table and ended the year as Universal Champion. You’re now a Hall of Famer, you’re a current Tag Team Champion, and you’re one victory away from adding “Almasy Finalist” to your list of accolades. Would you say you’ve already peaked? Where does the Neck Collector go from here?

The Frenchman has been pretty even-keeled throughout this interview, perhaps practicing his trademark “don’t physically do anything unless you absolutely have to” fight-or-flight response mechanism that would otherwise take the form of planking, or rolling on the ground to cross great distances (in sharp contrast to his other response, which tends to be yelling, or fighting, or both.) He grasps the armrests of his seat and sits up a bit straighter.

FLAMBERGE: The fact that you are talking of the “peak” tells me that you have no idea what is happening, mademoiselle, but this is fine. Not everything is for the understanding of the helpers.

Angelica seems a little annoyed at this, but she remains professional.

FLAMBERGE: Let us go through the things, shall we? Record-breaking undefeated streak. Fastest Triple Crown. Fastest Grand Slam. Hall of Famer at 24. Secured the WARGAMES victory. And I have collected the necks of the you, the you, and ESPECIALLY the you –

He points in order to Chandler, Fred, and Ivan.

FLAMBERGE: – so, consider that if you believe “Almasy Finalist” is somehow this final little “prize” for me, you are perhaps the mistaken. You called the achievements of the Tsonda as the equal of those that came before – understand, cherie, that before I become the old crusty fuck like the gray little bear over there, NO ONE will be able to say they are my equal.

Angelica Brooks: Finally, Fred Dick. Fred – going into this tournament, many pundits labeled you as an underdog, yet again and again you’ve found ways to overcome these perceived “odds”, surviving, and picking up wins. The last time you wrestled FLAMBERGE, you picked up the victory as well, though it was via disqualification – and I can see that…well, uh. I don’t know how to ask this, so I’ll just say it – what’s going on with your neck? And do you have a strategy in mind for facing either Ivan or Chandler in the finals?

Fred Dick sneers. He pulls out a Sharpie, draws a sneer on Grumpus. Then he inhales the Sharpie — hard. The Russian Bear seems to have finally realized just what is growing out of Dick’s neck. He produces a pair of his glasses and puts them on and staaaares in confusion.

Fred Dick: My neck? Hmph. Witchcraft I reckon. Made a deal with a pasta seductress. Nearly died from blood loss, so I hear. Don’t really know, don’t really CARE to know. Bottom line is I DO KNOW FLAMBERGE wants my sexy ace neck, wants it real bad, yearns for it, glances at it out the corner of his eye and licks his lips… maybe he even asks my neck out for coffee, and my neck’s like, “Sure, he’s handsome or whatever,” so they go out and have themselves like a really nice first date, right? And FLAMBERGE is drivin’ my neck home, circlin’ over and over again in his mind that age old question: Ought he go for the kiss, or play it cool and classy? But then my neck whispers in his ear, ‘Just so you know, I don’t kiss on the first date – but I do butt stuff on the second date.’ And FLAMBERGE is all, ‘Oh hell yeah, neck bussy.’

FLAMBERGE slowly turns towards Fred, raises an eyebrow, and puckers his lips in a vague “smooch” towards Thick Neck.

Fred fans his Grumpus like he’s at an Elvis concert. The Whoresaw side of the table groans as Stanislav’s huge paw presses into the top of it. He rips his glasses from his head and points them at both FLAMBERGE and Tsonda and growls in a Russian diatribe.

Ivan Stanislav: Poslushay, Anzhelika. Ya ne sobirayus’ sidet’ zdes’ i slushat’, kak etot malen’kiy sukin syn frantsuz govorit mne takiye veshchi. Ty, krysonysh. A chto do tebya, Chendler…

He growls and grits his teeth, switching to English. Chandler Tsonda doesn’t need to consult Duolingo to know what his response to the Russian will be, and he gets right to it: double middle fingers, leaning casually back in his chair, as Ivan continues.

Ivan Stanislav: Listen, Angelica. I did not come here to listen to this little, French male-bitch spout off, along with some waste like Chandler Tsonda! Both of you are nothing more than elitist capitalist pigs, and I will spit both of you!

Fred Dick: See whut y’all did? Y’all got him riled up. This gon’ turn into a whole thang now.

Chandler Tsonda: (turns towards FLAMBERGE, pointing at Fred Dick) Sorry, just catching up here. You let this…lead paint-damaged child beat you? Do tell.

FLAMBERGE: (turns towards Tsonda) Alors, I crushed the windpipe, then the referee tells me the ropes are the “out of bounds” and so I “lose”. It is fine – the sad thing to me is the way the dying old coot over there cannot let go of his failure at COLOSSUS in the 2023. I remember at the time, he was so furious, he had the referee “disappeared!”

Fred’s face has turned from a pale white to a beet red. He swiftly stands from his chair and points an accusing finger at Tsonda, who is still sporting a smile from the memory of Ivan’s misery at the hands of FLAMBERGE.

Fred Dick: SEE WHUT Y’ALL DID? Y’ALL GOT ME RILED UP. THIS GON’ TURN INTO A WHOLE THANG NOW.

Fred covers his accusing finger pointed at Tsonda with his other hand. When he uncovers it, it’s a middle finger.

Fred Dick: Fug you, pussy.

He then points the middle finger at FLAMBERGE.

Fred Dick: To think my neck was gonna let you do butt stuff on the second date. Low standards. It’s insecure. Fug you too, pussy.

Then he points that middle finger at Angelica Brooks.

Fred Dick: And fug you most of all, you fuggin’ dickhead.

Angelica is uncharacteristically flabbergasted.

Angelica Brooks: What did I do??

Grumpus: (Fred talking out the corner of his mouth in a prohibition gangster’s accent) What didn’t you do, see? You brought us in for an interrogation, but you’re askin’ the wrong questions. Threw ‘em on Fred like a mink coat, but he didn’t like the fit, see. So now he thinks you’re a total fuggin’ dickhead, see. And you’ve made an enemy for life – I’d recommend changing your address, sister.

The Bearded Dragon snorts at this and turns his attention to the Street Cat.

FLAMBERGE: Alors – Fred, et le Graumpoose…listen. You, obviously, are the great wrestler, and it occurs to me just now – maybe I squeeze the neck at the wrong time again. Maybe I pop that little jolf ball sticking out of you, and the referee says non non, this too is disqualifying – are you ready, in that case, for the man who fucks this entire tournament up for you, to be Ivan Stanislav? The Butt Buddy?

Stanislav grunts and clasps a huge hand on Fred’s meaty shoulder, digging his paw into the flesh… firmly. In the background, Tsonda smirks, reluctantly appreciating the grenade the Frenchmen has lobbed towards the one true alliance in the room.

Ivan Stanislav: Comrade Dick knows best outcome is Dick versus Stanislav. Not because I would screw up his tournament. But rather he fulfill responsibility to Whoresaw Pact. Like Warsaw Pact of history, I am R.S.F.S.R.: Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic. And all members of Whoresaw Pact are answerable to me. As leader of Whoresaw Pact, we ALL win if Ivan Stanislav wins and he will fulfill his sacred duty!

Fred looks at Tsonda and FLAMBERGE, lowkey shakes his head, makes a face like, “not hatnin’ lol.”

Chandler Tsonda: You know, Fred, if Ivan was really the homie, wouldn’t he offer to lay down for you? Don’t you and your…little neck-man? Neck-item? deserve more than being…and I hate to say this, because it’s my understanding that your name really rings out in these streets…being Ivan’s little bitch?

FLAMBO legitimately cracks at this, and for once, looks like a human being. Fred knows that Chandler is attempting some light brainwarshin’, but quickly forgets when Chandler says that Fred’s name rings out in these streets.

Fred Dick: Is my name really rangin’ out in these streets? Like, they say I stack a lot of paper, and like, get hoes? And like, I’m totes a G? Like an O.G.?

Ivan growls and barks at Fred.

Ivan Stanislav: Focus, comrade Dick! They are trying to poison your mind!

Fred growls and barks too at Ivan.

Fred Dick: AROO ROO ROO! ROO!!! ROO!!!

FLAMBERGE: They do, Fred. They dooooooo…or. They did.

It’s quiet, for a moment. Almost uncomfortably quiet. Ivan then points a huge finger at Angelica.

Ivan Stanislav: This IS your fault! You dick-fuck!

Angelica is, once again, incredulous.

Angelica Brooks: What did I do this time??

Fred Dick: Wrap this shiddup, dickhead. We all ready to get tha fug outta here.

Angelica rolls her eyes and turns towards the camera.

Angelica Brooks: Couldn’t have said it better myself.

The video ends as the four semifinalists continue to bicker and throw pot shots at one another (and our intrepid interviewer.) We cut away.

The hallways are suspiciously quiet as a lone camera creeps forward to the sound of muffled voices in a heated discussion.

We turn the corner of some generic, gray slab of concrete to find a woman in a torn, wet, and dirty gown that used to be white. She is leaning against a pallet of crates as she stands – no, slouches – across from a tall, skinny man with long brown hair streaked with white… and, even the shadows of the corridor, we can see ichor black seeping down his cheeks.

Sonja Cuchilla and Blaze Claymore. Reunited after months apart… but somehow, the hundreds of miles between Minneapolis to Columbus pales in comparison to the gulf filling the four feet between them in the hallway of Nationwide Arena.

Blaze Claymore: Sonja, I-

Sonja Cuchilla: Don’t.

He doesn’t.

Sonja looks up, her tears and streaky mascara a pale comparison to the blackness now imprinted on Blaze’s visage. As her vision clears, she notices the way he’s swaying slightly, the way his pupils seem dilated despite the harsh fluorescent lighting.

Sonja Cuchilla: Jesus. Look at you…

Blaze looks up expectedly, while Sonja just stares straight ahead, her voice sharp.

Sonja Cuchilla: What was that back there? Are you high? Or drunk again? What-

It happens in a flash. Sonja’s eyes lock with the camera lens. She knows she’s being watched… Blaze, on the other hand, continues to stare into the distance. At Sonja. Beyond Sonja.

Sonja Cuchilla: I mean… oh God. What did he give you? Where have you been all this time… honey?

Blaze’s eyes, framed by the blackness drawn out from Max Kael’s book, look hauntingly white.

Blaze Claymore: I can explain—

Sonja raises her eyebrows, waiting for Blaze to continue, but he can’t. Not for a lack of trying, but as he opens his mouth, there are no words – no sounds – that can articulate what he’s seen. What he’s heard. What he’s felt.

Watching the camera out of the corner of her eye, Sonja steps forward and places her hands on Blaze’s shoulders… cautiously, carefully.

Sonja Cuchilla: The important thing is that you are here now, after all these months. And you can get some help. You know… process… everything.

Blaze’s eyes go wide as he mouths the words “months” back to Sonja, clearly unable to process even that much.

Blaze Claymore: I’m sorry I made you worry…

Sonja throws an arm up toward her forehead, throwing her hair back dramatically as she pivots and turns her back toward Blaze, seeming to buckle slightly at the knees.

Sonja Cuchilla: I spent all that time thinking you were just… GONE. I called hospitals, police stations, morgues looking for you. And then I had to face Lindsay Troy, everyone in the back, the media— asking where you were, and I didn’t know how to answer them because I had to protect you. I couldn’t tell them the truth.

Blaze blinks.

Blaze Claymore (confused): The… truth? Which truth?

Sonja turns, her eyes glimmering with fresh tears, raising a hand to Blaze’s cheek but careful not to get too close to his new markings.

Sonja Cuchilla (softly): Honey…  that you chose to leave. When things got hard, when you lost to TAL. And then to Ivan… you couldn’t handle it. I mean, we’ve all seen it before. Your bipolar personalities. Your alcoholism. Your inability to sometimes tell truth from fiction. It’s OK, though, Nathan. Max brought you back to us and now you can start to heal.

Blaze’s expression drops. The use of his real name is delivered like a caress, but it cuts him deeper than any slap could have. If Max Kael stripped him of his dignity, those words just stripped him of his soul.

Blaze Claymore: But… he… I was… IT was…

Sonja Cuchilla: Yes, yes, like I said. IT’s OK. I get IT. But, honey… you need time to heal. Time to finally get better. Besides… the fans… they’ve moved on. The company… it’s moved on. D and Elise have-

Blaze reaches out and grabs Sonja, pulling her close. She resists at first, but then lets herself be drawn in and lightly pats Blaze’s back in a soothing gesture.

Blaze Claymore: I don’t care about any of that. Tonight, when I saw what he was doing to you— when I saw the flames, when I heard the screaming, when the void opened up—I had to act.

Sonja pushes herself away from Blaze.

Sonja Cuchilla (cautious but also intrigued**)**: Tonight you made a beautiful gesture to protect the woman you love and because I love you too, so, so much… you can’t run away again. Chasing these wild fantasies about flames and a void … it’s not real.

Blaze looks back at Sonja.

Blaze Claymore (confused): But… the book. IT was trying to get you to read the book!

Sonja recoils slightly, shivering, but steels herself and flashes another perfect smile, tilting her head up at Blaze like a patient parent trying to reassure a scared child.

Blaze Claymore: I never meant— never meant to let them in, never meant to open the door, never meant to become this. Or put you in danger like that! You have to believe me!

Sonja Cuchilla:: Oh Nathan… you never mean to hurt the people who care about you, but you do. It’s your superpower….

Sonja pauses.

Sonja Cuchilla: …and your Kryptonite.

Sonja pulls away from Blaze, stepping backward toward the other side of the hallway.

Sonja Cuchilla: Max Kael is a huckster. A Charlatan. Worse than that, he’s a damned politician… and someone like you should know what kind of special effects and foley work his kind of money can buy you. But no, because you love your fantasy worlds so much he used me as bait – and humiliated me; us in front of everyone. And you let it happen.

Blaze leans in, as if he’s trying to understand what Sonja is saying, but can’t hear. It’s just static. This has to be another one of IT’s lies.

Blaze Claymore: Wait. What are you saying?

Sonja ignores Blaze’s frantic gestures and instead turns to mug for the camera.

Sonja Cuchilla: Nathan. You spent the last few months chasing some … fantasy because you couldn’t handle the real world around you; now someone finally has yelled “CUT” and sent the crew home for the day but even with all the lights turned off you still can’t leave it behind.

Blaze lowers his head.

Sonja Cuchilla: I just think the best thing would be for you to give yourself time to recover. And … for us. We’ll need some privacy to work through all of this – together; as a team. Away from the cameras and prying eyes.

Blaze looks up at Sonja, but her eyes aren’t on him. They are on the audience. Her audience. As she begins to walk away from Blaze, approaching the screen.

Blaze Claymore: Sonja, wait. Please. Please don’t leave me alone with them.

Sonja smiles. A crooked grin that is just out of Blaze’s view.

Sonja Cuchilla: You want to know the most painful part ? For about five seconds tonight, when I saw you beat the shit out of Max Kael – fight for me – I thought maybe… maybe this was your moment. OUR moment. Our chance to be in the spotlight – together.

Blaze reaches out toward Sonja.

Blaze Claymore: It could be—

Sonja stops, but doesn’t look back.

Sonja Cuchilla: No. It can’t.

As she reaches the camera, now fully in frame, Sonja wipes at her eyes and flashes a smile.

Sonja Cuchilla: Hi everyone… I hope that you can all respect our privacy during this incredibly difficult time. As you all saw earlier this evening we were VICIOUSLY assaulted by Mayoral Candidate Maximillian Wilhelm Kael in a clear attack on our First Amendment freedoms! But we survived, thanks to the Pop Culture Phenoms!

Sonja gestures over her shoulder but doesn’t look back.

Sonja Cuchilla: As you can all see Blaze is… healing. And I’ll always support him in that journey, no matter where it takes us.

She then claps her hands together with a burst of energy.

Sonja Cuchilla: But in the meantime…. I hope you’ll continue to support me and the Pop Culture Phenoms as we prepare to start filming on Lake Placid IV: Part VII! Be sure to follow me @realsonjacuchilla on all the socials and subscribe to my Patreon for all the behind the scenes PRIME and Hollywood goss you can handle! Now let’s go check on our bestie Elise THE BEAST as she gets ready to take down Max “The Fail” Kael. See you Soon-ya!

Sonja blows a kiss before exiting the frame with a wink, leaving the camera to adjust its focus and lock on the singular silhouette of Blaze Claymore, head bowed, as he turns to walk the other way, vanishing into the shadows and the warmth of a familiar coldness.

ReVival moves on.

All I wanna do is…
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

The iconic gunshots herald a symphony of vice colored lasers and lights as “Emperor’s New Clothes” by Panic! At The Disco plays across Nationwide Arena, and PRIME, for the first time.

Nick Stuart: Here she comes… the so-called “Queen of Sports Entertainment Style”.

A smattering of jeers from those in the know turn into boos from the PRIMEates as Elise Ares swaggers out into the arena, dressed in her typical ring gear. Tight, black, glossy boyshorts accented with vice colored hot pink and sky blue accents. Her top a matching criss-cross sports bra style top under a glossy black crop top leather jacket. Gorgeous almond eyes rest beneath trademark LED sunglasses that flash “BOW” and “DOWN” as she pauses at the start of the ramp and raises the FIST of DEFIANCE, aka BIG BLU, above her head.

Richard Parker: Get that disgusting thing off our program!

Nick Stuart: I believe “The Kraken” Henry Keyes had that belt commissioned. I don’t think he’d take kindly to you calling it “disgusting”.

Richard Parker: It’s beautiful! A work of art! It belongs in a museum! Someone, get a close-up of that thang!

As she does, Klein, The D, and Sonja Cuchilla all march up from behind her. She grabs the attention of the nearest cameraman, pulls down her glasses, winks, and starts her swag down towards the ring.

Vince Howard: Introducing from Beverly Hills, California! Weighing in at 126 pounds and representing the Pop Culture Phenoms. She is the Leading Lady of PRIME. She is EEEELIIIIIIIIIIIISE ARRRRRRRRRES!

Walking across the apron, Elise straddles the ropes and enters the ring as seductively as someone possibly can with the FIST of DEFIANCE clutched against her chest. She marches across the far side ropes and climbs them, taking off her LED sunglasses and points towards the crowd.

Richard Parker: OOH! OOH! ME! ME! Look at ME, Elise! Forget those mouth-breathers!

Several PRIMEates push and shove to line themselves up for the launch as Elise instead drops them to a waiting Sonja Cuchilla down below who waves them in the air in excitement. Elise hands the FIST over to Klein and The D who are now on the ring apron.

Nick Stuart: The Pop Culture Phenoms have created quite a stir since their arrival in PRIME, but tonight marks Elise Ares’ first foray in singles competition. Ares, a tenured DEFIANCE competitor, may come off as someone who’s all about the show, but she has proven to be quite formidable in the ring!

Richard Parker: But mostly, it’s all about the show.

Nick Stuart: Well… yeah!

The team share a few words before Ares drops her jacket down to the canvas, pushes it to the apron with her foot, and leans impatiently on the ropes. Cool and confident. Ready to go.

Richard Parker: Take it away, Snark!

Snark Darkly walks out onto the stage moving in a strange, slightly offputting way. Hard to say what it is about his movement that seems so disturbing it’s something. The crowd in the Nationwide Arena begin to reign down boos. Lifting a microphone to his lips, Snark smiles broadly, the corners of his mouth stretching just beyond where human lips limits should be.

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

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

“You should see me in a CROWN!”

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

“I’m gonna run this nothing town,

Watch me make’em bow

One by One by… ONE

One by one by…”

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

Nick Stuart: As unsettling and wicked as ever, the Black Heart of PRIME is making his way to the ring.

Richard Parker: Show some respect, Nick! This man is going to be MAYOR of GOTHAM!

Nick Stuart: Arkham.

Richard Parker: Whatever — VOTE KAEL!

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

“You should see me in a CROWN!

Your silence is my favorite sound

Watch me make’em bow

One by one by ONE

One by one by oooone!”

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

Nick Stuart: Official Elvis Nixon is making his final checks, but you can already feel a tension beginning to rise in that ring.

Waiting in his corner, Max stares down Elise with a sadistic grin. Unphased, Ares glares back at him with a style-istic grin of her own. When all is set and ready to go, Elvis cues for the bell.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: And this one’s underway!

Kael and Ares start with a slow, wide circle, walking the perimeter of the ring while staring daggers back and forth. The wait is prolonged, building the crowd up to a fever pitch while both competitors watch and wait for the other to make the first move.

Then in a flash, they tear across the ring after each other…

Richard Parker: Here they go!

Max goes for a tie-up, only for Ares to duck around him. He turns just as a sharp kick connects with his mid-section. Doubled over, a second kick comes for his face, but he quickly catches it, and pulls it to reel Ares toward him.

Nick Stuart: Max blocks the leg, and now counters with a LARIAT–

Instead of going down, Ares bends back with the grace of a limbo champion to avoid the move, and deftly cartwheels back to her feet. When Max recovers, he turns straight into a standing dropkick that knocks him back into the turnbuckles.

Nick Stuart: WHATAMANEUVER by Elise Ares!

Richard Parker: Playing keep away instead of fighting him toe to toe!? Is this how they do it in DEFIANCE?!

Nick Stuart: I couldn’t tell you, but Ares is showing she has speed and agility on her side against a much stronger opponent in Max Kael!

Ares presses her advantage, leaping into the momentarily stunned Kael with a double-knee press to his ribs before rolling back into a Monkey Flip that launches him over onto his back! With a quick kip up to her feet, the Leading Lady of PRIME quickly runs and vaults off the ropes.

Nick Stuart: SPRINGBOARD MOONSAULT by Ares, right across the chest of Kael! Now she hooks the legs for the cover!

One!

Two!

And Max kicks out!

Richard Parker: Vote Kael!

Max pushes Ares off and rolls himself to his knees. Elise pops back up and runs off the ropes for a head full of steam. She returns and goes into the air once more with an inside corkscrew basement dropkick, aimed right for the temple of Max–

Nick Stuart: KAEL ROLLS ASIDE!! Just narrowly avoiding that dropkick by Ares!

The Leading Lady hits the mat, but quickly pushes herself back to her feet. Max is waiting with a back elbow that leaves her reeling. While she’s stunned, Kael promptly spins her around and lifts from behind.

Nick Stuart: Kael LIFTS… and a BLUE THUNDER BOMB puts Ares right down on her upper back!

Richard Parker: Vote Kael!

Nick Stuart: Max hooks the leg for the cover now!

One!

Two!

LEGSCISSOR by Ares across the nose of Max Kael, and that breaks the pin!

Richard Parker: It should’ve been me…

Max quickly wrangles Ares back up by the head. Before the Queen of Sports Entertainment style can break free, Arkham’s mayoral candidate sends her head careening into the top turnbuckle. She drops to her hands and knees while Max boosts himself up to the corner’s second rope and dives off.

Nick Stuart: ARKHAM HELLBOW to the back of Ares’ head!

Richard Parker: Vote Kael!

Nick Stuart: Max is keeping up the pressure now that he has control of this match! He hooks the leg for another cover!

One!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Kael punishes her for the successful kickout by seizing Elise by the head and slamming into the canvas several times. Nixon has no choice but to pull him off, citing that he’s grabbing the hair. Kael “innocently” throws his hands up, complying with the official’s command with a sinister smirk.

Then he moves to pull Ares back up once more. Outside the ring, The D and Sonja cry foul to the official while Klein clutches at his boxed head in distress.

Nick Stuart: Maximillian Wilhelm Kael has been especially aggressive with his control of the match, implicitly targeting the head of the Leading Lady.

Richard Parker: It’s because she’s got the reek of Jack Harmen!

Nick Stuart: Jack Harmen? Wait, you mean High Flyer??

Richard Parker: If she’s part of the Harmen crew, then Max KNOWS he has to put this one away quickly!

Kael whips Ares into the ropes. He catches her on the return for what he hopes to be a spinning side slam, but doesn’t expect Elise to wrap herself around his back and trap his free arm with a legscissor.

Nick Stuart: Hold on, Ares with a CRUCIFIX REVERSAL, and puts Kael’s shoulders to the mat!

One!

Two!

MAX kicks out!

Richard Parker: Vote Kael!

Nick Stuart: Ares is hanging in this fight as both competitors scramble to their feet… Max shoots in, but gets a MULE KICK for his efforts!

Kael clutches his jaw and reels. Elise pivots on her free leg and catches him with another kick to the gut to double him over. With a light bounce off the ropes, the Leading Lady forward flips over the Black Heart of PRIME’s back into a picture perfect sunset flip piledriver!

Nick Stuart: RODEO DESTROYER by Elise Ares!

Richard Parker: It should’ve been me!

Nick Stuart: Ares cradling the legs into a prawn hold! Shoulders are down!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Richard Parker: VOTE KAEL!

Kael rolls over onto his belly, still looking dazed after being taken for the ride. Ares pops back to her feet and takes yet another bounce off the ropes…

Nick Stuart: I think Elise Ares is going for the EXTREME MAKEOVER–

…but KAEL slides out of the ring before the stomp can connect!

Richard Parker: That was a close one! A man as HANDSOME as Maximillian Wilhelm Kael doesn’t need a “makeover” anyway.

Nick Stuart: I’m not so sure about that. Is… he wearing make-up?

The camera gets a good shot of Kael’s face as he finds Snark Darkly at ringside for an emergency council meeting. True to Nick’s observation, the make-up applied to Max’s face appears to be running, revealing black tear stains underneath.

Nick Stuart: Are those… tears??

Richard Parker: The man is clearly emotional, Nick! You’d be too if you were getting shown up by a woman half your weight!

Nick Stuart: Speaking of Elise Ares… she’s stepping out onto the apron! She’s not about to give Max a break in this!

Spotting Ares charging along the apron, Max shoves Snark aside and BARELY gets his arms up in time to block her diving Meteora!

Nick Stuart: Kaels BLOCKS Ares!

Richard Parker: Vote Kael!

Nick Stuart: Max readjusts her onto his shoulders for a POWERBOMB — and she REVERSES IT into a HURRICANRANA!!

Richard Parker: It SHOULD’VE BEEN ME!

Nick Stuart: KAEL ROLLS THROUGH ONTO HIS FEET! And he turns around and BLASTS the unsuspecting Elise Ares with an Arkham Hellbow!

Richard Parker: VOTE KAEL!

The D, Sonja, and Klein watch with concern from the near corner as Kael peels Ares up off the ringside floor and rolls her back into the ring before Nixon reaches the count of seven.

Nick Stuart: That was an impressive exchange out in the ringside area, but now the action returns to the ring as Kael slides back in… and immediately goes the cover!

ONE!

TWO!

SHOULDER UP! Not enough to put away the Leading Lady of PRIME!

Kael shakes his head in frustration, knowing that the longer this match wears on, the more opportunities Ares has to suddenly turn the tables. Ares crawls for the ropes, but doesn’t get far, as Max takes her into a waistlock, effortlessly pulls her to her feet, and lifts her up for a backdrop driver–

Nick Stuart: SUPLEX THWARTED as Ares LANDS ON HER FEET! And a KICK to the back of Kael’s leg puts him to a knee!

Ares bounces off the near ropes and comes back for Kael’s head.

Nick Stuart: Elise with a JUMPING BULLDOG — NO!! Kael throws her right off!

Richard Parker: Ares has moxy, but Kael has CUNNING!

Nick Stuart: Ares back up… AND MAX KAEL LARIATS HER RIGHT OUT OF HER KNEE-HIGH BOOTS!!

Figuratively speaking, of course. Nevertheless, the Leading Lady of PRIME twists through the air as though she’d just been struck by a Mack truck and lands in a heap.

Grinning ear to ear, Kael stalks her from behind. Elise shakes out the cobwebs as she slowly pushes her way back up, unaware of the serpent coiled in her blindspot.

Nick Stuart: Kael has her right where he wants her now!

Before she can get to a knee, Kael springs into action… trouncing across her back and quickly setting her arms across his knees. Then out comes the THUMB…

Nick Stuart: GOING FOR THE MADAME GUILLOTINE TO END IT!!

Richard Parker: An execution fit for the Queen of Sports Entertainment Style!

Elise Ares suddenly snaps to life the minute she sees the thumb coming toward her neck.

Elise Ares: Ew, no, seriously, keep that thing away from me, I have no idea where that thumb has been!

With her arms preoccupied, Ares uses all that’s still available to her.

Nick Stuart: ELISE ARES BITES DOWN ON THE HAND OF MAX KAEL!!

Richard Parker: HEY!! NO!! SHE CAN’T DO THAT!! Also, IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME!!

Nick Stuart: I don’t know if the official saw it, Richard!

Kael immediately rears up, clutching his hand by the wrist and roaring in pain. The black tear stains running down his face, now clearly visible, seem almost appropriate for his facial appearance.

Elvis Nixon, true to his namesake, stands there with that confused “uh-huh?” expression. He can’t tell if something has happened, or if Max is just doing one of his sneaky Max things again.

While all this is happening, Elise Ares slips out the back door.

Nick Stuart: Hang on, Ares back on her feet… SHE HITS THE ROPES…

The Leading Lady springs off the middle rope with the finesse of a wildcat, twisting through the air and blasting Max across the side of the face with a superman punch that sends him spinning round and falling flat on his back!

Nick Stuart: SHE CALLS THAT THE AMETHYSTATION, and it just put MAX KAEL OUT like a LIGHT!

Richard Parker: I can’t pronounce that word! She shouldn’t be naming moves that I can’t pronounce!

Nick Stuart: SHE DROPS ACROSS MAX’S CHEST FOR A COVER!! IS THIS HAPPENING?!

ONE!!

TWO!!

“BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIG… BLLLLLUUUUUUUUEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!”

Nixon’s hand pauses before coming down for the three. Kael rolls free as Ames looks up the rampway in confusion.

Nick Stuart: What the… who is…?

A commotion picks up in the crowd. Heads turn toward the stage. The camera sweeps over to the aisleway to see who is approaching the ring.

One extremely pissed off Airship Pirate.

Henry Keyes: GIIIIIIIIVE MEEEEEEEE THEEEE BIIIIIIIIIIG BLLLLLLLLLUUUUUUUUUUUUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!

Richard Parker: WHAT’S “THE CRACKER” HARVEY KREWES DOING IN THE PRIME-PACT ZONE?!

The other members of PCP immediately look anxious. Everyone looks to The D, cradling the large blue FIST of DEFIANCE championship belt against his chest.

Nick Stuart: It’s no secret what Henry Keyes has come for… and judging by the look on his face, I’d hate to be one of the Pop Culture Phenoms right now!

In the ring, Ares is livid. Both because of the match-disrupting distractions happening at ringside, but also because Keyes has the audacity to try and take back something she rightfully stole!

Nick Stuart: Ares is trying to get official Elvis Nixon to order Keyes away from ringside, but it appears his hands are tied here!

Richard Parker: He’s pulling the old “DEF talents are out of my jurisdiction” card, but clearly, Elvis ain’t looking to get his bell rung!

Keyes reaches ringside and stomps his way over to the Phenoms harboring the Big Blue FIST, finger pointing accusingly and eyes filled with murderous fury. The D, Klein, and Sonja stand there like deer in headlines.

Henry Keyes: IT’S CALLED BIG BLUE!! WITH AN E!! “BLU” IS THE NAME OF A VAPE, YOU IDIOTS!!

With only precious few seconds to fumble amongst themselves and formulate a plan, The D hands the FIST over to Klein and tells him to book it. The Man in the Box hops the barricade and disappears into the crowd.

The D valiantly stays behind and stands in “The Kraken’s” path to buy time for his esc–

Nick Stuart: EUROPEAN UPPERCUT FROM THE KRAKEN!

Richard Parker: Yeah, the ol’ Gandalf “You Shall Not Pass” bit didn’t quite play out the way he imagined!

The D ragdolls aside and crashes into the barricade. Cuchilla throws up her hands and backs off, wanting none of what the FIST of DEFIANCE is offering. In a flash, Keyes is over the barricade and chasing after Klein.

During the confusion, two dapper dress gentlemen enter the ringside area through the crowd over on the other side of the ring.

Nick Stuart: Hey wait… two men just HOPPED THE BARRICADE!!

Richard Parker: It’s HUGO GREEN and DANIEL VALE!

Nick Stuart: No, you fool, it’s Hugo Vale and Daniel Green!

Richard Parker: Whatever — THE VALE GREEN GANG are here!

While all eyes in the ring are watching the commotion outside, GVG slip into the ring undetected. Hugo promptly grabs Ares from behind.

Nick Stuart: THE ASSINATION OF JULIUS CAESAR!!

Richard Parker: E TU, BRUTALITUS?!

Ares groans in pain across Vale’s knees. Then Huge pushes her off using his legs, right to where Daniel is waiting with a deadly hook to the body.

Nick Stuart: DEEP CUT!!

Richard Parker: Like FLOYD’S ATOM HEART MOTHER!

Ares stands frozen, her body locking in place after intense trauma delivered straight to her liver. While she stands exposed, a recovered Max Kael sees his chance and runs off the ropes, tagging her with a spinning back elbow!

Nick Stuart: REALITY BENDING ELBOW!! Ares goes DOWN!! He caught her right in the back of the head!

Elise drops to the mat. Kael rolls her onto his back while shooing off the Greens, who leave the ring and escape back over the barricade. Completely oblivious to their roll in the match, Elvis Nixon turns away from the commotion on the other side of the ring in time to see Max hooking the leg for the cover.

Nick Stuart: Max with the cover, and Nixon moves in to count…

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!!!

Richard Parker: VOTE KAEL!!

DING DING DING

Kael rolls off of Ares, boosts himself to his feet, and beams his wicked smile while Nixon raises his arm in triumph. The D, clutching his head, and Sonja slide into the ring to assist the Leading Lady.

Vince Howard: The winner of the match, by pinfall… MAXIMILLIAN… WILHELM… KAAAAAEEEEEELLL!!

Nick Stuart: That’s a win for the Black Heart of PRIME tonight… although it should be pointed out, he had quite a bit of help.

Richard Parker: Great leaders know how to accept great help, Nick! Cooperation is the key to success! Seriously, do you even follow Max on Jabber?

Nick Stuart: I have that trash fire on mute for a reason, partner. A noble effort tonight on behalf of the Queen of Sports Entertainment Style. Elise Ares has proven tonight she can hold her mettle in the PRIME ring. Hopefully she can resolve her ongoing issues with the FIST of DEFIANCE before her next singles outing.

Richard Parker: I guess when you’re a queen, Nick, drama is bound to follow you anywhere. Max saw it, and immediately took advantage of it. Which is why for all the self-anointed royalty roaming around PRIME lately, only HE wears a crown! Remember, folks… VOTE KAEL!!

Nick Stuart: More action to come, ladies and gentlemen! Stay with us!

ReVival moves on.

The cameras follow Alexei Ruslan as he marches down the concrete corridor, a swagger in his step and a suspiciously oversized grin on his face. In his right hand he grips a massive black briefcase, the kind of bulging container that could carry stacks of cash, gold bullion, or the nuclear codes.

Every so often, a passing crew member peers curiously. Alexei answers each stare with a conspiratorial wink, stroking his mustache as if to say: yes, it’s exactly what you think.

Finally, he arrives at a familiar landmark: the looming Steel Door o’Doom, PRIME’s most notorious barrier. It sits at the end of the hall like the final boss of a video game, thick and unyielding.

Ruslan studies the door. It’s the same freaking door at every event. He notes a dent here, a scratch there, a buckle over there. All signs of previous times when Ivan Stanislav battered, bludgeoned, or barreled his way into the stubborn, steel door.

He hates that Stalin himself would be proud of its resilience.

Alexei adjusts his overcoat, sets the briefcase down with an audible THUNK, and adjusts his hat. He leans forward, ear nearly pressed against the door, and grins like a schoolboy about to spring a prank.

Alexei Ruslan: Ahhh, the office of our glorious “Queen”… time to show her what true generosity looks like.

He raps his knuckles on the steel, the sound echoing down the hall like hammer blows in a factory.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

With a satisfied smirk, Alexei places both hands on the handle of the briefcase and waits patiently, rocking on his heels, humming the Soviet anthem under his breath. His mustache twitches with every note, his eyes alight with the anticipation of revealing whatever surprise lies within. After a moment, the Steel Door O’Doom opens and the Boss appears, looking just as annoyed as she was when her Precious Perfect Best Boy Uni Champ and the “Very Muscular” Dipshit Coked-Out Rhinestone Cowboy were in her office with their continuing tubcuzzi argument.

Lindsay glares at Ruslan, glances down at the briefcase, and walks back inside. A waved hand over her shoulder bids him entrance.

Ruslan wastes no time slipping inside, his black briefcase swinging at his side like a pendulum. The office is noisy, with large fans drying out the soaked carpet and Carpet Cleaner Plague Doctor wordlessly operating an industrial wet-dry vac. Alexei ignores the commotion and spreads his arms wide as if greeting royalty, his grin practiced and insincere.

Alexei Ruslan: (loudly) Lady Troy! What a vision you are tonight! Your hair, magnificent, as though it were styled by angels themselves. Truly, the Queen of PRIME.

He steps deeper into the office, rocking back on his heels with smug satisfaction.

Alexei Ruslan: (loudly) And what an exciting evening it will be. The Almasy Tournament marches onward, and I can already hear the death knell for Chandler Tsonda. You must be positively thrilled at the thought of Ivan Stanislav, the rightful Universal Champion, crushing him beneath his boot once more, eh? Each victory brings him closer to reclaiming the prize he never should have lost.

Alexei chuckles, mustache twitching, before swinging the briefcase up with both hands and presenting it like an offering at an altar.

Alexei Ruslan: (loudly) But, ahhh, business before pleasure! Lookie what I have here!

He pats the top of the case with mock reverence, then holds it out toward Lindsay, eyes glimmering with feigned innocence.

Alexei Ruslan: (loudly) I considered sending this through normal channels. Yet, I decided, ‘Nyet. A personal touch will mean so much more.’ So, here I am, in person, bearing a most… generous gesture.”

Alexei beams, rocking back again on his heels. Carpet Cleaner Plague Doctor stops next to him, and bumps the hose of the wet-dry vac against his shoe, indicating that the Russian is in his way.

Ruslan adjusts his tie and pulls the case back towards him as he hops slightly to the side, ruffling his mustache with his own upper lip.

Alexei Ruslan: (loudly) Is this a bad time?!

Bump bump.

The Queen shakes her head and walks over to the Plague Doctor, placing a hand on his shoulder. He shuts the machine off.

Lindsay Troy: Give us a minute, please.

The Plague Doctor nods, looks at Alexei, and bumps his shoe again before leaving.

Lindsay Troy: Now, what were you saying? I didn’t catch a word of that.

Ruslan’s expression flattens just slightly. He clears his throat and straightens his back. Doing his best to try to match Lindsay Troy’s height.

Alexei Ruslan: Eh… what I was saying was that I know we go back long time, Lindsay. Decades. And I know, by now, when you try to ask me for something you desperately want, it would behoove me to listen to you, and through my own grace, grant it to you. So!

He once again lifts the burgeoning briefcase and shakes it.

Alexei Ruslan: Here I am. I… could have sent Arina to drop it off instead… but I felt personal touch was best course of action.

Lindsay Troy: Oh. Right. Have a seat, then.

She walks to her desk and sits. As Alexei takes a seat across from her, the Queen reaches for her phone.

Lindsay Troy: Just one moment.

She tap-tap-taps away on the screen, then places the phone on the desk.

This little ditty begins playing.

The Queen smiles.

Lindsay Troy: Continue.

Alexei stares at Lindsay. Hard. He glances down at the phone, then back at her, then back at the phone, then back at her. He blurts.

Alexei Ruslan: Alright that’s enough of that!

He pats the briefcase several times.

Alexei Ruslan: You are ruining what is very special moment for me, and believe it or not, for you!

Lindsay Troy: Oh, I know it’s a very special moment for me, which is why I decided to set the mood.

For the first time since Alexei arrived in her office, or maybe ever as far as he’s concerned, she smiles.

Lindsay Troy: Really gets the message across, yeah? You, with your barrage of rumors. Me, punishing you for your dipshittery.

The Queen pats the top of her desk, inviting Ruslan to set his briefcase down.

Lindsay Troy: Why don’t you come along and pay the piper, Alexei. I’ll even accept an apology while you’re at it.

Alexei coughs. Once. Then again. And again. Something she just said must have caused him to get something caught in his throat. He hacks once more and pats his chest with a loud “Mmmmffnnnn!!” as he straightens his neck.

Alexei Ruslan: My dear…

He clears his throat again and lets the case bang on the table. He doesn’t seem to be so jovial anymore. Funny that.

Alexei Ruslan: I have been accused of many things, yes, but “dipshittery” is certainly not one of them.

He pops the latches on the case with a satisfying dual thunk sound.

Alexei Ruslan: Kindness, generosity, and empathy are three other things I have never been accused of… but that. Stops. Tonight!

He opens the case and therein rests a large photograph, framed, of Ruslan himself, dressed as he always is, glowering intensely towards the cameraman. He produces the picture and holds it up, next to himself, for Lindsay to see. There are words written on the photo itself, in English and Cyrillic.

Alexei Ruslan: Some snafu must have happened and I was not invited to your party. So here, I bring you gift: “To Lindsay from dear friend Alexei. Congratulations on finding love. May you live together as long as you both deserve!”

He offers her a shark-toothed grin and offers it to her.

Alexei Ruslan: As they say, from Russia with love. I have handkerchief, if you become emotional.

Lindsay tilts her head as she takes the picture, appearing to consider Alexei’s “heartfelt” gesture.

Amazingly, she’s still smiling.

Lindsay Troy: Wow, Alexei, this is really thoughtful. Thank you so much.

Alexei Ruslan: I had to make sure I looked just perf–

The Lady of the Hour doesn’t wait for him to finish; instead, she picks up her trash can and drops the photograph inside. Glass shatters from the impact.

Ruslan stares, wide eyed and blurts, again.

Alexei Ruslan: I did not even bug THAT one!

He surges to his feet and snatches up the briefcase, closing it with shaking hands.

Alexei Ruslan: That is the difference between you and me, Lindsay! A communist always considers friendship first! A capitalist is willing to let money get in the way! You have no proof that such rumors even came from me!

He grinds his teeth and grouses.

Alexei Ruslan: You know, some son of bitch writes that I, Alexei Ruslan, am no more than stack of raccoons in brown overcoat! This hurts my feelings, but I do not see you finding them! To think, someone might suppose that I am some sort of walking scavenger! Not to mention fact that how could three raccoons stand on each other’s shoulders and move around like that? Preposterous!

Lindsay Troy: Oh come on, Alexei, nobody really thinks you’re three raccoons in a brown overcoat. If anything, you’re three weasels.

She smirks. Nudges the trash can with her foot.

Lindsay Troy: Besides, is it any more preposterous than you thinking I’d accept a picture of you in place of a check? You bring this all on yourself, you know.

Ruslan clutches the briefcase to his chest angrily.

Alexei Ruslan: I know your country struggles with concept of free speech nowadays, Lady Troy, but in Russia we consider it keystone of personal rights! Russia, and myself, will not be extorted over such things!

Lindsay Troy: Well, maybe you should’ve thought of that before letting your silly bullshit escape past the boundaries of “Think Red.”

He scoffs. The nerve!

Alexei Ruslan: Silly bullshit?! You know, sometimes I think you do not like me very much, Lindsay. And after all we have been through!

He backs slowly towards the door behind him.

Alexei Ruslan: You will not get one ruble out of this Russian. Just keep that in mind! Ivan is going to win Almasy Tournament and then, if your precious nepo-baby Farthington still holds onto stolen Universal Title, he will take that. And you will be eating crow for rest of your life!

He adds as he bumps into the door.

Alexei Ruslan: And if you wish to continue this futile course, you keep it between the two of us! Ivan is not involved!

Lindsay Troy: Oh, don’t worry, if he finds out, it won’t be because I told him.

Alexei adjusts his tie. He makes direct eye contact with the camera for a moment and gives it a narrowed look, before clearing his throat once more.

Alexei Ruslan: Ahem… yes well, glad we got this sorted out.

He turns and exits the room. But Troy is left alone for only one second, before he marches back into the office, straight for the garbage can. He plucks his picture out of it and makes for the door again.

Alexei Ruslan: I do not want any riff-raff making money off of my likeness!!

Lindsay Troy: Now who would want to do a thing like that?

He screams, just as he slams the door.

Alexei Ruslan: EXACTLY!

And with that, the Queen is alone in her office, once again. ReVival moves on.

Sketti Bucket, in a sink.

Fred in the pink (suit).

Grumpus, proudly displayed.

Both Fred and Grumpus wear a top hat, though Grumpus’ is obviously tiny.

You know where we are.

You know what time it is.

Fred Dick: We don’t haaaave a jingle yet, but this is my fuggin’ shooooooow! Mark Paul Gosselaar is a bastard, and this is my fuggin’ shoooooooow! It’s Baffroom Fights and you better be ready, it’s mothafuggin’ Freddy and a Bucket of Sketti… which you win if you kick my ace!

Grumpus: Nyakk! Nyakk! Nyakk!

The Grumpus didn’t actually talk. Fred just tilted its little hat and spoke out the corner of his mouth in a high pitched, prohibition gangster accent.

Fred Dick: Some muhfuggas do be tryin’ me. Try me once, shame on… me? …Try me can’t be tried again! Mark Paul Gosselaar learned dat tha hard way! Lawd yes, learnt it so hard he tried to give ol’ Fred his pride and joy! But you know what I says? I says, “Mark Paul Gosselaar, you fuhgettin’ ya trash!” And I punted that boy square in the ace, right into his deadbeat daddy’s arms. Lessons taught, lessons learnt. That’s what I say, lawd yes.

Grumpus: Lawd yes! Lawd yes, see!

Fred Dick: Shud tha FUGGUP Grumpus, yew killin’ the viiiiibezz…

Fred adjusts his collar.

Fred Dick: Anyway. Y’all know the rules. Let’s see who fightin’ me today in dis Baffroom.

Fred anxiously stares at the door.

???: HUNGRY! Door?

It’s a voice completely unfamiliar to PRIME viewers. The accent is…difficult to place. Eastern European? West Asian? It’s possibly from one of the weirder “-stan”s; Tajiki, perhaps, or maybe Kyrgyz.

We hear a thunk as the door to the bathroom is forcibly smacked forward. For a brief moment, we see him – a wild-faced man with a mohawk, a bushy fu manchu mustache, and a cigarette that seems like it’s coming out of somewhere on his face that it’s not supposed to – which is to say, it’s not in his mouth, we don’t think?

We don’t get much more time to figure out if our eyes are playing tricks on us, because before anything else happens, this man grabs the door handle and swings it back closed. He didn’t enter the baffroom, if that’s not clear – he’s still outside.

???: Hahahaaaa, haaa…

Then a pause. After a minute, the door creaks open again – he locks eyes with Fred, shrieks with delight, and slams the door closed again.

???: HAHA!

Fred Dick: What the hell? Getcho ace in here, whoever you is!

Fred’s pissed at this cat and mouse game, so he stomps over to the baffroom door and reaches for the handle to swing it back open – he’s feeling some resistance, like this stranger is holding onto the handle too. Fred pulls and pulls and pulls, only getting a little traction.

Fred Dick: Gottt— DAYUM you strong! Who the hell are you, mang???

The man outside lets go of the handle quite suddenly, causing the door to swing open violently. Fred stumbles and crashes to the floor.

YAKUZK: YAKUUUUUUUUUZK!

YAKUZK confidently struts over to the downed Dick; he then turns, and begins bouncing his ass on Fred’s sternum and stomach over and over again, almost like machine gun Banzai Drops.

Fred Dick: STOP! (gasp) JUMPIN! (gasp) ON! (gasp) MY! (gasp) BELLY! (gasp)

YAKUZK: BOUNCE BOUNCE BOUNCE BOUNCE

The wind keeps getting knocked out of Fred’s chest with each successive drop. After about two dozen such drops, YAKUZK’s attention span runs out and he sees that there’s something he can climb – the baffroom stalls.

He somehow finds a way to get his feet flush against the outside stall walls and pulls himself up with the bizarre strength you might see out of a toddler who really really wants to climb as high as he can at a playground. He reaches the top and laughs to anyone and no one. He turns his head and remembers that oh yeah – Fred’s in the room!

YAKUZK: RRRRRIBBIT!!!

And he LEAPS from the stall, pancaking Fred with a completely stiff, no-safety-precautions-taken Frog Splash squarely in the guts.

Now that he’s been in the baffroom for a while, it looks like there’s a lit cigarette coming out of YAKUZK’s cheek. We’re not sure how or why. His eyes are a little crossed, too, but it doesn’t seem to impede him.

YAKUZK: Toss?

Fred Dick: No toss! NO TOSS! A ZERO AMOUNT OF TOSS!

YAKUZK: Toss?

YAKUZK then peels Fred off the ground by the waistband and head, pivots his hips, and hurls him in the vague direction of the urinals.

YAKUZK: Gooooo!

Fred’s skull meets porcelain – skull wins, which is great for Fred’s match later tonight, but is less great for the urinal, which now has a deep crack and may have come completely loose from the wall.

Fred grunts, rubs his head, and rolls over onto his back.

Fred Dick: Alright man! Alright! You made your point, YAKUZK, you made your point! Look over yunder at that sink! Dey’s a big ol’ Sketti Bucket prize for you in there! Just make sure you put it over.

YAKUZK: Hungry!

He toddles over to the sink and sees the bounty before him. Pasta with red sauce – a certified favorite.

YAKUZK: Eeeeat sketti! HAWWWWWWMPH!

He then proceeds to take a big messy forkful of the stuff and shove it into his mouth. It’s hard to tell how much chewing is going on, but he doesn’t appear to be choking, so we roll with it. More and more sketti gets shoved into his mouth, and soon, his face, hands, and chest are absolutely covered with marinara.

It’s going to be a bath night tonight.

After an uncomfortable amount of pasta-eating, he looks over to Fred with a big smile on his face, raises both arms, and swivels both of his hands at the wrists.

YAKUZK: All done!

Fred smiles, wide and toothy.

Fred Dick: Got DAYUM! I don’t think anyone’s put over that sketti as good as you just did – ‘cept for maybe dem treacherous Colton boys – and though you did fuck my skull up pretty good and bounce on my belly and chest area with your ace, neverthedamnless I am just so fuggin’ proud of yeeewwww!!!

YAKUZK: Byyyyye!

YAKUZK waves a saucy hand at Fred and saunters off towards the exit – and frankly, to God Knows Where after that. A responsible adult should follow him, but sadly, we don’t have any of those on hand.

Fred Dick: I’ll never forget yew, YAKUZK! Be well!!! (mutters) I hope I get to watch that young man grow up.

🥲

We cut elsewhere.

The arena’s lights go out, and the fans erupt in anticipation. Soon their energy is rewarded as the PRIMEView springs to life. On a field of white, three words appear

THE

NEW

DIAMOND

These fade away, replaced by a logo. It’s the letter C in the shape of a diamond, with a smaller N inside. The logo is framed by the name.

NATE

COLTON

A classic rock riff signals the beginning of “Tryin’” by the Eagles, and the fans give out a raucous cheer. Moments later, Nate Colton emerges from the curtain. He holds his arms up high, showing off his blue satin jacket–his family name emblazoned on the back; his first name stitched on the front.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nate walks quickly to the ring, stopping periodically to point at groups of cheering fans, or waving his arms to hype up the crowd.

Vince Howard: His opponent…hailing from Evansville Indiana…weighing in at two hundred and forty pounds…he is the Next Diamond! He is…NAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATE! COOOOOOOOOOOOOOLTON!

He climbs the steps, ducks between the top and middle ropes, and enters the ring. He heads directly to his corner and undoes his jacket, showing off his gear–white trunks that reach his upper thigh with a blue stripe down the side, white boots with blue trim, white MMA gloves, and blue elbow and knee pads. After handing his jacket to a ring attendant, he makes another appeal to the fans.

The lights go out in the arena again, and a big murmur goes up in the crowd, excited for what’s next. Then the PRIMEView lights up to show a Japanese man with impeccable combed-over black hair, a square jaw, and a towel around his neck emphatically saying a phrase in his native tongue. The translation is in subtitles:

“PRO WRESTLING IS A SACRED SPORT!”

RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

A spotlight shines on the curtain, and a beat later, The Anglo Luchador jumps out, dressed in a green tracksuit with a purple towel around his neck, pumping his fist into the air. He jogs in place at the top of the ramp for a moment before bounding down to the ring, slapping hands. He gets to the ringside area, strips from his entrance gear, throwing each piece into the crowd before sliding into the ring.

Vince Howard: Introducing first/And [their] opponent, weighing in at 211 pounds and hailing from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He is the first Intense Champion of the ReVival, the Last Son of Tenochtitlan, and the Spear of Huitzilopochtli… The Anglooooo…. LUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCHADORRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!

RAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!

The lights fade.

The speakers buzz with the intro to “Stopgap” by Melt-Banana.

On the PRIMEview, green levin and pink flames fuse together to form two familiar words…

V A E   V I C T I S

In an instant, the Nationwide Arena is visually and audially overwhelmed with an aggressive wave of flashing lights and slamming sounds. Electronic blastbeats accompany a screen that explodes into a supernova of RAINBOWS and EMERALDS and STARS and LETTER V’s!

Richard Parker: G’AH!! We’re being ASSAULTED by LUCKY CHARMS CEREAL, Nick!!

RIA Lockhart steps into the spotlight, and Columbus gets LIIIIIIIIIIIIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIiIT~!

KA-BOOOM!!

With a berserker’s fury, the grinning Psychoberry stomps the stage to cue the pyro, and the fans lose their collective shit, welcoming the Psychoberry back to the PRIME ring with a MASSIVE pop!

She’s soon flanked by her tag partner and reigning Five Star Champion, Kerry Kuroyama, and the purple-pink-and-green can of kerosene that is Ami Troy. The Vae Victis trio pose a la Ginyu Force amid a storm of flashing strobes and fountain pyros.

Vince Howard: Coming to the ring, accompanied by “The Merry Mischief Maker” AMI TROY… they weigh in at a combined weight of four-hundred and four pounds… KERRY KUROYAMA!! RIA LOCKHART!!

VVVAAAAAAAAAAEEEEE VIIIIIIIIICCCTIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISSSS!!!!

The trio make their way down the aisle. RIA and Ami take the lead on fan-hype duty, clapping hands and charging up fans. Kerry, Five Star Belt out and proud on the shoulder, keeps it business-like and buttoned down while taking up the rear.

Nick Stuart: Incredible ovation for the team of Vae Victis, in particular for the returning RIA Lockhart! These fans have been anticipating her comeback for quite a while, and you can tell she is feeding off their energy!

Richard Parker: It’s like a bunch of Snapchat filters threw up in here!

Nick Stuart: This unlikely duo of Kerry and RIA — KerRIA, if you will — began last year as a fierce rivalry over the Alias Championship! But through that rivalry a mutual respect was found, and now they find themselves united under the Vae Victis banner!

Richard Parker: This music sounds like a cat took a jackhammer to a Gameboy!!

Nick Stuart: Kuroyama, the Five Star Champion, is preparing himself for the next major challenge to his title… the Anglo Luchador. Meanwhile, Lockhart has had ongoing strife with Nate Colton over their mutual associate and former PRIME talent, Kohime Mori. This match tonight should give us an interesting preview to the one-on-one face-offs in store for us at the next PRIME superevent, Ascension!

Richard Parker: Is this what drinking a Four Loko is like?! AAAHH!!

Parker yelps when the Rainbow Riot inexplicably hops onto the commentary table, fists pumped overhead and screaming like a banshee while the PRIME Faithful roar back. Climbing up to the ring apron behind her, Kerry raises the Five Star Championship while Ami flashes V’s with her hands like they were gang signs.

More pyro, cuz fuck it; we got the budget.

KA-BOOOM!!

DING DING

There’s no standing around; the moment the bell rings, RIA is out and about, energy swelling as she takes the center of the PRIME squared circle for the first time in months. As she does, she flicks out a sweeping shoot kick, poking toward The Anglo Luchador, who instinctively draws his leg upward to check the prod. The anticipation is that there will be connection; there isn’t. And in that next moment, The Spear of Huitzilopochtli is looking to get hold of the Psychoberry with a back waistlock, all because she is about to spin around and give it up.

The back elbow hitting the bridge of his nose stings like a wasp.

The Luchador stumbles back on his heels, grabbing at his mask. As he does? RIA launches herself to the near ropes, caroming off, colliding into the ReVival’s inaugural Intense Champion with a cross body. This isn’t tame. There is starch in the connection, a suddenness in the launch. The Manhunt runner up tries to beat the former Alias Champion to her feet, but he isn’t able, and instead, RIA grabs onto him and takes him over in an amalgam of a hiptoss and a uchimata. Low center of gravity. The elbow drop that follows is quick, stabbing.

If The Luchador expects to get out of the way, he is a moment too late, and the collision comes to pass. RIA scrambles, her thighs locking around his neck like a vice.

Richard Parker: Someone should tell her that giving that away for free when she should be charging for it is a poor choice.

Nick Stuart: Are you…

The Anglo Luchador attempts to bridge up and headstand out, but The Psychoberry smashes him in the kidney with a hook the moment he tries.

Richard Parker: Stating truth? It’s basic economics. She supplies to someone’s demands. Or do you not see TikTok trends with muscle mommies–

Stomach on the canvas, knees planted, TAL tries once again, only to eat another blow to the kidney.

Nick Stuart: Please, Richard, in all our time knowing and working with each other, and all the wild confessions that have come with it, please…never say ‘mommy’ again–

No more bridges; instead, TAL tries to bully his way up. RIA isn’t having it. Time to go for a spin…literally. RIA holds firm and the two begin rolling around the ring with the headscissors locked.

Richard Parker: –are you finished? Beautiful women crushing watermelons between their thighs? Is it just me? Is it just my algorithm? I want to know–

The movement brings about plenty of laughs from the crowd, but RIA isn’t letting go, and the fact that she’s able to essentially turn herself into a spin cycle over and over and over AND OVER again starts getting more loud cheers as it keeps going and GOING!

Richard Parker: –please…I NEED to know…

She lets go, the disorientation taking firm on PRIME’s modern day tag team standard, causing him to drunkenly stumble, staggering before dropping to his knees, then trying to get back up…

Only to get blasted by another running carom off the ropes and a HEAVY blow from the hip of RIA smashing into TAL’s dome. The blow slaps him against the canvas with such velocity that it might just be concussion inducing. RIA scrambles to get a pin…

ONE

But the moment she locks his legs, the boot of Nate Colton hits her in the back of the head from between the ropes. Turnbull stops his count, and before he can even check to see if The New Diamond is still holding onto his tag rope (he is), Colton throws another boot to the head of RIA. Grabbing her brainpan, The Psychoberry glowers in the direction of the former 5 Star Champion, who is looking to throw another blow, only to have his leg grabbed in the process. The whole moment is enough for TAL to get hold of RIA, wrestling her over in a waistlock takeover with him pressing himself against her on the canvas in a smother. Proximity allows for him to reach out, and when he does, Colton tags in.

Nate reaches and grabs hold of the returning star, essentially committing to the exchange from The Luchador. Jerking RIA up to a stand, the much larger Colton locks hold of The Rainbow Riot with a side headlock, using his massive force to try and grind her head to powder in his vice grip. Kerry Kuroyama, for his part, points at TAL who is lingering a little too long in the ring, and in the process, the two begin making snide comments toward one another.

RIA fights with Colton’s grip, her fingers digging against his forearms–

Richard Parker: This might be ANOTHER example of supply and demand economics–

But not her fingernails. Turnbull is keeping an eye on the two, but he’s also focusing an increasing amount of concerning energy on TAL and Kuroyama, their voices growing louder, a palpable tension made all the more evident with Ami’s furious slamming of the sides of her balled fists against the ring apron.

Colton maintains control.

Until he doesn’t.

The bottom drops out, and RIA, slippery Muffin Pirate, scissors her legs against the ankles of Colton. A tangle. Nate staggers for a moment, trying to keep his balance.

RIA isn’t going to let him, and with a sudden burst, cradles him over.

ONE

TWO

KICKOUT!

Colton muscles out, and the pair arrive at their feet near the same time. The massive reach of The New Diamond allows him to snap her close, taking her over with a side headlock, but RIA refuses to stay down, and her active legs latch onto Colton’s neck, breaking out of the side headlock. A sudden surge brings Colton to a bridge out, and he shoots to his feet.

RIA is already charging toward him after hitting the ropes, going for a dropkick to the inside knee.

Colton, however, leaps over it, continuing his path to the ropes, hitting them and shooting off, looking to hit a clothesline or a shoulder block. Big burly man.

His eyes glass over from the heavy flow of blue and pink hair. Why is the hair being whipped back and forth?

Headbutt, baby!

Colton stumbles back on his heels, trying to shake the cobwebs…that’s when it happens.

SLAAAAAAAAAAAAP

Nick Stuart: OH! OH WHAT A SHOT! WHAT A SHOT FROM RIA LOCKHEART–

Richard Parker: Oh THAT HAS HIM STEAMING–

Nick Stuart: –Colton looking to–  

CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK

Nick Stuart: –ANOTHER HEADBUTT FROM RIA–

Richard Parker: –he’s in la la land–

Nick Stuart: –those blows carry Colton out the ring to the ring apron and RIA is afTER HIM OH MY WORD! OH MY WORD!

Richard Parker: DID HE JUST…DID HE JUST!

Nick Stuart: HIP. TOSS. OVER THE TOP ROPE! TO THE FLOOR BELOW! AND that was a BAD LANDING–

Richard Parker: Ami is over IMMEDIATELY…and the puff of neon colors JUST CAME BACK–

Nick Stuart: Ria is GRABBING at her right leg and I know…I know she has those braces, but you never know, and my word, I would feel sick to my stomach–

Richard Parker: And Kerry is LIVID and he and Colton are near face to face, chest to chest, and The Emerald Apex wants to defend his Vae Victis sister–oh! OH! OH HAHAHAHA! HA! HAAAAAA!

With the momentary distraction, RIA, on an adrenaline burst and still a little shaken from the fall to the outside, gets Ami out of the way and gets to her feet, clutching Colton around the legs and yanking him to the outside, his head and shoulders smashing into the ring apron.

The 5 Star Champion laughs, pumping his fist at The Psychoberry.

It isn’t long lived.

The Anglo Luchador has entered the ring, and has launched himself like a missile, hitting the distracted Kuroyama with a heavy dropkick that sends him spiraling out to the floor. In the next moment, TAL grabs onto the top rope before launching himself out, spinning around, and DOING A BARREL ROLL! Splash into the mass of humanity around him, both RIA and Kerry. Ami is out of the way, thankfully. Colton grabs at the back of his head, and he is seething. TAL gets hold of RIA, shoving her back under the bottom rope.

Kerry tries to pick himself up, but TAL hits him with a blistering knife edge chop to stave him off.

RIA gets going, looking to throw himself back out of the ring she just entered. And it would have worked great too, if Colton hadn’t dove into the ring and clipped her at the knee with a football tackle. TAL re-enters the ring, and Turnbull is livid in his gestures, trying to get order back into this contest. Ami just waves him off, thinking he’s acting really damn stupid.

What a ding bat.

Colton works to isolate RIA into his corner, and TAL for his part, with the tag rope in hand, gets himself in. Once there, he works to get a high elevated boston crab. RIA, however, scrambles on her elbows to drag herself away, and, with another sudden burst, slaps hands with Kerry to get into the contest.

The Emerald Apex in, he smashes into TAL with a shoulder block, and then, just as quickly as TAL can get up, he’s ANNIHILATED with a SQUALL LINE LARIAT! The brutal connection allows The 5 Star Champion to get a cover…

ONE

TWO

NO! Kickout!

RIA gets back to the apron and her corner.

Kuroyama gets hold of TAL and connects with a snap dragon suplex!

COVER

ONE

TWO

NOOOOOOO!

TAL is feeling every bit of Kerry Kuroyama’s fighting spirit. The Emerald Apex lets out a bellowing roar, and charges forward with a yakuza kick–

The blow is enough to take off TAL’s head.

If only it hadn’t missed.

If only TAL hadn’t gotten hold of La Magistrol cradle.

ONE

RIA is in the ring!

TWO

So is Colton.

Who absolutely ANNIHILATES her with a full on body check that would be the greatest in Columbus Bluejackets history.

THREE!

DING DING DING

Richard Parker: WAIT!

Nick Stuart: KERRY KUROYAMA IS UP! HE IS REACHING FOR TAL AND–

Richard Parker: Turnbull is TRYING to get in the middle of this–

Nick Stuart: Kerry Kuroyama is LIVID here!

Vince Howard: YOUR WINNERS…NATE COLTON AND THE ANGLO LUCHADOR!

Richard Parker: WOOOOOOOOOOAH!

Nick Stuart: The Anglo Luchador just pulled off that so slick…WOW!

Richard Parker: And Jimmy is damn near being ping ponged around because the 5 Star Champion–

RIA is IRATE.

So is Colton.

They look ready to come to blows, but Enemigos swarm to prevent any further escalation. A flood of people, the final shot we get is of TAL, pointing to his head, mouthing a simple proclamation; have your head on a swivel kid, because I can take the 5 Star Title JUST like that.

CATCH UP ON THE ACE NETWORK

Almasy semis. Match one. Let’s get it.

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

The Crowd: One fall!

Yeah, that’s right. I did the thing.

Vince Howard: Introducing fir-

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.

A familiar keyboard.

♫…

RAHHHBOOOAHHHOOOOAHHHBOOOOOAHHBOOOOAHHHH!!!!!!!

♫, ♫

♫…♫, ♫

♫…♫, ♫

♫*…oh, shit.*

OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI

OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI

OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI

OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI

AHH OUI OUI! AHH OUI OUI!

AHH OUI OUI! AHH OUI OUI!

RAHHHHHHBOOOOOOOOOOAHHHH

As “ooh la la” by Run The Jewels featuring DJ Premier & Greg Nice blares through the speakers, teal and copper sparks shoot out around the stage. A series of nicknames flash across the screen:

THE YOUNGEST LEGEND ALIVE

HALL OF FAMER

PRIME WRESTLER OF THE YEAR 2023

THE BEARDED DRAGON

THE LIZARD KING

THE ACE

LE PROTAGONISTE

LE GRAND CHELEM

THE NECK COLLECTOR

F   L   A   M   B   E   R   G   E

FLAMBERGE emerges onto the stage. His gear looks freshly made and extra crisp; golden lizard scale boxing shorts with teal and white flamberge swords (all lowercase, since it’s a weapon and not The Weapon) running up the sides. His boots are glue white with stencils of golden lizards with crowns crawling all over them. FLAMBO wears his tag team championship around his waist, and his expression is cold and calculating as he makes his way down the ramp.

AHH OUI OUI! AHH OUI OUI!

AHH OUI OUI! AHH OUI OUI!

fabby is behind him as well, but we don’t always need to call that out, you know? It’s like – we assume there are chairs for the fans. We assume there is a table for the announcers. All standard furniture can be marked “present” as a blanket statement.

Vince Howard: Aaaaaaand his opponent! Hailing from Strasbourg, France!

RAAAHHHHBOOOOOOOOOO!!

Vince Howard: Weighing in at 206 pounds…Theeeeeeeee NECK…COLLECTORRRRRRRR! FLAAAAAAAMBERRRRRRRRRRRGE!

RAAAHHHHBOOOOOAAHHHHHHOOOOAHHHHH!!

Nick Stuart: This is going to be one hell of a rematch, partner – a shot at the finals awaits the winner of this one!

Richard Parker: And thanks to the absolutely HEROIC actions of Hank last show, we won’t need to worry about any interference from Rose tonight!

Nick Stuart: …Hank sent Rose to the hospital with those Choke Bombs.

Richard Parker: Right??

FLAMBERGE steps through the ropes, unstrapping his championship in a fluid motion and handing it to the referee.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: Champion versus champion! The Almasy finals on the line! Who will take the next step towards a Universal Championship match?!

Richard Parker: One of these guys, I’m guessing. You know, just based on the way this match is structured.

As soon as the bell rings, Fred Dick immediately charges across the ring at FLAMBERGE. His arms flail like renegade windmills who have spent their entire lives dreaming of being a helicopter, never to understand that it was not their destiny to fly. It was their destiny to mill winds and irritate the shit out of anti-environmentalists. And much like those windmills, Fred Dick’s hurricane of slaps is irritating. None of them connect with FLAMBERGE hard enough to do any damage, but they succeed in throwing him off his game to start the match.

With FLAMBERGE trying to block an absolute cavalcade of wild shots, The Street Cat shifts up his attack to start throwing hard and more precise strikes. An open hand slap connects with FLAMBERGE. Then a second. To mix things up a little bit, Fred Dick fires off a karate chop complete with karate theatrics and karate noises. It is very “I got my blue belt from this mini-mall” coded.

Before Fred Dick can go full Daniel-san and wax this dude all the way off, FLAMBERGE fires back with a sharp kick to the thigh. Fred stumbles back and tries to shake the feeling back into his leg, then returns fire with what might be a variation of the Five Point Palm Exploding Heart technique, but instead looks like he’s trying to aggressively dial a phone number on FLAMBERGE’s chest.

FLAMBERGE shakes his head, and then snaps off a second kick to Fred’s thigh that definitely catches the bigger man’s attention. But more than that, it creates an opening for FLAMBERGE to step in, grab Fred’s jersey in two places, then pivot into a judo-style throw that sends the King of Wrong Style tumbling to the mat.

Fred rolls out of the ring.

Nick Stuart: We’re only a few minutes into this match and Fred Dick looks winded already.

Richard Parker: Why would you ever say such a thing about our Intense Champion, Nick?

Then he summons the combined might of the Whoresmen and Lasagna Boys to create a protective wall around him. Toddrick begins flapping his hands to try and cool down Daddy ‘Sagna.

Nick Stuart: Because I have functioning eyeballs, Richard.

Richard Stuart: Touche.

Despite referee Ashley Barlow telling FLAMBERGE he should stay in the ring, that’s not what happens. The Neck Collector rolls under the bottom rope because really who listens to Ashley Barlow anyway. He steps past the group before they have a chance to properly congeal around Fred, planting a kick into Fred’s chest that sends him careening back into the guardrail. He steps forward to volley another shot, but FLAMBERGE looks down to see that Miguel has wrapped himself around his ankle to try and prevent his master being hit again.

Fred uses this opportunity to push himself away from the guardrail and connect with a headbutt to the distracted Frenchman.

Of course, all of this happens in plain sight of the referee, since she’s been busy yelling at everyone to knock this shit off and get back in the ring, so what comes next should be no surprise.

Nick Stuart: And it looks like Miguel has just been ejected from ringside!

Richard Parker: What? Why?

Nick Stuart: Remember that thing I said a minute ago about working eyeballs? Maybe you should look into getting yours checked.

Richard Parker: I have perfect 50/50 vision, Nick. Maybe 60/40 on an off day.

Nick Stuart: That’s… now how those numbers work, you know.

As Miguel makes the lonely walk back up the ramp, Fred rolls FLAMBERGE back into the ring and begins unloading with strikes again. He launches into a slap-chop combo, which – unlike the kitchen gadget of the same name – is actually effective at what it tries to do.

Slap.

Chop.

Slap.

Chop.

Richard Parker: You know, if he started with a zenithal prime this slap chop thing would be a lot more effective.

Nick Stuart: I have no idea what you just said.

Richard Parker: Sorry, I was making a joke that maybe 2 people will understand, and neither of them will laugh.

Admittedly, it’s not a very good joke.

Fred makes a bunch of wild gestures with his hands, as though he was trying to break the record for fastest balloon animal, and then drives the point of his elbow into FLAMBERGE’s forehead. The French Phenom stumbles back and collapses in the corner.

Instead of bringing FLAMBERGE out to the center of the ring to make a cover, Fred plants his shoe on FLAMBERGE’s face and begins grinding it in. That he does this at all is bad enough. That he does it while twerking is even worse.

But the disrespect train is about to choo-choo its way even further down the track.

No, I don’t know what that last sentence was supposed to be.

Nick Stuart: Fred Dick backing up… This could spell disaster for FLAMBERGE…

Richard Parker: You could say he is about to “smell dis ass hurr.”

Nick Stuart: Why would I want to say that?

Richard Parker: Okay, good point.

The Street Cat swivels his street hips once or twice, and then introduces FLAMBERGE to the business end of his big ol’ dumpy.

Nick Stuart: Kiss the Ring!

Richard Parker: No thanks I’ll pass.

The problem with this move is that it’s being done to a man in the corner of the ring, which means Ashley Barlow is forced to try and break it up. I mean that’s not the only problem with it. The real problem is for the next few days poor FLAMBO might think that everything smells like Sketti fards. But for the purpose of the rules of professional wrestling, the tragedy here is that the move is illegal.

Ashley Barlow: ONE! TWO! THREE!

Fred swivels his hips in time with the counting.

Ashley Barlow: Come on, Fred, that’s enough. Break it up! FOUR!

Fred offers one last little thrust before he backs away with his hands raised. There are many ways to lose a wrestling match, but “I put my butt in this other guy’s face for too long” is no way to leave a tournament this prestigious.

With his hands still raised, Fred takes a few steps out towards the center of the ring. Then he turns, places them on his hips, and charges back towards FLAMBERGE.

Nick Stuart: Posterized!

Richard Parker: Get in there and stop this fabby! If there was ever a time to “get down Mr. President!” it would be right now.

But fabby does not get in there. He does not “get down Mr. President” for the sake (and overall cleanliness let’s be real) of FLAMBERGE.

Richard Parker: Goddammit, where were you on that one, fabby?

There aren’t too many thrusts that follow the bronco buster crime that Fred Dick has just committed, because Ashley Barlow is a lot more forceful in breaking up yet a second corner attack.

And also because Fred just doesn’t have the gas in his tank after that offensive flurry. He stumbles to the opposite corner, now a total sweaty mess, and collapses. As much as she would rather be doing literally anything else – up to and including a little light tax evasion – Barlow is bound by covenant to make sure that Fred isn’t having a heart attack.

Nick Stuart: What the hell? Get them out of there, ref!

With the referee distracted, both Sebagna Gold and Toddrick begin using the opportunity to choke FLAMBERGE on the ropes. To his credit, this time fabby does do his best to intervene, but both Anna Daniels and Daytona Diamonds are there to make sure that his efforts are thwarted. Still, it’s almost enough to make me un-italicize his name.

Almost, but not quite.

You know how a minute ago Ashley Barlow was miserable because she had to take a minute to make sure that a cheating wretch wasn’t about to do a big dead in the middle of her ring? You know what sort of thing helps a woman like that cheer up? I mean, like, immediately cheer up? If you guessed “ejecting some dipshits from ringside,” then you are correct.

RAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!

The crowd do love a good ejection.

Nick Stuart: That’s all three Lasagna Boys down, making things a little more even!

Richard Parker: When one side has a fabby things are never even. Because that side needs help, is what I’m saying.

Nick Stuart: …

Richard Parker: Unless, like, someone stubs their toe.

Nick Stuart: …

Richard Parker: Because that’s what happens with furniture. Sometimes you stub your toe.

Nick Stuart: Well then. Anyway…

Fred is back on his feet, having finally caught his breath. Le Protagoniste is also back up, and he looks pissed. A perfectly reasonable reaction, given the circumstances of the events he just had to endure.

FLAMBERGE moves in for a side grapple, attempting to regain some momentum with a belly to back suplex, but Fred Dick rakes the eyes to prevent it from happening. The Street Cat follows it up by grabbing one of FLAMBO’s hands to give him a clear target, and then ham-fisting the Hall of Famer in the chest with a heart punch. FLAMBERGE falls to the mat, and Fred flops down on top of him, evidently still gassed from before.

Nick Stuart: That is… not the prettiest pin attempt PRIME has seen.

ONE!

Richard Parker: Ah, but it is a pin attempt.

TWO!

FLAMBERGE doesn’t so much kick out as he does shove Fred off of him in disgust.

The Bearded Dragon is the first one to his feet, and he looks ready to retake some control and get things back in order. So when Fred Dick charges (read: lumbers) towards him again, FLAMBO pivots and sends Blood Mode into the air and down to the canvas with a high angle hip toss. Desperate to stay in control of the match, Fred scrambles to his feet and swings with a wild slap, but his strike is blocked. FLAMBERGE maintains control on the arm, ducks underneath and bends it behind Fred’s back before transitioning to the front and trapping his head with his other arm.

Nick Stuart announces the move because it is his job to announce moves when not engaged in banter with his broadcast partner.

Nick Stuart: Hammerlock suplex!

FLAMBERGE maintains wrist control and rolls through the suplex into a mount position. He traps the arm, and then does the same with Fred’s other arm when he tries to counter. With both of the Street Cat’s arms compromised and FLAMBERGE in a dominant position, the Lizard King lands a headbutt to the bridge of Fred’s nose. Then a second. A third.

Fred Dick’s world is suddenly both very blurry and also full of stars as a fourth headbutt connects.

FLAMBERGE stands, releasing his grip, and places one foot on Fred’s face. He looks around for a moment before grinding his heel down, the same as had been done to him earlier. Fred begins flailing, as one does when a Frenchman deigns to stand on their head, but that’s cut short as FLAMBERGE changes up his strategy and unleashes a barrage of aggressive, rapid-fire stomps to his opponent.

Fred rolls onto his chest and uses his arms and legs to push himself up. Unfortunately for him, this presents an all too perfect target for FLAMBERGE.

Nick Stuart: Marie Antoinette!!

FLAMBERGE tries to lock the hold in, but hesitates. His face is a frustrated scowl of confusion and disgust. There is… something on Fred’s neck that is preventing him from locking in the hold, a hard, tumescent lump that seems to swell the more pressure he tries to exert, almost like it’s reacting to his touch. And worse, the lump seems to have its own heartbeat. He can feel it twitch and shudder as he tries to apply the hold.

Through it all, Fred Dick’s hands are a’wandering, grabbing and testing the area around FLAMBERGE’s chest. It’s not the weirdest breast exam on medical record, but it’s close.

Richard Parker: Is it just me, or does it look like Fred Dick is trying to feel up FLAMBERGE? You know, under the shirt style. Because he’s not wearing a shirt.

Nick Stuart: What the hell, Richard?

Richard Parker: I’m just saying, I get big “nervous in the backseat” vibes from whatever… this… is.

FLAMBERGE suddenly recoils in terror, dropping to his knees and bolting for fabby in the corner. There is a slick line on his forearm that may just be sweat, or it may be Grumpus juice, but whatever it is needs to be off of FLAMBERGE’s skin right goddamn now.

It’s a proven truth of parenting that kids like to wipe their hands on things. I, your humble dipshit match-writer, can attest to this firsthand, having gone to move my daughters mattress foundation this spring to find that part of it had become scabbed over with dried, desiccated boogers. When questioned, she said it was because she didn’t have any tissues on her nightstand, and so the next best thing – clearly – was to use the box spring.

All of this is to say that when fabby suddenly finds himself being greased-up by whatever is on FLAMBERGE’s arm, it’s because sometimes, when all else fails, you have to wipe your hands on the furniture.

Nick Stuart: Fans, there appears to be a… well, I guess it looks like a growth… of some kind on Fred Dick’s neck.

Richard Parker: Are we sure he was medically cleared? Is that thing infected?

Nick Stuart: If he’s in the ring I’m sure he’s sound. The medical team here is second to none.

It’s not the deep cleaning he’d like to do, but unfortunately the fact that he’s in the middle of a wrestling match means concessions have to be made. FLAMBERGE turns back towards the center of the ring, and is met with a thunder right-hand slap by Fred Dick, which is immediately followed by a bell clap that briefly disorients Le Protagoniste.

FLAMBERGE quickly shakes off the stun and drives Fed to the mat with a double-leg takedown. He jockeys for position, once again able to breach Fred’s guard and take a dominant posture. And once again his instincts kick in, and he moves to try and finish with the guillotine choke.

Did…

Did the lump on Fred Dick’s neck… move?

Richard Parker: Okay, but just hear me out. What if it’s like full of baby spiders, and then FLAMBO squeezes too hard, and it pops, and we all have to fight off an army of killer baby spiders?

Nick Stuart: Killer spiders?

Richard Parker: I’ve seen movies, Nick. I know how this works.

He swears it wasn’t in that spot a minute ago, though it’s hard to say whether that’s actually the case. Somehow, despite having maybe leaked all over his arm a moment prior, the Grumpus feels harder, turgid.

It reminds him of the awkward conversation that every guy has with their doctor about checking for lumps, right before you have to turn your head and cough. Is that what’s that feels like? When your hand finds a rock-hard mass amidst the soft flesh?

Seriously, when the hell did Fred Dick get testicular cancer of the neck?

HOW the hell did Fred Dick get ball cancer in his throat?

And why are his hands grazing FLAMBERGE’s nipple area again?

Once more, the Lizard King breaks his own hold as he tries to make sense of what’s going on with his opponent’s body and to formulate a new game plan.

This gives Fred time to get back to his feet. He has just enough time to point at FLAMBERGE and make a gesture with both hands that roughly translates to, “I’m going to rip both of your nipples off,” before a jumping roundhouse connects with his jaw. Fred Dick takes air, spinning twice before landing on the mat.

Nick Stuart: FLAMBERGE with a brilliant kick! He makes the cover!

ONE!

It’s a rather unorthodox pinning situation, given the reluctance of FLAMBERGE to get too close to Fred’s neck again.

TWO!

THRRRRRrrrrrr…

Daytona Diamonds pulls Ashley Barlow out of the ring.

Nick Stuart: I think we’re about to have one less Whoresman at ringside, Richard.

There is a war of words going on between Diamonds and Barlow outside the ring, the latter none too pleased with the fact she was just prevented from doing her job. In the confusion and chaos around the Daytona’s ejection, Anna Daniels slides a chair into the ring towards her friend and stablemate.

Unfortunately for the Whoresmen, the chair is intercepted by a wily lizard. FLAMBERGE raises it high…

OOOOOOOOOOOHHHH!!

Maybe it’s a low blow. Maybe Fred Dick is just trying to repay the favor by checking FLAMBERGE for lumps in his nethers.

Nick Stuart: Low blow! Low blow by Fred Dick while the referee was out of position!

Richard Parker: It might be time for a new fabby. I think this one’s defective. It just stands there.

The chair falls out of FLAMBERGE’s hand, and Ashley Barlow doesn’t bother asking any questions about it when she slides back into the ring. She simply kicks it away under the bottom rope. Fred Dick drops an elbow on the now-downed FLAMBERGE.

ONE!

Nick Stuart: Fred Dick with the cover!

TWO!

Nick Stuart: Fred Dick about to advance to the finals!

THR-NO!!

Fred takes a moment to have himself a little temper tantrum in the ring, laying on his stomach and pounding the mat with both of his hands while he kicks his feet in the air. By the time he makes it to his feet, he’s met with an irate FLAMBERGE who traps him around the waist and drives him to the mat with a belly to back suplex.

The Lizard King doesn’t relent. He keeps his grip tight around Fred’s waist, pulling him back to his feet before slamming him down again with another suplex.

Nick Stuart: A third suplex! FLAMBERGE looking to put this one away!

Richard Parker: Oh, is that what he’s doing? I thought he was trying to find a way to pop that neck boil-pimple-thing without touching it.

Nick Stuart: FLAMBERGE up… Measuring Fred Dick…

Richard Parker: I bet we could get a whole TLC show about it. Dr. Pimple Popper would have a field day.

Once again, FLAMBERGE tries to lock in the Marie Antoinette, and this time it’s in the dead center of the ring. He works his arm into position, trying to ignore the throbbing, pulsing mass squirming against his skin.

Richard Parker: Unless it’s full of murder spiders. Probably still be a good episode, though.

For Fred’s part, both of his arms sticking straight out to the sides, and shaking with tension as he tries to summon the strength for what comes next. Then, in a flash, both of his hands snap open and he begins making pinchy crab movements with his fingers. Before FLAMBERGE can react, both of his nipples are locked in a death grip.

Fred Dick: HUULLRLDJSKHSKNNKKKKK!!!!

FLAMBERGE: AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!

FLAMBERGE tries to tighten his grip, and he feels the Grumpus shift past his forearm. There’s no time to think too much about it, because there is an electric pain shooting through his body centered at his nips.

Fred Dick: BLUGGGHGRRRRRGGGHHHHHHHNNNNNNN!!!

FLAMBERGE: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!

Fred’s fingers begin frantically twisting and turning, the motions of a scared soldier trapped in a foxhole that’s desperate to call in that air strike to his position. All the bombs, sir. Right here. Every last fucking one of them.

Both men work their legs as they try to will themselves through the pain and pressure caused by the other. They slowly turn in a circle, their legs moving with the rhythm of a galloping horse.

Nick Stuart: Ummm…

Referee Barlow stands stock still, her hands out by her sides and her jaw slightly agape. Of all the directions she saw this match going, “reverse centaur” was not one of them.

Richard Parker: Relatable, you know?

Nick Stuart: …what?!

Richard Parker: Bad experience in a 2-person horse costume a few years ago.

Both men release their grip on the other in unison. Fred Dick stumbles back into the corner, his face a vibrant shade of red matched only by his Bulls jersey. FLAMBERGE retreats back into the opposite corner, his nipples also incredibly red, which is more than anyone wants to think about dem FLAMBO titties.

Nick Stuart: You know how I was saying earlier that I have eyes that work?

Richard Parker: I do.

Nick Stuart: Sometimes… like right now… I wish I didn’t

Breathing heavy, both men move towards the center of the ring again. They circle, but it’s Fred who makes the first move by launching a slap at FLAMBERGE. The Phenom rolls with it, retaliating with a high kick to Fred’s upper arm. The Street Cat tries to shake it off, throwing a strike with the other arm. Again FLAMBERGE snaps back with a kick that catches Fred in the bicep.

Fred lunges forward with a headbutt that connects, but FLAMBERGE comes back with a judo throw that uses Fred’s own weight against him. He maintains control of Fred’s arm, holding it place before driving a stomp down on the elbow.

FLAMBERGE leans down to get a better grip, but Fred responds by throwing a backhand chop – complete with karate noises – that catches FLAMBERGE in the throat. He gets to his feet, and fires off a flurry of slaps that all look to have his opponent rattled. Sensing an opening, Fred builds up some momentum and hits the ropes.

Fred Dick: BLOOD MOOOOOODDDDE!!!

Nick Stuart: It’s countered!

As Fred swung with his outstretched arm, FLAMBERGE took him by the wrist into an over the shoulder throw.

Richard Parker: That’s Article 51! That’s Cecilworth Farthington’s finisher!

The King of Wrong Style tries to claw his way free, but it’s hard to grab a man’s nipples when he’s got one of your arms trapped, and his legs are pressed down on your own chest. Fred reaches up with his free hand, but FLAMBERGE is able to lean back. A wave of pain travels the length of Fred’s arm.

Nick Stuart: Fred scrambling! He’s reaching for the ropes! Can he break free?!?!

Anna Daniels reaches in underneath the bottom rope, trying to take Fred’s hand. Their fingers come so close.

Ashley Barlow kicks Anna’s hand away.

DING DING DING

Nick Stuart: He tapped! Fred Dick was forced to tap out, and now FLAMBERGE goes on to the finals of the Almasy Tournament!

Richard Parker: And he’s got history with both men in our next match. He defended the Intense Championship against Chandler Tsonda, and took the Universal Championship from Ivan Stanislav!

Nick Stuart: And you have to think that both of those men would love a chance to get a win back, especially on a stage like this!

And here’s Vince Howard to make it official.

Vince Howard: The winner of this match, moving on to the finals of the AAAAAAAAAAAAALMASY TOURNAMENT… FLAAAAAAAAAAMBEERRRRRGE!!!

Fred rolls out of the ring to commiserate with his friend as FLAMBERGE celebrates near fabby. You don’t celebrate with fabby because fabby is not people.

Nick Stuart: Fans, don’t go anywhere. We’ve still got a hell of an evening in store for you. We’ll be back with more action after this.

We fade elsewhere.

Camera up and…wait, that’s not an Almasy semifinal.

That’s just concrete.

And not, like, particularly good concrete.

Someone is losing their mind in the production tent right now, saying something like:

“Goddamn, how many times do we have to talk to Brent about going to take a piss while his camera’s on the live feed” or “We go to all the trouble of figuring out how to get a freakin’ GRUMPUS shot at the right camera angle, and then cut to a nothing slab of concrete.”

Hard pan up and it starts to make sense. The big muckety-mucks in the production tent can clear those Apple Watch notifications that say: variance in heart rate detected, consider seeking medical attention.

That’s not just any concrete. It’s the floor just outside the Argyle position.

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Huge fans of the Argyle here at ReV tonight. Or maybe huge fans of concrete?

Ah, no. Wait.

Whip pan to: a shadowboxer. A real handsome one. Thus: big, loud, roof-go-thump ovation.

No, they’re not fans of shadowboxing.

Or should it be tshadowboxing?

Yeah, him. It’s Chandler Tsonda.

And he’s three heartbeats away from the Almasy finals. In keeping with what’s mostly been his MO during the tournament, there’s no bluster and bombast. Nothing to say. Monk mode, silent and probably thinking about doing some real nasty stuff to survive and advance.

He folds forward, stretching out a weary old spine.

There must be a lot of production people walking around the area, because it sounds like a herd of people approaching. Of course, the Viet Viper has more important things to worry about than a herd of technicians.

Course, what if it’s a herd of communists? With at least one Bear in it?

The voice sounds less like it would come from a bear though, and more from a weasel.

“Well well well… Chandler Tsonda…”

As the camera zooms out, it’s Alexei Ruslan, with Ivan Stanislav behind him, and Arina Timofeyevna to one side, and Speedy Riggs to the other. It’s not the whole Red Army, but add any of their number + a four hundred pound Russian and it’s already well beyond “trouble.”

Tsonda straightens up like his sergeant just walked in. He makes no secret of changing the orientation of his body so that he faces towards the four Red Army members, and sneers at Ruslan in particular.

Chandler Tsonda: The “fuck off” is implied at this point, I think.

He makes a dismissive “off with you” hand gesture.

Chandler Tsonda: Make yourself scarce. (points to the ring) I’m going out there first. I got nothing to say to you and your diseased livestock.

Ruslan doesn’t take his eyes from Chandler, staring daggers at him.

Alexei Ruslan: You hear that, Arina? What he says about us? About you?

Ivan growls overhead while Arina says nothing, instead glancing at the floor. The Russian Bear makes a point to show his teeth, and drags his tongue along a tooth.

Ivan Stanislav: You think we make it three for three, Chandler? Three matches we have. Three matches I win. Three matches you leave on stretcher?

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

Ivan Stanislav: By the way, how is Jasmine?

If you’re tuning in this week for the first time: hey, enjoy the concrete. But also, you should know that this is the equivalent of bringing a nuke to a gunfight.

And Tsonda might be expected to start the proceedings early, and let the fists fly.

The Model Citizen doesn’t stir. He is eerily still.

Chandler Tsonda: No one is smaller and more feeble than you, Bear. And you know what tickles my pickle?

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

Chandler Tsonda: No amount of beating me senseless will ever change that. Nothing can fill the emptiness inside you. Nothing can fix how small you are inside. I guess that’s like, ironic, given your freakish Manute Bol proportions.

The Model Citizen doesn’t have the typical razzle dazzle to his words. He is cutting and to the point.

Chandler Tsonda: And all I have to do, is go out there and beat you once, take that spot in the Almasy final from you, and the emptiness inside you will consume you. It will eat you alive. Because in spite of being part brontosaurus or whatever, you’re a weak. Little. Boy.

He flicks a poison glance at Alexei, before turning back to Ivan.

Chandler Tsonda: By the way, how’s the tooth?

The Russian Bear leans down, almost daring Tsonda to take a swing at his huge skull.

Ivan Stanislav: It reminds me of your negligence, Chandler. Each and every day. It was worth it.

Ruslan chimes in behind Ivan.

Alexei Ruslan: And do not even THINK you are the one going out first, you snake in the grass!!

As if on cue, a technician chimes in from off camera.

Technician: Mr. Tsonda? You’re going out first!

Ruslan’s expression drops, but Ivan doesn’t move his head away from Chandler, staring straight at him.

Ivan Stanislav: You are dead man walking, Tsonda. And you know it.

Chandler Tsonda: (wags his finger) Don’t let me get this one, Ivan.

The Model Citizen has to do a funky sidestep towards the curtain. The message is clear: he won’tl show the Red Army his back. Ever. He knows what Alexei Ruslan does with knives and backs.

Tsonda looks to the curtain. He can almost smell the sizzle of pyro, can almost hear the tired voice saying ‘Kiss me, you’re beautiful.’

Chandler Tsonda: And I know I said it was implied, but I’m not really one for subtlety. So, ya know, fuck off.

Stanislav has since straightened his back and grinds his teeth, but doesn’t once take his eyes off of Chandler.

Alexei snarls.

Alexei Ruslan: On poluchit svoye… (He’ll get his…)

ReVival moves on.

Nick Stuart: Folks, our next match is going to be a doozy and one that if UltraViolence is any indicator, is going to be one not for the weak at heart.

Richard Parker: These two are going to absolutely destroy their bodies here.

Nick Stuart: Ivan Stanislav. Chandler Tsonda. The winner is going to face off against FLAMBERGE at Ascension to crown the winner of this year’s Almasy Tournament and secure a main event shot at the Universal Title on Night 2 of Colossus.

Richard Parker: If they survive.

In the ring, Vince Howard is ready to do his job.

Vince Howard: The following match is one fall and is a semi-final match for the Almasy Tournament! Introducing first…

“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.

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, and finally acknowledges his opponent. Tsonda bounces on his toes, mouthing something that’s inaudible to anyone but him.

Vince Howard: Hailing from San Diego, California by way of Hanoi, Vietnam, he is the PRIME Hall of Famer! THE MODEL CITIZEN! CHAAAAAAAAAAAANDLER! TSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSONDA!

Nick Stuart: I shudder to think the lengths these two will go to after their WarChamber match.

Richard Parker: It’s going to be nothing short of brutal.

Tsonda stands in the ring, ready for his war to begin.

Crowd noise surges as Vince Howard lifts the microphone… only to pause as Alexei Ruslan comes storming down the entryway.

Nick Stuart: Oh no… here we go again.

Richard Parker: Here comes the man who tells the truth better than anyone else in this business!

Ruslan slides into the ring and snatches the microphone from Vince Howard. He waves him away. The Russian grins, fixes his hat, lifts his chin, and booms into the mic.

Alexei Ruslan: Laaaadiiiies and gentlemen!! My name is Alexei Gregorovich Ruslan, and I have the honor to introduce the greatest living legend in our sport!

He pauses, hand over his heart, staring directly into the hard cam.

Alexei Ruslan: You see, tonight we face Chandler Tsonda. Yes, -that- Tsonda.

Ruslan points a finger over at Tsonda and smirks.

Alexei Ruslan: The man who loves the camera more than he loves any of you! The man who spends more time preening than fighting. The man who has a bad habit of getting his own mentees hurt!

Ruslan sneers at the camera.

Alexei Ruslan: Yet, history tells the story, comrades. Thirty ReVivals ago, at ReVival 44, Chandler Tsonda and that thumb-sucker Nate Colton thought they could stand in the shadow of Ivan Stanislav, and Mr. Tsonda left on a stretcher!

Alexei chuckles cruelly.

Alexei Ruslan: Then, at UltraViolence, Ivan crushed him. Before that, even, when he stuck his nose in our business? Ivan crushed him. And tonight, nothing will change. Nothing! It does not matter if it’s in a cage, or a tag match, or the Almasy Semifinals! Chandler Tsonda will always bend, and then break, in the wake of Ivan Stanislav and the comrades of The Red Army!

Richard Parker: Ha! He’s right! History is a bear trap, Nick, and Tsonda keeps stepping in it.

Nick Stuart: That’s one interpretation…

Ruslan points a finger at Tsonda.

Alexei Ruslan: You fancy yourself a finalist, but you’re just another almost-was. Another face in the pile of broken dreams at Ivan’s feet. My comrade has destroyed stronger men. He has endured greater enemies. You are just a warm-up for something better!

He grows louder, eyes blazing.

Alexei Ruslan: And make no mistake, Ivan Stanislav is not only the strongest wrestler walking this earth, not only the embodiment of Russia herself, but… he is my brother. My comrade! My family!! And tonight, once again, he will remind Chandler Tsonda, and every single one of you, that the Bear does not fall. The Bear endures!

Alexei straightens his back.

Alexei Ruslan: He is unstoppable! He is unbeatable! He is indefatigable!

Ruslan sweeps his hand to the entryway. The lights bleed crimson. A massive Soviet banner unfurls across the PRIMEtron. The opening chords of the Soviet National Anthem thunder through the Nationwide Arena.

BOOM!!

Vertical pyro ignites across the stage, a wall of fire.

Alexei Ruslan: He hails from Mother Russia! From the proud city of Arkhangelsk! He stands seven-foot-one inches tall! He weighs four hundred pounds! He is a two-time Universal Champion! He is The Russian Bear! The Soviet Giant! Russia’s most favored son! He is IVAAAAAAAANNNNN STAAAAANNNISSSSLAAAAAVVV!!!

The Soviet National Anthem by the Russian Red Army Choir blares as another wall of fire erupts, and smoke floods the entryway.

Behind it, the shadow emerges.

Ivan Stanislav.

He steps forward through the haze, vast and immovable, clad in black shirt, crimson suspenders. His face is carved from stone. He does not roar. He does not wave. He simply is.

At his side… Arina Timofeyevna. Dressed in her uniform, hands folded before her, she walks quietly beside the giant. Not smiling. Not posturing. Simply there.

The crowd erupts in a storm of hatred, boos rattling the rafters of Nationwide Arena. But the anthem swells, drowning them, carrying Ivan forward.

Richard Parker: Look at that, Nick! Arina walking beside him! She’s no combatant, but who wouldn’t feel safe next to The Russian Bear? Well, other than Chandler Tsonda? That’s loyalty! That’s strength!

Nick Stuart: Well, I have to say I don’t have a bad word to say about Ms. Timofeyevna… but I don’t care for her being so close to ringside. Not that I’d think she’d do anything untoward, but there is a degree of danger to be had.

Ivan approaches the ring. He ascends the steel steps, each groaning under his weight, and steps over the top rope with ease.

Alexei Ruslan: And tonight, he does not walk alone. The daughter of the Red Army, Arina Timofeyevna, walks with him! With us! As good communists do!!

Arina stares up at Stanislav and doesn’t react to Ruslan, instead there’s concern in her eyes.

Alexei greets Ivan inside, hand over his heart. The two men clasp wrists in a comrade’s grip before both raise their arms together, towering over the jeers.

Meanwhile, Arina remains at ringside. Quiet. Steadfast. Present.

Inside the ring, the Bear looms, Alexei at his side. Together, they are not a spectacle. They are a statement.

Nick Stuart: There they stand. The Red Army. Every individual in the Almasy Tournament has had their own group to back them up, save for Chandler Tsonda. Will he make history here and finally beat The Russian Bear? Even if he does… and I know he can… I don’t think it’ll ever change anything. I think the hatred and vitriol between these two men will never stop.

Richard Parker: Ivan doesn’t waste time with grudges, Nick. That’s what makes him stronger than Tsonda. He just keeps winning.

Ruslan embraces Stanislav tightly, and then tosses the mic out of the ring and slides to ringside, next to Arina. He winks and nods at her, once, and then motions up towards Ivan with a beaming look on his face while the crowd continues to rain down boos.

Stanislav bellows, once, and flexes his arms, bounces off the ropes and stomps on the mat, and prepares for yet another battle with the legendary Viet Viper.

Nick Stuart: The Red Army is unified. Alexei by his side, Arina watching from ringside, and Ivan looming over it all. Chandler Tsonda faces not just a man, but perhaps, a movement.

Nixon gives his final set of instructions and signals for the start of the match.

DING DING

The bell rings and Tsonda explodes forward with a running dropkick to Ivan’s left knee. The giant stumbles but Tsonda immediately kips-up, hops onto the middle rope, and connects with a springboard basement dropkick to the same knee. Chandler pops up and fires three rapid shin kicks to Ivan’s thigh, then spins with a back kick to the hamstring before the Russian Bear can even lift his arms to defend!

Richard Parker: And Tsonda is coming roaring out of the gate!

Nick Stuart: You think that Tsonda is remembering his last match against Stanislav?

Richard Parker: How could he forget?! That was one of the more brutal matches I’ve ever witnessed. I’d rather not think about it if you ask me.

Nick Stuart: Imagine living through it.

Richard Parker: I think not.

Ivan swipes with his massive right hand but Tsonda matrix-bends backward to dodge, immediately spins around behind him and delivers a chopblock to the back of Ivan’s left knee, causing Stanislav to buckle but he refuses to go down. The Model Citizen follows with a spinning heel kick to Ivan’s calf, then quickly rolls forward and pops up to nail a jumping knee strike to Ivan’s lower back as the big man staggers forward!

Nick Stuart: The game plan of Tsonda is quite clear right now, hit and run strikes — though his intensity is on a different plane right now. He’s targeting the base of Stanislav and hoping to chop him down a bit.

Richard Parker: This is definitely the strategy I expected Tsonda to employ this time out, but we know how dangerous such a strategy is. All it takes is one backhand from the Russian Bear and Tsonda is going to be seeing Tweety bird floating around out there.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think anyone talks about Tweety bird anymore.

Richard Parker: Well then, we’re not going to talk about my Tweety bird pajamas then.

Ivan stumbles and tries to catch himself on the ropes, but Tsonda is already moving—he springboards off the middle rope, flies through the air and connects with a flying forearm to the back of Ivan’s head. He lands in a perfect roll, bounces up and immediately attacks Ivan’s right leg with a dragon screw that finally drops the 400-pounder to one knee with a thunderous impact!

With Ivan on one knee, Tsonda measures him and fires a picture-perfect superkick that snaps the giant’s head back! He immediately bounces off the ropes behind Ivan and delivers a shining wizard knee strike that dazes the Russian Giant. Ivan fights his way back to his feet while Tsonda steps through the ropes and quickly leaps onto the top rope before launching himself into a missile dropkick that drives both boots into Ivan’s back, sending him crashing chest-first into the turnbuckles!

Richard Parker: Now, this is a strategy that could work the more I see of it. Yes, Tsonda is being the equivalent of an annoying gnat right now, but that dropkick that send Ivan chest-first into the turnbuckles has the opportunity to leave lasting damage.

Nick Stuart: I think Tsonda is laying it out all on the line right here and he knows he has to if he wants a chance to beat Stanislav. You’ve got to hit him with the proverbial kitchen sink if you want a chance. That’s why so few have managed to defeat him.

Richard Parker: Well, hitting him with an actual kitchen sink may not be a bad strategy.

Nick Stuart: And can get you disqualified.

Richard Parker: Technicalities.

As Tsonda lands and rolls to his feet, Ivan explodes out of the corner like an enraged bear and catches the charging cruiserweight mid-stride with a devastating clothesline that flips Tsonda inside-out. As Tsonda rushes back to his feet, Stanislav hoists him up into a one-handed military press. He holds Tsonda’s 187-pound frame high above his head with frightening ease while the crowd gasps, then, after holding him for five full seconds, launches him like a lawn dart clear across the ring, where he crashes spine-first into the opposite corner with such force that the ring shakes!

CRASH

Nick Stuart: Stanislav making it known the difference between Tsonda and himself.

Richard Parker: Yes. One is breathing. The other is not.

Nick Stuart: It’s not quite that dire.

Richard Parker: Pretty close.

Tsonda crumples to the mat but immediately rolls toward the center of the ring as Ivan lumbers forward. He slides between the giant’s legs on his stomach, spins around and kips up behind him, then delivers a perfect dropkick to Ivan’s lower back that sends him stumbling chest-first into the same corner where Tsonda just crashed, the turnbuckles rattling from the impact.

With Ivan momentarily stunned in the corner, Tsonda unleashes pure fury—he spins Stanislav around and delivers two vicious knife-edge chops that echo through the arena!

WHACK! WHACK!

He follows with a jumping knee to Ivan’s kidney that makes the big man grunt in pain, quickly climbs to the middle rope and fires six rapid-fire forearm strikes to the back of Ivan’s skull, then hops down before heading to the opposite corner and runs full speed at Ivan before delivering a basement dropkick to Ivan’s left knee.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda showing off that ‘never quit’ attitude.

Richard Parker: He’s going to need every single ounce of that because I can still see him wincing off just a few of Ivan’s moves while Tsonda is emptying the cart on him.

Nick Stuart: It begs the question if it makes sense to go this way or to try and drag out this match as long as possible and hope the conditioning of Stanislav leaves him vulnerable in the latter stages of the match.

Richard Parker: It’s a thought, but you might need to do both.

Ivan attacks with murderous intent, swinging a massive backhand that could take someone’s head off as he roars out of the corner, but Tsonda reads it perfectly and drops into a baseball slide between Ivan’s legs! He pops up behind him and delivers another chopblock, then immediately follows with a leg sweep that causes the off-balance giant to fall backward and get his massive arms tangled between the top and middle ropes like a trapped animal!

Tsonda feeds off the energy and strikes like lightning—he delivers a running knee strike to Ivan’s exposed ribs that lifts the big man off his feet despite being trapped! He then unloads with a series of right forearm strikes that catch Ivan flush across the jaw. Tsonda then climbs to the top of the nearby turnbuckle and connects with a dropkick that lands flush with the side of the Russian Bear’s skull.

LET’S GO TSONDA! LET’S GO TSONDA!

Richard Parker: The fans here are fully behind Tsonda and he is rewarding them thus far. I don’t think that’s going to last too much longer though.

Nick Stuart: Always the pessimist.

Richard Parker: Actually, realist. Ivan isn’t going down that easily.

Nick Stuart: Well, that’s a fair point.

As Ivan finally tears himself free from the ropes with a primal roar that shakes the building, Tsonda charges forward looking to hit his Runway Vault and potentially end this early! But Ivan’s veteran instincts kick in and he catches Tsonda’s incoming body perfectly by the throat with his massive right hand! He deadlifts him off the ground with terrifying ease and holds him there suspended eight feet in the air as Tsonda’s legs kick frantically!

Ivan’s eyes burn with pure rage while Alexei jumps up and down at ringside screaming encouragement in Russian, the entire momentum shift happening in one bone-chilling moment that reminds everyone why Ivan Stanislav is called The Russian Bear.

Nick Stuart: Oh man, Tsonda is in a dangerous position

Richard Parker: Did I call it or did I call it?

Nick Stuart: I mean, nothing has happened yet.

Richard Parker: I don’t care as long as I’m right. And I’m about to be right.

Ivan holds Tsonda suspended by the throat for ten seconds while glaring murderously at the crowd, then delivers a devastating Iron Curtain – lifting him even higher before dropping him and connecting with a short-arm clothesline that sends Tsonda flying completely out of the ring and crashing spine-first into the barricade with such force that it separates and sends front row fans scattering. Ivan immediately follows him outside and grabs Tsonda by the throat again, this time chokeslamming him directly onto the concrete floor with a sickening thud as Alexei Ruslan yells his approval in Russian

CRASH

HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!

Richard Parker: Clean up on aisle 5, I repeat clean up on aisle 5.

Nick Stuart: This moment was always coming and Ivan is exacting as much damage as he can on the Model Citizen.

Richard Parker: The reality is… you have to surive Ivan. There’s no simply beating him. You survive and hope for a miracle.

Nick Stuart: Well, we know what part of the story we’re in now.

Ivan stalks the crumpled Tsonda like a predator and drags him up by the hair, military pressing his 187-pound frame overhead with frightening ease before launching him spine-first into the ring post with a metallic clang that echoes throughout the arena. He immediately grabs Tsonda’s legs and catapults him face-first into the post again, busting him open as blood begins to trickle down his forehead, before whipping him as hard as possible into the steel steps and exploding them apart on impact while Tsonda crumples in a heap.

CLANG

CRASH

Nick Stuart: Well, fans, we might be closer to the UltraViolence match between these two then we originally intended for the match to be.

Richard Parker: I mean, how much blood does Tsonda have to lose to Ivan in order to realize he just shouldn’t step foot in the ring with him?

NIck Stuart: And what, give up?

Richard Parker: He’s got the Golden Ticket! He retired Cancer Jiles, thank Hoyt! What more does he need? He has a guaranteed shot at the title anyways.

Ivan rolls the bloodied Tsonda back into the ring and begins his methodical annihilation – he delivers a massive stalling vertical suplex, holding Tsonda upside down for twenty seconds to let the blood rush to his head and drip onto the canvas before crashing him down with earth-shaking impact. He immediately deadlifts him again and transitions into a bone-crushing bearhug that lifts Tsonda’s feet completely off the mat while squeezing the air from his lungs, Ivan’s massive arms constricting around Tsonda like a python.

THUD

Nick Stuart: Elvis Nixon checking on Tsonda to see if he wants to submit, but I don’t see that happening.

Richard Parker: Once again, why not?! Tap out, rest up until ReVival 77 or so and then go up against Farthington or Diamonds. You don’t have the wear and tear on your body, you don’t have to wrestle in two weeks time, it would be genius.

Nick Stuart: That’s one way to do it, but I don’t think that’s the Tsonda way.

Richard Parker: That’s because this Tsonda sucks. ReVolution-era Tsonda would’ve had my brains.

Ivan cinches the bearhug tighter as Tsonda’s face turns purple and his arms go limp, but when Nixon lifts Tsonda’s arm for the third time it stays up. Tsonda fires a series of desperate elbows to Ivan’s skull, then boxes his ears with both hands simultaneously, breaks the hold by raking Ivan’s eyes, and immediately hits a dropkick to Ivan’s knee that staggers the giant. This opens the door for Tsonda to bounce off the ropes and connect with a flying forearm that actually rocks Ivan backward into the corner.

Richard Parker: Come on, an eye rake?!

Nick Stuart: What happened to doing what it takes?! Anyways, Tsonda battling back and you have to know that was coming.

Richard Parker: You want me to tell you what happens then?

Nick Stuart: No.

Tsonda tries to build momentum with a running knee in the corner, but Ivan explodes out and catches him with a massive big boot to the face that turns him inside out. He immediately pulls Tsonda up and delivers a gutwrench suplex that launches Tsonda clear across the ring. The Russian Bear follows up with a running knee drop to Tsonda’s ribs before pulling him up again. He drags Tsonda through the ropes and stands on the ring aprons before hoisting him up to his shoulders. A moment passes before Stanislav leaps off the apron — with Tsonda on his shoulders — and connects with Kurchatov’s Bomb. Tsonda crashes through the announce table in an explosion of wood, electronics, and paper that sends Nick Stuart and Richard Parker diving for cover.

CRASH

SMASH

Richard Parker: Holy hell! What the hell is Ivan doing?!

Nick Stuart: The murder, Richard. The big murder.

Richard Parker: Well, we don’t do that around here.

Nick Stuart: You tell him that.

Richard Parker: No, no, I’m good.

With the announce table destroyed and debris scattered everywhere, Ivan gets back to his feet and drags Tsonda’s motionless body from the wreckage like a rag doll. He then rolls him back into the ring before climbing onto the second turnbuckle and delivering a massive jumping legdrop across Tsonda’s throat that makes his whole body convulse. Stanislav transitions into a stalling elbow drop before finally making an arrogantly casual cover with just one massive boot placed across Tsonda’s battered body

ONE

TWO

THR–NO!

OHHHHHHH!

Tsonda somehow kicks out at two and seven-eighths, his shoulder barely getting up as the crowd explodes. This sends Ivan into a rage – he pulls Tsonda up by the hair and sets up for Stalin’s Sickle, but Tsonda desperately spits blood in Ivan’s face, slips behind him while the giant wipes his eyes, and manages to hit a surprise Runway Vault that connects perfectly, the turnbuckle forward somersault three-quarter facelock jawbreaker dropping both men as the crowd erupts!

LET’S GO TSONDA! LET’S GO TSONDA!

Nick Stuart: Listen to this crowd!

Richard Parker: I think the word of the day is hubris because Ivan messed up royally with that weak-ass cover.

Nick Stuart: Yeah, that was the wrong decision there from Ivan and it’s cost him dearly. Both men laid out after Tsonda hit that Runway Vault, but he hasn’t been able to capitalize on it.

Richard Parker: That’s probably going to also bite Tsonda in the ass.

Both wrestlers are down for a full eight count as the crowd counts along with Nixon. Then, Tsonda crawls through his own blood and exhausion toward Ivan and drapes an arm across his chest for a cover that gets an agonizingly long count.

ONE

TWO

THR–NO!

Ivan powers out by literally bench-pressing Tsonda off of him with such force that he flies backward into the ropes, bounces off and stumbles forward, but Ivan immediately rises to hiso feet and catches him with a massive lariat that turns Tsonda completely inside out and leaves both men down again.

WHACK

Richard Parker: Both men laid out AGAIN!

Nick Stuart: These two are laying it all out on the line. There hasn’t been a moment of rest between these two and you have to imagine Ivan’s legs are stinging and Tsonda has lost a good amount of blood.

Richard Parker: That’s going to be what stops Tsonda short.

Nick Stuart: Stop it, you don’t know that.

Ivan gets to his feet first but he’s staggering and shaking his head violently to clear the cobwebs from the Runway Vault, blood now trickling from a small cut above his eye where Tsonda’s desperate strikes connected. Tsonda uses the ropes to pull himself up, his white trunks now stained crimson, his back clearly damaged from the powerbomb through the table, but his eyes burning with a fire that shows he’d rather die than quit as he staggers toward the center of the ring.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda is refusing to stay down.

Richard Parker: He should listen to me then. Stay down.

Nick Stuart: I doubt he’s going to listen to you.

Richard Parker: Me too.

Both men lock eyes across the ring and simultaneously charge at each other with everything they have left – Ivan looking for a decapitating lariat while Tsonda attempts a do-or-die flying forearm. They collide in the exact center of the ring with such tremendous force that the impact can be heard in the cheap seats, both men’s bodies crumpling to the mat in a twisted heap as the crowd is on their feet in stunned silence, then erupts into the loudest reaction of the night as both warriors lie motionless!

CRASH

HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!

THIS IS AWESOME! THIS IS AWESOME!

Richard Parker: Has this reached blood feud status? These two are just throwing their bodies into one another and that only really works for one of the two.

Nick Stuart: Needless to say, the stakes in this match are a bit elevated when you consider the fact that Tsonda is coming off a loss against Stanislav back in June that he definitely wants to gain back.

Richard Parker: At what cost?

Nick Stuart: Clearly at any cost.

Both men slowly rise to their feet simultaneously at the count of nine, blood streaming down both faces as they stagger toward each other and begin trading massive haymakers in the center of the ring! Ivan’s sledgehammer punches rock Tsonda’s head back while Tsonda fires rapid combinations of elbows and forearms. This culminates in Ivan catching Tsonda’s arm and whipping him into the ropes only for Tsonda to springboard back with a tornado DDT that spikes Ivan’s head into the canvas.

WHACK

CRACK

THIS IS AWESOME! THIS IS AWESOME!

But the giant immediately no-sells it and pops back up with murder in his eyes.

Nick Stuart: How in the hell did Stanislav just pop back up like that?! Stanislav looks like he wants to rip Tsonda apart!

Richard Parker: Yes, I’m going to call this a very bad thing.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda better do something fast or else this match could be over in the blink of an eye.

Richard Parker: I suggest running.

Ivan grabs Tsonda and unleashes a devastating suplex clinic – starting with a massive German suplex that folds Tsonda in half, immediately deadlifting him for a second German, then a third, before transitioning into a release overhead belly-to-belly that launches Tsonda across the ring. Tsonda, dazed and out of it, slowly makes his way to his feet. Ivan then charges for a big boot, but Tsonda — out of pure instinct — drop toe holds him face-first into the middle turnbuckle, then hits a running knee strike to the back of Ivan’s skull, followed by a bulldog that drives the giant’s face into the canvas!

THUD

SMACK

Richard Parker: Well, that didn’t go nearly as bad as I thought it was.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda just staying fluid enough to not allow Ivan to get any momentum there!

Richard Parker: Talking about Tsonda’s fluids, I’ve heard a rumor–

Nick Stuart: Nope, not doing that with you right now.

Tsonda climbs to the top rope despite his damaged back and launches into his Perfect 10 suicide springboard corkscrew body press, but Ivan catches him mid-air and transitions into a devastating fallaway slam that sends Tsonda crashing into the corner. Tsonda pulls himself up using the ropes and Ivan immediately follows up with a running corner splash only for Tsonda to desperately move at the last second, sending Ivan crashing chest-first into the corner. This allows Tsonda to school boy him for a surprise pinfall attempt.

Nick Stuart: Could Tsonda pull this off here?!

Richard Parker: Not a chance in hell.

ONE

TWO—NO!

Ivan explodes out of the pin attempt and immediately locks in a standing surfboard stretch that threatens to snap Tsonda’s spine. Tsonda, though, manages to slip out and counter into his Breathtaker cobra clutch, cinching it tight as Ivan’s face turns red! The giant uses his size advantage to ram Tsonda backward into the corner to break the hold, then immediately spins around and crushes him with a massive corner lariat before pulling him out and delivering a snap powerslam for a near-fall!

ONE

TWO

THR—NO!

Richard Parker: HOW DID TSONDA KICK OUT OF THAT?!

Nick Stuart: Tsonda refuses to stay down! You have to know that Ivan thought it was over there.

Richard Parker: Everyone in this arena thought it was over!

Nick Stuart: And yet…

Ivan signals for The Red Scare and lifts Tsonda for the vertical release suplex, but Tsonda slips behind him and attempts a springboard version of The Model Citizen moonsault. Ivan moves at the last second causing Tsonda to crash hard onto the canvas, then Ivan immediately pulls him up and connects with Stalin’s Sickle facepalm chokeslam!

CRACK

ONE

TWO

THRE—NO!

OHHHHHHH!

Tsonda somehow kicks out at two and fifteen-sixteenths, causing Ivan to lose his mind and start arguing with Nixon. With Ivan distracted by the referee argument, Alexei Ruslan slides his collapsible baton into the ring, but Tsonda spots it and baseball slides it back out of the ring into Ruslan’s face, dropping him to the floor. Tsonda immediately hits a suicide dive through the ropes that wipes out Ruslan completely, but this gives Ivan time to recover before he follows Tsonda outside with a massive big boot that nearly takes his head off against the barricade!

CRASH

WHACK

Nick Stuart: That no good Alexei!

Richard Parker: He did exactly what he was supposed to do! It is Tsonda who must ignore these distractions and stay focus on Ivan.

Nick Stuart: …fine.

Richard Parker: See? That wasn’t so hard. Meanwhile, Arina is standing here looking absolutely terrified at all the destruction around her– wait, what is Ivan doing.

Ivan drags Tsonda over to the broken announcer table and begins to pull the equipment together into a nice spot on the floor. He then sets Tsonda up for a powerbomb through the remaining debris, but Tsonda sends a series of elbows to the top of Ivan’s skull, before countering with a hurricanrana that sends Ivan face-first into the ring steps! Ivan stumbles away from the steps, grabbing at his feet, before collapsing onto the remains of the announcer’s table. Tsonda immediately climbs onto the apron and delivers a picture-perfect springboard moonsault that crashes both men through the remaining table wreckage in an explosion of wood and metal as the crowd goes absolutely ballistic.

CRASH

SMASH

HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!

Richard Parker: They continue to destroy whatever is left of our table!

Nick Stuart: Monitors, wood panels, I mean, these two absolutely hate each other.

Richard Parker: That’s what it looks like.

Nick Stuart: Meanwhile, Nixon is counting and we might have ourselves a double countout!

Both men crawl back into the ring at the count of eight, completely exhausted and bloodied, but Ivan gets to his feet first and signals for another Iron Curtain, grabbing Tsonda by the throat. Tsonda fires a desperation superkick that rocks Ivan backward into the ropes, then immediately hits the Runway Vault perfectly, but Ivan somehow stays on his feet and catches Tsonda coming off the ropes for another move to put down the Russian Giant with a devastating spinebuster that nearly breaks him in half.

CRACK

Nick Stuart: That might be it for Tsonda! His body must be wracked with pain!

Richard Parker: I mean, I’m not sure what would have changed the other seventeen times his body has been tossed around haphazardly.

Nick Stuart: Well, exhaustion must be setting in.

Richard Parker: He’s got dried blood on his body, bruises, scrapes, I think we’re well past exhaustion.

Ivan drags Tsonda to the center of the ring and sets up for The Red Scare one final time, lifting him high for the vertical release suplex, but Tsonda somehow slips out again and lands behind Ivan, immediately leaping onto his back and locking in a sleeper hold. Ivan runs backward and crushes Tsonda against the corner to break it, then immediately turns around and lifts Tsonda to the top rope, climbing up for a superplex attempt.

Both men battle on the top rope with Ivan trying for a massive superplex while Tsonda fires desperate punches to Ivan’s ribs! Tsonda manages to shift his weight and hurricanrana Ivan off the top rope, but Ivan miraculously lands on his feet and immediately catches Tsonda coming down with The Red Scare vertical release suplex from the second rope, launching him clear across the ring with such devastating impact that the ring shakes and Tsonda’s body goes completely limp!

CRASH

OHHHHHHH!

Richard Parker: What did I just see?!

Nick Stuart: Ivan landed on his feet!

Richard Parker: And then caught Tsonda and hit him with The Red Scare!

Nick Stuart: Absolutely crazy and we might be just about done!

Ivan crawls over for what could be the three-count that ends this instant classic!

ONE

TWO

THRE—

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Tsonda’s shoulder shoots up at the absolute last possible millisecond, stunning Ivan and the entire arena as the crowd explodes into the loudest reaction of the night! Ivan sits up in complete disbelief and pounds the mat in frustration while Alexei Ruslan argues frantically with Elvis Nixon from the outside, insisting it was three.

OHHHHHHH!

YES! YES! YES!

Nick Stuart: Tsonda somehow managed to kick out of that!

Richard Parker: I have absolutely no idea how!

Nick Stuart: He’s got something deep in his gut that refuses him to quit!

Richard Parker: Oh, yeah. That.

Tsonda summons every ounce of strength left in his battered body and somehow makes it to the top rope, launching into a first Model Citizen high-arc moonsault that connects perfectly across Ivan’s chest! But the impact of landing aggravates Tsonda’s damaged back so much that his cover attempt is delayed, before he manages to drape his arm across the chest of the Russian Giant.

ONE

TWO

THR—NO!

OHHHHHHH!

Richard Parker: The Russian Bear is not done, I repeat, the Russian Bear is NOT done!

Nick Stuart: Tsonda is going to need to pull out all of hte stops here.

Richard Parker: Well, what else does he possibly have left?!

Nick Stuart: Hopefully something.

The Russian Bear explodes to his feet in rage and grabs Tsonda for what he thinks will be the final Iron Curtain, but his exhaustion betrays him and Tsonda slips out of his grasp, immediately countering with a desperation superkick that staggers Ivan backward into the corner where he slumps against the turnbuckles.

CRACK

Tsonda then yanks Ivan out of the corner and tosses him to the mat, where Ivan collapses. Despite his back screaming in agony, Tsonda climbs to the top rope again and delivers his second Model Citizen moonsault, this time with even more height and rotation, crashing down across Ivan’s prone form! Again the impact damages Tsonda’s spine further, but he drags his body across the chest of Stanislav as Nixon begins his count again.

CRASH

ONE

TWO

THRE—NO!

THIS IS AWESOME! THIS IS AWESOME!

Nick Stuart: And Ivan manages to kick out again!

Richard Parker: No one said it was easy putting down the Russian Bear.

Nick Stuart: It might be near impossible tonight.

Richard Parker: The odds usually tip in that direction.

As both men lie exhausted, Alexei Ruslan slides into the ring behind Nixon’s back as he checks on Ivan. Alexei clutches his collapsible baton and swings at Tsonda, but the Sultan of Style ducks and Ruslan accidentally cracks a rising Ivan across the skull with the weapon, dropping the Russian Bear!

CRACK

Nixon sees the baton and immediately ejects Ruslan from ringside amid chaos!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: Ruslan is out of here!

Richard Parker: After he hit an Ohtani like homerun across the skull of Ivan.

Nick Stuart: Ivan is getting back up to his feet while Tsonda is waving goodbye at Alexei as the Enemigos are out here to take him backstage!

With Ruslan being dragged away by security, Ivan uses the distraction to attempt one last Stalin’s Sickle facepalm chokeslam, but Tsonda rakes his eyes as Ivan spins him around and slips behind him, then hits a perfect Runway Vault that drops the giant to the canvas.

THUD

LET’S GO TSONDA! LET’S GO TSONDA!

Fighting through excruciating back pain that threatens to cripple him, Tsonda climbs to the top rope one final time, the crowd on their feet knowing this could be his last chance to put away the seemingly indestructible Russian Bear!

Richard Parker: He better take a steel chair with him if he wants to put Ivan away.

Nick Stuart: I think that would get him disqualified.

Richard Parker: It might be his only way.

Tsonda launches into another Model Citizen, this time achieving perfect height and rotation as the high-arc moonsault connects with devastating precision across Ivan’s chest! The impact echoes throughout the arena.

CRASH

Tsonda immediately hooks both of Ivan’s massive legs with everything he has left, and Nixon makes the count.

ONE

…

…

…

…

…

TWO

…

…

…

…

…

THREE!

DING DING DING

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: The crowd noise here is electric as Tsonda has conquered the Russian Bear!

Richard Parker: My goodness, I didn’t think it was possible.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda has punched himself a ticket to the Finals of the Almasy Tournament where he will square off against FLAMBERGE!

Richard Parker: I don’t think anyone is surprised that FLAMBERGE is there, but I definitely think many expected a rematch of Colossus 2023 at Ascension.

NIck Stuart: Well, Tsonda had other ideas.

Tsonda is slow to his feet, his body beaten and battered.

Vince Howard: Your winner… and the other finalist in the Almasy Tournament… CHAAAAAAAAAAAAAANDLER! TSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSONDA!

The fans erupt at the announcement as Nixon helps him to his feet, holding him up before calling for medical to come check out Tsonda.

Nick Stuart: What a battle from these two men. I’m just floored at the brutality they put themselves through… again.

Richard Parker: The question is… are we going to get another round out of these two?

Nick Stuart: Hopefully not for a while, for both of their sakes.

Outside of the ring, Arina is helping Ivan to his feet while medical checks on Tsonda before we cut to commercial.

ReVival returns from commercial to a ring removed of Chandler Tsonda and Ivan Stanislav and replaced with Lindsay Troy. The Queen’s had a busy night so far: finalizing the Universal Title match for Ascension; dealing with Alexei Ruslan’s continued tomfoolery. Now, she’s here, for reasons that aren’t quite clear.

Yet.

Lindsay Troy: Good evening, Columbus!

RAAAAAHHHHHH IT’S A HOMETOWN NAMEDROP POP!

Lindsay Troy: I wanted to come out here tonight, not to talk about what’s going to happen in two weeks at Ascension, but what’s going to be happening a little further in the future. Now, don’t get me wrong…..Ascension is going to be one hell of a show. We just saw the two finalists be decided for the Almasy tournament.

RAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!

Lindsay Troy: We have ourselves a Universal Title match booked.

RAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

Lindsay Troy: The Five Star Title match is sure to be a technical wrestling masterpiece.

RAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!

Lindsay Troy: We’ve got ourselves a handful of grudge matches…and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. But again, that’s not what I’m out here to talk about. What I really want to talk about is what’s going to happen next year. Specifically, what’s going to happen at Culture Shock.

RAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!

Richard Parker: Alright, can we keep the hype train moving along here, the faster the Boss talks, the faster I can get out of this godforsaken state.

Nick Stuart: Richard, shush.

Lindsay Troy: Now normally, I could handle an announcement like this myself, but, when I knew we’d be swinging through the Buckeye state, I thought maybe someone else could break the news. And so I made a call…

Lights out.

Cue “I Fucking Hate You” by Godsmack.

RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

And Nationwide Arena comes unglued for the hometown hero in a roar that can be heard from the state’s capitol all the way to Cincy and Cleveland. At the top of the entranceway, the Hall of Famer, “The Wrecking Ball,” “The Inhuman Being” Tchu steps out in front of a live crowd for the first time in over two years.

Nick Stuart: Wha…

Since we’ve last seen the three-time Universal Champion, his hair has grown and is pulled back in a neat bun. The silver & black is now much more salt than pepper. He looks every bit his 50 years.

He moves slowly, whether to soak in the moment or because his knees have long ago betrayed him. As the crowd roars, his pace quickens, eyes locked on the ring.

Nick Stuart: The Inhuman Being! Tchu! This is unbelievable!

Richard Parker: Well, he lives nearby. It’s not that unbelievable.

As Tchu approaches the ring, he shoots a small smile towards his old friend, then heads up the steel steps, wincing as he climbs.

Nick Stuart: Listen to this place! An ovation that loud can’t be good for our eardrums!

The Hall of Famer steps between the ropes, then crosses the squared circle, as The Queen of the Ring hands him the mic.

Tchu: Thanks for the invite.

Troy can be seen saying “Anytime” before making the universal ‘the floor is yours’ motion. Ward steps to the center of the ring and looks out at the crowd, taking a deep breath, soaking it all in with his fellow Buckeyes.

Tchu: O-H

Crowd: I-O!

Tchu: Had to start there.

Richard Parker: Oh brother.

Tchu: Ladies and gentlemen… It’s my honor to announce to you, the main event…

The Hall of Famer stops and takes another deep breath, having apparently forgotten how to make a big announcement sometime in the last few years

Tchu: At Culture Shock, the multi-man main event will be…

A rumble is building across the crowd in anticipation.

Tchu: …a… I, ya know, I don’t really give a shit what the main event at Culture Shock will be.

There’s a weird reaction in the crowd. Some gasps, some “ohhhh”s, awkward silence, a few cheers from the 12 year olds who pop for all the cool curse words.

Nick Stuart: What?

Tchu: I said I don’t give a shit about Culture Shock, Nick. Yeah, I heard ya.

The Inhuman Being steps towards the announcers and points.

Tchu: I ain’t gonna come out here like some press secretary, trotted out to make an announcement, smile, wave, then drag my ass to the back.

Richard Parker: Oh…

Tchu: No, if I’m going to stand in the middle of this ring again, with the great Lindsay Troy just a few feet away, then I’ve got a couple of things that I need to get off of my chest.

The Inhuman Being turns away from the ropes, from the thousands in the crowd… and he turns to gaze right towards Troy. Staring a hole right between the middle of her eyes.

The Queen lifts an eyebrow.

Tchu: Two and half years ago, I came back to this place… or I guess, specifically… this ring. Prior to that, I’d sat in the back, in a suit and tie, with a fancy VP title and watched as this place became something I didn’t recognize. Faces I didn’t know, relationships I didn’t care about… watched 250 episodes of history get dumped for some “revival.”

Richard Parker: Boy, this is some Culture Shock announcement, huh?

Nick Stuart: I’ll say that Lindsay Troy looks equal parts shocked and… less than pleased.

Ward takes a step towards the head of PRIME, wanting to make sure that his words reach her ears.

Tchu: And so when I exchanged the suit n’ tie for trunks and boots, I figured I needed something new to fit in. I got new tights, slapped Monster and Nike logos on them for a quick buck, let my teenage daughter pick some new entrance music for her ol’ man, and I walked in here with two busted up knees that couldn’t support the weight of expectations, not knowing who the hell I was.

Nick Stuart: I can’t say I much care for what we’re hearing from Matt Ward tonight.

Tchu: Then I had my grand return, my first match in a decade in the middle of some ReVival against somebody named Pontiff and nobody cared, least of all me, and the PRIME machine rolled right into Culture Shock 2023 and the real reason I came back.

Matt scratches at his beard, chewing on what he wants to say next.

Tchu: And heading into maybe the biggest weekend of my career, that teenage daughter of mine went looking for Aunt Lindz and you stabbed me in the back.

The Queen scoffs in disbelief and disappointment. The mic picks up her saying, “That’s what you think happened?” but instead of answering, Ward keeps going.

Tchu: What a helluva couple years it’s been since. That’s a story we can tell another time, all of which leads right up to tonight. Something we maybe thought we’d never see again. Matt Ward, in the middle of the ring. Only this time, I know exactly why I’m here. I know exactly who I am.

Richard: A Hall of Famer!

Matt takes another step, a long stride, closing nearly all of the distance between himself and The Queen of the Ring. Lindsay instinctively balls her fists. Backstage, Dametreyus and Vae Victis are on alert.

Tchu: I am not some Nike sponsored big-shot. I’m not the hometown hero. I’m not the Hall of Famer, the face of PRIME. I am, as I have always been… the Anti-PRIME.

OOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Depending on age, that nickname elicits very different responses

Tchu: This place isn’t for me anymore. Guess it is for you, Lindz. Maybe the ReVival era is your crowning achievement … I don’t care. I will burn this thing to the ground to make sure I get what I want. My clock is ticking. Know that I am going to quit this fuckin’ place. I am going to quit this fucking business. But before I do, I’m going to run your ass over.

The re-crowned Anti-PRIME throws down the mic and turns out of the ring.

No music plays.

But the boos?

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

They’re loud.

Ward stalks up the ramp as fast as his legs will allow. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t give a shit.

If he did, he’d see a furious Lindsay Troy, glaring daggers through him.

Cut to commercial.

“Fastest Horse In Town” blasts across the arena speakers to a HUGE chorus of boos.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

…see?

Vince Howard: The following tag team contest is tonight’s MAIIIIIN EVENT! Introducing first…weighing in at a combined 425 pounds…representing the Poor Whoresmen…

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Vince Howard: “The Muse” Anna Daniels! And the Rhinestone Cowboy – DAYTONAAAAAA DIIIIIIAMONDS!

Daniels and Diamonds walk shoulder to shoulder towards the ring as boos continue raining down all around them. Daniels looks generally nonplussed by the whole thing, figuring that these people aren’t real because this company is dead, so why should she be bothered now. Daytona looks like he might have just received a special “booster shot” to the cheeks backstage before this match, because his eyes are BUGGED and his enormous muscles are PARTICULARLY VASCULAR.

Nick Stuart: The Poor Whoresmen, as a collective, have caused a lot of havoc here in PRIME, but you have to agree that they have been an incredibly effective unit. Tonight, we look to see if the Whoresmen can build up even more momentum heading into Ascension.

Richard Parker: Daytona’s going to challenge for the Universal Championship, and Jesus, just look at the guy – he’s probably gone up a couple shirt sizes in just the last two weeks! Anna Daniels looks like the real wild card out here tonight – notoriously violent, notoriously pissed off at all times, there’s no love lost between her and their opponents tonight.

They circle the ring and make their way to the far corner.

“Choke” by I Don’t Know How But They Found Me blares through the speakers next, to an enormous positive reaction.

RAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH

…see?

Vince Howard: And their opponents! At a combined height of 12 feet, 7 inches…representing Vae Victis and the Glueminati…

RAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Vince Howard: “The Cowboy Colossus” Clay Byrd! And the PRIIIIIIME UNIVERSAL CHAMPION! THE CONGAAAAA CRRRRRUSHERRRR! CECILWOOOOOOORTH FAAAAAAAARTHINGTOOOOOOOON!

Byrd looks like he’s definitely ready for a fight, though he’s maybe a little annoyed that they’re coming out to Cecilworth’s music and not to his own. Farthington has the Universal Championship strapped tightly around his waist, and he gives Byrd a little “pat pat” to the belly before striding towards the ring. Byrd is less confused by this than some might expect – but then again, he and his truck magically found their way to England in recent days, so maybe he’s become used to the Universal Champion’s generally bizarre aura.

Nick Stuart: An unlikely alliance here, partner – these two have a history, they’ve spilt each other’s blood, but it looks like they may be on the same page out here.

Richard Parker: And when it comes to Cecilworth Farthington – how could you NOT be on the same page as a guy like him?

Nick Stuart: I could think of plenty on the PRIME roster.

Richard Parker: Name TWO.

Nick Stuart: …Daytona Diamonds and Anna Daniels.

Richard Parker: …okay, name two more.

Farthington removes his championship and gives it a little smoochy kiss before handing it to Jimmy Turnbull. It’s not on the line tonight, so Turnbull doesn’t hold it aloft – it’s just good to know that SOME championships are being held SECURELY by the RIGHT PEOPLE (looking at you, Elise Ares.)

They hop to their own corner and Turnbull signals for the bell!

DING DING

Nick Stuart: Our main event is underway!

In the Whoresmen corner, Anna Daniels is absolutely chomping at the bit to get her hands on someone – anyone, really. Farthington puts a hand on Byrd’s shoulder and explains how Farthington is “actually the ‘heavy in this partnership because he’s carrying the weight of the literal universe,” and that he’ll come in as reinforcements whenever it becomes necessary.

Byrd chuckles to himself at this lunacy and enters the ring.

Richard Parker: Little bit of a size difference here, partner.

Nick Stuart: Anna Daniels is no stranger to fighting larger opponents, but to your point, we’re looking at nearly a 3-to-1 weight differential in this pairing!

Anna looks to use speed to her advantage, launching forward with a stiff low kick to Byrd’s leg. Byrd shrugs this off and chooses, as his offensive maneuver, “walking forward.” Daniels, agile as ever, bounces from foot to foot, measuring for the perfect time to launch another precision strike – she does, connecting with another pointed boot to Byrd’s leg. Byrd smiles. This aggravates the Time Lord.

Byrd continues walking forward, apparently prepared to accept any number of kicks that might come his way if it might lead to an opening. After a third, fourth, fifth pepper shot, Daniels decides to swing a little higher and goes for a roundhouse to the abdomen – Byrd catches the leg! He yanks Daniels in, lifts, and PLANTS her into the mat with a big Uranage slam!

He goes for a lazy cover – a boot to the sternum!

ONE!

Daniels gets the shoulder up. She gets to her feet quickly and snarls at the lumbering behemoth in the ring. Byrd forces a lock up and HEAVES Daniels across the ring with something like a Biel Throw – Daniels finds a way to land on her feet! She charges across the ring – BIG rolling elbow right to Byrd’s jaw! This rocks him for a moment – and then he returns fire with a HUGE right hand of his own! Daniels goes head-over-heels and crashes to the mat!

Nick Stuart: I don’t know many competitors that could survive a strike exchange with the Monster from Plainview!

Richard Parker: I’ve learned by now that no one, not one human being on the planet, could tell Anna Daniels what to do or how to do it – she’s going to do things her way and her way alone, even to her frequent detriment.

Nick Stuart: We have our first tag of the match, and here comes the Rhinestone Cowboy!

Daytona Diamonds leaps over the top rope into the ring right away – and before Daniels has the time to step out, Diamonds calls out, grabs Daniels by the shoulder and waistband, and LAWN DARTS her into Clay Byrd! Daniels’s elbows connect HARD with Byrd’s nose and mouth, and he goes down!

Daniels is a little staggered by this bit of “my teammate is using me as weaponry,” but she’s game for it and points to the opposite corner of the ring. Diamonds picks up her notion, and then picks up her body, positioning her in a Crucifix Powerbomb.

Cecilworth Farthington hasn’t been paying much attention to the action in this match so far – and from his perspective, why should he? – and this may explain why he takes zero evasive action as Diamonds LAUNCHES Daniels over the ropes and into the Conga Crusher! They crash and burn to the outside, Farthington completely discombobulated! Daniels is fired the fuck up and yells out at the nearby fans!

Byrd gets to his feet and decides that there’s been enough fucking around – he shoves Diamonds into the opposite ropes. On the rebound, Byrd scoops up Diamonds and plants him with a surprisingly quick powerslam! He hooks the near leg!

ONE!

TWO-No! Diamonds kicks out!

Daniels scurries to the top rope and launches herself into the ring – BANG! Missile Dropkick hits Byrd in the face! He stumbles back into his corner back-first and half-expects his partner to be there ready to tag in, but Farthington is still outside!

Referee Jimmy Turnbull admonishes Anna and instructs her to return to her corner – but like all direct instruction from a person in authority, she ignores this and instead does her own thing. She observes that this unique tandem offense she and Daytona found has been very effective so far, and so she decides it’s time to give this next verse a variation on the first.

As Diamonds peels himself off the mat, Daniels calls out a signal to him and she attempts to rig him up in a similar collar-and-waistband heave!…but, well, Diamonds is a little too large to be used by Daniels in such a manner. Especially with the special vitamins he’s been taking lately.

Instead of a full lawn dart, the “launch” comes off more like a charging shoulder tackle from Diamonds towards Byrd – Byrd gets out of the way! Diamonds is sent crashing shoulder first into the Glue Victis corner!

Byrd, the monster that he is, wastes no time and CRUSHES Daniels with a huge spear! This sends her rolling under the bottom ropes and out of the ring!

Farthington is finally on his feet on the outside. It occurs to him that this Time Lord-shaped missile may have been an intentional targeted attack on him, if not as a person, then at least towards his health and well-being, and so he’s decided he’s ready to be an active participant in this contest. He sees that Diamonds has been shaboinged into his own corner, which is convenience itself for Farthington; he hops up to the apron and wraps an arm around Diamonds’s neck in a (technically illegal) sleeper hold!

Turnbull checks on Anna outside the ring, and then returns his gaze back to the center. Farthington, ever an expert on Referee’s Perceptions of His Actions, releases the sleeper hold before he can be admonished. Byrd makes his way to the Glue Victis Corner and delivers a hellacious

SMACK!

with the flat of his palm squarely into Diamond’s sternum! This awakens something in the Rhinestone cowboy, and roid rage enters his eyes. Byrd throws another

SMACK!

just as Farthington reaches over the ropes and tags himself into the match. Diamonds stomps out of the corner and goes meaty-chest-to-meaty-chest with the taller Byrd. Byrd throws another chop, but Diamonds ducks it! He grabs Byrd, and in a flash –

BOOOOM!

Nick Stuart: Diamonds hits Clay Byrd with the DUSTY TRAIL! What explosive power!

Richard Parker: I think his muscles are about to pop out of his skin, Jesus – look at him!

Turnbull makes sure Byrd, no longer the legal man, finds his way out of the ring before further tag team shenanigans happen again, as Diamonds poses and flexes in the middle of the ring. Farthington, ever the opportunist, spins and CRUNCHES Diamonds in the back of the head with Malice in Wonderland, which – “oh no,” one imagines Farthington thinking to himself, “people normally fall down from that, why isn’t this gorilla falling down, oh no oh no oh no”

BOOOOOOOM!

Another Saito Suplex, the “Dusty Trail”, this time from Diamonds to Farthington! He’s put two and two together on who is the legal man, and shoots the half!

ONE!

TWO!

…NOOOO! Farthington gets the shoulder up!

Anna Daniels lurks outside the ring, and sees the Enemy Cowboy (as opposed to the Ally Cowboy) that’s been a real pain in her ass this match has also found his way outside. She’s had more time to recover, and figures, “fuck it, time for someone to die”. She launches herself at Byrd, first connecting with a running high knee…then a bicycle high knee. Seeing him staggered, she climbs nearby ring steps, measures it, figures she can land it, and goes for a springboard knee drop – BYRD CATCHES HER! He uses his enormous power (and anger, what with receiving a little bit of an ass whooping in recent minutes) and drives Daniels spine-first into the ringside barricade!

In the ring, Diamonds is all over Farthington, raining down heavy rights and lefts on the Universal Champion. He then decides that it’s his turn to do a little chokey-choke, and he locks in the Bolo Tie Stretch. The rear naked choke is accompanied by some absolutely unhinged hip thrusts.

Jimmy Turnbull checks on Farthington to see if he’s going to submit, but Farthington grits his teeth and refuses. Daytona’s juiced up guns are like an anaconda around Cecilworth’s throat, just an absurd amount of muscle around this fairly slender Brit.

Farthington looks to see if he can make it to the ropes, but they’re a little far away, and he is at a significant strength disadvantage. Outside the ring, Byrd once again has Daniels in his clutches, and he HEAVES her into the ring steps!

THONK!

The sound distracts Daytona for the smallest of moments – which is just enough for a technician at Farthington’s level to use to his advantage. He gets a foot underneath him and starts repositioning his body, taking some of the heavy pressure off his neck and shoulders. Daniels is in a heap outside; Byrd picks her up again and yells out a “hey fuckhead!” in Daytona’s general direction. This distracts Daytona a second time, and Farthington fully slips the hold!

Daytona stomps towards the ropes in the general direction of Byrd and Daniels – Byrd has Daniels in a suddenly-all-too-familiar crucifix powerbomb position, and it looks like he means to cause her some serious injury. Diamonds screams out a word of warning – and then is suddenly silenced by a Farthington knee to the back of the head!

Diamonds bounces off the ropes and wobbles to the center – Farthington digs deep…

…

BOOOOOOOOM!!

Nick Stuart: Farthington connects with the Worthless!!

Richard Parker: Look on the outside – Anna’s fighting out of it!

Indeed, that word of warning may have been just enough, and Daniels wriggles her way out of Byrd’s grip.

Farthington sprawls across Diamonds!

ONE!

TWO!

…ANNA DANIELS BREAKS UP THE PIN!!

Nick Stuart: The Whoresmen stay alive!

Richard Parker: The Whoresmen, and Whoreswomen, Nicky. It’s 2025.

Nick Stuart: …it, yep, sure is!

Daniels does everything she can to get Diamonds into the Whoresmen corner for a legal tag; Farthington has less work to do, as neither he nor Byrd have just received a Fisherman Buster; Farthington tags to Byrd, and immediately, the Behemoth charges the opposite corner like a freight train!

BOOOOM!

He absolutely pancakes Diamonds into the corner! Daniels frantically reaches over the ropes and slaps Diamonds in the shoulder – Turnbull acknowledges the tag! The Cowboy Colossus rains down some heavy punches onto the Rhinestone Cowboy!

Richard Parker: It’s cowboy on cowboy crime out here!

Anna Daniels nimbly hops to the top rope, and launches herself! She’s on Byrd’s back, and she’s throwing huge spiking pointed elbows squarely into any part of him she can find! Byrd is forced to disengage from Diamonds, and both cowboys are staggering!

Byrd waves his meaty paws upwards at the Time Lord, trying to wave away these wasp stings that are having greater and greater effect! She hangs on! More elbows come raining down! Byrd is aimlessly stumbling about!

SMACK

Jimmy Turnbull: Tag!

Out of either impeccable ring awareness, or maybe dumb luck, Byrd has found his way into the Glue Victis Corner, and Farthington has tagged into the match!

For his first order of business, he charges across the ring and TOPPLES Diamonds over the ropes with a clubbing lariat! Diamonds falls outside!

Daniels refuses to stop elbowing and elbowing and elbowing, chopping at this great tree from the top down, imagining it’s a knife and imagining Byrd is a referee (probably)…Byrd is forced down to a knee! The elbows keep hammering and hammering and hammering!

Farthington gathers himself, jogs to the ropes that are to the side of this Daniels-On-Byrd barrage, and springs off the middle rope…FLYING EUROPEAN UPPERCUT TO DANIELS! It knocks her off of Byrd’s shoulders!

Byrd is thankful for the reprieve, but Farthington is not interested in wasting any time. He points to the outside where Diamonds is quickly finding his feet and signals that this problem needs to be dealt with. Byrd shakes the cobwebs out, wincing, and gets back to his feet. Farthington engages Daniels in a collar-and-elbow (is this the first one of the match? Jesus), and they struggle mightily back-and-forth to find a window.

Byrd catches his breath as best he can, takes a few measured steps towards the ropes opposite Diamonds…rebounds…and LEAPS over the top?!?!

Nick Stuart: WHAT IN THE WORLD??

Richard Parker: CLAY BYRD FLYING LIKE HE JUST GOT BUCKED OFF A BULL!

…

…

DIAMONDS CATCHES BYRD ON HIS SHOULDERS?!?!!!!! HE POWERBOMBS BYRD ON THE FLOOR OUTSIDE!!

HO-LY SHIT! HO-LY SHIT! HO-LY SHIT!

Nick Stuart: What an UNBELIEVABLE show of raw power! How in the world did Daytona Diamonds pull that off??

Richard Parker: I don’t know partner, but he looks absolutely gassed from that effort!

Indeed, even the most steroid-fueled mack truck might need a moment after catching a 300 pound refrigerator flying at it.

Inside the ring, Farthington and Daniels are grappling with sharp intensity. Farthington has a bit of an advantage developing, and Daniels realizes she doesn’t want to get into a grapple-off with the Universal Champion – so she kicks him squarely in the kneecap. This successfully gives her some space, and she leaps for a roundhouse kick to the head!

…

Farthington ducks! He charges in…

BOOOOM!

Nick Stuart: WORTHLESS CONNECTS!

Farthington plants Daniels with his signature Fisherman Buster! He seamlessly transitions into the cross armbreaker!

Richard Parker: And that’s Article 51! But hold on there, partner!

Diamonds stirs, his chest still heaving from the Roid Rage Slam he just pulled out against Byrd. He sees that his partner is in trouble, trapped in Farthington’s cross arm breaker, and he wants to break it up.

He staggers to the apron and plants his hands on it, bracing himself to lift up, to get in the ring and help out his partner. Anna is showing a tremendous amount of fight – she sees her tag partner and is doing everything she can to withstand the arm breaker and reach Daytona at the same time.

Daytona reaches for the ropes to get up –

…

But something’s stopping him.

We get another camera angle, and Clay Byrd has his arms wrapped completely around Daytona’s left boot.

Nick Stuart: Clay Byrd is holding onto Daytona! Can he break loose??

Richard Parker: YOU try shaking off 300 pounds of concrete!

Daytona is struggling, doing everything he can to shake off Clay, but Clay’s not budging.

Daniels frantically, desperately, reaches for her partner, or for the ropes – or for anything.

Farthington arches his back another 15 degrees. Anna’s arm comes with him.

And with the threat of full snap, her partner unable to help her, nowhere to go…Daniels taps.

DING DING DING

Farthington gives the hold a little extra second or two, juuuuust to be sure that the outcome he’s imagining is confirmed – Jimmy Turnbull taps at Farthington, instructing him to release or be disqualified – and that’s good enough for Cecilworth. He lets go.

Vince Howard: Here are your winners – CLAYYYY BYYYYYYRD, and THE PRIIIIIIME UNIVERSAL CHAMPION…CECILWOOOOOOOORTH FARRRRRRRTHINGTOOOOOOON!!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!

Clay has finally let go of Daytona, and the two cowboys look like they’re going to brawl some more before cooler heads prevail – that, or Daytona would rather console Anna right now and Clay would rather make sure his neck and spine just didn’t turn to dust after that crazy powerbomb.

Nick Stuart: The unlikely allies, Cecilworth Farthington and Clay Byrd, pick up a huge victory tonight – and with Farthington as the one securing the decision, it looks like he’s riding a tremendous amount of momentum heading into Ascension.

Richard Parker: I’m sorry partner – did you SEE what Daytona Diamonds did?? If he powerbombs Cecilworth the way he just powerbombed Clay friggin’ Byrd, the Universal Championship won’t just change hands – it’ll be a SQUASH!

Farthington and Diamonds stare coldly into each others’ eyes. Turnbull hands Farthington his championship, which he holds aloft as we go off the air.

FADE.

TO.

PPV HYYYYYYYYYPE.