ASCENSION 2025 NIGHT TWO
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Nick Stuart: WELLLLLCOME everyone to Night Two of Ascension at Lucas Oil Stadium! We are just about set for what will certainly be… a match. We have “Mister Beefst” himself in a lumberjack rubber match against a very upset Luc Labelle.
Richard Parker: Let’s get this show on the road, people. My back is killing me!
Nick Stuart: Lum-BER not Lum-BAR, Richard.
Richard Parker: Potato potato, Nick. All I know is I need someone to jack my back REAL hard right now.
Nick Stuart: Ugh.
A crowd of familiar and unfamiliar faces begin to make their way down toward the ring as names flash quickly on the PRIMEview. We also see lots of signs.
I CAME FOR THE AFTERPARTY FOR DIAMONDS UNIVERSAL TITLE WIN
I’M THIS GUY’S PAROLE OFFICER AND I’M HERE TO MAKE SURE HE DOESN’T
UNSPEAKABLE HORRORS FOR MAX KAEL
UNSPEAKABLE WHORERS FOR DAYTONA DIAMONDS
I LEGITIMATELY WANT SKETTI BUCKET, MARKETING WORKS
I WANNA BE A LUMBERJACK. PLEASE LET ME BE A LUMBERJACK.
I MET FRED DICK AT AN AUTOGRAPH SIGNING AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY RASH
RHINE FUCKS
I AM HERE ON BEHALF OF RUSSIAN STATE MEDIA TO ANNOUNCE THAT IVAN STANISLAV HAS ALREADY WON HIS COLOSSUS MATCH
RELEASE THE BIGFOOT SEX SCENE CUT
I WISH IVAN WOULD HAMMER MY SICKLE, BUT I ALSO WANT FRED TO LASAGNA MY BOYS, SO I JUST HOPE THEY HAVE A GOOD MATCH I GUESS
Nick Stuart: El Cocodrilo, Satan Jones, Chris Chickentenders? These aren’t actual names.
Richard Parker: They’re right there on the screen Nick.
We watch as Lasagna Boy Miguel guides his partner Lasagna Boy Toddrick, in a pair of leg casts – the result of a gravity mishap – toward the ring. Toddrick grabs at the nearby Crimson Miracle Bloody-Blood Death Homicycle to use as a scooter but quickly decides he would like to keep the rest of his body intact.
A smiling Kohime Mori arrives next, then a slim, toned man dressed in a flowery kimono and nothing else.
Nick Stuart: I think that’s Remy Garden, an inactive SHOOT Project member.
Richard Parker: They all can’t be winners, Nick. Personally I think lumberjacks should be, you know, jacked!
Nick Stuart: Quit saying “jack” like that.
Ollie Cade and “Rock Hard” Rick Hardbody arrive next, cracking their knuckles as they make their way down to the ring.
Voice (tapping the microphone): Ahem! Ahem!
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq. emerges from the back with a microphone in hand as he sways confidently and looks positively giddy at the crowd now gathered around the ring.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Hello, yes.
Believe it or not, that gets a response from the crowd. Zeke is forced to downplay it, because he is a tried and true villain, but it does warm his old-man heart.
Zeke, who is wearing overalls on top of an outfit that is already very busy, you know the look – a sport coat, matching bowling shoes, fedora, the works – trudges over to one side of the stage.
The other side of the stage? That’s occupied by six muscular men in flannel half-shirts and daisy duke shorts. These are the Troy Boys, and they are wearing toques. Zephram has an axe. Who the fuck gave Zephram an axe?!
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Everybody shut up now so I can sing.
Everybody shuts up so he can sing.
The PRIMEview is showing clips of different trees in what would be a serene forest setting were this being shown anywhere else.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: The giant redwood! Oak, I think!
It’s worth noting that none of the images being displayed to the world line up at all with what Zeke is saying.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: The fir! The mighty other one! The smell of stuff! The crash of many squirrels! With my best girl by my side…
From the entryway appears a dumpy figure in an ill-fitting dress and an even iller-fitting blonde wig. They’re walking with their shoulders slumped, their head down, and it is very clear that they would have rather been fed dick-first through a woodchipper than wear this getup.
This person is Steve Lemieux, because someone had to be Connie Booth for this bit.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: We’d sing! Sing! Sing!
To the surviving members of Monty Python, if you’re reading this, I’m not sorry for any of it.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: (singing) Steeeeeeve Lemieux’berjack is here to-day, he Steves all night and he Steves all day.
The Troy Boys: (singing, in unison) Steeeeeeve Lemieux’berjack is here to-day, he Steves all night and he Steves all day.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: (singing) He does some things and other things; I don’t know what those are; To pay for all these costumes I had to sell his car
Steve, who until now had been meandering to the ring with his head down, looks up wide-eyed at Zeke.
The Troy Boys: (singing, in unison) He does some things and other things; I don’t know what those are; To pay for all these costumes I had to sell his car… Steeeeeeve Lemieux’berjack is here to-day, he Steves all night and he Steves all day.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: (singing) He chops up greens; he bakes the bread; he slices all the meats; There’s Werthers in my pockets, ‘cuz I like little treats.
The Troy Boys: (singing, in unison) He chops up greens; he bakes the bread; he slices all the meats; There’s Werthers in our pockets, ‘cuz we like little treats.
The Boys are confused by this, because none of them remember putting delicious old man toffees in their pockets. A bunch of idiot hands reach into a bunch of idiot pockets, and what do they find? Why only a handful of Werther’s Original Candies, of course. In their joy of finding little treats of their own, the tempo of the song breaks, but only for a moment.
The Troy Boys: (singing, sort of, in what passes for unison) Shav Luhmuhbuhbuh is shere do shay, he Sheeves ah nigh annie Sheeves bay-bay.
Also it’s really hard to sing when you’ve got a mouthful of hard candy.
Only when he finally makes it to the ring does Steve get to take his dress and wig off. And get those impure thoughts out of your heathen heads, because underneath his Connie Booth cosplay (Connsplay?) is Steve’s usual dad casual attire. His other gear – the outfit modeled after the American Gladiators singlets – is currently in a car that may or may not have just been sold.
With a somewhat confident grin plastered on his face, he throws a thumbs up gesture to Zeke who nods with his own thumbs up, just before a piercing siren rings out as a blue Fleur de Lis fades into existence on the big screen.
Zeke hightails it down the ramp while the bluesy riff of “Émeute Dans La Priso” blares through the arena, images of Montreal flashing along to the beat.
The first few are glitzy, glamourous landscape pictures of the skyline, but they gradually shift more and more into the underbelly of the city, until images of low-income neighbourhoods adorned with graffiti are playing.
The chorus kicks in and Luc Labelle is already in the ring!
Nick Stuart: How’d Labelle get past the lumber jacks!?
Richard Parker: Maybe he was saved by the ghost of Monty Python…
Nick Stuart: You know that isn’t the name of an actual person, right?
Referee Ashley Barlow, who was also already in the ring, signals for the belle. Not Luc’s Labelle, the ring- you know what. Nevermind. The chaotic scene, which I guess we can call a match, gets underway!
DING DING DING
Lemieux cheerfully walks up to his opponent, extending his hand in a friendly handshake, but instead he’s met with a HEADBUTT from Labelle!
Richard Parker: There’s the kind of hockey enforcer instinct I like to see.
Nick Stuart: The sandwich man can barely get his arms up to block!
Richard Parker: If you could call what he is trying to do blocking, instead it looks more like he’s trying to wrap the world’s longest piece of string around his fists. It’s like Tae Bo on bath salts.
Labelle has managed to drive Lemieux back against the ropes before digging in with his back foot.
Nick Stuart: Savate kick! Steve is up and over the ring ropes – straight into the arms of Chris Chickentenders and the Lasagna Boys!
Chickentenders grabs Lemieux by the waist and lifts him up as Miguel grabs both of the fighter’s arms and drives his body onto an extended, cast-covered leg from Lasagna Boy Toddrick. The plaster connects with the small of Lemieux’s back as he lets out a yelp of pain and then drops to the floor below.
Richard Parker: I believe call that move the Chicken “Catch-a-Torre”
Nick Stuart: …
Lemieux is rolled back into the ring and seeing stars as Labelle yanks the Peoria, Illinois native to his feet. Just as Luc goes for a short-arm clothesline, Lemieux drops to his knees and grabs at his head.
Nick Stuart: Labelle stumbles toward the ring ropes as Chris Chickentenders grabs at his gear, trying to go for seconds, but Luc pulls himself free and EXPLODER SUPLEX on Steve Lemieux! Labelle wants to end this quick and cleanly, Richard!
Labelle covers.
ONE!
TWO!
TH-
KICKOUT!
Nick Stuart: Steve Lemieux survives a close call and begins to claw his way to the opposite corner!
A stunned Luc Labelle slams his fist to the mat and follows in pursuit. He closes the distance and reaches down to grab at Lemieux but swipes at empty air as Zeke pulls his trainee to safety.
Nick Stuart: This isn’t a lumberjack match – it’s a handicap match!
Richard Parker: That’s very offensive to all the logging professionals who have damaged or lost limbs to provide you with high-end furniture, Nick.
Ashley Barlow raises her hands to begin a countout.
ONE!
Ollie Cade approaches from nearby and begins to yell at Zeke, pointing toward the ring.
TWO!
The exasperated doctor backs down and rolls a battered Lemieux back under the ropes as Barlow stops her count out.
Nick Stuart: Luc yanks Lemieux back to his feet!
Richard Parker: But I don’t think Zeke sent Lemieux back into the fight empty handed!
Defensively, Steve holds out his hands to defend against Luc’s attack only to have the Montreal Main Event’s fists suddenly covered in… maple syrup?
Nick Stuart: Ew.
A disgusted Luc Labelle recoils before referee Ashley Barlow steps in and begins to chastise Lemieux, who is clearly also just realizing his hands are covered in syrup as he flails wildly and begins to try and wipe the Canadian confection off his hands by using the ring ropes.
Nick Stuart: A frustrated Luc Labelle is trying to pull Lemieux towards but the pair are stuck together by way of maple syrup and both fall to the outside!
Richard Parker: Yes! Hahah. Yes! Yes!
The pair are immediately approached by Rory Hayes, Johnny Dorn, and “Rock Hard” Rick Hardbody with Rory and Johnny laying kicks into Lemieux’s solar plexus, looking to avoid his sticky hands. Rick Hardbody, unsurprisingly, picks up and begins to remove Luc Labelle from the situation and drag him away from Steve Lemieux.
Barlow begins her count once again.
ONE!
Nick Stuart: Just like Quebec’s succession plans, Luc Labelle is dropped at the first sign of trouble! By which I mean Remy Garden shantaying into the path of one Rick Hardbody.
TWO!
Remy unfurls a clack fan from his robe and throws it at Mr. Hardbody.
Richard Parker: Who does he think he is? Mileena from Mortal Kombat?
The Count of Creole quickly realizes his mistake as he sashays away, his flowery robe flowing behind him as “Rock Hard” chases down Remy.
THREE!
On the opposite side of the ring, Kohime Mori has interjected herself between Rory Hayes and Johnny Dorn, gesturing for the pair to do their jobs and return Lemieux to the ring.
Nick Stuart: The pair wave Kohime off and go to lift up Steve by his arm pits for what looks to be a double underhook suplex!
FOUR!
FIVE!
Richard Parker: She’s got a hold of Lemieux’s ankle and is pulling in the other direction! He’s going to snap like a wish bone!
The feisty young fighter manages to get a grip initially, but can’t hold on as she ends up falling backwards and yanking Steve’s New Balance’s off his feet!
SIX!
The force also causes Rory and Johnny to fly backwards, releasing Steve Lemieux and sending him into the crowd!
Richard Parker: Look at him showing off, trying to crowd surf like that.
Nick Stuart: He doesn’t seem to be enjoying it much, Richard. And if he’s not careful, Steve is going to run out of time to get back in the ring!
Richard Parker: Nevermind. Rock on Steve! WOOOO!
SEVEN!
Meanwhile, Satan Jones has found his way into frame and quickly, discreetly, picks up Lemieux’s shoes and carries them off like a child clutching his favorite stuffed animal.
Nick Stuart: Luc Labelle seems a bit befuddled by the situation here, Richard. He can only watch as his opponent is carried across the first four rows of Lucas Oil Stadium’s lower bowl.
Richard Parker: And don’t forget sticky.
EIGHT!
Nick Stuart: Wait. Is that? Are those?
Two familiar faces perhaps drawn to the match by the alluring scent of liquid Canadian crack appear from the crowd donning matching flannel shirts – and masks – as they snag Steve Lemieux out of the air.
Intruder #1: AHHHHHHH!
Intruder #2: FLAPJACKS!
NINE!
Nick Stuart: Oh wow! The Intruders just hoisted Steve onto their burly shoulders and tossed the 183-pound Lemieux over the barricade and just outside the ring!
T-
Richard Parker: Dammit!
Just as Ashley Barlow is set to make her 10 count and disqualify Lemieux, a desperate Kohime, manages to lift and roll him into the ring as the crowd goes wild.
RAWWWWWR!
Nick Stuart: This is pandemonium, Richard.
The Intruders have now jumped the barricade and … seem to be handing out extra shirts to the other lumberjacks.
Richard Parker: Come on, Nick. Don’t you want to get jacked!?
Nick Stuart: NO!
Intruder #1 shoves a mound of fabric into the hands of Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq., who shrugs and goes full flannel-ception, and then hands extras over Ollie Cade and Rick Hardbody who look legitimately concerned.
Intruder #2, meanwhile, pulls a set of t-shirt cannons out from underneath the ring.
Nick Stuart: Back in the ring, Luc Labelle ****grabs a hold of the recovering Steve Lemieux, who manages to get himself pulled up into a standing position
Richard Parker: I think Luc Labelle may have seen enough, Nick.
Nick Stuart: Labelle slings the sandwich slinger against the ropes and goes for a clothesline!
Lemieux ducks instinctively, raising his still-goopy, maple-soaked hands and, with enough momentum, lifts and drops Labelle with a modified fireman’s carry!
Nick Stuart: WOAH!
Richard Parker: NO!
The move is so jarring that Lemieux curls himself up into a ball, which, coincidentally, is in the same shape as a follow-through pin and Barlow drops for the count.
ONE!
T-
Nick Stuart: Kickout by Labelle!
Labelle, shaking off the pin attempt, wipes off some lingering syrup and then bolts once again towards his opponent. As he does, two more familiar faces launch themselves from the crowd – donning their own red and yellow-themed flannel.
The cannon-wielding Intruders – as well as the other lumberjacks – pivot to see Kenny Freeman and Randall Schwartz headed in their direction.
Intruder #1 and Intruder #2 try to take aim at the Masters of the Moscowverse, but aren’t fast enough as the pair are speared against the ring, sending their cannon barrels backwards – firing directly at an unaware Steve Lemieux.
Steve Lemieux: OH BEANS!
The dough boy yelps in surprise as a double-decker of CO2-infused shirts hit our hero in the butty of his bread basket, sending the poor boy torpedoing down like a submarine and rolling, open-faced into the Coup de Coeur!
Labelle reaches out, using the last of his own maple syrup stickum to pull Lemieux towards him and then up onto his shoulders before dropping directly onto the mat with a punishing version of La Fin.
Nick Stuart: No way! Not like this!
Richard Parker: Sarnie, not sarnie!
Nick Stuart: What is wrong with you?
Ashley Barlow, having not seen the misfire, hits the mat and begins her count.
ONE!
TWO!
THREE!
DING DING DING
Luc Labelle separates himself from Steve Lemieux as the latter is laid out flat and staring blankly at the rafters of Lucas Oil Stadium.
L’Assassin Rouge still seems to be seeing red as he sneers, looking disgusted at the sight before him on the mat and the remnants of syrup still sticking to his palms, before turning his back toward Steve Lemieux and stepping out through the ropes.
Richard Parker: As every Canadian team since the mid-1990s will tell you, Nick, you can’t win them all – or even win most of them – but you keep on trying. You keep fighting to Steve another day.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq., Ollie Cade, and yes, even Rick Hardbody, now enter the ring to check on the down-and-out Steve Lemieux.
Nick Stuart: That’s touching, Richard. Absolutely dumb. But touching.
We head elsewhere.
It’s the second night of Ascension and, by definition, the evening’s matches are poised to continue ascending. We’re only one match in and, already, Lindsay Troy needs a stiff drink.
The Queen has seemingly, remarkably, found two minutes to herself as she enters her office for the evening. She heads over to her desk, presumably to procure the libation for said stiff drink, but she barely makes it halfway across the room when there’s a knock against the Steel Door O’ Doom.
Of course.
Lindsay Troy: (under her breath) I swear to Hoyt, If this is more Russian bullshit…
Not hearing an invitation to enter, the visitor knocks again, and when that doesn’t get them anywhere…
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Lindsay grumbles and grits her teeth in annoyance, then walks back to the door and tears it open to reveal Sonja Cuchilla on the other side. She’s dressed in an oversized “Save Blaze” shirt, ratty jeans, and tennis shoes, and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail.
Lindsay Troy: Oh. This is unexpected.
Sonja Cuchilla: Is this a bad time?
Lindsay Troy: No, please, come in.
Sonja walks into the office and begins to wander, eyes taking in the furnishings of the Boss’s temporary HQ within Lucas Oil Stadium. Lindsay clears her throat, causing Sonja to turn around – at first annoyed but then she smiles, absentmindedly bushing a strand of loose hair behind her ear.
Lindsay Troy: So, what do you need, Sonja? I know you and Blaze have been through an ordeal, and his match is up next. Shouldn’t you be heading to Argyle with him instead of paying me a visit?
Lindsay crosses her arms and leans back against her desk as Sonja chuckles, but then realizes the boss is serious.
Sophia Cuchilla: He can’t go out there tonight. He’s not ready. It’s a death sentence.
The Boss raises an eyebrow.
Lindsay Troy: Are you suggesting that Elise and Derek go out there and face Max and the Green Vale Gang on their own?
Sophia straightens her shoulders.
Sophia Cuchilla: No…. They’ll have me in their corner.
Lindsay blinks, not sure she heard Sonja right, but then lets out a dry laugh and shakes her head.
Lindsay Troy: Absolutely not. You’re not medically cleared, for one thing, and even if you were I don’t know that you have any formal wrestling training. Secondly, as much as it would tickle me to have Elise and Derek wrestle a handicap match, I’d ask Klein to sub in for Blaze before you. And thirdly, our little Hollywood Candied Cardinal should be champing at the bit to get his hands on Max after last night…
Sonja Cuchilla: (growling) But it’s not fair! I deserve it!
Lindsay Troy: I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but life isn’t fair.
Sonja Cuchilla: (loudly) You act like Blaze wasn’t just held captive by Max Kael for two months! He’s got PSTD (said like pssst)!
Lindsay Troy: (curtly) No, I’m the one who’s pissed, because what we’re not going to do is throw this silly kidnapping bullshit in my face and then try to blame me for not caring or not doing anything about it. I am an adult and I have a show to run. If Blaze wasn’t ready to go tonight, then someone should have told me sooner, not minutes before the match is about to start.
Sonja doesn’t move. Neither does Lindsay.
Lindsay Troy: Sonja. You need to leave my office now. Blaze needs your support, not whatever this is.
Sonja Cuchilla glares at Lindsay, turning to walk toward the office entrance but stops halfway, looking back over her shoulder.
Sonja Cuchilla: (softly) You haven’t seen him like I have… I don’t know who it is behind those eyes but it isn’t Blaze anymore. He’s going to go out there and he’s going to get himself killed. And it will be on your conscience. Not mine.
Sonja turns to open the door.
Lindsay Troy: (grudgingly) Ugh. Wait.
Sonja stops and holds the door open.
Lindsay Troy: If Blaze cannot physically make it to the ring tonight, and Elise and Derek and Klein don’t tell you to go to hell, and you sign paperwork acknowledging the risks and waiving liability … then it’s your funeral.
Sonja nods, keeping her head down as she does, barely containing a grin.
Sonja Cuchilla: You’re doing the right thing, Ms. Troy. I’ll make sure you don’t regret this.
The former actress steps through the Door O’ Doom, letting it shut behind her with a loud CLANG. Lindsay checks her watch and sighs.
Lindsay Troy: I already do.
Ascension moves on.
The night is young, one in the books, four to go.
Somewhere in the mammoth backstage of Lucas Oil Stadium, a door opens from the outside world, letting in just a little bit of heaven… a late-summer, midwest evening. And with that slice of heaven, in walks the PRIME Hall of Famer, The Inhuman Being… the self-described Anti-PRIME…
Tchu.
Mix 50% vile ‘Booos’ and 50% massive ‘pop’, and you get the reaction that echoes throughout the homefield of the Indianapolis Colts.
Ward walks in with an almost expressionless look on his face. Unlike his shocking appearance at ReVival, professional man-bun and fancy pants, the hair is now down and he sports a t-shirt, jeans and cowboy boots. The shirt… outdated. Circa 2006. Black, with the old PRIME logo dead-center.
He carries something in his left hand that drags across the ground. It looks like some sort of strap, but can’t be seen, turned from the camera. As he makes his way through the corridors, he’s quickly approached by Angelica Brooks, who practically crashes into him in an effort to get the former 3x Universal Champion on record about his rage-filled rant that spoiled any Culture Shock announcements.
Angelica Brooks: Tchu! Matt Ward!
Ward takes a half step back, personal bubbles and all, and glares down at Angelica.
Tchu: Go ahead, ask.
Angelica Brooks: At ReVival 74, you returned to your hometown and what was supposed to be a feel-good moment and a big Culture Shock announcement took a shocking turn, leading to you seemingly declaring war on PRIME and Lindsay Troy, stating that she had stabbed you in the back. What happened?
Tchu: Did you ask her?
Angelica Brooks: Well… I… no.
Tchu: She did the stabbing, she can probably do the answering. And to be clear… the Anti-PRIME… that’s very specifically this PRIME. This PRIME is a cesspool. There’s 8 years, 250 ReVolutions that this PRIME doesn’t respect.
Angelica shifts the microphone from one hand to the other an gives The Inhuman Being a puzzled look.
Angelica Brooks: What do you mean?
Tchu: Do you have any idea, Angelica, what it’s like to main event more shows than you could possibly remember, to win more titles, more accolades than anyone in the history of this company… to literally be the face, the backbone of this place… and to watch a bunch of kids dance in here, act like idiots, not a care or a single drop of reverence for what came before? It’s a slap to my face. Spit on my legacy.
Ward looks off camera for a moment a bites at his bottom lip.
Tchu: I should have left this place shut down.
Angelica Brooks: Beg pardon?
Tchu: (ignoring Brooks and his own comment) So it seems to me that the Queen of that kingdom oughta shoulder a load of that blame. For what this place is. Two years ago, I came back here looking for some sort of return to glory, a farewell tour, when I should have just been burning this place to the ground. Lindsay Troy can give me what I want, or she can watch while I pillage and plunder.
Angelica Brooks: And what is it that you want?
Tchu: She knows.
The Inhuman Being starts to push by, but as he does so, Angelica stops him with a last question.
Angelica Brooks: What is that you’re carrying?
The grizzled Hall of Famer looks down at his left hand, then with a quick yank, slings the object across his shoulder. The lights of Lucas Oil backstage catch the glimmering gold plate of a championship belt. On it… the old PRIME Logo, with something scratched across it.
Tchu: Might remember this… this… is the Anti-PRIME Heavyweight Championship. Because, Angelica, understand that I don’t recognize Cecilworth Farthington.I don’t value or recognize him as Universal Champion. This title (Tchu slaps the gold centerplate) is what I recognize. If Farthington is what PRIME is about these days, then I’m proud to be the Anti-PRIME.
With a deep breath, almost relieved to have said his piece, The Inhuman Being pushes past Brooks.
Tchu: We’re done. I’ve got some legal matters to discuss with an attorney or two, and then, maybe I’ll hang around and catch that main event.
True to his word, they are done. Ward marches down the hall, championship gold flickering across his shoulder for the first time in over a decade. Years of blood and sweat and delusion.
Ascension moves on.
I live for the night, I live for the lights
I live for the high ’til I’m free falling
I live for the night, I live for the lights
I live for the high ’til I’m free falling (Falling)
“Live For The Night” by Krewella hits as we see the arrival of the Pop Culture Phenoms at top of the rampway.
PCP’s manager is the first to step into the spotlight, looking as dignified as one of Klein’s means and mental maturity can in this circumstance, as he quickly steps to the side, ushering to the stage Elise Ares and The D.
Elise crosses her arms, looking down toward the ring with a cocky smile-turned-sneer as the D confidently wipes some invisible dirt off his shoulder.
Nick Stuart: Here comes the Pop Culture Phenoms! As cocky and as confident as ever.
Richard Parker: Two great tastes that go great together in my book, Nick.The pair lock eyes and then fists as they knock knuckles and begin to make their way down the ramp – or at least they try to.
Bursting out from the back, dressed in a pink alligator-skin jumpsuit, is an out-of-breath Sonja Cuchilla. She joins the pair at the top of the stage, flashing a smile and clapping her hands together.
Richard Parker: What.
Nick Stuart: We’d seen earlier in the night that Sonja wanted to take Blaze Claymore’s place tonight, but I didn’t think she would actually go through with it.
Elise and D give Sonja a confused look and say something we can’t hear, causing Sonja to laugh and then pull the pair by their wrists down the rampway when…
WAAH WAHH WAHHH
Ennio Morricone’s “The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly” hits the speakers as the video feed transitions from 16:9 to Cinemascope. Rustling maracas and a piercing flute cut through the crowd as Sonja’s eyes close, muttering to herself, as Blaze Claymore emerges from the back.
Nick Stuart: Wait, Blaze Claymore is here!
This time, there is no red carpet to be rolled out for the SAG Award Winning* warrior. Instead a single spotlight lands the unmoving Blaze as he stands in place under the jumbotron, his head lowered.
Then, just like in the Sergio Leone classic, the camera cuts to the eyes of Elise Ares, bloodshot but beautiful; then we lock on the confused eyes of The D; then over to the glaring, glittering eyes of Sonja Cuchilla before we finally land on Blaze Claymore whose eyes seem to glow an unnatural dark blue color with specs of purple and are framed by blackened – possibly burnt – skin in the shape of inky tendrils.
Without saying anything, Blaze walks forward to join the Pop Culture Phenoms on the rampway, standing at their side. Sonja drops Elise and The D’s wrists, looking, almost pleading with Blaze – but only for a second, before she claps her hands together and then throws her arms wide open and energetically guides the trio down toward the ring as Ennio Morricone’s score fades out with Klein cautiously following from the rear before joining Sonja at ringside.
Vince Howard: Introducing first… First, from California, at a total combined weight of 342 pounds. ELISE ARES! THE D! THE POP CULTURE PHEEEEEENOOOOOMS!!!
Ares and The D pose as Vince Howard continues his introductions.
Vince Howard: And their tag team partner! Hailing from Hollywood, California, weighing in at 180 pounds! THE MAIN EVENT! BLAAAAAAAAAZE!!! CLAAAAAAYMOOOOOOREEEE!!!
Blaze Claymore also poses, as he basks in the crowd’s reaction to him.
Nick Stuart: They’ve got a tall order ahead of them, as they’ve got quite a force going up against them.
Speaking of that force…
The lights in Indianapolis go out as the PRIMEtron flickers to life.
Gary Blarguhfeinen and Stalwartennette Tait, the Arkham Nightly News Team, appear on the screen wearing serious, newsworthy expressions.
Gary Blarguhfeinen: Ladies and Gentlemen, we’re here with late breaking news. After two recounts we have an official winner of the Arkham Mayoral election between professional wrestler Maximillian Wilhelm Kael and Doctor Millicent Armitage.
Stalwartennette Tait: With fifty-one percent of the total vote, Arkham Nightly News is calling the election at this time for…
The image statics and sputters out before the announcement is made.
“Cigarette Daydreams” sneaks onto the PA system of the Lucas Oil Stadium as Daniel Green and Hugo Vale swagger out onto the stage, each man under a spotlight. They’re both in their traditional tweed suits. Hugo wears a sardonic smile while Daniel looks focused and locked in.
The music stops suddenly as Snark Darkly slinks out onto the ramp with a microphone in hand.
Snark Darkly: Allow me to introduce my client…. AND NEEEEEEEEEEEEW MAYOR OF ARKHAM!
The boos reign down as Max Kael saunters out onto stage in a three piece suit with a tweed tie.Stepping out onto the stage, waving his hands toward the crowd he seems to ignore the straight up hostility of the Indianapolis crowd.
Richard Parker: You hear that, Nick? We’ve got ourselves a genuine mayor in PRIME, now!
Nick Stuart: I feel sorry for that entire city if that’s the case.
The GVG both move to Max, Daniel Green producing a MAYOR pin, attaching it to the lapel of Max’s suit. Hugo Vale pulls a large white shoulder sash that says ELECTED OFFICIAL, draping it over Max’s head.
Max poses for a few moments before once again the Lucas Oil Stadium is bathed in darkness and the sound of angry fans.
The angry opening notes of Tommy J’s cover of Abba’s “Money Money Money” roars out over the speakers as the lights snap back to life once again.
Daniel Green is in his MMA trunks. Hugo Vale is still in his tweet suit. Maximillian Wilhelm Kael is in his black wrestling gear with tweet kick pads completing the cohesive team look.
“I work all night, I work all day to pay the bills I have to pay.”
“Ain’t it sad?”
All three men, flanked by Snark Darkly and Doctor Ned Reform, make their way to the ring as the Lucas Oil Stadium pours on the hatred.
“And still there never seems to be a single penny left for me”
“That’s too bad”
As the music trudges on, red, black and tweed balloons fall from the ceiling, a full on election celebration being carried out as the LLP make their way to the ring. Max dances his way down the ramp, lost in his madness while Green and Vale keep their reactions more subdued, professional even.
Richard Parker: The dichotomy of these three men is something that should be taken and studied for science.
Nick Stuart: Preferably a closed study, away from people that Max Kael could harm.
“In my dreams I have a plan”
“If I got me a wealthy m an”
“I wouldn’t have to work at all, I’d fool around and have a baaaaaallll”
Marching around the ring, Max draws out his celebration as the GVG stay at his flank ensuring nobody actually touches him. Fans reach out to slap hands Green and Vale are quick to bat them away, talking shit with ringside fans.
“Money, Money, Money”
“Must be funny.”
“In a rich man’s world!”
Vince Howard: Their opponents… introducing Daniel Green, Hugo Vale and the duly elected Mayor of Arkham Maximillian Wilhelm Kael…. THE L. L. PPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!
“Money, Money, Money!”
“Always Sunny!”
“In a richman’s world!
All three men climb into the ring, posing in the center with their hands held up in the sky. More boos, more jeers but they don’t seem to mind as the metal Abba cover roars overhead.
“All the things I could do”
“If I had a little money.”
“It’s a rich man’s world!”
“It’s a RICH MAN’S WOOOOORLD!”
The music abruptly ends, the house lights coming back up. Ringside fans have started to pop whatever balloons are near them creating a symphony of cracks and pops. The LLP move to their corner with Snark and Ned, quietly discussing strategy as they wait for the bell to ring.
DING DING
The D steps through the ropes as Green leaves the huddle of nefarious forces. The two instantly begin a slow waltz around the ring before The D finally lunges in and locks up with Greene. Daniel barges forward but The D manages to stop him in his tracks. D breaks the lockup and blasts Green across the chest with a chop. Green ignores the blow and shoots in for a single leg. He picks up D’s front leg and drives him backwards into his own corner. Ares slaps D on the shoulder and fires herself over the top rope. Green doesn’t know and lets go of the single leg to unload a right hand but catches a kick to the mouth for his trouble.
Nick Stuart: The experienced tag team already working together.
The D takes the moment of relief to drive a right hand into Green’s mouth. Daniel stumbles out of the corner from the onslaught and Elise runs him down with a big bulldog. Green’s face smashes off the mat and Elise gets up giving a little dance to Max and Vale.
Richard Parker: I wouldn’t take my eyes off of Green.
Nick Stuart: You aren’t wrong.
Green dives at Elise’s knee and cut blocks her from behind. Ares falls on her back holding her knee and Green tags in Hugo who comes through the ropes still fully dressed. He smashes Ares with a boot to the mouth as Kael, Ned Reform and Darkly all give Hugo a small cheer. Hugo drops a knee from the standing position across the bridge of Elise’s nose. Vale gets to his feet and undoes a button on his dress shirt, rolling up his sleeve. Elise rolls away and to her feet.
Nick Stuart: Hugo seems dressed for the occasion.
Richard Parker: He’s wrestling a star! You gotta be ready to bust a croon at a moments notice.
Nick Stuart: What?
Richard Parker: You know… skrrrrrt…
Elise lunges in but Hugo manages to get a collar and elbow tie-up. He pushes Ares back towards the ropes, Ares manages to spin Hugo around, using his momentum against him. Hugo lets go of the tie-up and bounces off the ropes back into Ares who spins with a roundhouse that Vale manages to duck under by hitting the mat. Ares smashes Hugo in the side of the head with a short diving knee that sends Vale’s head to the side. Elise drags him to his feet and slams him into the corner. She takes a few steps back and lunges forward but Hugo manages to slip around Ares and ropes her into a waist lock. Elise reverses the waist lock and lifts him off his feet for a German Suplex but Kael’s long reach enables him to club Elise in the back of the skull with a forearm.
Nick Stuart: There’s Kael…
Richard Parker: You forgot he was there? How?
Ares stumbles forward and Hugo spins and drops her with a drop toe hold. Hugo plants his leg between Elise’s and falls forward for an STF, but Ares’ experience allows her to roll as Hugo reaches down. She twists her legs and drapes Hugo’s head across the middle rope. The D is quick to capitalize and smashes Hugo across the mouth with a low dropkick.
Nick Stuart: I think Hugo is seeing stars…
Richard Parker: Great kick.
Elise’s follow up is just as brutal, she grabs the tie around Hugo’s neck and wrenches back choking him with it. Turnbull comes over and begins counting, Elise waits till four and reaches over tagging Blaze into the match. Blaze comes through the ropes and picks Hugo up off the ropes, he whips him across, Blaze hits the near rope and comes off leaping but Green grabs Hugo and holds him against the ropes and Claymore smashes face first into the canvas.
Nick Stuart: Nobody home for Claymore!
Richard Parker: Great save by Daniel.
Green lightly taps Hugo on the chest and steps through the ropes, Turnbull gives the tag symbol and Green spears himself into Claymore. Blaze stumbles back into the ropes and through the middle one. Green is halfway across the ring in a blink of an eye. He grabs a rocked Claymore before PCP can realize it and tosses him back across the ring over the top rope. Elise is late to save Blaze, but right on time to catch Green in the side of the head with another kick. Turnbull comes over to warn Elise, as Green stumbles his way into the neutral corner. Blaze rolls to get to his feet and finds himself in the wrong territory. Max shoves him into the corner and Hugo pulls the tie he was recently strangled with around Claymore’s neck and begins choking the hell out of him.
Nick Stuart: Hey! Hey!
Richard Parker: Great teamwork! Max is punching while Hugo chokes him!
Turnbull finally turns around as Hugo and Kael both drop off the apron with their hands in the air. Green finally comes to and storms across the ring to get to Claymore, Blaze comes firing out of the corner though with a spear of his own that takes Green to the canvas. Blaze takes a moment to catch his breath and makes his way to the corner, tagging in The D. D comes through the ropes and heads right for Green.
Nick Stuart: The pace these teams are setting…
Richard Parker: I needed to catch my breath as much as Claymore did there…
D tries to cut Daniel off from the tag, but he manages to slap Hugo’s hand who comes through the ropes like a house on fire. He smashes D in the mouth with a big right hand and sends him stumbling into the ropes, D comes back off of them and Hugo drops for a back body drop, but D drops into a full split and smashes him in the jaw with an uppercut. Hugo’s head flies back and his arms wave, The D leaps back to his feet and grabs the vulnerable swinging arms of Vale and drives his feet directly into his face.
Richard Parker: A-Lister!
Nick Stuart: Vale’s in a lot of trouble.
Hugo hits the canvas and The D makes a quick cover. He sees Green already coming through the ropes and abandons the cover. He slides back to his corner and makes a composed tag of Ares as Turnbull ushers Green back to the corner. Elise comes into the ring over the top rope and makes a bee line for Hugo. She reaches down to pull Vale up by the hair but Hugo manages to slip an elbow into Elise’s ribs. Elise grabs at her midsection and it’s enough of an opening for Hugo to slip away. Ares swings a roundhouse kick but Hugo counters by dropping into a dragonscrew leg whip that sends Ares flying into the GVG/Kael corner. Hugo wipes a bit of blood from his lip on his now stretched open dress shirt.
Richard Parker: Hugo’s looking a little worse for wear…
Nick Stuart: When do we see Kael…
Richard Parker: It’s strategy, Nick.
Elise makes her way to her feet but Hugo rushes the corner and plants a shoulder into her midsection. Green slaps Vale on the shoulder blade and comes into the ring and delivers a spinning back elbow that almost decapitates Ares thanks to Hugo holding her midsection and Kael grabbing both of her arms. Hugo steps through the ropes and Elise takes a short walk to the center of the ring and falls on her face. Daniel comes over and hooks the leg as Turnbull drops into count.
ONE
Nick Stuart: The D with the quick save…
The D dives and smacks Green off of Elise sending mayhem into the ring. Hugo comes through the ropes after D, Blaze comes storming in but Max is nowhere to be found. Blaze pivots and tackles Hugo off of The D and into the corner. Elise manages to roll her way to the PCP corner while Turnbull tries to make sense of the situation. Blaze half tackles, Hugo half drags Blaze through the ropes with him and to the outside. The D is ushered to his corner away from Green, the second he gets to the ropes he reaches down and tags himself in. Daniel and The D stand toe to toe in the center of the ring. Snide remarks flying as the two explode with right hands.
Richard Parker: There’s Max!
On the outside, Max and Hugo gang up on Blaze. Kael’s boots are flying, and Hugo is driving vicious right hands between them. Hugo starts to retreat, but Max gets up close in personal with Claymore, he yanks him up by the arms and smashes him across the bridge of the nose with his forehead. The big headbutt floors Claymore as Max makes his way towards Sonja.
Nick Stuart: Oh c’mon!
In the ring Green manages to get the better of The D in the strike exchange by checking a kick and driving his way to an underhook position and spinning D over with a judo throw/belly to belly suplex. Green spikes The D off the canvas, he pushes himself up to his feet and makes a calm tag to Hugo.
Richard Parker: Great work by Green and Vale.
Nick Stuart: Why is Max walking at a manager?
Richard Parker: The action in the ring is great.
Blaze manages to see what’s happening through his crimson mask and takes off after Max. He smashes Kael in the back with a frantic forearm that sends the much larger Kael stumbling. Turnbull finally turns his attention to the outside and begins counting the teams back to their corner. Max gives Blaze a smirk and marches back to his own corner. Blaze shouts obscenities at Max the entire way. The D looks to his corner, and Elise is slowly getting back to her feet, but a bloodied Blaze is fuming mad, D gives Claymore the tag and lets the raging lunatic go.
Nick Stuart: Here comes Claymore!
Blaze roars into the ring throwing right hands at Hugo that catches him by surprise. Hugo staggers but it’s not for long as Blaze veers off and begins swinging wildly at Max on the outside. He smashes him with a few quick rights and Max falls off the apron. Blaze tries to step through the ropes but Green smashes his head into the middle turnbuckle and Hugo manages to roll Claymore up. He grabs a handful of jeans as Green sprints across the ring and manages to corner Ares and The D as Turnbull drops for the count.
Nick Stuart: Vale with the roll up!
ONE!
Richard Parker: Great counter!
Hugo puts his feet up onto the ropes, and Ned immediately hangs off of them, while Darkly does the same thing.
Nick Stuart: OH C’MON!
TWO!
….
……..
…………..
……………….
THREE!
DING DING DING
Turnbull calls for the bell and the tower of people yanking on Hugo’s legs rush into the ring. Blaze is furious and tries to charge through the wall of GVG managers to get to Max as the Enemigos spill from the back. Max looks up and gives Blaze a little wink before slithering into the ring to celebrate.
Vince Howard: Your winners the team of the Green Vale Gang and Max Kael!
Nick Stuart: Yeah, and the two managers…
Richard Parker: Two is better than… well the other team has two as well. So it’s fair!
Nick Stuart: Yeah… real fair…
Ascension moves elsewhere while The Enemigos try to calm Blaze down.
The Soviet flag fills the backdrop. The camera lingers on the hammer and sickle before panning down to reveal Ivan Stanislav, Alexei Ruslan, Speedy Riggs, and Arina Timofeyevna. The core of The Red Army are all assembled together. With Ivan and Alexei standing side by side, Arina off in the corner, and Speedy brandishing a microphone with a grin, his hammer and sickle tropical shirt positively glowing.
Speedy Riggs: Ladies and gentlemen, Red Army referee turned interviewer Speedy Riggs here, standing alongside my fellow comrades in the Red Army, Ivan Stanislav and Alexei Ruslan. You know, as we all are aware, it can be hard to be international members of an American based company. So for once, this message isn’t for everyone who gets to see us tonight. It’s for your proud countrymen at home, isn’t that right, Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav?
Ivan nods and growls.
Ivan Stanislav: Да.
Translation: (Not on screen or anything, but for the lovely PRIME readers) (“Yes.”)
Speedy nods his head. He knows that word at least.
Speedy Riggs: Exactly! So, comrade Stanislav, here at Ascension, Night Two, what do you have to say to your people at home? My understanding is that Russian State Media is televising Ascension throughout most Russian homes this evening?
Ivan smiles and spreads his arms wide.
Ivan Stanislav: Соотечественники из России! Я стою перед вами сегодня, как один из двух финалистов турнира «Алмасы», вместе с членом Whoresaw Pact Фредом Диком! Сегодня мы завершаем этот турнир так, как и должно было быть: те, кто сочувствует России и её народу, – те двое, кто выдержал испытание! Не Чендлер Цонда. Не Фламберг. Не все остальные крысы, снующие по ПРАЙМУ. И сегодня вечером, будьте уверены, я выиграю турнир «Алмасы» и снова принесу честь и славу нашей Родине!
Translation: (“Compatriots of Russia! I stand before you today as one of the two Almasy Finalists alongside Whoresaw Pact member Fred Dick! Tonight, we finish this tournament off as it should always have been: with those who are sympathetic to Russia and her people as the two who were able to endure! Not Chandler Tsonda. Not FLAMBERGE. Not any of the other rats who scurry about PRIME. And tonight, rest assured, I will win the Almasy Tournament and bring honor and glory, once more, to our Motherland!”)
Speedy nods and hesitates for a moment. He clearly isn’t that fluent in Russian, and isn’t sure if Ivan is finished. Alexei nods to him and Speedy clears his throat.
Speedy Riggs: That is great to know and I’m sure everyone is happy to hear that, comrade Stanislav. So…
Speedy hesitates, not sure where to go next.
Speedy Riggs: …feeling good about your match?
Ivan straightens his shoulders and rocks back on his heels.
Ivan Stanislav: Горько и сладко бороться с таким товарищем, как Фред Дик. Но я не сомневаюсь, что Фред поймёт, какую жертву ему приходится приносить ради общего блага «Пакта Шлюхи». Никто не станет отрицать, что он заслужил место финалиста, но никто не станет отрицать, что я заслужил победу.
Translation: (“It’s bittersweet to have to wrestle against a fellow comrade like Fred Dick. But I have no doubt that Fred will understand the sacrifice that he has to make for the greater good of the Whoresaw Pact. No one can deny that he earned his place as a finalist, but no one will refute that I deserve to win.”)
Out of the corner of the shot, Arina’s eyes dart between Speedy and Ivan, her hands tightening together. She doesn’t speak, but her anxious glance says everything. The Bear’s shadow looms too large for her to interrupt. Speedy isn’t sure if there’s more, once again. He falters, then glances at Ruslan.
Speedy Riggs: Uh… great. Comrade Ruslan, any thoughts?
Riggs looks at the cameraman now, slightly like a deer in headlights. He has no idea where any of this is going.
Alexei barks immediately.
Alexei Ruslan: Я видел это своими глазами, русские соотечественники. Иван разгромил всех соперников. Чендлер Цонда СНОВА молил о пощаде, когда победил его в прошлом ReVival! Это неоспоримо! И если по какой-то причине Иван Станислав НЕ получит свой законный шанс завоевать титул чемпиона Вселенной после победы над Фредом Диком сегодня вечером, винить в этом можно только Линдси Трой и её коварные методы!
Translation: (“I’ve seen it with my own two eyes, Russian compatriots. Ivan has decimated every opponent. Why, Chandler Tsonda begged for his life AGAIN when he beat him last ReVival! It is irrefutable! And if, for some reason, Ivan Stanislav does NOT get his rightful shot at the Universal Title after defeating Fred Dick tonight, you can only blame Lindsay Troy and her crooked ways!”)
Speedy nods his head and looks at the camera, then back at Alexei, then at Ivan.
Speedy Riggs: Uh… anything else?
Alexei points up at Ivan, who grins like a cheshire cat.
Alexei Ruslan: Его не остановить! Его невозможно победить!! Он неутомим. Он — Иван Станислав, и он — победитель Алмаши!!
Translation: (“He is unstoppable! He is unbeatable!! He is indefatigable. He is Ivan Stanislav and he is THE Almasy winner!!”)
Speedy recognizes enough of that to know where they are in the interview now. He nods his head and smiles at the camera.
Speedy Riggs: Well, there you have it PRIME!! Straight from the Almasy Finalist himself! The pride of the Motherland! Ivan Stanislav!!
Ascension moves on.
Nick Stuart: Fans, we’ve got a huge bout up next as the two Almasy semi-finalist face each other.
Richard Parker: I think poor ol’Fred Dick is about to get handed his second loss in a row by the Soviet Stalwart Ivan Stanislav!
Nick Stuart: Righting the INTENSE Champion off that quickly, huh?
Richard Parker: Listen, Fred Dick is a great… well he’s a great Fred Dick but Ivan is a seven foot tall monster, built like third little piggy’s house and red as the bricks it’s built with! Plus the Whoresaw Act and, you know, Fred Dick doing the right thing by the Red Army and Ivan.
Nick Stuart: I guess we’ll see!
Boos start to reign in from the crowd as the Lasagna Boys, Toddrick, Miguel and Sebastian Gold, step out onto the ramp. Migel has a microphone in hand.
Nick Stuart: Oh no.
Migel taps the mic a few times to make sure it’s on before lifting it to his lips.
Migel: EVERYBODY! Shut the FUCK up! The KING OF WRONG STYLE IS HERE! BOW YOUR HEADS AND KNEEL, YOU FUCKERS!
“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” blares out over the speakers. Fred dick steps out onto the stage with Anna Daniels and a reluctant Daytona Diamonds behind him. Fred removes the INTENSE title from his waist, handing it over to Toddrick.
Vince Howard: Introducing first, accompanied by the Lasagna Boys…
Fred Dick shadow boxes at the top of the stage as the fans greet him with boos and “SKETTI SUCKS” chants. Dick ignores them, probably because he’s suddenly winded, before he starts to stroll to the ring. He rolls under the ropes and stands in the middle of the ring, resuming his earlier shadow slap-boxing.
Vince Howard: From Chicken City, Georgia, standing at Six-foot-one inches and weighing in at three-hundred-five pounds, he is your INTENSE Champion, the King of Wrong Style, the Street Cat…. FREEEEEEEEED DIIIIIIIIIIIIICK!
As Howard introduces him, Fred increases the speed and ferocity of his shadow boxing, which looks impressive until he tries to hold his hands up only to reveal he is very gassed. Vince Howard checks on Dick who waves him off, moving to his corner.
Nick Stuart: Ladies and gentlemen, you can feel the anticipation hanging heavy in the air here in Indianapolis. It’s not gonna be for the faint of heart. We’re waiting for one of PRIME’s most notorious figures. Not just here in the ReVival Era, but perhaps in all of PRIME’s illustrious history…
Richard Parker: Notorious? No, Nick. You mean historic. This isn’t just another PRIME superstar. This is a legend. And tonight, we’re getting the REAL Almasy Final, right here in Lucas Oil. Forget what the records say. Forget the paper trails. In Russia, in history, in truth, it comes down to these two men: Fred Dick and Ivan Stanislav. The Whoresaw Pact collides!
Nick Stuart: You mean colludes.
Richard Parker: I mean finalizes, Nick!
The house lights shudder and die, plunging Lucas Oil into shadow. A red glow pulses across the stadium, as if the blood of the Revolution has spilled over the rafters themselves. Then, the explosive opening stanza of the Soviet National Anthem erupts from the speakers, performed by the illustrious Russian Red Army Choir. The volume swells, each Russian voice resonant, a wall of sound filling the air.
The PRIMEtron flickers alive with images: the hammer and sickle, parades across Red Square, the march of tanks and soldiers, archival black and white footage bleeding into crimson flags. Each booming note summons a chorus of boos from the Indianapolis faithful, but the anthem only grows stronger, devouring their hatred.
Nick Stuart: The fans here letting their feelings be known. A cascade of boos, drowning under the sound of that infamous anthem.
Richard Parker: Those boos carry with them respect, Nick. Do you hear the roar? It proves a point. They cannot ignore him. They’ve never forgotten him. The Russian Bear is eternal!
Alexei Ruslan emerges first through the curtain, his overcoat flaring, cap pulled tight, finger jabbing and barking orders in Russian at the hostile crowd. He revels in the venom, sneering, mocking, shouting at the fans as they lean over the barricade with middle fingers raised.
A pace behind him walks Arina Timofeyevna, composed in her olive attire. She folds her hands together, expression grave, her eyes flicking toward the stadium lights with a look of someone who understands the enormity of the theater. She neither smiles nor frowns, but walks with careful solemnity.
And then, the true eruption. A seismic swell, equal parts fury and awe. Out strides Ivan Stanislav, himself.
Suspenders stretched against his barrel chest, every footfall echoing like a bomb. His face is stone, eyes like embers under the red glow. He raises one massive arm in the air, and instantly, the boos turn volcanic. Beer cups fly. Jeers rip through the rafters. But the seventy thousand angry fans feel small compared to the anthem and the giant it heralds.
Nick Stuart: Lucas Oil is shaking under the weight of Ivan Stanislav.
Richard Parker: The single-most dominant and powerful competitor in PRIME. Bar none!! And listen to them squirm!!
Vince Howard: And his opponent, accompanied to the ring by Alexei Ruslan and Arina Timofeyevna. From Arkhangels, Russia. Standing seven foot one inches tall and weighing in at four hundred pounds. He is a former two time Universal Champion. The leader of The Red Army. The Russian Bear. I-VAAAAAANNNNNN STAAAANISSSSLAAAVVVV!!!
The Red Army trio advances. Alexei offers his own two middle fingers back to a few fans, while Arina falls in step behind Ivan. Ivan himself marches slowly, deliberately, each stride consuming the ramp as if he has all the time in the world and no one can rush him.
At the base of the ramp, Ivan turns his head to the hard cam, scowling, and then steps up onto the apron as if it were a curb. He grips the top rope and steps over it. He thuds to the middle of the ring and raises his arms high, with Alexei sneering at his side. Arina remains on the apron, bringing one hand to her ear to plug out some of the cacophony.
Nick Stuart: This entire stadium hates Ivan Stanislav, but I have to admit, they cannot take their eyes off of him.
Richard Parker: There’s no one else in PRIME who has an entire nation rooting for them, Nick. The man transcends this ring and this stadium!
Ruslan looks up at Ivan and smirks, patting his huge comrade on the chest. He moves to the edge of the ring and slides out next to Arina, winking at her. Ivan turns his attention, finally, to Fred Dick.
Nick Stuart: Well, we’re going to see two “friends” lock up here, I guess. Will the Whoresaw Pact survive?
As the Soviet Anthem fades, Elvis Nixon calls for the bell.
Richard Parker: It’s kind of wrong that a guy named Nixon is officiating a Stanislav match… just saying.
The crowd roars with derision and a “U-S-A” chant starts crashing down. Ivan smirks at it, and turns his head to look at the crowd. Ruslan claps like a conductor, grandly motioning to Ivan.
Ivan rolls his shoulders and motions for Fred to move closer. He gestures with a sweeping arm towards him, and then at the mat and points with a grin.
Fred sighs. Begrudgingly, he sits down on the mat and then lays down on his back.
Nick Stuart: Wait a…. What is this?!
Richard Parker: What do you think it is? The General of the Pact makes an order, you better believe the soldiers are going to fall in line, Nick!
Stanislav places one huge boot on Fred’s chest and raises his arms in the air. Ruslan does the same outside, cackling. Arina watches quietly. Elvis Nixon stands there, stunned, until The Bear bellows.
Ivan Stanislav: COUNT!!
1…. 2….
…Fred twists a shoulder up and shrugs Ivan’s boot off of his chest. Ivan blinks, positively befuddled by this turn of events. He looks over at Alexei and gawks at him, who mirrors the look.
Fred Dick: Ah, shid… sorry Ivan. You wanna try again… or…?
Ivan looks down at Fred and points back down at the mat, jabbing his finger angrily in its direction. He waits expectantly with his hands on his hips. Alexei roars from the apron.
Fred closes his eyes, pretends to be asleep with his back on the mat. Ivan glares at Nixon and slaps his palm three times, as if the referee doesn’t know how to count to three. This time, The Bear drops to his knees, but still in no hurry, he hooks Fred’s leg for the pin.
1…. 2…. 3– NO!!! FRED KICKS OUT AGAIN!
Richard Parker: You know, I don’t love where this is going for Fred Dick.
Fred apologizes profusely. Ivan angrily hooks both legs.
1…. 2…. and NOW FRED’S HAND IS ON THE BOTTOM ROPE!!!
Fred Dick: I’m tryna lay down! I’m tryin’! I just don’t know how!!!
Ruslan leaps up onto the apron and points over the top rope, shrieking.
Alexei Ruslan: WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU, YOU DUMB SON OF BITCH?! LAY DOWN!!!
Ivan turns to look at Ruslan, and it all happens in slow motion. He slowly turns his head towards Fred.
Fred isn’t laying down. But he is crouching.
Ruslan’s face goes slack. Ivan looks down towards Fred, who lurches forward. By the time Stanislav realizes Fred isn’t laying down, it’s too late. Fred’s fist buries itself in Stanislav’s groin, blasting both of his Sputniks into oblivion.
Lucas Oil Stadium erupts.
RAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!
But it’s drowned out by the roar of the Bear. It makes the roar from the Bald Headed Bear from The Great Outdoors sound like a whimper. The people in Russia can hear Russia’s favorite son howl in agony as his knees buckle and his eyes cross. He doubles forward and grits his teeth.
Arina covers her eyes.
Fred, meanwhile, has dashed all the way across the ring to the opposite side. Ivan limps awkwardly across the ring, his face as red as his suspenders, and clumsily tries to grab at Fred, who rolls him in a small package!!!
But… Ivan doesn’t roll over. He just remains bent over, and Fred hangs there, all three hundred pounds of him. Through sheer nut-addled rage, Stanislav grabs Fred up, scoops him with a howl, and slams him on the mat with an enormous thud that makes him bounce. Ivan doesn’t follow up, he turns and walks off the pain, kicking his leg awkwardly. Ruslan produces a crimson handkerchief and fans The Bear in the corner.
Nick Stuart: Looks like we’re gonna have a match after all, folks.
Richard Parker: Can’t believe I’m saying this, Nick, but I think you’re right.
Stanislav convalesces enough to give Fred the chance to get to his feet, but when The Bear turns, he’s seeing red. Everywhere.
Fred throws himself at Ivan with all the conviction of a man who has never heard of the concept of consequences. His three hundred pound bulk slaps into Ivan for a shoulder block but it’s more like watching a crash test. Dick’s semi-gelatinous body flattens out, kinda like a water balloon thrown at a wall.
Richard Parker: I don’t know if Fred Dick is very brave or very dumb, Stuart.
Nick Stuart: I think it’s a very dangerous combination of both.
The Street Cat’s self-inflicted gunshot wound ends with him crashing down hard to the mat. Ivan roars, lifting his boot and positioning it above Fred’s head. Then he brings it down with all the force he can muster, rage driving his actions.
Nick Stuart: Oh my god, if this connects he might kill Fred Dick!
Richard Parker: We can only hope!
The massive boot smashes down to the apron as Dick manages to squirm away at the last second, narrowly avoiding facial reconstructive surgery or another trip under his lover’s knife. Clamouring up to his feet, Fred puts distance between himself and his massive opponent.
Nick Stuart: This is one of those rare occasions where I’d say that Fred actually has a sizable speed advantage.
Richard Parker: Yeah but he’s giving up a full foot and quite a few pounds. Most of the advantages Fred enjoys in the ring is his ability to bully people. You don’t bully the Russian Bear, Stuart.
Migel quickly jumps up on the apron, drawing Elvis Nixon’s attention. On the other side of the ring Toddrick slides beneath the ropes with the INTENSE title in his hands. Ivan recognizes a referee distraction and as Toddrick rushes forward with the title, the Russian Bear turns, swinging his right arm.
Nick Stuart: Speaking of advantages, here is one that Fred Dick has in his corner, those damn Lasagna Boys.
Richard Parker: Ivan could eat these guys like a bowl of borsch, Stuart! Look out IVAN!
Toddrick is turned inside out and upside down by the force of the lariat, the INTENSE title flying out of the ring. Unfortunately Ivan is one man and there are ever more Lasagna Boys. Sebastian Gold,the third and sneakiest of the Lasagna Boys, chop blocks Ivan though he comically bounces off, as though he had tried tackling a telephone pole. It’s enough to send a shudder of pain up the big Russian’s leg.
Nick Stuart: Who would have ever thought Sebastian Gold would be helping Fred Dick!
Richard Parker: A career low!
Fred Dick is suddenly there, following up on his Lasagna Boy’s hard work, throwing his entire body into the back of Ivan’s knee. The cannon ball chop block chops the big tree down as Ivan comes crashing down, his hands clutching at that right knee Fred collided with.
Nick Stuart: You know, we’ve talked about it before but Ivan’s performance in the Almasy really tested his body. He’s barely had time to recover from some truly hellacious battles over the past few months and you’re starting to see that wear and tear right now.
Richard Parker: Come on Ivan! Get up! It’s just a leg, Stalin was kind enough to give you two!
Alexei jumps up on the apron, grabbing Migel by the shirt as the two of them begin to argue. Toddrick has recovered enough to grab a chair however before he can get back into the ring, Ariana grabs it out of his hand. Toddrick is beside himself that Ariana would take away his chair, screaming at her.
Nick Stuart: If I were Migel I might be careful right now.
Richard Parker: The Red Army leave a lot of bodies around and messing with Ariana is only gonna provoke a violent response, idiots!
In the ring Dick is distracted with the drama between Toddrick and Ariana with him screaming at Toddick to belt her in the teeth. On the other side of the ring Migel shoves his finger in Alexei’s face, telling him to “fuck off” rather vocally. Alexei stares at the man, as if in shock that he’d just been spoken to that way before he kicks Migel right in the dick. The one time favorite Lasagna Boy doubles over, holding his crotch with both hands. Alexei kicks Migel off the ring apron before jumping down himself, freeing Elvis Nixon up again.
Richard Parker: You can’t outfox the original Soviet fox, Pasta Jabronis!
Nick Stuart: Mmm no I don’t think that’s gonna work.
Richard Parker: You don’t like Pasta Jabronis?
Nick Stuart: Nobody does, Richard, but I still love you.
It’s weird, Alexei might might have gotten a little pop.
The referee turns just in time to see Ivan Stanislav execute a roll up on a distracted Fred Dick!
One…
Two…
Kickout!
Richard Parker: A picture perfect roll up by Ivan Stanislav, I don’t even know how that was possible!
Nick Stuart: Ivan has an excellent hand to hand combat background but you’re right, that was incredible!
Fred snaps up to his feet, bewildered as he throws wild haymakers in all directions. Elvis Nixon barely manages to dodge out of the way as Dick windmills around the ring, unleashing his savagery on nothing in particular.
Richard Parker: What is Dick doing?!
Nick Stuart: I. I think he’s Dicking Out, Richard.
Richard Parker: By God, he IS Dicking Out!
On the outside Toddrick is distracted by his ‘sagna Daddy’s display of blind fury allowing Ariana to pull a taser from her pocket and drive it into his neck. He would scream if he could but instead his body goes rigid, the TAKTAKTAK of the taser’s electrical charge filling his ears. After a long three seconds Ariana discharges the taser and Toddrick flops to the ground like a fish out of water.
Richard Parker: I warned him, those Red Army folks are dangerous!
Nick Stuart: Well that’s a lesson that Toddrick is likely to- you know what, he actually probably won’t learn anything.
Back in the ring, with help from the ring ropes Ivan has gotten back up to his feet. He casts Fred Dick a hateful gaze as the Street Cat slowly winds down his savage Dicking around the ring. He’s winded, tired and used up to much of his MP raging at Ivan’s kick out. When Fred finally notices that Ivan is back up on his feet he rushes forward only to be met with a Big Boot from Ivan, knocking Fred Dick back down to the mat hard.
Nick Stuart: And it’s the heel of Ivan’s boot that Fred eats.
Richard Parker: And now he’s Dicking Down.
Sit-up!
Richard Parker: What the hell!?
Nick Stuart: What are we watching!?
Ivan stares down at Ivan as he immediately sits-up from the big boot! The crowd is shocked. Ivan is shocked. Alexei and Arinana are shocked. The Lasagna Boys are trying to get Toddrick back on his feet.
Nick Stuart: I don’t know how but Fred just sat up after eating Ivan’s boot!
Richard Parker: Who knows what this Fred Dick is shooting himself up with before these matches!
The Russian Bear grabs Fred Dick by the neck, pulling him back up to his feet; however a swift kick to Ivan’s knee sends a bolt of pain through Ivan. Releasing Fred he hobbles back toward the ropes, leaning on them for support.
Nick Stuart: That knee is becoming a real problem for Ivan as this match goes on.
Richard Parker: Fred Dick fights with no honor what-so-ever! It should be illegal to kick a man as big as Ivan in the knee, he could fall and die from that height!
Outside the ring Ariana has positioned herself outside the ring near Ivan offering him support, cheering him on. She is soon joined by the three Lasagna Boys who circle her. Noticing her plight, Alexei quickly makes his way over to him threatening to fight them. Well, he actually threatens to pull something from under inside his uniform, the mysterious nature of it giving the Lasagna Boys pause. Arina quickly escapes as Alexei becomes their primary focus.
Nick Stuart: Lasagna Boys had best be careful when dealing with Alexei Ruslan.
Richard Parker: If they think Ariana was a hand full, just wait till my man Alexei gets his hands on them!
Back in the ring Fred Dick charges forward screaming “BLOODMODE”, his right arm stretched back!
Nick Stuart: Fred Dick is going in for the kill!
Richard Parker: There’s no way!
Dick is suddenly grabbed by his throat once again, the Soviet stone giant snarling as he draws Fred in close. Instead of being intimidated Fred spits in the Russian Bear’s face before screaming “FUG YOU, BETCH!”.
Nick Stuart: Brave and dumb, Richard!
Richard Parker: I think that’s completely dumb.
Blinded by rage, Ivan lifts Fred Dick high into the air before turning and throwing him straight into the three Lasagna Boys and Alexei Ruslan. The three hundred pound Fred Dick crashes down on the four men like a jelly filled meteorite, complete with comical “splat” noise.
Richard Parker: Where can you see that kind of power outside of a STRONK, Stuart!?
Nick Stuart: An incredible display of power from the Russian Bear!
As Ivan begins to step over the top rope, Fred Dick is already scrambling to his feet. Wiping the sweat from his face, Fred’s desperate eyes scan his surroundings for a weapon or some kind of advantage he can use against the incoming giant.
Nick Stuart: Elvis Nixon is starting a ten count!
…1
The Russian Bear steps down from the ring, ignoring Alexei’s crumbled form as his eyes remain locked on Fred. As he scrambles along the ringside area Dick’s eyes finally fall upon what he’s been searching for.
…2
Charging forward, Fred grabs a handful of Ariana’s hair as the crowd rise to their feet, booing God’s own Bum Fardo, the Crumb Horn. She attempts to pull her taser out but Fred quickly disarms her before wrapping his arm around her neck.
…3
Pulling her in front of himself like a bullet shield, Fred demands that Ivan submit or he’ll slap the communism out of her.
…4
Ivan’s blind rage quickly dissipates, his stalking of Fred Dick grinding to a halt. Gritting his teeth he stares at Fred and Ariana, the Russian Bear looks deeply torn. His head, once held high, drops and for a moment Ivan looks tired and old. Very, very old.
…5
Ariana pleads with Ivan not to submit but Fred shuts her up quickly by tightening his hold around her neck. Rage catches fire in Ivan’s eyes but it’s clear he’s unwilling to sacrifice Ariana to do it.
Richard Parker: There is NO way…
…6
Looking up at Elvis Nixon and then back at Fred Dick, the Russian Bear rolls back into the ring with a disgusted, defeated look on his face.
Richard Parker: No WAY!
Ivan Stanislav: I… I…
Fred Dick: OOOOOHHYEEEIII!
Ariana pulls the her heel out of Fred Dick’s crotch before she bashes the back of her head across the bridge of Fred’s nose with a loud crack. Dick releases Ariana as he stumbles back, dazed, his face burning from a broken nose.
Richard Parker: I knew it!
Nick Stuart: Richard Nixon restarts the count!
…1
So distracted by his nose is Fred that he doesn’t register the angry giant sliding out of the ring behind him. As he turns his face smacks into the chest of Ivan Stanislav and once again searing hot paint burns through his body.
CRACK!
…2
Ivan chops Fred Dick across the chest sending the Street Cat stumbling back. Blood pours freely from his nose and down his chin while he grasps his chest in agony. Ivan easily covers the distance in a limping step before rocking Fred’s world with a right cook.
….3
The world slows down for Fred Dick as blood and spit fly from his mouth, the world flipping on its side as fire explodes across the side of his face where Ivan had just struck him. His head snaps against the side of the ring at a disgusting angle before he collapses to the ground, twitching.
Nick Stuart: Oh my GOD that was horrific!
Richard Parker: Fred Dick crossed a line and now he’s getting mauled by the Russian Bear!
….4
Grabbing Fred by the lump of flesh on his neck, Ivan peels Dick’s body off the ground and hooks him into a suplex. He easily hoists Fred Dick up off the ground before tossing him up and over the top rope with freakish strength!
Richard Parker: RED SCARE!
Nick Stuart: Another incredible display of power, he threw him over the top rope into the ring from the outside!
…5
Fred Dick’s crashes down into the ring, bouncing twice before remaining very still. His head kinda rolls to the side, eyes closed as he starfishes in the ring. Ivan begins to climb in when he hears a scream from behind him.
Richard Parker: Wait, wait, wait! Ivan what are you doing!?
…6
Toddrick and Migel have captured Ariana, dragging up the entrance ramp. Once again blind rage fills Ivan’s eyes as he begins to stalk toward them. Alexei, mostly recovered, scrambles after Ivan, grabbing his arm, reminding him about the count. Alexei might as well be trying to stop a runaway train.
Nick Stuart: I don’t think anything or anyone is gonna keep Ivan from doing what Ivan is gonna do, Parker.
Richard Parker: He’s only got till the count of ten!
…7
Sebastian Gold jumps up on the apron distracting Elvis Nixon as Migel and Toddrick throw themselves at Ivan. It isn’t really much of a fight as Migel gets headbutted and Toddrick catches Ivan’s backhand, literally swatting the Lasagna Boy down. Ariana urgently points toward the ring as Ivan turns. The rage melts away as he suddenly realizes his dire situation.
Nick Stuart: Can Ivan’s legs get him to the ring in time!?
Richard Parker: You can’t slow down the Red Army!
Realizing that his fellow Lasagna Boys are down, Sebastian Gold jumps down off the apron and hides, hoping Ivan doesn’t see him.
…8
Now Ivan is already slow but now he’s wearing the wounds of weeks of fighting with both physical and emotional damage. And now, he realizes as he takes one slow step forward, he has two Lasagna boys who have chained themselves around his ankles. The Russian Bear howls with anger as he realizes that he’s fallen into a bear trap. Alexei rushes over and tries to pull the chains off Ivan but it’s no use.
Nick Stuart: Those clever boys…
Richard Parker: It was all a set up… this was the plan all along!
…9
Inside the ring Fred Dick remains lifeless, a pool of blood forming around his head. Outside Ivan huffs and puffs, dragging his extra weight with him. The crowd is actually cheering him on. He’s managed to reach the apron, grabbing the top rope!
…10!
DING DING DING DING!
Vince Howard: The winner of this match by count out… FREEEEEEEEED DIIIIIIIIIIIIICK!
Ivan’s face blooms into a furious crimson. He reaches down and, one by one, breaks the chain cuffs Migel and Toddrick have used to affix themselves to him. Inside the ring Sebastian Gold scrambles in, grabbing Fred Dick and dragging him from his pool of blood.
Nick Stuart: Fred Dick survives and steals a win thanks to a group effort among his Lasagna Boys.
Richard Parker: Yeah but Fred isn’t walking out of here under his own power! And Ivan… well he’s got Migel and Toddrick at his mercy.
Picking Migel up by palming his face, Ivan turns and throws the Lasagna Boy through the metal ring steps. Metal and human flesh collide as Migel’s body is ass over kettle. Toddrick is picked up by the back of his neck before power bombed onto the same steps that Migel was thrown over.
Nick Stuart: Ivan is unhinged, tossing these Lasagna Boys around like they’re toys!
Richard Parker: Fred Dick better be thanking Sebastian Gold because if not for him, I don’t think Fred Dick would be making it out of here with his life!
Nick Stuart: I tend to agree!
Ivan continues to rage as Ariana and Alexei attempt to calm him down.
Ascension moves… on?
Ivan and the Red Army have left the ringside area.
But Fred refuses as he lies down on the ring mat.
Fred Dick: I can’t walk, my Lasagna Boys! I’m just so tired. I’ma need y’all to carry me. I’m on, hop to it neow. I know y’all ain’t tired given y’all didn’t do a damn thang to HELP my ace in that match.
Fred looks around himself.
No Toddrick.
No Miguel.
But there’s Sebagna Gold.
Only… is it?
Bash is still in the same getup he was last seen in during Ascension Night 1. By the looks of things, he did not sleep inside last night, if he slept at all.
But he does have a tire iron.
Mic in hand, he gets in Fred Dick’s dazed face and screams.
Sebastian Gold: FREEEEEDDDYYYY. DOGGY’S HERE!! Sleepin’ like a baby in his kennel.
Sebastian barks in his face and cackles, not a hinge in sight. He twirls the tire iron before waving it wildly at the audience.
Sebastian Gold: That’s where he’s keeping me, you know. Fred Dick, you took me and locked me in a dog cage in some godforsaken kennel where my mind can’t reach me. He injects me with ‘medcin’ that keeps me here, dreaming faaaar away from reality
Nick Stuart: Does…does Sebastian think he’s dreaming right now?
Fred Dick: So this is how it is, huh? I give you everythang. I give you the world. I make you nothing more than an extension of ME — A WINNER — BUT THAT’S NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR YA NOW, IS IT?
Fred spits.
Fred Dick: Now you tryna Judas on me?
Sebastian Gold: Nah.
CRUNCH. Sebastian brings the tire iron down.
Sebastian Gold: Judas had regrets.
Jesus Christ, Fred’s forehead is gashed.
Sebastian Gold: Your drugs are wearing off, FREEEDY. One day, I’m gonna be awake again. And when I do-
CRUNCH.
Sebastian Gold: I’m going to make this dream your reality.
Sebastian mounts Fred and starts laying in shots with a crazed ferocity. When his fist comes back with blood, he pauses and examines it with childlike fascination.
Sebastian Gold: Just like I imagined.
His eyes catch a glint of the Intense Title. All of this. For that.
He looks at the cave being carved into Fred’s skull at the moment and goes further. He only stops when teeth and bone start to pierce through Fred’s lips.
Richard Parker: That psychopath’s gonna kill him. Somebody help! Anyone!
“Holding Out for a Hero” hits.
Richard Parker: Ew.
The crowd roars as TAL and Crash rush to the ring, but by the time they get there, the damage is done. Sebastian stands and whips around to greet his friends. His face splattered red.
Sebastian Gold: Guys!
Everything is splattered red.
Sebastian Gold: Best dream ever!
The stuntman puts his arms around his bros and hugs them close. They both stare in horror at what he’s done.
Sebastian Gold: Don’t worry, nothing’s real. Let’s get ice cream!
He grabs the bewildered Heroes by the hands and practically skips backstage.
Fred is tended to by many Enemigos.
And the Lasagna Boys, that is to say, Toddrick and Miguel, are somehow nowhere to be found.
Ascension moves on.
Cut to backstage.
A camera picks up “The Merry Mischief Maker” Ami Troy, with the Five Star Title held over her shoulder, leading the champion KERRY KUROYAMA out of the VVIP Room and on the path to the upcoming title defense.
With a sudden look of confusion, the Emerald Apex pauses.
Kerry Kuroyama: …no Simon tonight?
Ami Troy: (shrugs) I guess he had a gig.
Kerry Kuroyama: Really? No usual pre-match interview then? Dang…
Ami Troy: Seriously, what are we missing? He goes, “Hey, Kerry! How you feeling about this match tonight?” And then you go, “Well, Simon, I’m very focused and determined and stuff, and I’m going to suplex him until his brain turns to jelly.” Blah blah blah… and life moves on.
Kerry Kuroyama: Yeah… guess you got a point there.
Ami Troy: Duh, of course I do! Now, let’s get into the zone. Gimme your Beast Face!
Kerry Kuroyama: RRAAH!!
Ami Troy: Serious Face!
Kerry Kuroyama: Hm.
Ami Troy: Beast Face!
Kerry Kuroyama: RRAAH!!
Ami Troy: Serious Face!
Kerry Kuroyama: Hm.
Satisfied that Kuroyama is fit and ready for battle, Ami playfully punches him in the shoulder.
Ami Troy: Go get ‘em, champ!
They turn to keep walking up the hallway, when…
“YOOOOUUUUU…”
A raspy, seething voice causes Kerry and Ami to stop in their tracks.
The camera whips around one-hundred and eighty degrees, revealing…
Erik Black: This is ALL because of YOOOOOOUUUUU, KERRY!!!
Black looks like he was just blown up from an Acme stick of dynamite. He’s blackened head to toe in smoke and soot, with his white suit tattered and charred and hanging off him in ribbons.
The former Universal Champion has never looked closer to his characteristically disheveled, dopesmoking former self. Unfortunately for us, no drug in existence can be blamed for his current state of mind.
The source of the rage in his wide-eyed, furious gaze can only be pure, vengeful madness!
Erik Black: My EMPIRE!! My KINGDOM!! My BEAUTIFUL, BEAUTIFUL BUSINESS, Kerry!! It’s ALL GONE, Kerry!! ASHES!! TOAST!! The CHARRED CHEESE at the bottom of your OVEN, Kerry!! My LIFE’S WORK, Kerry!! Up in SMOKE, Kerry!! OH, THE IRONY, KERRY!! And it’s all because of that HOG-PACKING HICK, NATE COLTON, Kerry!! And that RAINBOW-HAIRED RIA-GGAMUFFIN, Kerry!!
He points accusingly at Kuroyama, standing in his path to the ring.
Erik Black: And YOOOOUUUU, KERRY!! All that YOOUU had to DOOO, Kerry, was JOOIIN MEE!! We could have been UNSTOPPABLE, Kerry!! But now it’s TOO LATE, Kerry!! And if I’M going DOWN, Kerry, then I’m taking you WITH ME!! Kerry!!
Growing bored of this dipshit, Kuroyama and Troy look at one another and sigh.
Despite their being checked out, Black continues yelling and ranting, shaking his fists overhead and the whole nine yards.
Erik Black: Did YOU really THINK a mere DEATHRAY was my ONLY weapon of MASS DESTRUCTION, Kerry?! HA, Kerry!! ONCE AGAIN, Kerry, you have UNDERESTIMATED ME!! TONIGHT, Kerry… I bring UNSPEAKABLE WRATH upon PRIME!! I am HERE, Kerry, to DROP the NUKE…
Black pulls open what’s left of his blazer and reaches into the pocket.
Erik Black: …of REVENGE!!
He pulls out a small object that appears to be red. And GLOWING…
Erik Black: …KERRY!!!
He holds out his hand.
The camera SMASH ZOOMS… and we see it’s a small vial of red liquid.
Scrawled on the label over the glass tube are two simple words: “CRIMSON SERUM”
Erik Black: I want YOU TO KNOW, Kerry… that it was YOU who PUSHED ME to DO THIS!!
Black untwists the cap, throws his head back, and pours the liquid down his throat!
Immediately, a hand goes to his throat as his eyes bulge and he begins making choking noises.
Erik Black: AAAAHHH!! IT… BURNS!! I CAN… FEEL MYSELF… CHANGING… FROM THE… INSIDE!! AAAAAARRRRGGHHH!!!
He folds up and falls to the floor, below our view, where, we can assume, he continues to writhe and make guttural noises.
“GGRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUURRRRGGGGHHHH!!!”
He rises back up, his body hunched over, arms out at his sides clawing the air, and an absolutely bestial, inhuman expression on his face. Strange red liquid is leaking from the corners of his mouth.
He is no longer a man.
He is a MONSTER!
Crimson Black: RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!! I… AM… CRIMSON… BLAAAAAACKKK!!!
“Crimson Black” pulls a fire hydrant off the wall and throws it down the hallway!
Crimson Black: RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!! THE POWER OF CRIMSON FLOWS THROUGH MY VEEEEEIIIINNNZZZZ!!!
He turns his unfettered rage on a nearby production roadcase, remorselessly kicking it onto its side!
Crimson Black: RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!! I… SELL… NOOOOOOTTHHIIIIIIIIINNNNGG!!
He puts his superhuman strength on display by turning to a folding table holding nothing of importance, and recklesslessly pushes it over!
Crimson Black: RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!! I HAVE TWO COLORS IN MY NAAAAAAMMMMEEE!!!
Having run out of things in his immediate vicinity to destroy, Crimson Black savagely pounds his fists against the wall!
Crimson Black: RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!! NOW THAT MY RAGE HAS BEEN UNLEASHED, NO ONE IN PRIME IS SA–
Mid-sentence, Black’s face suddenly freezes in place.
…
Actually…
Everything is frozen.
Time has, apparently, come to a standstill.
Millions of households watching from home quietly wonder if there’s a delay in the stream.
Only when the serene and ethereal sounds of new age music begin to play do they realize that this is part of the broadcast.
Who can say where the road goes?
Where the day flows?
Only time…
We discover that time isn’t quite frozen, but apparently moving in super slow-motion.
We are watching a split second, stretched out across several moments.
And we see, moving like a glacier, the heel of a boot slowly entering the frame.
And who can say if your love grows?
As your heart chose?
Only time…
Black’s eyes gradually come to focus on this inbound object.
Through the graceful beauty of time displacement, we can see his exaggeratedly ferocious expression slowly soften. The valley of his furrowed brown slowly rises into a confused peak. His stretched and twisted jowls of his snarl quietly wane until his lips tighten into confused pout.
Enya’s soothing voice, like a siren’s song, continues to croon.
Who can say why your heart sighs?
As your love flies?
Only time…
The boot steadily pushes forth, on a collision course that can’t be stopped.
Black’s eyes go crossed as the boot gets ever closer to his face. Still in slow motion, we watch his expression slowly shift once more, from confusion to panic. His eyes grow wide in shock. His mouth stretches into a grimace of dread.
In an instant, stretched over moments, the realization has dawned on him that it is too late to react, and that he is in a world of pain.
And who can say why your heart cries?
When your love lies?
Only time…
The whole sole of the boot connects with Black’s aghast face, right above his right cheekbone.
Slowed down, the impact is an image of beauty. Shockwaves ripple across the man in white’s face as his features twist and warp into something barely recognizable as human. Effluvia is gracefully jettisoned from his mouth, conjuring up a spectacular nebula of saliva that dances and lilts in the air.
Then, we are violently thrust back into realtime.
Erik Black: –LEEEEGGGHHKKK!!!
Kerry’s Yakuza Kick sends the erstwhile Goat Bastard corkscrewing through the air.
By some strange and random miracle of science, gravity carries Raisin’s lifeless husk into the open top of a trash can. The garbage bin tips and rolls out of sight into a random office conveniently listed as “Room 2026”, which is probably the closest thing we’re going to get to a metaphor about Erik Black literally getting kicked into next year.
The camera swivels back around to Kerry and Ami. The former is standing calm and unassuming, as if nothing had happened. Meanwhile, Ami bends over, scoops up the emptied glass vial left on the floor, brings it to her nose, and sniffs.
Ami Troy: This is… cherry Kool-Aid?
They look at one another, and shrug. Ami ditches the evidence, and they head for the ring.
Hey guess what.
It’s time to ruin a man’s night.
That man is Matt Mills, and he already looks miserable as hell in front of the usual PRIME backdrop.
Matt Mills: Hello, everyone. I’m Matt Mills, and once more I’m here tonight with Steve Lemieux and his… manager, I think?… Doctor Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.
And that would be why.
The camera pans back to reveal that not only does Mister Mills have to contend with Zeke and Steve, but all six of the Troy Boys have made their journey to the interview area as well. Zephram still has an axe. Seriously, why the fuck did Zephram get an axe? It took the Anglo Luchador like a whole-ass calendar year to get a sword, and he’s almost responsible enough to use one.
As before, all six Troys are dressed in their “Lumberjill Romance Novel Phase that Never Happened” Troy outfits, so named because that phase never happened.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Hello, yes.
He turns to Matt.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: General.
And salutes.
Zephram begins using the blade of the axe to pick his teeth. This is why he can’t be trusted with sharp things. Matt shakes his head, desperate to ignore all of this and just get through the rest of this segment. Preferably un-axed.
Matt Mills: Steve, ****earlier tonight we saw the third meeting between Luc Labelle and yourself, this time in a lumberjack match to see who the better man was. And, unfortunately, tonight was not your night.
Sure, this is being written with no knowledge of the actual result, but it’s pretty safe to assume at this point right? Of course it is.
Matt Mills: Steve, the fans want to know…
No one wants to know.
Matt Mills: What’s next for Steve Lemieux?
Matt leans down and lowers the microphone to Steve’s face. He does this because Steve has the glassy-eyed stare of a man who is barely conscious and definitely not aware of his surroundings. He is also sprawled out in a wheelbarrow. The dress and wig that he wore to the ring has been carelessly dumped on top of him as though he were at the bottom of a human laundry basket.
Also, there’s a microphone duct-taped to the side of his head, because this bit must continue.
Steve Lemieux: (sad concussion noises)
Matt Mills: I’m sorry, I don’t know if we got any of that. Could you please repeat that?
Steve Lemieux: (a bit of light drooling)
Zeke leans over towards the microphone.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Yes, hi. As legal representation for Stefon Lummox I can answer this question. Now I have looked at the official records, and can say with absolute certainty that Stefon Lummox is undefeated in PRIME!
Matt Mills: I don’t think-
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Do you know what that means, Mister General Sir?
He salutes again.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: It means that it is only fair that Stefon be given many opportunities to win many belts to hold up his many pants! And to make sure that Lizzie Horse agrees to our demands, we have brought her children the Six Horseboys – who are definitely not hostages being used as collateral – along with us. Let me introduce them to you now!
Matt Mills: We know who they-
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: This is Leon, Leon, Aloycious, Leon, Sweet Bill, and Roy.
The Troy Boys – that would be Liam, Ian, Nevin, Devin, Taylor, and Zephram – all happily nod along.
He gestures to Zephram, who still has the axe.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: We gave that one a pointy.
It should be noted that the axe somehow got caught in Zephram’s right earring, and all of the Troy Boys are currently engaged in trying to remove it.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: But nevermind that! We are here to ask – no, demand – that Stefon Lummox fight the winner of tonight’s main event. Whether it is Cecilwerthers Farthingtoriginalcandies or DRUGS III…
For the record, in Zeke’s ancient brain, DRUGS is Rezin and DRUGS, JR. is Hayes Hanlon.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Stefon Lummox will be the one to bring the championship back to my secret underground lair that is definitely not a basement.
The entire time Zeke was speaking, Matt Mills had been nodding his head. It’s not because he’s held in rapt attention, not by any stretch. No, it’s because he’s getting live correspondence from someone in the PRIME office.
Matt Mills: Doctor Zeke, I’m sorry, but I’m receiving word from Lindsay Troy’s office that the answer is no.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Curse that wretched harpie!
He shakes a fist at the sky.
Nevin is now also, somehow, stuck to the axe by his earring.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Very well then. We shall capture the Five Michelin Stars Championship! That is very many Michelin stars, you know. One more than the number of their fine tires you need for your car. And Stefon is a maker of many meat sandwiches, you know. With this he could be the restaurant king!
Matt Mills: Okay, yeah.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: See, I knew you were on our side, General.
Matt Mills: Right, mm-hm. I’ll let him know.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Let who know what?
Matt Mills: I’ve just received word from Lindsay Troy’s office that they will, and I quote, “use you to test their death ray.”
You can’t see it because Zeke wears those giant old man sunglasses over his ski mask, but his eyes go wide at this.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Death ray, you say? Interesting.
He also begins stroking his chin. Clearly he misunderstood a very simple message.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Well perhaps Stefon could become the Intent Champion. He is a man of high moral fiber, and any man whose daughter Stefon chooses to make his best gal would know that his intentions are pure…
Matt tries to get Zeke’s attention by awkwardly raising a single finger.
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Yes, what now?
Matt Mills: I have just received a counter-offer from the office. They’re asking how you would like to be fed to a tiger named Helen.
Dr. Zeke Dr. Badguy, Esq.: OOOOOOOOOooooooooooh!
This is the enthusiastic hooting of a man who thinks he just hit the lottery. Zeke pivots, leans over, and rapidly begins tapping Steve on the shoulder. For his part, Steve is actually less conscious than he was when this all began.
Behind them, Liam is no longer wearing his cutoff Daisy Duke shorts, and no one seems to know when or how those came off.
Dr. Zeke Dr. Badguy, Esq.: Did you hear that, Stefon? I get my very own death ray, and you get to pet a kitty. Isn’t that exciting?
Steve Lemieux: (drooling-and-definitely-concussed tiger noises)
Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: And then you will have all the pretty things. And then you can have graham crackers. Okay, Horseboys, let’s yee our haws back to the lair. We have to clear a space for my new death ray!
With that, Zeke saunters out of frame and all six of the Troy Boys follow. Two of them are still bound together at the ear with an axe as the bridge that keeps them together.
None of them thought to grab the wheelbarrow that contains Steve Lemieux.
Matt Mills looks down at Steve, then looks at the camera and flexes his eyebrows in a gesture meant to convey “I don’t know what the fuck that was but I’m very glad it’s over now.”
We fade to something much more rational.
Hopefully.
Nick Stuart: Folks, it’s time for two of the best in-ring performers in the history of professional wrestling to square off for the Five Star Championship.
Richard Parker: Timo Bolamba and Tyler Adrian Best are competing for the Five Star?
Nick Stuart: …the hell is wrong with your brain?
Richard Parker shrugs.
The lights go out in the arena, 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, 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!!!
Nick Stuart: TAL looks fit and ready to go!
Richard Parker: TAL hasn’t looked fit since the early aught!
Nick Stuart: Shut your face. TAL may be older but he is still remarkably athletic and spry.
Richard Parker: Yeah, okay. You know your old ass dog at home?
Nick Stuart: …Sprinkles?
Richard Parker: Yeah, Sprinkles. Everybody’s like, “oh, look at ol’ Sprinkles, he’s looking good,” when they come over, right? Hell, I’m guilty of it. But guess what? He doesn’t look good. He looks old as fuck. And that’s what I’m saying about TAL.
Nick Stuart: You lowdown son of a—
The arena goes black…
BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!
BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!
BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!
BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!
The PA bumps with “Blouses Blue” by Konrad OldMoney and Sleep Steady. Light suddenly fills the arena when the PRIMEview powers up to a view of animated green and gold scales whooshing by. After a moment, a gilded DRAGON flies into full view, and ROARS into the screen!
KRACKA-BOOOOOMMM!!
A flashing pillar of levin suddenly EXPLODES over the stage, accompanied by a colorful array of green, silver, and gold pyrotechnics. A series of spotlights arrange themselves into a triangular pattern, with the point of focus resting upon the head of the rampway.
When the pyro smoke clears, two figures gradually come into view. The first is KERRY KUROYAMA, proudly wearing the Five Star Championship around his waist and clad in newly customized gear with golden star motifs to compliment the regular emerald and black. Standing beside him is AMI TROY, leaning in slightly with her arms crossed and wearing her characteristically wry smile while showing off her finest “SEATTLE’S BEAST TAMER” halter.
Vince Howard: And his opponent… accompanied to the ring by Ami Troy… from SEATTLE, WASHINGTON! Standing 6’1, weighing in at 244 pounds… HE IS THE FIVE!!! STAR!!! CHAMPION…. KERRYYYYYYYY KUROYAMAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!
The duo accept a greeting of loud cheers from the thousands of fans in attendance. After savoring the reaction for a few moments, Kuroyama dutifully unhooks the title belt from his waist and hoists it over his head. More pyros. More cheering. Then the belt goes over his shoulder as he begins to descend along the rampway with Ami at his side.
Kerry’s eyes remain fixated squarely on the ring as he comes down the aisle. When he reaches ringside, he hops straight to the apron and steps through ropes with all the briskness and tenacity of a caged lion.
He climbs the turnbuckle and raises the Five Star Title once more to a massive pop from the crowd. Crossing the ring to repeat the action on the other corner, he momentarily pauses to stare down the opponent with a face that plainly gives off FAFO energy. Then he climbs the next turnbuckle, and raises the belt to more cheers.
Kerry eventually settles into his corner of the ring.
The crowd is on their feet.
DING! DING!
The match begins not with a bang, but a whisper. It’s just Kerry and TAL staring at one another.
The crowd, on the other hand, are white fucking hot for this one. The screams and collective adulation for these two superstars is the story.
TAL looks slightly discombobulated, as one does when they show up for work for one of the biggest days in their career just days after a personal tragedy.
Kerry Kuroyama looks like someone who is going to die before they give up one of the most prestigious titles in sports.
The fans, still on their feet, the entire state of Indiana feels absolutely electric.
And then, they pop their collective nuts off.
Because Kerry extends his hand for a test of strength.
TAL smacks himself on the head a couple of times. A couple of “get your head in the game” style self-love taps. Then, he reaches his hand out, and laces his fingers with Kerry.
TAL extends his other hand.
The Emerald Apex laces his fingers with TAL’s.
They immediately jockey for position in this game of mercy, chests press against each other as they try to twist each other’s wrists in unnatural directions. Kerry frees one hand, uses it to twist The Anglo Luchador’s arm by the wrist. TAL cries out in pain, before somersaulting forward, kipping up, and then twisting Kerry’s own arm the very way his was moments before.
Kuroyama knows in his heart that if he wants to win this, he has to mirror TAL in some ways, he has to be prepared to wrestle the Anglo Luchador style.
All that is to say, he prepared for this.
As the Anglo Luchador twists Kerry’s arm by the wrist, Kerry somersaults forward just like TAL did! But instead of kipping up, he uses his legs like a broom, swings them around on the mat and swipes the Anglo Luchador’s legs out from under him.
The Emerald Apex, with the Anglo Luchador’s arm still in his grasp, immediately transitions TAL right into an arm bar!
Nick Stuart: Now this is wrestling!
Richard Parker: Yes, Nick. This is wrestling. Because we are at a wrestling show. See, at wrestling shows, wrestling happens in what’s called a ‘squared circle.’
Nick Stuart: Oh, really? I had no clue. I’ve only been calling wrestling matches my entire adult life.
Richard Parker: I’m a helper!
Nick Stuart: Thanks Ren— Richard.
The Anglo Luchador has no time for smart ass commentary banter, nor patience. This is because his arm feels like it’s being ripped away from the shoulder joint, which from the looks of things is incredibly painful.
Stuck in the center of the ring, with no real escape route from this hold involving the ropes, it comes down to TAL either tapping out and giving up on his Five Star Championship dreams right now — or, as they say, fighting his way out of an otherwise impossible position.
Some quick Anglo Lucha Calculus determines the best way out.
It is grueling.
So he begins. With a cry of pain he jostles his lower body away from Kerry, which in turns pulls his arm further into Kuroyama’s arm bar… The Kuroyamarm Bar? We’ll whockshorp it or whatever Glue would say. But this allows TAL to eventually reach his knees.
Then he manages to place the bottom of his feet on the ground and stand, albeit his body is bent forward completely out of a regular shape.
The Anglo Luchador engages in the final section of his escape.
Nick Stuart: TAL LIFTS KERRY KUROYAMA IN THE AIR!!! SITOUT POWERBOMB!!! SITOUT POWERBOMB BY THE ANGLO LUCHADOR!!!
Referee Ashley Barlow (low key the best referee) makes the count!!!
ONE!!!
TWO!!!
IS THE ANGLO LUCHADOR GONNA WIN THIS THING RIGHT HERE!?!?!
THREE– NO!!!
Kerry kicks out, his momentum carrying him in a natural backwards somersault to his feet.
The Anglo Luchador reaches his knees just in time to catch a falling dropkick from Kerry right in the fucking teeth!
TAL rolls away and out of the ring before Kerry can try to take advantage.
Richard Parker: A savvy, veteran move by the old man.
Kerry Kuroyama considers chasing the Anglo Luchador out of the ring, dealing with the whole count out scenario, possibly involving some steel steps or the concrete under the outside mats, but none of that feels right. Not to him. Not for this match. So instead, he looks the Anglo Luchador in the eye, sits on the ring ropes, and holds them open for the Anglo Luchador to come back into the ring.
TAL does not take this as an insult, but rather, a matter of respect for the very Championship he is wrestling for. He walks up the steel steps, climbs through the ropes Kerry holds open, and marches to the center of the ring.
Kerry walks back to the center to join him and the fans applaud wildly the show of sportsmanship between the two perennial fan favorites.
There is a moment hanging in the air. What to do? Where to go from here?
It’s answered with a STINGING knife edge chop by the Anglo Luchador to Kerry Kuroyama’s chest!
Richard Parker: Ooooh!
It’s answered by Kerry with a knife edge chop of his own!
Richard Parker: OOOOH!
Knife edge from TAL right back to Kerry!
Richard Parker: OOOOOOHHH!!!
Knife edge chop by Kuroyama! Knife edge chop by TAL! Knife edge chop by Kuroyama! Knife edge chop by TAL! Kuroyama! TAL! Kuroyama! TAL! Kuroyama!
Richard Parker: OOOOHHH!!! OOOHHH!!! OOOOOHHH! OOOOOH!!! OH! OH! OH! OH!
Nick Stuart: Would you STOP!?!
SMACK!!!
A free-range enziguri brought by TAL straight to the button of Kuroyama’s jaw.
The Emerald Apex staggers back, his own momentum bouncing him off the ropes and back towards the center of the ring.
The Anglo Luchador loops around him and secures the Full Nelson!
BUTTERFLY SUPLEX!!! NO!!! KERRY FLIPS PLUM OUT OF IT, LANDS ON HIS FEET!!!
The Anglo Luchador turns around—
RIGHT INTO A SQUALL LINE LARIAT THAT SENDS TAL UPSIDE DOWN IN THE FUCKING AIR!!!
THE ANGLO LUCHADOR CRASHES TO THE MAT!!! KERRY MAKES THE COVER!!! HOOKS THE LEG!!!
ONE!!!
TWO!!!
SMALL PACKAGE REVERSAL BY TAL!!!
ONE!!!
TWO!!!
KICKOUT BY KERRY KUROYAMA!!!
Nick Stuart: What a match!
Richard Parker: What’s a match? It’s when two wrestlers meet inside of the aforementioned square circle for a contest of ability. One wins by either pin fall, count out, submission, or occasionally by disqualification.
Nick Stuart: I’ve never hated your guts more than I do right now.
Both TAL and Kuroyama lie on their backs for a moment. It just so happens that both competitors begin the ascent to their feet at the same time. Kuroyama reaches his first, however, and uses it as an opportunity to introduce his left knee directly to the Anglo Luchador’s midsection!
The Emerald Apex takes the opportunity to Irish whip TAL into the corner — but TAL reverses, and it’s Kuroyama’s back that collides into the turnbuckle! TAL moves to the opposite side of the ring! He charges towards Kuroyama!
What unfolds next is an absolute thing of beauty.
The Anglo Luchador begins with a dictionary picture-perfect cartwheel, which he uses as momentum to leap onto the second rope beside Kuroyama, springboard off of it,
And huricanrana the god damn fuck out of Kuroyama! But TAL grabs both of Kuroyama’s ankles, sitting on his chest for the pin!
Ashley Barlow quickly begins the count!
ONE!!!
TWO!!!
KUROYAMA ROLLS FORWARD TO PIN TAL!!!
ONE!!!
TWO!!!
THE ANGLO LUCHADOR ROLLS FORWARD TO PIN KUROYAMA!!!
ONE!!!
TWO!!!
KUROYAMA ROLLS FORWARD TO PIN TAL!!!
ONE!!!
TWO!!!
THE ANGLO LUCHADOR ROLLS FORWARD TO PIN KUROYAMA!!!
ONE!!!
TWO!!!
KUROYAMA KICKS OUT!!!
The insanity had to end at some point, right?
But The Anglo Luchador feels like it’s time to end this whole match, not just the insanity. And he has an idea.
As Kerry reaches his feet, he too feels that this match has to come to an end. One way or another.
And so, TAL begins this next sequence and, indeed, a sequence they both feel will likely lead to the end of this thing, come Hell or highwater, the same way their first sequence began.
A test of strength.
Kerry, arms on his hips, almost laughs as the fans cheer this decision by the Anglo Luchador.
It felt right. Even to Kurmudgeon Kuroyama.
And so, he positions himself, they interlace fingers, and once again jockey for position with one another.
And once again, its Kerry with the initial arm twist, and once again, its the Anglo Luchador who somersaults and kips up to his feet.
Only this time, the Anglo Luchador bounces on the bottom rope, then the middle rope, then the top rope, then he spins, ANOTHER HURICANRAN—
Kerry pushes him away just enough to slip out—
AND CATCH THE ANGLO LUCHADOR WITH A KNEE LIFT ON HIS WAY DOWN TO THE MAT!!!
The Anglo Luchador staggers on his feet.
Yakuza Kick by Kuroyama!
And then, Kerry finishes the sequence.
Emerald. Fucking. Flowsion.
Nick Stuart: THE KUROYAMA DRIVER!!! THIS HAS TO BE IT!!!
Ashley Barlow makes the cover!!!
ONE!!!
TWO!!!
THREEEEEEEEE!!!!
DING! DING!
Nick Stuart: The Anglo Luchador made for one hell of a challenge, but—
Vince Howard: Here is your winnerrrr… aaaaannnnd STILLLLLLLL!!! PRIME’S FIVE STAR CHAMPION!!!! KERRYYYYYYYY KUROOOOOYAMAAAAA!!!
Nick Stuart: …As I was trying to say, TAL should feel no shame about this one. He put up one hell of a fight.
Richard Parker: You, on the other hand, should feel immense shame.
Nick Stuart: Why’s that?
Richard Parker: Ya breath been stankin’ all night.
In the ring, Kerry is handed the Five Star Championship belt by Ami Troy, and he throws it over his shoulder.
Dejected, The Anglo Luchador stands in the ring — many questions weighing on his mind until — Kuroyama’s hand touches his shoulder.
TAL looks at Kuroyama. Kuroyama extends his hand. TAL, ever the good sportsman, shakes hands with the victory.
And we cut away to other pursuits of glory.
The aftermath of the 5 Star Championship is in the rear view, a wide shot filtering on through of Lucas Oil Stadium. The Indianapolis fans are buzzing in anticipation, knowing what is next. However, before the pomp and pageantry, as the lens scans the crowd, we hear the voices of Nick Stuart and Richard Parker.
Nick Stuart: Folks, we have almost arrived at the precipice of our Ascension, and if you are just tuning in, remember, your subscription to the Ace Network provides you not only last night and tonight’s events, but also THE ENTIRE PRIME catalogue.
Richard Parker: The best wrestling in the world, all at your fingertips. On your television. On your mobile devices. Take PRIME on the go WHEREVER you go. The Ace Network, the broadcast leader in ALL of combat sports.
Nick Stuart: Ensconced in history. Not just PRIME, but former Primetime Central Wrestling organizations. The Squared Circle. You can also catch SHOOT Project telecasts as well. It is a one stop shop for all your professional wrestling needs.
Richard Parker: Clearly. And after tonight, after last night, we are going to have A LOT to talk about. To process.
Nick Stuart: With that in mind, folks, there are VERY limited numbers of tickets still available when we return LIVE to the Ace Network for ReVival 75! From The Crossroads of America, we will be coming to you, LIVE, September 19th, from South Beach. PRIME takes over the Kaseva Center, and while summer might be over, the heat…is sure to be on.
Richard Parker: Card subject to change, but from what I’ve seen, already some interesting things on the docket.
Nick Stuart: Contact your local TicketMaster outlet, or you can find your seats on the PRIME App. Again, ReVival 75 is close to selling out, so act now!
A moment passes. The plugs are out of the way.
Nick Stuart: The only question left…is if Cecilworth Farthington will still be PRIME Universal Champion. He has faced a bevy of vaunted challenges to his supremacy in the ring…defeating the colossal Russian Bear, Ivan Stanislav, to procure the richest prize in all of sports. After taking his throne, he has cemented his place at the very pinnacle. The Anglo Luchador. Cancer Jiles. But tonight…he comes head to head with a Rhinestone Cowboy who is…needless to say…jacked…to add the prettiest gem there is to his collection.
Richard Parker: My feelings on Lord Farthington are WIDELY known. But tonight, he has a chance to do something only Coral Avalon has done in the ReVival. Only three men have managed to defend the Universal Championship successfully twice in the same reign. Tonight…he has the chance to put himself in the category of only two. Defending the title is impossible. Defending it twice…unfathomable. But three times?
Nick Stuart: Rareified air…but Daytona Diamonds…synonymous with the PRIME Intense Championship…will have something to say about that. With that…let’s return to ringside, where Vince Howard is ready for the call.
Standing in the center of the ring is Vince Howard. Beside him is Elvis Nixon, his arms held behind him, his eyes outward to the crowd.
DING DING DING DING DING DING
Vince Howard: The official for the following contest. Elvis. Nixon.
A reserved clapping from the reserved, respectful crowd. After displaying Nixon, with the chyron underneath, the camera again focuses on Howard.
Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen…the following contest is scheduled for one fall and has NOOOOOOO time limit! It is THE MAIN EVENT OF evening and is FOR! THE PRIME! UNIVERSAL! CHAMPIONSHIIIIIIIIIIPPPPP!!!
Suddenly, the Lucas Oil Stadium lights dim, the clapping from the crowd growing. Out of the blackness, the PRIMEview comes alive, the PRIME logo displayed prominently. It fades, the opening tones of “Rivalry” by Colin O’Malley beginning to play. With a lashing strike of blue, words fill the screen.
THE PRIME UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP
THE PINNACLE OF ALL SPORTS
Descending, a lone spotlight shines upon a table of velvet. Stood up for prominence is the PRIME Universal Championship belt, polished and shined. As the music continues, its contours and plates are scanned with care. Every detail is magnificent. The tension of sound rises, and with it, the camera pulls away from the majestic championship. The scene abruptly cuts to black.
And with the rising dramatic percussion, the still shots. Subtle movements slowly focusing upon the figures as they appear for a few moments, their achievement marked in text in convenient spaces.
The inaugural Universal Champion and final Global Champion. The bridge between the eras, cemented at King of Kings 2. He stands an enigma, a seeming average man in build, but what he lacks in impressive physique he makes up for in mystery. One championship belt for each trench coated shoulder. His eyes are focused and evident through the white mask absconding his identity.
1st Champion
BLACK ANGEL
A titan of muscle, massive in stature not just physically, but for his time in the sport. A once hero, now, he is a betrayer, joining the Dark Age. There is no sense of shame with his smirking expression.
2nd Champion
BODA
A whirlwind of color, a form of taut muscle and artistic expression. She stands stoic, the championship belt over her shoulder. Does she care? Only she knows. Her moment has arrived, seemingly unstoppable, one of the greatest beginnings to a PRIME career of anyone. The Vanguard of the Golden Age. A trendsetter.
3rd Champion
KARINA WOLFENDEN
Behind crimson glasses protecting his eyes, a seminal figure. Chiseled from granite, his tattoos prominent, if ever a man stood as The Supreme Machine, it is he. The ender of the K-Wolf’s era before it even started. Later, the hand chosen by Tyler Nelson to put an end to a Universal charade. When one speaks of PRIME, his name is one of the first to come.
4th, 8th Champion
KILLEAN SIRRAJIN
The winds behind him sweep about, blowing his majestic hair with perfect photogenic bravado. The only true Son of God. His appearance has not changed, even today, proving his parentage. The Last Judgment features prominently on his tights. Chicago’s favored son, the roar his mere visage elicits is one of the loudest of the night. Under his hand, you shall be crucified and saved.
5th Champion
HOYT WILLIAMS
Before him were titans in stature, but in their place comes one in sheer brutality. His fists and forearms are taped for battle, his muscle built for performance and savagery. Inhuman. A wrecking ball in human form. From nowhere, he arrives at this pinnacle, only to be knocked from it in the greatest upset in the history of PRIME. He will regain it from one of his greatest rivals, The Supreme Machine on the biggest stage. Years later, he returns from the sidelines, managing to defy expectations to put a temporary halt to The Murder Show. Rushmore features him prominently. He stands as one of the truest of greats.
6th, 9th, 21st Champion
TCHU/MATT WARD
A goofy wire of man. The most unassuming of all. So long of a shot, his chance comes in the middle of Revolution, a clear expectation of how easy he shall be steamrolled. A Christmas Miracle. Perpetually silly, the joke is not only the Inhuman Being, but also, all those who thought so little of him.
7th Champion
CLYDE WALKINS
Born from the stars, beloved by all, charismatic, amongst the most skilled the sport has ever seen. He has returned from injury to claim his rightful place, but failure is all that meets him. In this moment, the drums of war sound, the very foundation of PRIME under threat from Machavallian forces. The star rises and turns his back on the fans and people who believed in him, joining the ranks of the devils who claim him to be their friend. Clean shaven, burned by the light. He fights off a record number of challengers. He is where the balance of PRIME rests.
10th Champion
NOVA
The balance of power shifts. Her face, her essence, are intrinsically linked with PRIME, but in this moment, she is an assumed outsider. This moment changes not only her place in the company, but in her life. Home. The ultimate trendsetter. The Queen of the Ring becomes The Final Boss twice over. Her spot amongst the very greats is without question. In this building, she was the one to close out the prior era. Without her, where we stand today isn’t possible.
11th, 13th Champion
LINDSAY TROY
The rival to the Queen. Scum looks down upon him. A betrayer of friendship, of allegiance, all for self service. So many times, he fell, unable to answer the challenge, and in doing so, all rejoiced. Driven mad, Ahab manages to rise in his final stand, capturing his illustrious white whale.
12th Champion
SONNY SILVER
Mismatched eyes, lacerating fingernails, and diminutive stature. In one night, she nearly conquers the Halo. In her next match, she manages to usurp the Queen. Scary and unknowable, a chameleon who can assume the identity of any she chooses. She lacks her own agency and identity, yet here, for a time, she can claim the Universal Championship as her own.
14th Champion
COZEN
The Man in Black hides his pieces and scars under a dress shirt and slacks. A mess of black hair falls along the sides of his face. Many claim him to be emo, but they will come to know him as the ruiner, death incarnate. His war against PRIME will eventually lead to its closure. Even here, with a painted black middle finger, his detestment of PRIME is evident.
15th Champion
DEVIN SHAKUR
Charisma personified. In truth, his arrival to this pinnacle has been foreseen for ages. His potential is limitless, yet in critical moments, he falters. Until here. Until now. Until he realizes the promise after years of toil made to look like a designer accessory. His presence is legendary. A hero to so many. Brash and arrogant to others. Regardless, he is can’t miss, must see, and unforgettable. His reign, to this point, lasts longer than all others before.
16th Champion
CHANDLER TSONDA
The Unbeatable. The Unconquerable. Awoken from dream, The Original Villain stops fighting with mere bits of his true skill and strength. The path he cuts lasts over a year, and in its wake, promising careers, legendary challenges, and destinies all fall under his heel. Gone, but never forgotten. Though some draw close, he walks away into the annals of history never having lost the most prestigious prize in the sport.
17th Champion
JASON SNOW
From the distance, from the ether, his face painted with black, the oddest of sorts, his skin pale, he returns. The Intense Championship is marked as his in all of lore, but after conquering the Halo, he soon after fulfills an impossible destiny, capping off a Hall of Fame career with the final piece it lacked.
18th Champion
VANGELUS OLSIG
Hollywood beckons. A silver screen savant, he brings with him pomp, circumstance, and a director’s vision. An outsider who rises.
19th Champion
CASTOR V. STRIFE
The monster incarnate. The Murder Show. Burly, powerful, a viking from a long forgotten age who has spent an age in PRIME without realizing the fullness of his potential. It is remembering what it is to be dominant that he ascends to his throne, leaving behind a wake of broken bodies and dreams. For a time, the lineage ends with brutality under his knuckles. The oppressive, uncompromising final champion of the Revolution.
20th, 22nd Champion
HESSIAN
The spear of the ReVival comes from the Revolution. Before this moment, he is considered the greatest to never win ‘the big one’. After over a decade away, the Tower of Babel rises, removing all doubt, finally taking his place amongst the true greats, perhaps marking himself as greater than all. For others in this era, this prize is transient. For him? They are one.
23rd, 29th Champion
BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD
A life’s work. Destroy the past and present and burn it all away so the future can rise. The Humble Proprietor has spent his life as an afterthought, cast aside, treated less than human despite his love of the sport he has dedicated his life to. Their cackles and machinations forge an intensity fitting for a monster. The threat. The killer. Robbed of the result of it all. Even in the distance, his name brings chills to the air.
24th Champion
PHIL ATKEN
Lights, camera, pucker and kiss. The Anti-Christ. Under t-shades and salt shoes, he brings with him an apocalypse in tracksuit and baby blue. Despised and thought little of, the ultimate cockroach doesn’t just survive but thrive. His threats carry weight because he makes good on his promise. Nobody on this list has a hope of ever being this COOL.
25th Champion
CANCER JILES
The Event Horizon, the future, all of the ReVival’s promise and dreams comes in his chiseled form. His reverence to PRIME’s past is known, but he makes his own history, taking the Universal Championship for his own and under the most dire of circumstances. He stumbles, but in Hell, he overcomes not only the yang to his ying, but the oppressive boot of the Soviet state.
26th, 28th Champion
HAYES HANLON
Punk rock in all forms, a fighter through and through. He doesn’t care about the championship, just what it brings to him in the ring. The greater fights. The ability to test his penchant for destruction. He snuffed out the promise of the horizon in his void. A goat kick to the head. A free spirit for rebellion against the norms.
27th Champion
REZIN
Some would call him a relic of a begotten age, a frozen monstrosity thawed and set upon the world to maul and reign under a banner, an ethos that demands both domination and subjugation. An ageless goliath, The Russian Bear returns to the field of professional wrestling battle after over a decade in seclusion. And in his wake? Utter carnage. A warrior from the old age set upon the present and future, not only striding, but surmounting all.
30th, 35th Champion
IVAN STANISLAV
Few can claim to be worthy of being phenoms in the new era of PRIME, yet the pillars of such are rarefied. But for the French Super Athlete, The Neck Collector, the Lizard King, he stands not only above, but perhaps beyond all. His arrival to this place is the culmination of an undefeated year. A winning streak unmatched by ALL before him. He is the weapon promised, the embodiment of The Humble Proprietor’s vision. A puzzle perhaps unsolvable.
31st Champion
FLAMBERGE
From oblivion he rises, as if from a waking coma. Drenched with guilt, self made, self perpetuated. Look upon the clown who makes those laugh, yet do not notice his weight, his tears. Ascend from the murk and stand ready, violently so, in the face of so many oppressors. Black Sheep never again.
32nd Champion
JARED SYKES
The ultimate simp. Seemingly helpless. But powered by his love and his dedication to his Amazing Life Partner, he perseveres, and does what most think is nigh impossible for someone of his ability level. He finishes the story, and now, we live in an epilogue dictated from his success.
33rd Champion
JONATHAN-CHRISTOPHER HALL
The Crownless King. A wrestling nomad. Across near every continent, he has fought with his all, governed by an unyielding love of the sport of professional wrestling. His role was ordained to be The Never Was, the fountain of knowledge, the bridge to the future. Not marketable. Taken for granted. Yet bitterness never seeps in, never taints his drive and passion. In this, the final year of his quest, he does what some think he could not do…something many others believed he always had capacity to achieve. The crown achieved. Now, The King of Conquerors.
34th Champion
CORAL AVALON
When the Golden Era choked into embers, as the darkness swallowed the world of professional wrestling in the deepest of pits, it was this man who kept the torch, who set the standard to aspire toward. A Lord by birth who refused his right by choice, so aloof of reality’s rigor. It is the ring where his aptitude is without rival. His hands are vice grips and his understanding of placing pressure on joints, tendons, and bones is supreme.
In the muck, he strode, unbeaten. Unconquered. The Financier of a Revolution in The ReVival. One would think, with a silver spoon, the path would be smooth, but it was anything but. His record is filled with victory over legends; it’s also filled with his stumbles at the gate, all those times the bridesmaid.
Yet here he stands, rightfully, an Emperor of the ring.
36th Champion
CECILWORTH FARTHINGTON
Ascension.
In the annuls of Intense Champions, Daytona Diamonds stands out in a sea of destruction and violence. His ability to survive, and thrive, has taken him far. But how far is he willing to go? A entire transformation of his body. An all consuming rage, fueled by striations of muscle upon muscle. Behind him, a force of degenerates, a family of twisted sense and morality, but shockingly, despite what shouldn’t work, a united front. They stand as potential danger…but the man himself might be capable of more. Wanton carnage, on a pale horse, rhinestones shining.
Brawn has been the challenge over and over again in the vaunted career of Cecilworth Farthington, yet raw strength has always proposed an intriguing treat for The World’s Greatest Submission Artist. And artist is apt; Da Vinci, Rembrandt, Mozart…and in the squared circle, it is he who has elevated this form of combat sports into a transcendent brilliance.
Daytona Diamonds can add himself to the pantheon at the very pinnacle.
Cecilworth Farthington can cement his status in all of professional wrestling history as one of its greatest champions.
Only one can reign.
After all, only one can truly ascend.
We come back from The Pinnacle of All Sports. Lucas Oil Stadium is bopping, ready for a huge main event between the leaders of the Glueminati and the Poor Whoresmen.
Nick Stuart: Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time.
Richard Parker: I’m nervous, Nick.
Nick Stuart: If you’re nervous for Cecilworth Farthington, you might have every reason to be. Daytona Diamonds is… I don’t know how this is the same man that won and set records with the Intense championship last year.
Richard Parker: Amazing what a good strong workout in China will do for a man.
Wink emoji.
Nick Stuart: Either way, let’s get this show on the road.
Vince Howard. Ever the professional, ever the hammy herald of PRIME. He stands in the center of the ring with his immaculate suit, ready to get this show on the road.
Vince Howard: Introducing… the challenger…
The arena plunges into darkness.
And then, like a knife cutting through the silence…
♫ LIKE A RHINESTONE COWBOOOOOY! ♫
Glen Campbell’s voice booms over the sound system and the arena erupts into a wall of boos. Half the crowd is already on their feet, middle fingers raised toward the stage. At the top of the ramp, a spotlight reveals the most obvious entrance prop in the history of prime: a bubbling hot tub, gaudy neon lights glowing from within, steam rolling off and into the rafters.
It isn’t on wheels, though.
No, it’s being carried; hoisted on the shoulders of four unfortunate stagehands dressed in rhinestone-studded cowboy shirts. Their faces are red with strain, legs wobbling as they lug the ridiculous shrine towards the ring.
And inside, lounging like Caligula in a saloon, is Daytona Diamonds. Cowboy hat cocked low, mirrored sunglasses glinting, cigar in one hand, champagne bottle in the other. He gestures lazily at the crowd, splashing a little tub water onto the fans nearest the ramp, laughing when they recoil just as Campbell’s chorus cuts, replaced by the grinding guitars of “Fastest Horse in Town” by Sturgill Simpson.
Vince Howard: From Carson City, Nevada… weighing in at two hundred ninety pounds of PURE, ROCK SOLID MUSCLE… THE RHINESTONE COWBOY… THE KING OF THE RODEO… THE ANABOLIC OUTLAW… DAYYYYTOOOONNNAAAAA DIAAAAMONDS!
Daytona lurches upright, sending water spilling down onto his carriers. He howls with laughter, shouting at a nearby camera as they pass on the ramp.
Daytona Diamonds: Y’ALL READY TO SEE ME WIN THIS GODDANG THING?! MYSWELL GO ‘HEAD AND START CALLIN’ ME CHAMP RIGHT NOW! YEEHAW!
At ringside, the bearers squat and struggle to lower the tub gently, Daytona barking orders from above. Finally, he steps out, dripping wet in full gear, boots squeaking. He struts to the apron, still puffing his cigar before tossing its smoldering remains off to the side.
Climbing through the ropes, he stretches his arms wide, rhinestones sparkling beneath the lights, flexing his arms and posing for the booing crowd. Taking his corner and putting his cowboy hat on top of the turnbuckle, he motions for one of the cameras to get a little bit closer, shouting into the lens for the audience at home.
Daytona Diamonds: THIS ONE’S FOR FRANKIE! I’M TAKIN’ THE BELT AND THE TUB HOME FOR YOU, BROTHER! LOVE YOU!
And with that, he leans back into his corner, waiting for Farthington.
The lights of Lucas Oil Stadium dim for maybe the final time of the evening, although maybe not because I don’t control the light switches and now that I think about it, they probably need to turn the lights off at the end of the night. I suppose dimming isn’t the same as wholly off, so those are two different camps.
Sorry, got sidetracked there, I blame the chlorine fumes.
The point is, the crowd is in darkness and there is a hushed awe in the crowd, likely a bit of confusion about the jacuzzi stipulation of the match being real, but still overall excitement at a Universal Championship main event after two days of hot, intense, sticky action.
So, it’s really helping to complete the picture of this mess when an orchestral version of “Superstar” from Jesus Christ Superstar begins to boom over the many speaker systems of the stadium. As the music swells, a single bright spotlight shines directly in the centre of the entrance way and soon after, the crowd’s attention is drawn up towards the sky.
Nick Stuart: On certain occasions, the Universal Champion decides to make a bit of a spectacle of his entrance, and on a night like tonight, with a hot tub on the line, he’s clearly decided to make a statement.
Richard Parker: His title is on the line! He should be worried about his title and not hot water! Look at that terrifying roid man in the ring.
Vince Howard: His…
Vince Howard hesitates as he watches the spectacle above him unfold.
There is a terrifying roid man in the ring who has now also head drawn skywards like the rest of the crowd. That’s when the champion is spotted for the first time, standing atop what Farthington has declared his “spacuzzi”, a space jacuzzi. As if an astronaut slowly descending from the depths of space, the jacuzzi starts to slowly lower down to the entrance way, Farthington basking in the spotlight the entire time, his Universal championship looking extra shiny on this fine night, locked tightly around his waist.
After the opening swell of “Superstar”, there’s a bit of a needle drop of a noise, and “Choke” takes over in the musical department as Farthington and his Space Cuz 1 aim for a safe landing in Indianapolis.
Richard Parker: You know, I think I’m numb to all of this now. I’ve suffered enough Cancer Jiles entrances that I don’t even question what I’m seeing right now.
Nick Stuart: That’s right, we’re just simply watching the Universal Champion descend from the universe itself in his “space vehicle”, which is normally a device designed for hot water times, this is all perfectly normal.
The spacuzzi “lands” safely, Farthington still posing with his hands on his hips, the Universal Title on full display during the entire descent. The crowd are mostly in support of this, at least the ones who have been able to behold and comprehend this cosmic wonder.
Vince Howard, in the ring, can briefly be heard muttering “what the hell” on his microphone before he clears his throat.
Vince Howard: HIS OPPONENT!
He is a goddamn professional, after all.
Vince Howard: FROM BUCKINGHAMSHIRE IN ENGLAND, HE WEIGHS IN TONIGHT AT ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY-SEVEN POUNDS! HE IS! THE FINANCIER OF THE GLUEMINATI! HE IS! THE! CONGA! CRUSHER! HE IS… THE REIGNING! AND DEFENDING! PRIME! UNIVERSAL CHAMPION! HE! IS! CECILLLLLLLLLWWWWOOOOOOORRRRRTHHHHHHH FARTHINGTOOOOOOOONNNNNN!!!
Two ladies in silver space suits run out to place a set of steps in front of Farthington Tub 1, allowing the Universal Champion to exit his vessel and begin his long walk towards another title defense. A dangerous title defense.
Nick Stuart: That look of determination on Farthington can really be quite chilling. We’ve seen him in the ring with monsters before, but I’m worried he’s kicked the wrong angry beehive here.
Richard Parker: That’s the challenge of Stable Domination, Nick, you never know when you might have bitten off a bit more than you can chew.
Farthington stands atop the entranceway, soaking in the atmosphere, as the Spacuzzi slowly rises back up to space, or perhaps the heavens, as a heavenly object it should be. He begins to long march to the ring, knowing the trouble that he’s up against. As he gets close to the ring, he dips his finger in the ringside hot tub provided by Daytona’s entrance, and ensures that it is in the full Goldilocks domain of neither too hot nor too cold. Meanwhile, Diamonds just simply waits to try and rip a man limb from limb, something he could probably achieve with relative ease.
Nick Stuart: You question the strategy of riling up an already riled man ahead of the bout.
Richard Parker: Farthington seems to want to apply the “Matador Strategy” in this match, it’s dangerous but it could pay dividends.
With the Space Tub back to its home planet, and Farthington marching into the ring, the belt comes off of the champion’s waist and into the hands of Elvis Nixon.
Elvis raises the title belt for all to see, and then hands it off to Vince Howard and this match is under way.
DING DING
Nick Stuart: And here we go!
Here we go, indeed.
Cecilworth Farthington is fit and limber. He needs to be. Just a year ago, the man standing across from him was in the middle of a record-breaking run with the Intense Championship. Back then, the Rhinestone Cowboy didn’t have fifty extra pounds of muscle or incredibly concerning bouts of utterly destructive rage. Back then, the Rhinestone Cowboy could maybe be reasoned with. Back then, maybe the Rhinestone Cowboy could feel remorse.
Now?
There’s only darkness in that man’s eyes. Darkness and anger and rage and a whole fucking hell of a lot of power to channel that rage.
At the moment, even after the bell has rung, he’s inert. One might confuse this with taking in the moment. This was his first pay-per-view main event. His first shot at the Universal championship. He wasn’t just planning to break out. He was planning to break everything down. Everything he’d gone through over the last six months rode on this. The bargains he’s made. The people he’s alienated. His brother.
And his opponent was…
Richard Parker: Wait, what is Cecilworth doing?
Cecilworth Farthington does not make the same decisions you and I would make. His wavelength has always been erratic and loathed to match the wavelengths of others. In many ways, it’s how he’s become the Universal champion and has made it to his third defense, a feat only matched by two other men. Because he’s on a different wavelength from everyone else, it’s only fitting that he’d start his first gambit by pulling something out from his elbow pad.
It’s a cloth, which he unfurls before Daytona in a taunting gesture.
It’s a red cloth.
Nick Stuart: Um. What is he doing with that cloth?
Elvis Nixon wants to know as well. He’s tempted to start a five count to have Cecilworth get rid of it. However, as his hand goes up to start the count, he feels it. There’s a stampede a comin’, and Elvis had to get the fuck out of the way.
Daytona Diamonds isn’t really drawn to the red like a bull. He’s more incensed at the sheer mockery that Cecilworth Farthington continues to do to him. He can’t stand it. And so he charges. Doom in the form of two hundred and ninety pounds of flexing madness approaches, and…
OLE!
…Cecilworth deftly sidesteps him with a flourish of his red cloth, and Daytona hits the turnbuckles.
Daytona is pissed.
He literally tears the cover from the top turnbuckle and spikes it on the ground like it’s a football.
Nick Stuart: Well, I guess we shouldn’t expect a lot of the ring or ringside area to survive this one.
Richard Parker: We have insurance, right?
Nick Stuart: Yes, but I still wouldn’t want to get in Daytona’s way.
Cecilworth fluttered the red cloth in his hands at Daytona again. Daytona does not take the bait, but instead flexes threateningly at the Financier. It almost takes Cecilworth aback enough that when Daytona charges at him again, he only narrowly dodges the charge. Daytona hits the turnbuckles again. And his reaction is just as potent at the first time.
Or, in other words, that turnbuckle pad gets dunked on.
Nick Stuart: Daytona Diamonds has done more damage to the ring so far than he has to his opponent.
Richard Parker: Keep it up, Cecilworth!
Daytona turns and flexes mightily at the Financier. He’s not mad. He’s not angry. This is exactly what he wants. He wants Cecilworth to run away. He wants Cecilworth to think that he’s in control.
Cecilworth does a little dance with the red cloth, and that dance sets Daytona off something fierce.
So, we lied, maybe Daytona’s really pissed off.
He charges at Cecilworth again. Cecilworth waits long enough that you might think Daytona’s gonna get him, but the Conga Crusher limbos underneath his attempt at gettin’ him and Daytona once again hits the turnbuckles. This time, Cecilworth sneaks in behind and rolls him up.
Two things happen.
The first is that this only gets a two count.
The second is the kickout. You might never see a more thunderous kickout in your life. Such was its power that Cecilworth, despite having the leverage and being on top of the situation, is sent flying. As in, he’s thrown over the top rope and down to the floor.
Richard Parker: What the hell?
Nick Stuart: Daytona Diamonds just kicked out of that rollup hard enough to send Cecilworth to the outside!
Cecilworth is more than a little bewildered by this turn of events. He looks like a man who tried to push the big red button on his spacuzzi and found it was out of ammo. He looks like a man who not only uses the word “vexing” in his daily vocabulary, but adequately describes his current situation as vexing. He’s vexed because Daytona isn’t in the ring where he left him.
A moment later, he gets hit by a bullet train.
Nick Stuart: Daytona runs over Cecilworth on the outside!
Richard Parker: Oh no!
Oh no, indeed.
Cecilworth Farthington hits the ground hard after Daytona literally uses his newfound bulk to cream him. There’s no technique in what Daytona just did. You won’t see the term “Greco-Roman” in front of “big cowboy meatily slams his meat flesh into puny Englishman” unless you’re being facetious. That’s just raw power. It was a contest of human flesh versus compacted meat matter, and the meat matter took that one handily.
The Universal champion has no idea what just hit him.
He’s dazed. Worse, he’s disoriented. One single hit from the Rhinestone Cowboy and it was like a near-death experience. His only salvation in this moment is that Daytona’s reaction to winning this exchange was a huge, huge flex. Big flex. Muscles upon muscles, vascularity like a topographical map of the Amazon River, a physique that was about as natural as a clown on the moon.
Daytona is feeling himself now. He jaw-jacks with a few fans at ringside with an ever-increasing volume in his voice before he turns and finds Cecilworth crawling away.
Richard Parker: I don’t believe this!
Nick Stuart: Cecilworth Farthington has no idea what just hit him! He’s crawling his way over to our end of the ring.
Richard Parker: Oh. Uh oh.
Daytona is walking leisurel—hahaha, no, there’s nothing “leisurely” about Daytona’s jaunt. That’s like saying a Sherman tank can take a casual stroll through the streets of Indianapolis, going doot-da-doo as it goes about its business. This flesh titan bodily rips Farthington from the ground and hurls him directly into the timekeeper’s table without a hint of preamble.
Vince Howard only has a fraction of a second to get the fuck out of the way.
CRASH!
Nick Stuart: GOOD GOD!
Daytona turns sharply towards Nick Stuart.
Daytona Diamonds: YOU’RE FUCKIN’ LOOKIN’ AT HIM!
He flexes. Hard. Threateningly. Nick Stuart takes it like he’s been slapped in the face, nearly falling out of his chair. Must be the air pressure. When he was done intimidating a Hall of Fame broadcaster with his pecs, the Rhinestone Cowboy stomps around until he finds Farthington crawling out of the wreckage. The Universal champion is absolutely bewildered by this turn of events, but he manages to find it within himself to meet Daytona with a hard European uppercut.
It’s the kind that smashed skulls. It’s the kind that turn a match around in a blink. It’s the kind that…
…Daytona does not budge.
Doesn’t even blink.
Actually, it’s likely he hasn’t even blinked in six months.
He grabs Cecilworth by the head and chucks him into the crowd.
Fans scatter. It’s all they can do. They’re bearing witness to the world’s most dangerous game of human shotput. Referee Elvis Nixon, vaunted senior referee of PRIME, is desperately trying to get the action to go back into the ring where it belongs. Daytona yells at him. He’s yelling at everybody.
Nick Stuart: This is a dangerous situation out here, Richard.
There’s no response.
Nick Stuart: …Richard?
He turns to his broadcast partner, where he discovers that Richard Parker is straight up gone. He’s nowhere to be seen. Nick Stuart has the bewildered look of a man who has been left adrift in a stormy sea, and the eye of that storm was currently screaming unintelligibly and flexing at everyone who can see him.
He’s so busy doing this that he doesn’t realize the resilience of the Universal champion.
Cecilworth Farthington has been in the center of many storms in his time in PRIME. His many battles with all of PRIME’s finest and the lowest of the low elsewhere have made him as tough as old shoe leather and as stubborn at winning his matches as an elderly man still clinging to his ability to do the things he used to be able to do. A couple of throws around ringside wasn’t going to deter the Financier. He’d been through so much worse between a psychopath trying to murder him, a Russian juggernaut trying to assert his dominance over him, and a crumb trying to destroy him for good.
So when Daytona turns to see Cecilworth standing on the barricade about to leap at him, he’s almost bewildered.
He yells at him just as Cecilworth leaps into Daytona with a flying European uppercut.
Nick Stuart: CECILWORTH WITH ANOTHER UPPERCUT!
This one, Daytona doesn’t shrug off. He’s knocked ass-over-teakettle to the floor. The Universal champion uses the ring apron to help himself get back to his feet. Flying moves aren’t really how his bread is buttered, but as a true master of the ring, Cecilworth can and would do anything to keep his championship.
Daytona suddenly pops back up after a moment, like he’s doing a pushup that gets him back to his feet. He’s furious. He’s a man whose rage was only becoming more and more unrestrained as the match continues and he still isn’t Universal champion. Cecilworth, who’d put himself up onto the apron, charges across the apron and delivers a vicious penalty kick across Daytona’s head. This stuns the Rhinestone Cowboy, causing him to grab his face in pain.
Cecilworth steps back into the ring, but only to break the ten count that Elvis Nixon started to work on when Daytona made it abundantly clear that he hadn’t been interested in taking the match back inside the ring yet. The Financier goes back outside to the protests of the senior referee, and grabs a recovering Daytona and blasts him in the face with another European uppercut. A second one puts Daytona’s back against the apron, and that lets him hit a third one.
Cecilworth is fired up now, which is not an emotion we usually see from the otherwise clinical submission technician. He runs to bury another European uppercut into Daytona.
It does not happen.
Daytona back body drops him. Into the ropes behind him. Physics being the way they are, especially in pro wrestling, Cecilworth is upside-down when he bounces off the ropes, and he rebounds right into Daytona’s waiting arms as Daytona turns around.
Right into powerslam position.
Or, more accurately…
THUNK.
OHHHHHHHHHH!!!
…lawn dart position.
Nick Stuart: DEAR GOD! Cecilworth’s head just hit the post!
Daytona is at least somewhat dazed from the kick and the European uppercuts, but all that does is piss him off even more. He’s going to punch those birds around his head, he swears to his mama. Daytona’s attention is diverted by Elvis Nixon imploring him to take the match to the ring or risk a countout or a disqualification. Daytona advises him to stay cool. You know, in a Daytona kind of way, so there’s a lot of fuck words and a lot more flexing.
When we cut back to Farthington…
Nick Stuart: Cecilworth is busted open out here in front of us!
Indeed, there’s a wound on Cecilworth’s forehead that’s gushing blood, and his face is a crimson mask. Daytona sees this, and my god he’s excited. He grabs Cecilworth and heaves him back into the ring. As in, military press and through the ropes, that kind of heaving.
Daytona slides in underneath the bottom rope and lays in a stomp on Cecilworth’s head before grinding his boot like he’s painting the canvas in Cecilworth’s blood.
There’s a rustling of someone putting on their headset as this is going on.
Nick Stuart: Oh, look who’s back.
Richard Parker: Hi.
Nick Stuart: Where did you go?
Richard Parker: Concession stand. Heard about the Crash Jackson brand hot dogs, had to try one for myself.
Nick Stuart: …And the fact that this happened while Daytona was rampaging around here…
Richard Parker: Coincidence.
Nick Stuart: Uh huh.
Richard Parker: Look, that man is like two seconds away from turning one of us into a projectile, and I’m not aerodynamic enough for that. The minute he looks our way when he gets that look in his eyes again, I’m running for the door.
Nick Stuart groans.
Daytona continues his assault on Cecilworth. He pulls him up to his feet and lands a huge sidewalk slam, and goes into a cover. And by “goes into a cover”, we of course mean that Daytona stands up and puts one boot on Cecilworth’s chest. It only gets two as Cecilworth manages to get his shoulder up. Easily. Almost as though Daytona left him every avenue possible to do that. Despite that being obvious to everyone, Daytona is outraged. He casts a wilting glance towards the senior official, though said official remains adamant that it was a two count.
Daytona puts himself on top of Cecilworth and starts wailing on him.
Nick Stuart: This isn’t good for Cecilworth.
You know what makes this beating worse for Cecilworth?
The fact that Daytona is still yelling at him.
Daytona Diamonds: Y’THINK YOU’RE GODDANG BETTER THAN ME!?
Punch.
Daytona Diamonds: IMMA MOUNT YER FUCKIN’ HEAD ON MY HOT TUB WHEN I’M DONE!
Punch punch.
Daytona Diamonds: [UNINTELLIGBLE!!!!]
Punch punch—uh oh.
That “uh oh” is Cecilworth turning his head just enough that it’s no longer being pounded into ground meat. Daytona misses and punches the canvas. In that moment, the Submission Statistician – the man who plugs in all of the various ways the human body isn’t supposed to bend into Microsoft Excel and goes “hey, look, the spreadsheet goes all the way down to 1048576 and that’s not a big enough number!” – sweeps his legs up and around Daytona’s head and neck.
Nick Stuart: DAYTONA’S CAUGHT IN A TRIANGLE CHOKE!
Daytona Diamonds suddenly finds himself not yelling a whole lot, because it’s hard to yell when you can’t fuckin’ breathe. The Rhinestone Cowboy is trapped with nowhere to go in the center of the ring, and the bloodied Submission Physician is currently prescribing him his daily dose of murderous torture holds.
The camera zooms in on Farthington’s face as he cranks the submission and drives the point of his elbow into Daytona’s head. Despite the half-crazed eyes seen from beneath his crimson mask, the champion makes his point clear.
Cecilworth Farthington: It’s called a Jacuzzi.
Those words strike a chord in Daytona Diamonds. Anger fills those giant muscles of his. With a single motion, as though Cecilworth is merely a piece of iron he uses to flex with, he bodily lifts Cecilworth up into the air.
Daytona is looking to Hang ‘Em High, but the champion is not interested in this. He rotates and slips out before Daytona can get a good grip on him, and almost effortlessly slides into the rear naked choke.
It’s the same one he used to defeat Cancer Jiles in his last defense.
It’s…
Nick Stuart: THE TARP! THE TARP IS LOCKED IN!
The deadly submission hold of Phil Atken. It’s won championships. It’s kept championships. Cecilworth rides on Daytona’s back like a horsey, trying to grind the Rhinestone Cowboy down to rhinestone dust. No matter how huge your muscles are, you still need to breathe. It’s known science. Cecilworth is going to ride this horse into the goddang dirt like he’s trying to save Mattie Ross from a snake bite.
But Daytona’s not simply the fastest horse in town. He’s a Gold Ship. He’s chaos incarnate, as easy to predict as whatever the fuck Fred Dick is going to do later tonight with his Lasagna Boys-slash-Rhinestone Rascals-slash-Farthington Friends. He’s not going to simply lie down and let Cecilworth choke him into unconsciousness. He is not here to have a debate with the Submission Politician. And so, just when Cecilworth thinks he’s brought the big man down, Diamonds lifts him back up onto his shoulders and plows forward into the turnbuckles. He turns just as he gets there, and crushes Cecilworth between his nearly 300 pounds of mass and the unmoving turnbuckles.
This forces Cecilworth to let go.
Richard Parker: No!
He crumples to the ground, and he makes it a point to roll under the bottom rope and to the floor so that Daytona has to come for him.
Nick Stuart: Somehow, Daytona Diamonds has escaped the Tarp! Cecilworth is on the outside near the hot tu—
Richard Parker: Jacuzzi.
Nick Stuart: —Jacuzzi that’s at ringside!
A lot will be talked about with the great Hot Tub vs. Jacuzzi Debate of 2025. So many beautiful words, so many valid arguments, at least six different flame wars erupting with moderators having to step in before we reached Godwin’s Law levels of flamebait, and at least one aborted attempt by one Mr. J. Fontaine to call it a Joe-cuzzi. It’s hard to come to a consensus in this day and age, which is one of the sad things about letting the rabble have stupid things like “opinions” and “hot takes”. But we can all agree that no matter what you call it, it’s wet.
Daytona Diamonds has decided, here and now, to launch a full investigation of exactly how wet a hot tub (and definitely not a Jacuzzi) gets.
He is going to use science, because the screaming angry cowboy who looks like he’s been overinflated with muscle juice and might literally physically explode at any moment is the perfect scientist.
Most scientists worry about things like “control groups” and “hypotheses” and “logic” to dictate all of their fancy-schmancy science. Daytona Diamonds is not about that shit. Daytona Diamonds is about results! Results like that chiseled body of granite he’s got, and a fuckin’ hot tub at his beck and call!
And so he picks up Cecilworth and holds him mightily over his head, before he pivots to look at his beautiful hot tub.
A few weeks ago, he dunked Joe Fontaine into a dumpster. Cecilworth? He gets the hot tub.
Nick Stuart: Cecilworth might be about to take another dip in the hot tu—
Richard Parker: Jacuzzi.
Nick Stuart: —Jacuzzi, but Cecilworth’s fighting it!
Indeed, the Financier slips out the back door and lands behind Daytona. He hits him with another European uppercut, and this one has enough bite to stagger the Rhinestone Cowboy. Daytona backs up until his back is against the hotuzzi. Cecilworth gets back up onto the apron, and aims another huge penalty kick to the soccer ball that is Daytona’s head.
Nick Stuart: Cecilworth, lining up the big kick, and… NO!
Daytona catches the boot, and with a mighty pull, Cecilworth is brought to the earth. Hard.
OHHHHHH!!!
And also, nearly on his head.
Nick Stuart: GOOD GOD!
Daytona is in a bit of a daze, but when he realizes that Cecilworth was writhing in pain holding his head – mind you, he’s still bleeding – he does what any sensible man would do in his situation.
He flexes.
Okay, by “sensible” I mean “sensible by Daytona standards.”
Richard Parker: Ugh. You know, usually I’m supporting Daytona Diamonds and all, but as a charter member of the Cecilworth Farthington Cool Friends Fanclub for Friends, I’m not happy with all of this flexing.
Nick Stuart: The what?
Richard Parker: You know, the CFCFFfF. Rolls off the tongue.
It’s only when he hears referee Nixon get up to about six on his count that he remembers that the Universal championship is hanging in the balance. He yanks Cecilworth up to his feet and hoists him into the ring. He climbs up onto the apron and performs another flex for a crowd that was booing him heavily.
BOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Like that.
Then he turns and enters the ring, and…
OHHHHH!!!
Rumors of Cecilworth Farthington’s demise have been, as always, greatly exaggerated.
His brain is hurting from the fall Daytona gave him just a moment ago, but it’s still in working order when it comes to targeting a man’s limbs. When Daytona enters the ring, Cecilworth takes him by the wrist and before Daytona can pull it away, Cecilworth is in midair with the Pele kick to the joint.
Nick Stuart: Cecilworth with a huge kick to Daytona’s left arm!
Daytona had largely been able to shrug off Cecilworth’s offense up to this point. Not this time. The kick hit home enough that Daytona staggers away holding his arm. Cecilworth needs the assistance of the ropes to get to his feet, but when he sees Daytona in the corner, he charges and lands a hard European uppercut. There’s nowhere for Daytona to go to blunt this one, and he’s clearly dazed from the blow. Cecilworth loops the vascular tree trunk of Daytona’s left arm around the top rope, and then delivers a thunderous boot to the rope and the arm at the same time.
Nick Stuart: Cecilworth is gaining momentum here, and Daytona’s favoring that arm!
Cecilworth continues the attack. He grabs Daytona’s arm and goes into an arm wringer, before he starts throwing rapid-fire uppercuts into the crook of the elbow. Daytona takes all of these with a wince, and then Cecilworth rolls through and tries to lock in the cross armbreaker.
Nick Stuart: ARTICLE 51!
Richard Parker: It’s not in!
Despite his reduced range of motion from… y’know, extreme weight lifting we’ll say… Daytona manages to lock his hands together and prevent Cecilworth from locking the hold in for real. Cecilworth finds that his vaunted submission that’s snapped many an arm and has won him many a match, including the tag match just two weeks ago, isn’t as easy to apply as he expected here.
He goes bug-eyed when Daytona suddenly hoists him into the air.
This is not supposed to happen. What was supposed to happen was that Cecilworth would wrestle Daytona Diamonds to the mat, eventually yank his arm away from his grip, and attempt to go snicker-snack like Daytona is a big dumb jabberwock and he’s wielding a vorpal armbar. Instead, Daytona’s got him up in the air, and then he slams him to the mat with a makeshift powerbomb.
He hasn’t hung Cecilworth high yet, but it was hard enough to cause the Financier to release the hold.
Nick Stuart: What… strength!
Richard Parker: Okay, I have a theory.
Daytona staggers backwards into a corner, almost like he’s sitting down on the bottom turnbuckle. He’s a little winded. His arm hurts.
Nick Stuart: What theory?
Richard Parker: Okay, you know how STRONK apparently went back to his home planet? I think he left us all a parting gift. And by “us,” I mean “Daytona.” And that gift is gains. Super gains. The type of gains that only a STRONK or a STRONK-like creature can handle. And I think there’s only one way this could have happened, and that’s the fusion dance. Now, let me just get my charts together, and find all of my strings…
Nick Stuart: We don’t have time for that!
We don’t have time for it because Cecilworth is recovering on the apron, and Daytona is charging. It just so happens that this is occurring in front of Nick and Richard’s desk.
Richard Parker: Aw, dang it.
That’s the last thing we hear from Richard Parker before Cecilworth Farthington nearly ends up in his lap.
CRASH!
OHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT
Pandemonium.
The demons are loose and they are saying some fuckwords about what just transpired.
Cecilworth Farthington now lies in the wreckage of what used to be the commentary table, and Daytona Diamonds stands in the ring trying to catch his breath. There’s mayhem. A lot of people scattered like dust in the wind when Cecilworth was sent flying, and Nick Stuart and Richard Parker are – once again during a PRIME night two main event – off commentary because some asshole broke the commentary desk with a human body.
In the ring, Daytona Diamonds is discovering that while newfound bulk has been a gift in terms of yeeting potential, but those bursts of power are taking more and more out of him. His veins bulge more and more. His anger only rises with each passing second that Cecilworth Farthington remains the Universal champion.
Still, Daytona knows even in his rising anger that he cannot win the Universal championship if he doesn’t pick up the corpse of the Glueminati’s money-man and brings him back into the ring. He’s still a little rational. He rolls to the outside and then…
…Well, he flexes over Cecilworth’s bleeding corpse.
Maybe not that rational.
The champion is in bad shape and yet, he is crawling towards Daytona. A hand grasps the very end of Daytona’s pants. Daytona sharply looks down at Cecilworth, and he’s pissed. Well, more pissed. Daytona’s kind of in a fugue state where he’s always pissed off. In this instance, he’s pissed because this man is bleeding on him. Bleeding on his goddang pants.
He yanks Cecilworth to his feet and literally throws him into the ring apron. Like, not even a modicum of care on where Cecilworth lands. Cecilworth’s back hits the apron and he crumples to the ground.
He turns to the crowd and flexes again, bellowing towards all of their boos.
Daytona Diamonds: I’M THE GODDANG KING OF THE FUCKIN’ WORLD!
Ladies, I want you to picture that scene in Titanic. You know the one. Just standing on the bow of the ship, feeling the world before you, and then the goddang Colossal Titan shows up to embrace you from behind. Probably did it right after it busted through the southern wall and killed all our mans, too.
That’s Daytona Diamonds right now.
Fuck Atlanta in three months’ time.
The true Colossus stands here in Indianapolis.
He turns and pulls Cecilworth back into the ring. He’s in a hurry, now. He needs to win this dang title. It’s the only way any of this is going to be worth it.
He walks into the ring and…
…gets caught in a small package.
ONE.
TWO.
THRE-NO.
Daytona gets up with the anger and the fury of a million brazen bulls. Also a lot of the screaming that results from brazen bulls, too. Look it up. Pretty fucked. Anyway, Daytona is incensed that Cecilworth nearly robbed him of his rightfully won Universal championship with a quick rollup.
He charges in on a recovering Cecilworth, shoulder into the gut, and bodily rams him into the nearby corner. One of the ones that Daytona hadn’t destroyed in some way yet. Daytona continuously rams his shoulder into Cecilworth’s gut in the corner, such that Cecilworth’s rump is somewhat wedged between the turnbuckles. The entire time, Daytona is roaring. Screaming. He’s so enraged that he can hardly contain himself, and he only dimly realizes he needs to stop lodging Cecilworth’s ass in the turnbuckles when he hears Elvis Nixon’s count reach four.
He shoots up from Cecilworth’s guts and glares daggers at Nixon. This is the maddest anyone has ever been at the mere notion of counting to five.
He stomps over to the opposite corner and flexes the entire way. One could confuse it for a Fargo strut, if Jackie Fargo had been three hundred pounds and pissed off all the goddang time.
As he does this, there’s a rustling from the wreckage of the commentary desk.
Nick Stuart: Are… Are we back?
Richard Parker: Nick? Hey, Nick!
Nick Stuart: I can hear you, Rich, go ahead.
Richard Parker: I think I saw my life flash before my eyes. And let me tell you, I think I’ve seen you in my life more than my own family.
Nick Stuart: Thanks? That’s weird.
Richard Parker: Tell me about it.
As this conversation is going on, Daytona has reached the other side of the ring. He charges in on Cecilworth, but Cecilworth slips out between the ropes just as Daytona’s about to crush him, and manages to swing around and kick Daytona right in the head. Daytona staggers backwards dazed for a moment.
Then he gets angrier.
We’ve reached past the point where Daytona can possibly be articulate with anything he says.
Daytona Diamonds: [UNINTELLIGBLE!!!]
Like that.
He’s just gonna be like that for a while.
He charges Cecilworth again on the apron to repeat what he did to him just a bit ago when he launched him from the apron to the commentary desk, but Cecilworth slips just out of reach of the attack and then hits Daytona with another boot in the skull. This staggers Daytona enough that Farthington re-enters the ring and takes a running start.
Nick Stuart: MALICE IN WONDERLAND!
The elbow smash to the back of Daytona’s skull does something incredible.
It puts Daytona down to one knee.
It doesn’t completely knock him down, though.
Cecilworth does not stop. He can’t. He has recognized the imminent danger that Daytona Diamonds and his gigantic muscles present to him and his precious skeleton. He bounces off the ropes and hits Daytona with another one.
Nick Stuart: A SECOND!
Daytona is wobbly, and he’s having trouble returning to his feet now. Cecilworth knows he needs a third, so he bounces off again and absolutely buries his elbow into Daytona’s skull with all of the mustard and relish he can. Bone hits bone, the thunk would’ve been audible even if the microphones around the ring didn’t pick it up. Daytona, finally, mercifully… crumples to the mat.
Nick Stuart: FINALLY! A THIRD KNOCKS DOWN DAYTONA!
Cecilworth wastes no time. He grabs Daytona’s arm and, upon realizing that the man is dead weight, recognizes that he might not be able to turn him over easily. So he applies the omoplata to the arm and twists into a crossface. Labelle Lock.
Richard Parker: Cecilworth’s doing Cecilstuff!
Nick Stuart: Cecilworth has the submission on Diamonds! Will Diamonds tap!?
Cecilworth is screaming, blood streaming down his face. This is his best chance of winning the match. If Daytona is unconscious after the vicious elbow strikes, referee Elvis Nixon would have little choice but to call for the bell. And for a few precious moments, it looks like this one might be over.
But Daytona stirs.
He reaches to rip Cecilworth’s grip from his face.
Cecilworth decides that won’t do.
He intercepts Daytona’s hand and tries to loop his arms around into an arm triangle-type hold with the omaplata still locked in place. Daytona’s unique physiology makes this a difficult prospect, though, there’s just so much meat involved, you know? Indeed, Daytona starts to climb back up to his feet despite the howler monkey still clinging to his arm and his back, definitely doing the “howling” part as loud as he can.
One can win a match by submission if you scream loud enough in someone’s ear, right?
Cecilworth slides off of Daytona’s back once the Rhinestone Cowboy is vertical, recognizing the danger he’s in. Unfortunately, he’s not quick enough. Daytona grabs him by the waist, and sends Cecilworth straight to hell with a Saito suplex.
Nick Stuart: DIAMONDS SENDS CECILWORTH DOWN THE DUSTY TRAIL!
Both men are down.
Daytona is still rattled by the blows to his head and the attempted submission. Cecilworth is down because have you not seen everything Daytona’s done to him in the last like ten minutes?
Elvis Nixon begins the ten count.
Nick Stuart: If both men are counted out here, Cecilworth would retain the Universal championship…
Richard Parker: That’s not how C-Money rolls, though.
At the count of seven, Cecilworth finds it within himself to pull himself back to his feet with the help of the ropes.
Daytona’s up at eight.
He sees Cecilworth.
He gets right back to being the maddest, angriest man on the planet. We should all be happy that Daytona and his handlers hadn’t thought of bombarding the Rhinestone Cowboy with gamma radiation yet, or else we’d either be looking at billions of dollars in damage or a super omega dead Daytona. No in-between on that one, because in-betweens are for cowards.
And he charges.
OLE!
And much like the very beginning of the match, Cecilworth Farthington moves. He drops down, and takes the top rope with him. Daytona sees this, but he can’t stop his own momentum because his mass and inertia are having a stupid argument right now about how physics works. Daytona is pissed as he flies over the top rope and to the floor.
Daytona Diamonds: FUUUUUUU—
He crash lands, and favors his arm when he lands. The same one Cecilworth had beaten earlier in the match. Gravity is a harsh mistress, and Daytona don’t got time to learn no safe words from that meddling bitch. Meanwhile, a bloodied Cecilworth drags himself out of the ring.
Nick Stuart: I hate to say this, Rich, but…
Richard Parker: Yeah. They’re out here in front of us again.
Elvis Nixon has had it up to here with these two leaving the ring over and over again, and he immediately starts a ten count to get them back in.
Cecilworth cheerfully ignores him.
He actually goes up to Richard Parker.
Richard Parker: Hi?
Cecilworth doesn’t say anything to his number one fan. Actually, that’s a lie. He does say one thing.
Cecilworth Farthington: Boop.
He instantly reaches into the pocket of Richard’s suit and pulls out the pen that he keeps in his pocket. He pushes the end of the pen several times as though testing it, and then walks away towards Daytona.
Richard Parker: Nick! Nick! Cecilworth touched me!
Nick Stuart: …He took your pen. Why?
Richard Parker: I dunno, but he can keep it!
When he sees Daytona recover on the floor, Cecilworth charges and hits him with a big boot to the face. This sends Daytona staggering until he hits the ring post. That’s when Cecilworth, still clutching the pen in his hand, really springs into action. He grabbed Daytona’s injured arm and pulled it through the gap underneath the bottom rope and ring apron, with the ring post between him and the Rhinestone Cowboy.
Cecilworth did always say he was going to pop those “balloons” on Daytona’s arms.
He never specified how.
And then he rams the point of that pen right into the overinflated bicep of his left arm.
OHHHHHHHH!!!
He does it repeatedly. Daytona is screaming.
Nick Stuart: HE’S STABBING HIM! CECILWORTH IS STABBING DAYTONA DIAMONDS WITH YOUR INK PEN!
Richard Parker: OH MY GOD! …I really don’t want that pen back now! …Or maybe I do! I don’t know!
Elvis Nixon is also screaming. He actually can’t quite see what Cecilworth is doing, but he can see that it’s worth a count because you shouldn’t be pulling a man’s limbs through a ring post like that. Cecilworth looks up at Elvis, hiding the pen in his hand, and smiles at him in that dangerous way that suggests that he’s not very comfortable with having numbers yelled at him.
Daytona manages to pull his arm away, but the damage has been done and blood is oozing from that bicep. It’s pretty gross!
Cecilworth casually tosses the pen away, much to the audible chagrin of Richard Parker, and rolls back into the ring. It’s glaringly obvious, however, that Cecilworth is only doing this to break the ten count. He wants more of Daytona, even if he hadn’t checked with his skeleton about how much more Daytona he could handle.
Daytona turns to find Cecilworth behind him, and he offers up no resistance to the European uppercuts that Cecilworth throws with alternating arms. Daytona is backed up against the ring apron, and the champion manages – with a lot of effort – to muscle Daytona back into the ring. Well, he tries. He only manages to push Daytona through the top and middle ropes, such that he’s kind of dangling there.
Cecilworth’s eyes are bulging. The crazy eye, some might say. That ‘ol Farthington Madness, perhaps.
Fans are going crazy. It’s pandemonium. So much of the crowd is behind the champion as he does the outright unthinkable.
He ascends to the top rope.
Nick Stuart: What is Cecilworth doing?
Richard Parker: I don’t know, but I’m on my feet right now!
Nick Stuart: …Our desk is destroyed, we have little other choice but to be on our feet.
This is barely-charted territory for the Submission Aesthetician. We don’t see him climb up to the top rope very often, because he would rather tie a man into knots until he cries uncle than go flying anywhere. Circumstances have changed things. Circumstances have led Cecilworth to measure Daytona, whose head and torso still stuck out between the ropes.
He flies.
Nick Stuart: KNEE DROP TO DAYTONA!
It isn’t a mere knee drop. Cecilworth’s knee hits Daytona in the back of the head, and the Rhinestone Cowboy’s body – specifically his head – has nowhere to go but the mat. Daytona’s skull is dribbled like a basketball on the canvas as a result.
Richard Parker: That was BRUTAL!
Yes.
Cecilworth goes for the cover, because it’s all his screaming body can do.
ONE.
TWO.
KICKOUT.
And when we say “kickout,” we mean a kickout so thunderous that Cecilworth is launched halfway across the ring and lands on the apron near the jacuztub. Cecilworth’s bug eyes go even buggier at what just happened. He was in the ring and now he’s out of the ring. That’s weird!
Cecilworth is barely back on his feet – turns out bleeding from the face is quite the deterrent for quick recovery – to find that Daytona Diamonds is already recovering from the knee drop. The sheer durability of this juggernaut is a sight to behold. Also, the sheer anger. Daytona is screaming in rage far more than he’s screaming in pain. This monster is getting to his feet, and he’s staggering towards Cecilworth with a lumbering gait.
Nick Stuart: What is Daytona Diamonds MADE of!?
Richard Parker: Legally obtained muscles?
Cecilworth is bewildered. He popped the balloons, he shouldn’t be doing this right now. He grabs a dazed Daytona and hits him with another European uppercut. A second one seems to do more damage, so he loads up a third and…
BOOM.
…dies.
The lariat that hits Cecilworth causes him to do a full backflip off of the apron and land on his face on the floor. It’s one of the most horrifying things you might ever see happen to a human skeleton (and all of the bits and bobs attached to said skeleton, we suppose).
HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT
Richard Parker: OH MY GOD!
Nick Stuart: We might need our doctor out here after that one!
Daytona’s down on one knee in the ring. Farthington is legally dead in sixteen U.S. states, Puerto Rico, and the U.S. Virgin Islands. If Daytona only knew Cecilworth’s legal status, he might have rushed to roll him back into the ring and put this thing to bed. As it stands, by the time Daytona looks to the outside, he only sees Farthington crawling for the jacuztub.
He rolls to the outside.
The Rhinestone Cowboy has just made a decision in his life that will greatly diminish the life of another.
Daytona Diamonds: YOU WANT MY FUCKIN’ HOT TUB!?
He bodily lifts up Cecilworth Farthington, scoops him up…
Daytona Diamond: HAVE SOME!
…and drops him upside-down into those sweet, sweet jets.
Nick Stuart: HE’S DROWNING HIM!
Richard Parker: NO!
Nick Stuart: DAYTONA DIAMONDS HAS CECILWORTH IN THE HOT TUB—
Richard Parker: JACUZZI!
Nick Stuart: —JACUZZI, AND HE IS DROWNING HIM!
Now, I don’t know if you know that much about the rules of professional wrestling, or specifically PRIME. Cecilworth does, naturally, because he’s known to own the only copy of the PRIME rule book that exists, and that’s just a fact of life that we all have to live with. The point is that drowning is definitely not a valid way to win a professional wrestling match in most wrestling companies. In the PRIME rulebook specifically, Article 49.2, Section 10 clearly states that drowning has been outlawed as a winning condition in PRIME since “that one time that we don’t talk about.”
Elvis Nixon has tolerated a lot of bullshit in this match at his discretion because he wants a clear winner just like everyone else does, but he has never administered a five count as hard and as viciously as he has at this moment. Keep in mind, he’s refereed Ivan matches.
Daytona lets go, and whirls around to face Nixon.
Daytona has caused a lot of bullshit in this match and is deeply unapologetic about it, but he has never screamed unendingly at a referee as hard or as viciously as he has right this minute. Keep in mind, he hung out with Lowell Dot Com against his will once or twice.
Seriously, there’s so much spittle. It’s very rude, and it’s the worst hot tub experience in Elvis’s life.
Daytona turns to find that Cecilworth had managed to fish himself out of the hotuzzi, and that somehow makes Daytona even angrier. His volume increases as his intelligibility decreases. He wants Cecilworth Farthington to die and give up. The order of that doesn’t matter, actually.
So Daytona charges him with every intention of smashing Cecilworth into the Jacuzzi.
Cecilworth ducks.
Actually, it’s more like he collapses.
Daytona can’t stop his own momentum.
THUNK.
splooooosh
That’s the sound of Daytona hitting the jacuztub hard, the water moving back and forth within it like a miniaturized tsunami. It’s also the sound of missing a shot in the battleship minigame in Wind Waker, but don’t worry about that. Daytona comes up favoring his arm, because chlorine and open stab wounds don’t make for a good combination. Cecilworth suddenly gets up, and charges Daytona.
Running big boot, shades of his old rival’s Rhongomyniad.
splooooosh
And Daytona takes a little dip in the hot tuzzi.
OHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
Nick Stuart: DAYTONA’S IN THE DRINK!
Richard Parker: DROWN HIM! DROWN HIM LIKE HE TRIED TO DROWN YOU!
Indeed, Cecilworth gently sets Elvis Nixon to the side before he viciously starts waterboarding the Rhinestone Cowboy in the Jacuzzi. This is known to be a war crime, but we’ve long accepted those in PRIME, so it’s fine! Elvis Nixon, once again, assaults Cecilworth with the concept of numbers with a viciousness and alarm that comes with not wanting someone to fucking die in one of his wrestling matches.
Cecilworth reluctantly relents, not wanting to hear any more numbers. Fucking numbers, am I right?
Eventually, the champion is convinced to go back into the ring and let Nixon start a ten count.
It’s at three that Daytona fishes himself out of the hot tub. He spits up water as he does, and you’d swear that he was burning so hot that the fucking water was steaming off of him. He’s angry. His eyes burn, and it might not just be the chlorine.
He sees Cecilworth in the ring, and he needs to murder him so much. He needs to beat him until he is no longer recognizable as a human man. He needs to pulverize him until he’s ground meat.
But finally, for the first time in this contest, his body begins to betray him.
He’s wasted so much energy.
Cecilworth’s resilience, his ability to never say die no matter how bloodied and brutalized he gets in his contests, has finally borne fruit.
Nick Stuart: Nixon’s count is up to seven! Daytona is winded!
Richard Parker: Is… Is Cecilworth going to win by countout!?
He isn’t.
Daytona manages to slide back into the ring, and Cecilworth is on him like an Oblivion guard on criminal scum. As Daytona plants his left arm to try and get up, Cecilworth comes streaking across the ring and…
SMACK!
OHHHHHHH!!!
Nick Stuart: WHAT A KICK IN THE ARM FROM THE CHAMPION!
Richard Parker: Get him!
Daytona writhes in pain. Stab wounds, chlorine, and everything else have damaged his left arm. Cecilworth pulls Daytona’s arm out and away from him, and no matter how powerful Daytona is, the champion is able to subdue him with a little bit of his friend and yours: joint manipulation.
Nick Stuart: Could it be!?
Richard Parker: It is!
He jumps and twists and lands in the perfect position for the armbreaker.
Nick Stuart: ARTICLE 51! AGAIN! CENTER OF THE RING!
Richard Parker: DAYTONA HAS NOWHERE TO GO!
This time, Daytona isn’t able to grasp the hands, and he’s stuck in the armbreaker. The same armbreaker that’s been the ever-constant difference maker for the Financier. Even when he didn’t win matches with it, the sheer threat it exudes has been known since before he became famous in PRIME. After all, nothing emphasizes the term “armbreaker” quite like literally breaking arms with it.
There’s just one… tiny problem.
What if the arm you’re trying to break is too swole?
And what if that arm, despite being compromised by the sheer amount of damage it’d taken in the match, is still fully armed and operational? What if this Death Star of a limb is capable of – through sheer force of will – muscling Cecilworth off of the ground?
And what if, hear me out here…
…Daytona Diamonds were to unleash his deadliest weapon on Cecilworth with just one arm?
Pretty crazy, ri—
Richard Parker: NO!
Nick Stuart: HANG ‘EM HIGH BOMB!
Cecilworth bounces off of the canvas from the enormous force of the powerbomb. Hard. So much that Daytona can’t immediately get the cover because Cecilworth bounced so hard that he landed several feet away. Daytona is exhausted. His arm is in a lot of pain. But he still finds it within him to crawl on top of Farthington and lay an arm down on him.
Nick Stuart: DAYTONA HAS A COVER!
Elvis Nixon makes the academic count.
Nick Stuart: ONE!
Richard Parker: NO!
Nick Stuart: TWO!
Richard Parker: NO!
Nick Stuart: THREE!
Richard Parker: NO… YES! YES! YESSS!!!
Why is Richard Parker so excited? That was three, wasn’t it? Surely, he should be devastated right now.
Well, not when Elvis Nixon looks up to see the one reason why that’s not a three count. One reason for Daytona Diamonds to look up and get so outrageously pissed off that he finds new reason to make guttural sounds that belong in a nature documentary about angry bears.
Cecilworth’s foot is on the ropes.
Nick Stuart: IT’S A MIRACLE! THE LONG LEG OF CECILWORTH FARTHINGTON IS ON THE ROPE!
Richard Parker: MERRY CHRISTMAS!
The fans are going nuts. There’s a “CE-CIL-WORTH!” chant, for God’s sakes.
All the while, Daytona Diamonds is – stop me if you’ve heard this before – the most livid he’s ever been in his entire life. He cannot believe it. He had completed the most daunting, enormous feat of strength ever thought possible in a match with Cecilworth “By God” Farthington. He had, against all odds, overpowered Article 51. And it wasn’t enough.
Daytona turns his rage to Elvis Nixon. He’s screaming at him. A lot of people have done a lot of screaming at Elvis Nixon today, especially Daytona, but PRIME’s senior referee is adamant that he saw the foot on the rope before his hand hit the mat.
The more he argues with Nixon, the more it dawns on him that he needs to return to Farthington. As Farthington is using the turnbuckles to get up, Daytona charges and hits him with a Stinger splash so deadly that it’s like Cecilworth was experiencing an avalanche before he got crushed.
Cecilworth is on wobbly legs. He’s still bloodied, and his forehead must sting from almost getting drowned in the Jacuzzi. Daytona kicks him in the gut and sets him up for another Hang ‘Em High Bomb.
Nick Stuart: This could be it… the miracle might end here!
Richard Parker: Come on, Cecilworth!
Daytona takes in the moment. This is what everything’s been building towards since his soiree over to China earlier this year. Everything else around him is pointless noise. He lifts Cecilworth up. All he can think about is hoisting him up high and driving him down like a meteor about to lay waste to an entire species. A second such powerbomb would be the end of Cecilworth Farthington’s immaculate championship reign, and lay extinct the Glueminati at the hands of the Poor Whoresmen.
Only, it isn’t.
Cecilworth uses the moment he’s lifted higher into the air to shift his weight. Daytona loses his grip on the Universal champion, and Cecilworth lands on his feet behind him.
Daytona whirls around with the anger of a hundred gorillas against one man with a right-handed lariat that might have actually, literally decapitated Cecilworth if it had landed. It doesn’t. Cecilworth ducks the clothesline and the momentum of avoiding the clothesline and Cecilworth finds himself in the corner. Another Stinger splash is coming from Daytona, and it could be curtains for the Universal champion.
Only, uh…
Well, it isn’t.
This is how a plan comes together. This is how the chessmaster finally reveals his the full scope of his daring plan, despite looking like he’d been in a fight with a wrecking ball.
Cecilworth remembers baiting Daytona into charging him like a bull at the beginning of the match. Daytona was so angry at actually being duped like this that he’d torn the turnbuckle pad off in his frothing rage. Thing is, referee Elvis Nixon couldn’t repair it. The damage was that severe.
That means the turnbuckle had been exposed this entire time.
And it just so happened, or rather, Cecilworth purposefully put him in this corner… that this is the missing turnbuckle is in the corner that Daytona just Stinger splashed into.
Nick Stuart: THE EXPOSED TURNBUCKLE! DAYTONA JUST HIT IT BY MISTAKE!
Richard Parker: YESSSSSS!!!
Daytona staggers backwards like he’s been hit by a hunting rifle, an expression of rage mixed with palpable confusion. Cecilworth springs into action and leaps into Daytona’s left arm with a scissors hold, and manages to – despite Daytona still standing – lock in the…
Nick Stuart: HE’S GOING FOR THE ARTICLE 51 AGAIN! WILL HE GET IT!?
He won’t.
Daytona is simply too powerful. He’s already trying to flex his way out of the submission. He’s already trying to muscle Cecilworth into position for a second Hang ‘Em High Bomb. If this happens, Cecilworth Farthington could kiss the Universal championship goodbye.
He can’t.
Daytona’s anger has never abated, but his stamina is another story, and the blow to the exposed turnbuckles has exacerbated this. He lifts Cecilworth, but can’t maintain his grip. In mid-air, Cecilworth realizes that he’s found a new weakness to exploit. He shifts his weight. He drops down, into…
Nick Stuart: CECILWORTH… CECILWORTH’S GOT THE GUILLOTINE CHOKE!
Richard Parker: MARIE ANTOINETTE!?!?
FLAMBERGE could not win the Almasy last night, because of the heroic efforts of Chandler Tsonda overcoming time itself. Maybe this is simply Cecilworth acknowledging his Gluemate. Maybe this is Cecilworth responding to FLAMBERGE using Cecilworth’s own submission. And maybe this is just happenstance that this is how Cecilworth landed into some kind of chokehold out of the Hang ‘Em High Bomb.
Either way, Daytona is fading fast.
He rages.
He charges a corner – one of the ones that still has a turnbuckle pad on it – to try and break the hold.
Richard Parker: NOT THE CORNER!
Nick Stuart: WAIT! CECILWORTH STILL HAS IT LOCKED IN!
And all that does is make Cecilworth cling to him that much harder. Daytona pivots, and charges the opposite cor—
Daytona’s legs give out from under him two steps into his charge.
He falls.
OHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
His head hits the mat like it’s a DDT, and Cecilworth puts the hooks in even more.
Nick Stuart: HE’S GOT THE GUILLOTINE IN THE CENTER OF THE RING! DAYTONA HAS NOWHERE TO GO!
Daytona won’t tap out.
He won’t submit.
He can’t.
He’s come too far.
He reaches for ropes that seem like miles away across a vast desert. His left arm has been mangled, yet it still has more than enough strength if only he’d be able to reach those long-distant ropes. He’d swear, for a moment, that he’s able to grasp those ropes and grant himself relief.
But those ropes… are all mirages in the desert.
His arm falls still.
It’s over.
DING DING DING
RAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
It takes Elvis Nixon, who just called for the bell to stop the match, several moments to pry Cecilworth’s arms loose from the neck of an unconscious Daytona Diamonds. When he does, Cecilworth lays flat in the center of the ring like he’s a car crash victim awaiting medical attention. For all intents and purposes, that’s what he is.
It’s pandemonium in Lucas Oil Stadium.
The pandemonium only grows louder, more intense, and swirling with demonic energy when Vince Howard makes the final announcement.
Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen… as a result of a referee’s decision to stop this match, the winner of your main event… AND STIIIIIIILLLLLLLL THE PRIME UNIVERSAL CHAMPION! CECILWOOOOOOOORRRRRRTHHHHHHH!!! FARTHINGTOOOOOOOONNNNNNN!!!!!
RAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!
Elvis Nixon lays the Universal title belt across Cecilworth’s waist. Cecilworth has one arm up in the air, the only sign that he acknowledges his latest triumph.
Nick Stuart: Somehow, someway, Cecilworth Farthington has survived this juggernaut! He is still the Universal Champion!
Richard Parker: I think I could cry, Nick!
Nick Stuart: Farthington has accomplished something in this era of PRIME that only Coral Avalon has accomplished, and that’s successfully defend the Universal title three times in one reign!
Richard Parker: One step closer to Bandit erasure from our record books.
Cecilworth rolls to the outside, cradling the Universal title, and staggers over to what we can now definitively call a Jacuzzi. He raises his arm into the air, and though such an action brings him even more pain, he gets another big ovation from the crowd.
Inside the ring, Daytona Diamonds has managed to crawl to the corner, using the bottom turnbuckle as a headrest. He’s bewildered at how he could’ve possibly lost. He’s stunned. He’s so pissed off that he’s outright tranquil, as though the part of his brain that usually expresses his rage has no idea how to handle such anger.
Yet the Rhinestone Cowboy can only seethe silently as he watches Cecilworth begin his celebration by taking a dip in the Jacuzzi, the Universal title propped up on one corner.
The Glueminati might not have taken the Almasy.
But they still have the Universal Championship on this night.
FADE.
TO.
JACUZZI.
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