ReVival 75

We begin the 75th episode of ReVival not in the ring, with a Miami crowd both hooting and hollering in the excitement of a wild night of grappling action, culminating in a big time Intense Championship match between Sebastian Gold and Fred Dick.

No, we will get to see those wonderful fans in a few moments time, no doubt, for now though, for now we have spectacle.

A large metal truss has been set up in one of the backstage areas with a bit more of a ceiling clearance. Upon the truss there are fold olde tyme clan flags, intriangly pointing down form, like you’d see in movies about a castle or some such. The first flag on the left is of course red in colour, with an emblem of the classic hammer and sickle that the kids do so enjoy. Next to the red flag sits one of gold, a hot dog taking the starring role of the centre. Next along, a piss (yolky?) yellow flags hang, a humble egg exists upon it. Finally, a turd brown flag, with a pixelated image on it. Is it pixelated by PRIME production? Was it already like that? I’ll never tell.

Below the structure that seems to be entirely set up to hang those flags sits a bustling and bubbling hot tub jacuzzi, the Universal Championship sits in that kind of area you get in one of those things where you can put your drink without it getting all wet from the splashy bubbles. The belt has clearly gone through a thorough polishing routine as it glistens in its starring role in front of the cameras.

The camera shot hangs on this image for a few moments, causing a bit of puzzling perplexity for the viewing audience at home and in the Miami crowd.

A burst of pyrotechnics emit from the truss, each burst hitting a different clan flag, each flag slowly burns away, revealing white banners with a humble bottle of glue upon it. It’s okay, it’s two different shades of white so you can see these things no problem, don’t worry about it.

As if he was a beautiful mermaid, it is at this point that Cecilworth emerges from beneath the bubbling waters of his newly earned thinkin’ cuzzi. He stands upon, wiping down the big wet of his body and poses, hangs on hips, basking in what he assumes to be the adoration of the crowd, which he can’t really hear, on the account of the water in his ears but it’ll get out of his ear soon enough.

Cecilworth Farthington: Now that’s how you start a show! That’s both pomp and also circumstances, at the same time.

Farthington picks up his Universal Championship and places it upon his shoulder, patting it in a happy boy way.

Cecilworth Farthington: At Ascension, I proved that I remain, very much like my mentor Phil Atken, a threat. It does not matter what supplements you take, how big a guy you are, how many allies you have, or what mask you hide behind, there’s always one answer that stares back at you. Tactics, dear boy, tactics. That’s why this remains upon my current moistened body. This is what PRIME in this era is about. Taking on every challenge, taking on every threat and showing wrestling excellence.

There’s still a crackle of fire from the burning flags, and perhaps that beautiful sniff of carbon dioxide is giving the Universal Champion a brain of virtuosity and vigour.

Cecilworth Farthington: Coral Avalon made this the belt in wrestling. The one you could only even begin to dream about touching if you were in the best bloody game of your life and somehow, some way, I’ve reached that peak four times in the last year. Each time claiming a scalp of one of PRIME’s most influential groups. Each fell to Glue. Each was sacrificed at the altar of a better PRIME.

Farthington looks at the Universal Championship in a lusty way, but like not that he’d fuck the belt, just that he’s really happy it’s there. Maybe lusty isn’t the best word but that’s how he is looking at it.

Cecilworth Farthington: Yet, as I was preparing for my match was a man who could have easily squashed me into a basketball form and then dunked me into the mat over and over again like I was horribly miscast in a Space Jam, I heard this voice chirping up. It seemed that the voice didn’t like PRIME with me as champion, declared himself Anti-PRIME, even gave himself a little participation championship. Living in the past, wrapped up in the image of nostalgia, using it as a soothing balm in an age that has passed you by, while you desperately claw to try and make it like it once was. The past is dead, Tchu, and soon you will join it. In the interim though, I think we should test your PRIME hypothesis. I will happily stand here as the representative of the era of Avalon, of Yongblood, of FLAMBERGE, of… of… well, yeah, even Jiles… there I said it. I will happily pop this like a bubble you’ve created for yourself. A bubble not even earned.

The flags are more or less fully burnt down on their first layer. The burbling of the jacuzzi makes for a very therapeutic background sound.

Cecilworth Farthington: But while there’s the people like Tchu, the people who are the very reason Glue exists, there are other members of the old guard who are doing it right. Who are still pushing themselves to their very limits, and as much as I am loath to admit it, particularly after he snatched away the dream of GLUOSSIS… Chandler Tsonda is one of that limited number…

“You goddamn right, I’m rare like a Honus Wagner rookie card, my boy.”

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Speak of the (handsome) devil, and he will appear. At the edge of the pleasant jacuzzi oasis stands Chandler Tsonda, peering around at the Universal Champion’s setup. He has neither a swimsuit nor a towel. Repeat: Chandler Tsonda is NOT jacuzzi ready.

Chandler Tsonda: Nice tub, Ceece. You weren’t half bad in taking it off Bedazzled Hulk in Indy.

In spite of the light compliment paid, The Model Citizen receives a look that says, in so many words, you bloody well know that’s not what it’s called anymore. He doesn’t heed the warning to bite his tongue.

Chandler Tsonda: Really more of a sauna guy, m’self. The Scandinavians were cooking when they came up with that one. Sounded like you were just about to sing my innumerous praises, though. (makes a come hither gesture to Farthington) As you were, I’m just here to make chit chat, and give people a chance to see the hero of Ascension at the top of the hour for Revival 75 LIVE here in MIAMI, FLORIDA.

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The cost of living ain’t cheap, but the pop sure is. And while, sure, the people love the forever-face of PRIME, there’s an extra buzz to seeing the Almasy Invitational winner and the Universal Champion in the same place, and a possible preview of the Colossus main event.

Cecilworth Farthington: I was just hitting my stride in speaking about the irksome Tchu.

Chandler Tsonda: He does irk some, doesn’t he? Don’t let me stop you. Get his ass. Rip him to shreds with that rapier wit.

Cecilworth Farthington: (eyes Tsonda warily) Right. I want it to be crystal clear that dinosaurs like Tchu have no business in The House That Glue Built. And I’m willing to put my, ahem, considerable money where my mouth is.

The Universal Champion flicks an eye towards Tsonda, who’s nodding along. Cecilworth lays a loving caress on the belt that’s strewn across his shoulder.

Cecilworth Farthington: As long as I have this, and as long as I continue to fend off the hordes at my castle walls I am the living embodiment of PRIME. If that leaves you feeling hinky, you’ll just have to do something about it. (taps the title) I warn you, Tchu, mine’s not store-bought. I got it through blood, grit, and glue. What did you do to earn yours? In fa—WHAT IS IT?

The camera hard cuts to Tsonda, who points to himself with feigned confusion.

Chandler Tsonda: (whispers) No, no, you’re doing great. Just one little thought: say something like ‘nice title, I didn’t know Spirit Halloween was already selling costume props.’

Cecilworth Farthington: Why would I—

Chandler Tsonda: Wait, no, maybe it’s like: ‘I think I understand the Anti-PRIME thing. You’re just making it clear that this new version of you is the opposite of when you were in the prime of your career.’

Cecilworth Farthington: Hardly clever enough for something I would say.

Chandler Tsonda: Ok, ok, here it is: ‘Heard this one before, Ward? Old man yells at cloud, except in this case, the cloud makes him tap and then breaks his arm in the ring just for some extra razzle dazzle.”

Cecilworth Farthington: Is this you helping?

Chandler Tsonda: Of course, dude. I’m certainly not here to ever-so-slightly lay my cards on the table about the possibility of you and me tangling for all the marbles and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men at Colossus.

The vibes…have shifted. Both men narrow their eyes at each other. And there’s something new in the air. Not necessarily the implied violence of your average backstage encounter, but an introduced wariness of two predators catching the scent of one another.

Cecilworth Farthington: You’ve got a shot at this title, that’s for certain. To think that I’m going to be the one wearing it by the time Colossus rolls around, you must have a high opinion of me.

Chandler Tsonda: (through a saccharine smile) I’m sure it pales in comparison to your opinion of yourself, sweetie.

Cecilworth Farthington: All it takes to have a high opinion of me is to look at the results. Any other interpretation would be unscientific, and borderline ludicrous.

Chandler Tsonda: How would you interpret a five-match rampage through the Almasy, including the takedown of three consecutive Hall of Famers? Would that be a…what did you call it, a threat?

Cecilworth Farthington: Worthy of a shot at this title that I have elevated to new heights. (smiles) It’s only a shot, of course. Many have taken a shot at me. All were worthy of the shot, none quality enough to make it count.

The Viet Viper makes a grand show of producing from his jacket pocket a flash of gold, and putting a hand to his chest in mock surprise to see the Golden Ticket flutter as he waves it at Farthington.

Chandler Tsonda: Lucky me, then. By my count, I got more guaranteed Uni shots than I know what to do with.

Cecilworth Farthington: Please, Chandler. I don’t want to see you already resorting to the idea that you’ll need a backup plan to take my beloved title away from me. Stiffen up. Confidence now, my man.

Tsonda smiles in return. A true, blue “fuck you very much” smile, that is.

Chandler Tsonda: Confidence. (chuckles) I like that, Ceece. Not too long now.

Cecilworth Farthington: Pardon?

Chandler Tsonda: (points) The tub. You’ll turn into a prune if you stay too long. Hey, maybe there’s something there for your screed against Ward. The Anti-PRUNE? I dunno, I’ll keep workshopping it for our next chat, which I hope is real soon.

The Sultan of Style tips an imaginary cap, and is on his way before he can get corrected that, by GOD, the hydrovessel in front of him is a jacuzzi.

As the water continues to burp and burble, Cecilworth looks at the Universal Championship and then to the departing Tsonda… and then back to the belt, almost as if speaking directly to it.

Cecilworth Farthington: What a curious man.

And now we start the show.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1e5opsg-EF3wdJHG1wvo8TjyRVNqkdnEP/view?usp=sharing

Where are we?

Who are we?

What have we become?

SIGNS~!

HEY CHANDLER, CAN I GET ONE O DEM UNIVERSAL TITLE SHOTS?
CHANDLER TSONDA IN THE COLOSSUS MAIN EVENT? 2008 IS TSO BACK, BABY
JESUS CHRIST, NOT ANOTHER COLTON
FLAMBO GET OUT OF THE CROWD, SERIOUSLY
🦎
THIS IS A LAWNMOWER MAN STAN SIGN
IF THE LAWNMOWER MAN IS AN INSIDE JOKE DESIGNED TO POP MAYBE THREE PEOPLE THEN I SWEAR TO GOD I’LL…POP BECAUSE I’M ONE OF THE THREE PEOPLE
WHY IS HE LAWNMOWER MAN THREE IF HIS DAD ONLY DAD SEX WITH ONE (1) LAWNMOWER?
BRMMMMMMMmmmmmMmmmmMmMMMMMMM
STAKES SUBJECT TO CHANGE
HERE’S WHERE WE SEPARATE THE LASAGNA MEN FROM THE LASAGNA BOYS
PUSH FLEETUS
75 YEARS OF REVIVAL
SEBASTIAN GOLD? MORE LIKE SEBASTIAN BOLD, AM I RIGHT?!
THIS SECTION IS CFCFFfF SEATING
WE MISS BLACK SHEEP BAEZ!
WE DON’T MISS CANCER JILES
I’D RATHER HAVE CANCER THAN CANCER
THE CHANDLER TSONE
I WAS ON THE NEWS AND ALL I GOT WAS PTSD
WE HAVE NO STRONG FEELINGS ON THE ABSENCE OF GREGOR SUNDELL
WHERE’S THE MONEY LEBOWSKI ALEXEI??!!!
I DONT LIKE YOU SUCKING AROUND, BOTHERING OUR CITIZENS, ALEXEI. I DONT LIKE YOUR JERKOFF NAME. I DONT LIKE YOUR JERKOFF FACE. I DONT LIKE YOUR JERKOFF BEHAVIOR. I DONT LIKE YOU, JERKOFF. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?
… I’M SORRY I WASN’T READING
I AM SORRY BUT COMRADE ALEXEI IS BUSY AT SHOW AND IS PROBABLY NOT LISTENING.
YEAH WELL YOU KNOW THAT’S JUST LIKE UH YOUR OPINION COMRADE
DOES THE FREE MARKET FORM MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE, MR. RUSLAN?
THE WORD ITSELF MAKES SOME MEN UNCOMFORTABLE. CAPITALISM.
HURR HURR THE PERSON BEHIND ME CAN’T SEE
I AM PLOTTING REVENGE AGAINST THE PERSON IN FRONT OF ME AND THE FOOL HAS NO IDEA
SO, LIKE, DID RICHARD PARKER GET THAT PEN BACK OR WHAT
REVIVAL 75, BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE NUMBER 3
HELEN DOESN’T WANT TO BE FED, SHE WANTS TO HUNT
TIGER? I BARELY KNOW HER!
WE LOVE SCOTT HUNTER
WE HUNT SCOTT LOVER
WE SCOTT HUNTER LOVE
SHOTT CUNTER
LIVE, LOVE, SCOTTHUNT
I SIGNED UP FOR CHANDLER’S ONLYFANS WHEN WILL HE POST THEM FEET PICS?

Welcome to the Kaseya Center, or what most would recognize it as, the American Airlines Arena in wonderful (Florida is not wonderful, Florida is a hell hole, Florida should be sent to the Bermuda Triangle or the Hell Void where Hell things such as it belong) Miami Florida! We do not reference the short period where it was known as FTX. That company is dead.

CRYPTO BABY!

There’s pyro, and ballyhoo and all that stuff. And a thick haze of smoke. And state of the art screens and a stage setup that is the envy of all in combat sports.

Nick Stuart: Hello everyone…and welcome to ReVival 75! We are officially on the road to Colossus 2025, and our first stop comes to you…LIVE…from the Kaseya Center here in Miami Florida!

Richard Parker: Not one. Not two. Not three. Not four. Not five. Not six–

Nick Stuart: On one this first stop after Ascension, we will see the fallout in full.

Richard Parker: –seventy-five ReVivals. Hoytdamn, what a number!

Nick Stuart: Cecilworth Farthington turned back the challenge of Daytona Diamonds, remaining at the pinnacle of the sport as Universal Champion. But more than that…The Finish Line of Professional Wrestling waits for one man in the wings…2025 Almasy Invitational Winner Chandler Tsonda punched his ticket and is guaranteed the main event of the biggest show of the year. But will that be the first time The Model Citizen and The Financier square off…what with Tsonda holding The Golden Ticket?

Richard Parker: Only the Alias Championship changed hands…to a new holder. Anna Daniels. And as she christens her reign, the last holder of that title, Sebastian Gold…now seemingly filled with ACTUAL brains, will cash in his opportunity in a showdown with Intense Champion, Fred Dick. And Fred Dick…is coming off a massive victory over Ivan Stanislav–

ENOUGH CHITTER CHATTER!

The high-energy chords to “I Wanna Get Better” by Bleachers plays as Quinn Fleetwood emerges from the back, wearing his high school wrestling letterman’s jacket. It looks a little tight on him, but if it’s uncomfortable, he isn’t letting it show.

As he walks to the ring, he pretends to throw punches at the audience members, laughing at the ones who actually react to him. Finally he reaches the ring and begins to bounce on his feet, completely unaware of how murked he’s about to get.

Richard Parker: Oh…so it’s like that?

Nick Stuart: An interesting–

Richard Parker: Don’t. Don’t even go there. Don’t try and build this up as anything more than an absolute freakshow fight. This opening contest isn’t for those that are in love with the science of the greatest sport there is; it’s about two men who probably have five synapses firing between them locking metaphorical horns and slapping meat and bringing us to the good old days of carnival barkers and lead paint.

Nick Stuart: Quinn Fleetwood at least has made showings in the past. We know what we are getting with him. It’s his opponent that is the mystery, though from what we are to understand, this…this…Lawnmower Man…Three? He has made a bit of a scene with some adult beverage company that we are not sponsored by.

Richard Parker: Lawnmower Man III. So what is this? Is he going to come out on the screen? Bad CGI? Is he going to hack the planet? Because the moment I saw the announcement made, the moment I heard this guy’s name as Ascension, all I could think about is THAT WEIRD MOVIE with the WEIRD cyber man who talks about being God and–

“St. Anger,” the title track from Metallica’s best album begins to pump over the loudspeaker. As soon as that piccolo snare drum pierces the ears of the PRIME fanz, from behind a shit ton of fuel exhaust steps Lawnmower Man III! His trademark gas can in tow, he headbangs off-tune, but is so charged up it doesn’t really matter because he thinks he looks cool.

Furiously tugging at the pull start on his mask in an attempt to “rev up” the crowd, he finally rips the zipper open and proceeds to reach into his grass-stained dungarees and pull out a large clump of Bermuda, munching on it and swallowing it down. Like Popeye eating a can of spinach, he fucking CHARGES UP and feels the grassy nutrition flow through his forearm veins to provide significant testosterone boostage and optimum blade rotation.

Marching to the ring with a purpose, the Chlorophyll Cannibal stops short at the ring steps and begins to unscrew the cap of the gas can. Taking a huge swig of 87 Octane (that’s right, none of that pussy shit ethanol, he only consumes the real deal) to wash down the grass, he climbs up the steps. However, he is a good boy and makes sure to do that dumb ass wrestler tradition of wiping his feet on the apron before going under the top rope.

What the fuck are we even doing here? Vince Howard just looks at what is in the ring. A LITERAL man who thinks he’s a lawnmower. A Fleetwood. It could be worse. It could be The Pit.

Rest in Piss.

Vince Howard: This opening contest is set for one fall and has a ten minute time limit–

DING DING

The moment the bell rings, cutting off Vince Howard, Lawnmower Man III begins to circle Quinn Fleetwood, probing him in an amateur stance, looking for an opening to attempt a drive and take down. Perhaps space to engage. However, his attempt to do so is thwarted by the seasoned Grey’s Academy student, who denies such attempts, maintaining a safe distance. Realizing the sheer folly of this endeavor, the pair instead decide to engage in one of the oldest tests of grit and guile in the sport of professional wrestling; the greco roman knuckle lock. Lawnmower Man III and Quinn Fleetwood lock hands, and despite the vast size differential between the once Fleetus and The Man With Fucking Slingblades Attached To His Head, the pair find themselves hopelessly in a stalemate.

What follows is a side headlock takeover, which Lawnmower Man III, who is the one who is taken over, don’t mind the LITERALLY SLING BLADES THAT SHOULD CUT BIG GASHES INTO THE FLESH OF QUINN FLEETWOOD, quickly tries to scurry away from, but is unable. The definitely not as important to his father Quinn Fleetwood is doing his papa proud, but in so doing, Lawnmower Man III manages to wrench himself free, spladling–

Yeah.

None of that shit happened.

Fleetwood tried to hit Lawnmower Man III with a punch.

The Chlorophyll Cannibal from Turf Michigan (definitely a real place) chops him in the neck. With both hands. This is The Pruning. Quinn Fleetwood might as well have had his head lopped off. He falls to the canvas, grabbing his neck, and as he does, LMM3 definitely begins to circle him, his mouth audibly making revving noises, because this engine is totally fueled up and ready to go.

The Original Fleetus begins to rise, groggy, and as he does, he gets split in half by a devastating spear.

We have to indicate that is a figure of speech, not to be taken literally. This is important because Lawnmower Man III has literal sharp blades on his head that could probably do serious bodily harm if he was cognizant of this fact. The fact that he reaches his hand into the pocket of his dungarees and pulls out a wad of grass, only to begin devouring it like a starving cow, should give an indication of just how much of a deck he’s playing with.

Like, two cards in the deck.

I don’t know how many cards are in a deck of playing cards, but two is definitely not the total amount.

Richard Parker: …what the hell are we watching?

Nick Stuart: Well…this…Lawnmower Man The Third is running wild all over Quinn Fleetwood, making short work of him. I don’t know if this is really expected–

Richard Parker: Huh?

Nick Stuart: Well, Lawnmowers and branches, or wood, don’t necessarily go together–

Richard Parker: …you need to stop this…right now…

Nick Stuart: And the fans are having a good time with this, at the very least. This spectacle. Lawnmower Man III is running around the ring, and eating grass, and he’s…throwing grass? At the children?

Richard Parker: That’s probably a gateway drug of some kind.

Nick Stuart: And Lawnmower Man–OH! DROPKICK from Quinn Fleetwood!

Richard Parker: That stopped the lawn man in his tracks. Or on his tires? What did I just say?

Nick Stuart: And that grass is falling from the masked maw of the Chlorophyll Cannibal…

Quinn Fleetwood did hit Lawnmower Man III with the dropkick, and he is very proud of this. Look, dad, did you see that? Are you proud? I did that just for you!

Yard.

Cutter.

It…

Is…

Time.

A stabbing finger. The Sword of Damocles. Or Cub Cadet? Quinn Fleetwood lays prone on the canvas, utterly devastated by the hallmark snapmare of Lawnmower Man III. And then…as the final punctuation…

Lawnmower Man III: YOUR ASS IS GRASS!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Lawnmower Man III: AND I’M THE LAWNMOWER!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

A very long time passes.

Lawnmower Man III: man three.

It is at this moment that Lawnmower Man III starts running back and forth. One may think it is a wild strut. Or some haphazard trajectory? No. There is order in the chaos. Lawnmower Man III begins running in a practiced path, rope to rope, in neat sweeps. The canvas is being tended to, and its sanctity will be maintained. Each charge is followed by another in the opposite direction, mere inches apart from the last. Quinn Fleetwood tries to pull himself up, but continues to struggle in the center of the ring.

That is…

Until Lawnmower Man III steps on his face.

Hahahahahhahahahaha

And then…

His nards.

HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Jimmy Turnbull attempts to admonish Lawnmower Man III for clearly stepping on his opponent’s genitals, but the Chlorophyll Cannibal pays no heed. He merely continues on his path, cutting the pinnacle of all lawns.

As he continues his romp, Fleetwood, grabbing his privates, drool and tears flowing from him, looks to the Miami faithful, in utter agony. He is crushed. He told his wonderful father that he would never lose again. That he would add Lawnmower Man III’s name to the new book that he had gifted his totally wonderful father on the road to winning The Championship. He cried real tears and believed it with all his heart.

Wait…what is that he sees?

In the crowd?

Is it dad?

No.

Dad isn’t here.

A book. It…reminds him of that gift.

Of the promise he made.

Lawnmower Man III is nearly done with his running. This job is almost completed.

But…when you have the heart of a lion, when you have fought in the rigorous grounds of Grey’s…

It isn’t a book.

It’s himself. But not. As a glowing baby.

Fleetus.

He…is the Fleetus that was promised.

Quinn Fleetwood, with all his strength, guts, guile, heart, and determination, rises up.

Lawnmower Man III is so close to completing his jaunt. But…he needs…grass. Oh shit. OH SHIT. He has no more! Oh no, maybe he can get some of that gasoline.

That sweet…sweet gasoline.

Heavy, heaving sweats and drug addict heart palpitations. The ring sure as hell is a lot of running.

Quinn Fleetwood grabs hold of Lawnmower Man III.

Pumphandle.

To.

Michinoku Driver.

DOWN QUINN FLAMES.

The fans in Miami…are shocked.

COVER!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: YOUR WINNER…QUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUINN! FLEETWOOD!

Do you believe in miracles? Quinn Fleetwood throws his arms in the air in celebration, tumbling about the ring in utter jubilation. His hands reach to the heavens. His calls out, weeping openly, for his father. His father who is not there.

Quinn Fleetwood DID IT!

QUINN FLEETWOOD WON!

HE IS ON THE PATH TO LEGENDARY STATUS!

ruuuuurgh.

Ruuuuurgh.

RRRRRRRRRuuuuurgh!

Oh shit, Quinn, you better run.

Because Lawnmower Man III just got some of that sweet tasting gasoline.

And he is about to destroy you.

Richard Parker: I…don’t know what to say. I don’t know what I expected.

Nick Stuart: A BIG win from Quinn Fleetwood here, and he is running as Lawnmower Man III is chasing him down the ramp!

The victorious Fleetwood dives to the back, all while Lawnmower Man III stands tall on the top of the ramp, pouring literal gasoline over top of his masked head.

ReVival moves on.

☠️☠️☠️☠️

…Snark Darkly Presents…

… THE WON ACTION NEWS TEAM…

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

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

Kai, the lovely baby-momma of Bryan Dawkins.

Kirk the Sportshead, reanimated head of Lowell Dot Com.

And of course Mayor-Elect and Lead News Anchor…

Maximillian Wilhelm Kael!

We center in on the NEWS DESK behind which Max Kael is seated with a broad smile on his face. He has a MAYOR ribbon pinned to his lapel which seems much larger than necessary.

Max Kael: WORMS of PRIME! We’ve got a loaded show coming off the heels of Ascension so let’s get this party started!

Turning to Camera 2, Max flashes that brilliant, practiced, fake smile.

Max Kael: As you are all no doubts aware… I WON THE MAYORSHIP OF ARKHAM! WOOO!

Lights flash, disco music plays and confetti falls from the ceiling. Max raises the roof from his chair as the camera zoom smashes in and out. It all abruptly stops as Max falls back into that unauthentic smile

Max Kael: The celebration is gonna be going on and on for awhile I suspect. Moving on!

We cut back to Camera 1.

Max Kael: Tonight’s very special guest is a lackey of one of the worst, miserable, poorly shaped sacks of sad skin of skin I’ve ever locked up with, Fredwurst Dick-Head, shortened to Fred Dick for the ease of commentary. Who is this lackey you ask? Why it’s Dick’s very own Lasagna Boys… Uh… It’s uh…

Max steals a glance at his notes, unsure of the name of his guest.

Max Kael:  Mig-Gale?

The Sketti Bucket jingle begins to play as the left stage door opens to reveal Miguel, the smarter but unsneakiest of the Lasagna Boys, standing with his hands on his hips. He looks confident. He looks strong. He salutes Max before stepping through the doorway.

CRACK!

Poor Miguel is immediately brained with a steel chair, his lifeless body collapsing through the doorway.

The shadow of THE Bryan Dawkins drowns the Lasagna Boy in darkness as the Red Army member steps through, hate filled eyes locking on the Mayor-Elect.

Max Kael: NOT MIGUEL! You fucking monster!

The hosts reaction drips of sarcasm, that practiced smile twisting into a true, wicked smirk. Dawkins doesn’t wait on ceremony, roaring as he charges forward, chair lifted above his head. He rapidly closes distance but before he can swing down on Max’s head, the Mayor-Elect pulls a small detonator from his coat pocket, holding it out threateningly.

Max Kael: Careful! I don’t know if this is linked to the house where I have Kair stashed or to this stage…

His finger slides around the rim of the button as Darkwins eyes it suspiciously.

Max Kael: But either way, you’ll never see Kai again if you try to brain me with that… heh-heh.

Dawkins eyes the detonator, then Max, the detonator and then Max one last time trying to figure out if he’s lying or legit. Unfortunately the manic nature of Max’s planning, anything is possible, including the options he’s listed. Bryan tosses the chair away as it clatters across the stage.

Max Kael: Good boy! You try and physically fuck with me, Bryan, and I swear to the Gods, the next time you see Kai, you’re gonna need a dust pan. So be smart… and back the fuck off.

Snarling the last words, Max’s thumb settles on the button, pressing it just slightly. Dawkins stares daggers into his tormentor before something dawns on him. His eyes narrow while he gives Kael a smug smile, backing away.

Bryan Dawkins: … this isn’t over.

Max Kael: Oh but I beg to differ! Now fuck off!

The two share an intense glare before Dawkins reluctantly slips away, back through the door, slamming it shut. Kael turns back to Camera 1.

Max Kael:  And now SPORTS!

☠️☠️☠️☠️

Kirk the Sports Head, tucked into his little SPORTS NOOK, wobbles from side to side excitedly, his white, dead eyes staring into the camera as the metal spike in his head crackles with electrical energy.

KtSH: Wow it’s great to be back on TV! Are you ready for some SPORTS updates?! Let’s get star-

The feed cuts off suddenly, static eating the airwaves for a few seconds before it waffles back.

KtSH: AND THAT’S SPORTS! Back to you Max!

☠️☠️☠️☠️

Max stares at the camera, his eyes shifting from side to side, confusion easily written on his face.

Max Kael: Did… did we just skip the entire sports section?

A few mumbled voices are heard behind the camera. Shaking his head, Max makes a dismissive gesture with his hand.

Max Kael: You know, I probably just had a mild stroke there, nothing to be worried about… probably. Let’s kick this pig then.

Turning to Camera 2, Max pulls a piece of paper out of his coat pocket, his expression becoming serious. Or as serious as Max Kael’s face can twist itself into.

Max Kael: Roberto Williams, the so-called Legend. What exactly is he a legend of? I’ll tell you what, WORMS of PRIMe, he’s the god damn legend of being a useless fuckin’ cunt, that’s what he is. He’s a legend of being the least impactful member of the Poor Whorsemen, and that’s saying something because Anna Daniels is a member. Oh damn, snap, Max!

The Mayor-Elect snaps his fingers, sweeping the gesture from right to left.

Max Kael: And tonight you make your big return to the ring after vanishing for a few months or whatever. Good for you, sadly it’s against me, the Mayor-Elect of Arkham and LEGEND of Segment One, the NEWS. And I’m going to have to beat the fuck out of you and leave you a wreck in the ring.

Shrugging, Max continues.

Max Kael: It’s not personal! See it’s been far, far too long since I’ve had a championship belt around my waist. Unfortunately to snag one of those pretty, shiny metal belts I need to procure enough victories over reasonable opponents before they’ll offer one, ignoring the fact that I defeated the previous Almasy winner and former Universal Champion, that’s-his-face… the guy who cucks for Vickie Hall…. Hall… Jacob? Jeffery? Jonus? Something like that. I beat him! And what did I get?

Shaking his head, Max frowns.

Max Kael: NOTHING!

He smashes his hands down on his desk with a loud bang.

Max Kael: Well that ends tonight. When I send you back to your empty house packaged in a tight, pine box, don’t blame me! I’m guiltless! Blame the staff of PRIME, who denied me and forced me to inflict this cruelty on innocent professional wrestlers.

Letting out a deep sigh, Max winks.

Max Kael: AND THAT’S THE NEWS! Ciao, bella ciao!

The scene hangs on Max’s grinning face for a few silent moments before we cut away.

It’s Angelica Brooks. She’s backstage. She’s professional as shit, but you can sense a bit of irritation lurking just below that veneer. As she begins her introduction, you’ll see why.

Angelica Brooks: Ladies and gentlemen, Anna Daniels.

The crowd in the arena boos and boos hard. The Muse…doesn’t seem to mind that. Instead, she smiles and waves like a pageant queen while adjusting the Alias title. Fittingly, she wears it like a pageant sash.

Angelica Brooks: On night one of Ascension, you defeated Charles de Lacey for the Alias championship. But you also did something more heinous in attacking a woman you have called your sister in RIA Lockhart. The question on everybody’s mind is why?

As the microphone inches towards the Multitudes’ face, the vessel’s face contorted as if thinking deeply about the question. There is a pensive pause before she opens her mouth.

Anna Daniels: No comment.

Wait…that’s it?! The red head’s eyes narrow slightly.

Angelica Brooks: Excuse me? I didn’t quite get that.

Anna Daniels: No. Comment. That’s a whole sentence, Angelina.

Angelica Brooks: Angelica.

Anna Daniels: And if we must be honest, you really don’t deserve an answer to that question. Now! If you want an explanation as to why you don’t deserve an answer to said question, that is something we can provide you. You said everybody wants to know why, but we can see the statement is not true.

Normally, you would have a 50/50 chance of getting an answer. But we are a lunatic and thus not normal. So you get a 25% chance at best at getting an answer from me. Then you add the presumptions of PRIME as a whole? Your chances drastically go down. In this case, you have a 33 ⅓ chance of getting an answer. But we have 66 ⅔ chance of not commenting because PRIME knows they’re not going to listen and they won’t even pretend to try. So Cynthia–

Angelica Brooks: Angelica.

Anna Daniels: –you take your 33 ⅓ chance,  minus our 25% chance, and you have an 8 ⅓ chance of us answering the question. But then you take our 75% chance of not answering if this was a legitimate question–

Angelica Brooks: This is a legitimate ques–

Anna Daniels: –then add 66 ⅔ percent, we have 141 ⅔ chance of not bothering to answer. See, Monica…

Angelica Brooks: My name is–

Anna Daniels: The numbers don’t lie and they spell wasted air time for you tonight.

As the end of the sentence flows from Anna’s mouth, their eyes shift to the left. The joyful grin that covered their face grows wider, if such a thing were possible. A figure slides into frame, leading to a loud ovation from the crowd; Kohime Mori stands across from The Muse, brow furrowed, arms crossed on her chest and an uncharacteristic grimace on her mug.

Anna Daniels: Hiiiiii, Hime~

Mori’s posture remains unchanged. She stares the Time Lord down for a beat before finally speaking up.

Kohime Mori: How could you?… After everything you and Miss Ria have been through… How could you?!

The volume of Kohime’s voice rises with the last statement, a layer of frustration seeping into the words. Anna looks at her with what can only be described as confusion.

Anna Daniels: How could we not?

The Moé Monster’s breathing hastens. She can feel her pulse rising. Why was she being like this? How had things shifted so drastically in such a short amount of time? She stepped closer to Daniels, feeling the heat radiating off her own shoulders.

Kohime Mori: I respected you, Miss Anna. When Morty did what he did, you were one of the people who showed support. And do not give me the excuse of making money; you know you came up with the rock idea because it bothered you. And Miss Ria? She is your sister!

Anna Daniels: What does that have to do with the other thing?

No, seriously. Anna’s legitimately confused by this sudden jump of unconnected tissue. What’s wrong with the little girl? Did Nate give her a concussion during what was certainly passionate lovemaking? But after a few moments, an idea suddenly forms and much to Mori’s dismay, the smile slinks back.

Anna Daniels: Ah, shit. Of course! You think Lockhart’s innocent!

And with this comes laughter. Loud and hard laughter.

Anna Daniels: Damn, girl. Now that we think of it, this is the first time we’ve actually had a conversation since the Eddie Cross situation. You do remember Eddie, don’t you? Too young, still finding his way, forever burdened by his idiot father?

Kohime Mori: I remember him… Why are you asking?

Anna shakes her head.

Anna Daniels: It was a damned shame. He deserved better. You deserved better when you were with that dickwad. Ria even deserves better. And so do we.

She should elaborate on that thread. She very well could. Instead, Anna chooses to come closer.

Anna Daniels: We’re okay with losing your respect, dear. We’ve accepted the repercussions of our choice the moment we put the boots to her. So are you here to attack, to distract, or to tease?

A fingertip gently traces Kohime’s jawline. A bead of sweat trickles down the Japanese woman’s cheek. Every instinct inside of her tells her to pull away, do anything she can to put distance between the two. But she persists, ignoring the common sense instincts from her brain. Instead, she locks eyes directly with Daniels.

Kohime Mori: She will be back, you know.

Even with this, nothing changes. The grin doesn’t falter. The eyes never break. She is now holding the younger woman’s chin. Alas poor Yorick.

Anna Daniels: We know. That’s what we’re counting on. Anything else, ladies?

Angelica Brooks shakes her head.

Angelica Brooks: No, Anna. I think we’re done here.

The interviewer may be more furniture than fabby, but at least her disembodied voice can reach crazy. Anna lets go of her potential prey as the grin softens to a simple smile.

Anna Daniels: Until next time, America.

Angelica Brooks: Damnit, my name is–

It doesn’t matter what her name is. What does matter is that the Alias champion is moonwalking with enough ease that her name should’ve been Jackson.

As she slides through the hall, Anna never breaks eye contact. ReVival moves on.

A trap remix of the Soviet Union national anthem plays over throughout the arena as Kenny Freeman steps out onto the stage. He’s as confident as he usually is when walking down to the ring, and maybe that has something to do with Ivan Stanislav standing beside him. You know, something the crowd is definitely fully on board with. It sounds like “BOOURNS!” We’re… not sure what that has to do with supporting Ivan and his comrade. Anyway, Kenny walks down to the ring, and Vince Howard is on it with the announcements.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, from Moscow by way of Los Angeles, California! Weighing in at one hundred and sixty pounds! Representing the Red Army! KENNNNNNYYYYY FREEEEEMAAAAANNNNN!!!

So many boos.

Arriving at the ring, Kenny steps through the ropes, while Ivan stays at ringside to cheer the his comrade on. Menacingly.

Richard Parker: Don’t say anything he can hear, Nick.

Nick Stuart: It’s my job to say things, though.

Richard Parker: Well, slack off a bit. I’m tired of guys being used as projectiles in my general direction, and that includes you.

The banter between Nick and Richard goes quiet as a piercing siren hits the PA system, and a blue Fleur de Lis fades into existence on the big screen. Émeute Dans La Prison blares as Montrealer images hit to the beat. Beautiful landscape pictures of the skyline gradually get smashed into the underbelly of the city, then those become low-income neighborhoods with graffiti.

The chorus hits and Luc Labelle marches out with a mean mug and a chip on his shoulder. He’s already talking Quebecois shit at the fans at ringside, without any regard to the notion that anyone can understand him.

Vince Howard: His opponent! Fighting out of Montreal, Quebec, Canada! He weighs in tonight at 91 kilograms! THE MONTREAL MAIN EVENT! L’ASSASSIN ROUGE! LUC! LABELLLLLEEEEEE!!!!

Labelle rolls into the ring with the intensity of a log being thrown by a hateful gorilla, and pops up to talk mad trash into the face of Kenny Freeman. Ivan threateningly puts one hand on the top rope as though he’s going to get in the ring to teach this kid manners, but relents when Labelle goes to a corner and starts yelling at more fans in French.

Nick Stuart: Luc Labelle’s in a fine mood as usual.

Richard Parker: Yeah, well, last time we saw him, he got covered in maple syrup, and I’d be pissed off too if that happened to me. God knows how many ants he attracted after he won at Ascension.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: And here we go.

Labelle comes sprinting across the ring looking to square up with Freeman. He takes a MMA style stance as he approaches Freeman and starts looking to throw a left jab while loading up a right hand. Freeman gets caught by the left jab and staggers, Labelle unloads the right hand but Freeman ducks under and heads to the ropes.

Nick Stuart: Fast start for Labelle, but Freeman is out of there in a hurry.

Labelle turns around and charges towards the center of the ring as Kenny comes off the far rope, Kenny elevates and cracks Labelle with a drop kick. Labelle staggers, his two hundred pound frame finding its way to leaning against the ropes. Kenny jumps up and grabs Labelle’s wrist, he whips him back across the ring, Kenny takes a chance looking for a hip toss but Labelle manages to reverse, he flips Kenny over his body and down to the mat with an arm drag.

Nick Stuart: These two are setting a blistering pace.

Richard Parker: Ivan would be telling Kenny to slow down.

Labelle keeps a hold of Freeman’s wrist and looks to transition it into an arm bar, but Kenny swings his legs up over his head and contorts his shoulder and elbow out of danger, he manges to hook Labelle’s knee and roll him over onto his back. Barlow is quick to dive in for a count on Labelle.

ONE!

There’s no kickout, Labelle just keeps transitioning, continuing the momentum and flipping over his shoulders and onto his own stomach. The ensuing scramble is chaotic. Freeman tries to rotate clockwise, Labelle matches him at first before rotating back and catching Kenny with a stiff short arm lariat across the neck. Kenny hits the mat and Labelle hops on for a quick cover.

ONE!

Nick Stuart: These two are really getting after it.

Richard Parker: I blinked and two pinfalls happened.

Kenny is right back up and the two men stand across from each other as the crowd begins to clap their hands giving both men a small cheer for the work they’ve put in. They ignore the accolades and collide this time with a collar and elbow. Freeman works an arm wrench, but Labelle makes his way to Freeman’s back. He goes for a snap german suplex but Freeman manages to tangle his legs into Labelle’s, Luc sets Kenny back down and looks again but Freeman goes low and somersaults his way between Luc’s legs, flipping Labelle over in his own somersault for a pin, Barlow dives back to the ground.

ONE!

Labelle furiously kicks out, but the high stack means Freeman is up to his feet first and into the ropes, Labelle turns around and catches Labelle with two feet square in the chest. Kenny’s second dropkick of the evening plants Labelle on the canvas and Kenny jumps to his feet with a head full of steam. He heads to the ropes and comes back, he does a griddy like he’s celebrating a touchdown in the NFL before attempting a leg drop. Labelle rolls out of the way, and seems almost enraged and Freeman’s attempt.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think Labelle took kindly to Kenny’s little dance there.

Richard Parker: That’s a dance?

Labelle wraps the seated Freeman around the waist from behind and deadlifts Freeman up into the air from the seated position. Kenny frantically tries to kick his legs, but there’s no ground under him and Labelle resets his grip before driving Kenny into the canvas head and neck first.

Nick Stuart: Deadlift German from Labelle!

Labelle doesn’t stop there though and brings Freeman to his feet, he sends Freeman flying into the corner, and follows him in with a two footed leap into a corner splash that rocks Freeman. Labelle has Kenny in the corner and begins unloading with mma style right and left hands. A left hook to the liver crumples Freeman, but before Freeman’s body can turn off he eats a wild right hand to the mouth that adds to the leg wobble and sends him sitting on the middle turnbuckle and staring off blankly into space.

Richard Parker: Kenny must think he’s back in Moscow out there…

Nick Stuart: He’s not even from Moscow…

Richard Parker: Home is where your commie heart is Nick, you know that.

Labelle grabs Freeman and sends him careening into the far ropes, he comes in with a clothes line attempt that Freeman ducks under on autopilot. Labelle takes his own momentum into the opposite ropes and the two meet in the center of the ring, there’s no dropkick from Freeman, but Labelle becomes airborne, spinning through the air and connecting with his shin across Freeman’s jawline.

Nick Stuart: Coup De Coeur!

Richard Parker: Hot Coconut Soup?

Nick Stuart: What the hell are you talking about?

Richard Parker: What are you talking about?

Nick Stuart: Where did you even get the word coconut out of that?

Labelle makes a quick cover.

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Nick Stuart: Freeman has always had a lot of fight in him.

Richard Parker: At least you aren’t speaking in tongues anymore.

Labelle isn’t furious, he’s just determined and brings Kenny up to his feet. He manages to spin Freeman around and into the vertebreaker position. He rotates with the move and spikes Kenny off the canvas headfirst.

Nick Stuart: LA FIN!

Richard Parker: Who’s a fish?

Nick Stuart: God damn you…

ONE!

TWO!

….

……..

………….

………………..

THREE!

DING DING DING! 

Nick Stuart: What a match, these two were all over each other.

Richard Parker: But apparently the fish man won?

Nick Stuart: There isn’t a fish man in this match, that’s an entirely different multiverse.

Richard Parker: A what?

Freeman gets to his feet, yelling at himself for the dance move while “Emeute Dans La Prison” begins blaring across the PA system as Labelle is already out of the ring and heading back up the ramp with his hands in the air.

Vince Howard: And your winner… LUC LABEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLEEEEE!!!!!!

LIVE ON THE ACE NETWORK

The lights in the Kaseva Center turn to crimson, and that can mean only one thing. As the Soviet National Anthem thunders throughout the arena, rattling the rafters, the crowd’s reaction turns negative.

Nick Stuart: Well folks, it does have here on the run-sheet that…

Richard Parker: It’s a typo!

Nick Stuart: Ughvan…

Richard Parker: That’s enough!!

Nick Stuart: Well, I guess we’ll just see what’s in store for us then…

The boos are a roar of rejection from the PRIME faithful as the curtain parts and out emerges Ivan Stanislav, towering and immovable in his ring attire, despite not being slated to wrestle this evening.

His face is quite Russian, and by that we mean it’s unreadable. His moves are slow, deliberate, as he walks down the ramp. There’s no posturing this time. No shouting. He simply… walks, with each footfall booming like the march of history itself.

The jeers wash over him, and a chant begins to rise.

“SLA-VA U-KRAI-NA!! SLA-VA U-KRA-NA!!”

Nick Stuart: Listen to this reaction folks. I doubt it sounds anything like what it is in person, but this is thunderous. This Miami crowd is soundly rejecting The Russian Bear!

Richard Parker: It’s…n–….at…oud… in…. -ere!

Behind Ivan, one by one, the Red Army emerges. First, Speedy Riggs in his gaudy soviet tropical shirt, grinning despite the reception. Arina Timofeyevna emerges with him, shyly keeping her eyes downcast as she walks. Behind them, Kenny Freeman and Randall Schwartz stand shoulder to shoulder and Bryan Dawkins, with red and yellow sunglasses over his eyes, walks out after a grueling match with Sage Pontiff. Finally, Alexei Ruslan, with mustache bristling, is already shouting curses at the fans.

The camera zooms in and shows spittle flying from his lips. But all of them climb into the ring and take their places, forming a half circle behind Ivan. Alexei and Arina/Speedy flank him on either side. Ivan remains still. He endures the anger, hatred, and rage from the entire arena that is arrayed against him.

Nick Stuart: Notable by her absence is Rose. After all, she didn’t exactly “join” The Red Army as much as she was forced into it.

Richard Parker: Stop trying to make a mountain out of a molehill, Nick. She bleeds red just like… er… everyone.

Minutes pass in cacophony. The crowd chants, boos, some pound the barricades. Ivan waits, without a word, impassively looking around at the crowd until the noise dips just enough to breathe. In his hand, he raises a comically small microphone up to his lips and his voice cuts through the arena like rolling thunder. But he doesn’t address those in front of him.

He addresses those behind him.

Ivan Stanislav: I stand before you, comrades of The Red Army, with no excuses.

The crowd boos again, trying valiantly to drown him out. He waits, breathing, and patient. When they relent, he continues, slowly.

Ivan Stanislav: For too long, I have been distracted. Distracted by Universal Title, by Chandler Tsonda, by tournaments, by alliances, by my own obsessions. And in that selfishness, I neglected my Red Army.

He turns, his huge arm gesturing as he addresses the membership.

Ivan Stanislav: We stand as bulwark against the wickedness and depravity of PRIME. Each of us have not only a role to play, but we have also suffered the injustice of the regime itself.

Ivan stares at Bryan Dawkins.

Ivan Stanislav: For what sort of organization has a Universal Champion who makes jokes at the expense of a mother who is missing? Your heart, comrade Dawkins, breaks because your family has been broken, and yet even Lindsay Troy finds such things… comical.

Ivan then turns to Kenny and Randall.

Ivan Stanislav: Comrades Freeman and Schwartz, you were always denied tag team title opportunities, and you were belittled by your peers… and for what?

Ivan looks down at Speedy.

Ivan Stanislav: Comrade Riggs, despite the officiating staff being thin, and officials having to work twice as hard, you are denied opportunity to serve your natural calling because of unfounded fear!

Ivan looks at the hard cam.

Ivan Stanislav: And Rose, I know you are out there, somewhere. Your father, a legend and Hall of Famer, was not even given the dignity of a ten-bell salute. Instead, they, all of them, laugh at his passing and mock you.

Ivan snarls.

Ivan Stanislav: You may hate me. You may loathe all of us. But we are a family. We have a family. And I, and everyone else here, respect that. It is not a punchline. It is not a joke. Some of you are comrades, brothers, even daughters to me.

Alexei lifts his eyebrows and watches Ivan without turning his head. Arina stares down at the mat. Ivan motions slightly towards her.

Ivan Stanislav: And of course, Fred Dick laid his dirty hands on Arina Timofeyevna. Yes, a noncombatant comrade at ringside, who thus put herself in harm’s way. Of course, he and his lot got a bloody nose and broken testicles for their trouble. But still, there is no penalty, is there? There is no reprimand. The double-standards that are couched purely on nationalistic and ideological hate is everywhere!

Nick Stuart: I mean, Ivan might have a slight point here, but he also gives as much as he gets!

Richard Parker: Quiet Nick, Ivan’s talking!

Ivan is still boo’d and heckled mercilessly. His voice is softer, but still cutting.

Ivan Stanislav: I should have been there for all of you. Too distracted, I was, to realize you needed my help, and for that I am sorry. Comrades of The Red Army.

Ivan points at the crowd.

Ivan Stanislav: And you fans, you will never like me. I accept this. I cannot change it. I make no attempt to change it. But you will weather me. Because I endure. I have been your Universal Champion. Twice. I have stood atop the rankings. I have won your tournaments. I have a lifetime contract. I have done nearly everything I have ever sought to do.

The crowd’s reaction mixes, slightly. There’s still jeers, but also a slight silence in certain pockets.

Nick Stuart: Ivan has been nothing but a menace. There’s been cruelty and propaganda since he returned in 2022! Still… I don’t often hear him be so… candid.

Ivan ponders something as he stares at the crowd and, perhaps more importantly, at the camera, which transmits his message around the globe. He speaks flatly.

Ivan Stanislav: Russia would prefer I stand here and tell you I won the Almasy Tournament.

A pause.

Ivan Stanislav: I did not.

There’s a slight gasp that ripples through the arena. The crowd, half-bewildered and half-emboldened, boos louder. Not because this is a surprise to them, but to hear it from the mouth of The Bear is a surprise.

Alexei stiffens, his head snapping toward Ivan with a hint of shock. He reaches to take the microphone, but Ivan pulls it away, up higher than Ruslan’s head and closer to his mouth.

Ivan Stanislav: They would prefer I tell you I am undefeated.

Another pause.

Ivan Stanislav: I am not.

Nick Stuart: Fans, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Ivan admit a loss. This… is historical.

Richard Parker: He’s not admitting to losing. He’s… just being honest…

But even Richard sounds confused. The silence between the two commentators is palpable.

Ivan Stanislav: I am sixty-four years old. My hair grows whiter. My joints ache louder. My body, powerful as it is, betrays me more than it used to. My mother is gone. My country… as I knew it… is gone.

His voice thickens. He looks… tired. A hush actually begins to fall over the crowd. Even in the storm of boos, the rhythm falters. Some listen, some jeer, some become quiet. Alexei’s face falls, briefly, confusion breaking through his rage. Arina blinks rapidly, her lip trembling while Speedy wraps an arm around her shoulder.

Ivan Stanislav: At my age, less is given to me. More is taken. And yes, even for me, it can be frightening.

Ivan inhales and stretches his suspenders with the oxygen in his barrel chest.

Ivan Stanislav: And still, with my age, my grief, and loss… I endure.

He spreads his arms wider, the lights glinting off his massive frame and the clasps of his suspenders. His voice rises, deeper, stronger.

Ivan Stanislav: Yes, I lost my match at Ascension. It took three people and yards of chain to do it. But when I saw those cretins put their hands on Ms. Timofeyevna, I had a choice: Defend her and protect my comrades… or get in the ring and pin that pile of blubber, Fred Dick.

Ivan’s expression hardens.

Ivan Stanislav: I made the choice my heart told me. The choice my ideology told me. And in it, yes, I was chained and hampered, but I defended my comrades, my family, and kept my honor. And I would do it again, and again, and again!

Ivan booms, straightening his shoulders.

Ivan Stanislav: I will protect you, my Red Army, as I did at Ascension. No selfishness. No second thoughts! Because that is what I have always hoped to be. To protect those weaker than the elitists who count their money. We, of The Red Army, are not as popular as the rest. We don’t smile as much as they do. We are not as fancy or trendy. We are not happy buffoons. But we have our morals, and we have each other!

The crowd matches his buildup, more, but not all lobbing negativity his way.

Ivan Stanislav: I have never… never preyed upon those who could not defend themselves. Not in war. Not in this ring. Not in my life. I stand against those who exploit the weak. That is who I am. That is who I have always been. Nothing will change that.

But the boos roar back, despite Ivan almost… asking the crowd to listen to him. But he doesn’t bark back. He doesn’t roar.

Nonetheless, Ivan refuses to back down.

Ivan Stanislav: There is no one in PRIME who can stand before me and claim otherwise!

The camera shifts position just enough that the announce desk is in frame, which is notable because Richard Parker has risen from his seat and is clapping enthusiastically.

Nick Stuart: Oh for… Will you sit down?

Richard Parker: Why would I do that? Ivan speaks only the truth, Nick.

And to a certain degree, it is. Here, in the center of Keseya Center, The Red Army stands seven members strong. To stand before their combined might and call their leader a liar is a fool’s errand. Few on the PRIME roster – or within the professional wrestling industry as a whole – would take that bait.

But there is one.

THRUMMMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmm

You could argue that theme music is the important marketing that a wrestler has. It signals to the crowd the arrival of every hero and villain in their combat sports passion play before that person ever sets foot under the lights.

One note, a low, resonant roar. That’s all it takes.

The Kaseya Center crowd erupts in one, singular voice.

Richard Parker stops clapping. His hands hang frozen in the air.

Richard Parker: No. No no no. Nononononono.

I’LL NEVER BE READY TO MEET A MEMORY

Above the stage, the PRIMEview flashes to life. A massive red dragon, wings spread wide, soars across the screen. It’s almost immediately felled by a broken sword, blood trickling down to form a pair of words in regal font.

IMPERIUM AETERNI

Those letters disperse like mist, reforming into their English translation.

EMPIRE OF THE EVER-AFTER

Richard Parker: This isn’t real this isn’t real this isn’t real…

Nick Stuart: The Red Army’s party is about to be crashed by one the LAST people Ivan Stanislav wants to see!!

Richard Parker: I’m not going to believe this until I see it, Nick!

A droning bass gives way to the same note played again and again at steady intervals, like the heartbeat of a titan.

A MEMORY THAT ABANDONED ME

It’s only when the tapping lick of Northlane’s “Plenty” kicks in, bringing with it the full energy of the song, does a figure emerge at the entryway. He’s dressed in the athleisure combo of a plain hoodie over a white tee shirt and a pair of black joggers. The pink streak in his hair has been replaced by the natural brown. The five o’clock shadow he wore for the back half of his career has finally been allowed to grow into a beard, albeit one that’s trimmed very short.

The biggest difference is the swagger, in that he finally seems to have found it.

Miami loses their collective minds.

Nick Stuart: JARED SYKES HAS RETURNED TO PRIME!!

Richard Parker: AHHHHHH I TAKE IT BACK THIS ISN’T HAPPENING!

Hands in his pockets and with a half-grin playing at his lips, Jared Sykes makes a slow deliberate walk from the entryway to the end of the ramp. It’s there that the facade breaks, and the energy of the moment channels itself into him. The grin turns into a full-on laugh, and he holds up one finger towards the ring before sprinting to the right side of the stage to drink in the crowd’s response.

Richard Parker: Oh no he did not just tell the Red Army to wait like that!

After a moment, he sprints to the left side of the stage to do the same, but not before pausing again at the top of the ramp. This time he holds up one finger from each hand, smiling and nodding enthusiastically at the Red Army all the while.

Richard Parker: The audacity! Someone tell jArRy to stop pretending to not cry so he can just get to the ring and die horribly.

In the ring, Ruslan is apoplectic. He leans over the top rope and howls angrily towards the one and only Jared Sykes. Behind him, Speedy and Arina exchange confused looks, while the rest of The Red Army brace themselves and struggle to adapt to the shock of the moment.

Ivan, however, does not move. His expression shows neither shock, or anger, nor frustration. He watches the returning Jared Sykes and listens to the ear-shattering cheers of the crowd.

Sykes moves back to the middle of the stage, then makes a very obvious show of counting the amount of people in the ring. It’s an overdone pantomime that’s not just seen by those in the furthest seats, but the entire crew complement of the International Space Station. With his other hand he counts himself, indicates to the crowd that he’s doing a quick bit of mental math, then offers a shrug and walks with a purpose towards the ring.

He walks a path around the ring at the same clip, taking a microphone from the timekeeper in his stride. The smile is still on his face when he returns to the ringside area near the entrance ramp, gestures towards the ring itself, and mouths the words, “It cool if I come in? Fuck it. Doin’ it anyway.”

Ruslan looks ready to pounce, but Ivan places a huge paw on his shoulder and pulls him back, behind him, so that Stanislav stands in the front, and the rest of The Red Army stand behind him. He rolls his right shoulder, and lifts the edge of his pants as his suspender stretches.

That’s when everyone else appears, as the flood gates holding back a torrent of security officials are released. Enemigos. Arena crew. Even an off-duty police officer who had, until now, been minding his own business visiting friends backstage. For every person inside the ring there are at least two poised around it to pounce at a moment’s notice. It’s the kind of student/faculty ratio that any university would kill for.

Nick Stuart: Fans, if you’re just joining us for the first time…

Richard Parker: What the hell took you so long?! We rule!

Nick Stuart: (ignoring that) Ivan Stanislav and Jared Sykes are no strangers to each other. If you’re wondering why there are so many security personnel outside the ring, it’s because these two men have a particularly violent history.

For his part, Jared does his best to try and downplay the situation. He makes an obvious show of pointing to the microphone he’s carrying to anyone whose attention he can catch, including the security swarm on three sides of the ring, Ivan, Alexei, and ending with Dawkins.

To Arina he simply offers a polite nod before mouthing the words, “I’m sorry.”

He slowly closes the distance towards Ivan, casually tossing the microphone between hands with each deliberate step. A few members of security already have one knee on the ring apron in anticipation of what could happen.

With a final nod, Jared grips the mic in his left hand and raises it to his lips. Ivan’s upper lip curls as he stares down, down, down the bridge of his nose at the interloper.

There is, of course, only one problem with this. One tiny little tell that things are, in fact, about to break down.

Jared Sykes is right-handed.

As he brings his left hand towards his mouth, Jared lets his fingers relax. By the time the microphone has hit the canvas, sending a reverberant thump through the arena speakers, his right hand has already connected with Ivan’s cheek.

The last valve on the pressure cooker is released, and chaos erupts in the ring.

The crowd pops as Sykes blasts Stanislav in the cheek, a blow carrying with it not just the adrenaline of the here and now, but months, no, years of abuse, terror, bullying, and trauma. Ivan is caught completely off guard by the blow as his head snaps back, his massive frame rocking on one foot, teetering for a moment like some old Siberian larch.

Behind him, the combined strength of Alexei, Speedy, and Arina struggle to prop him upright, desperate to stop the seven-foot giant from collapsing backward and crushing them beneath his bulk. But in the moment it registers, the roar that erupts from Stanislav drowns out every single cheer in the arena.

The sound is thunder, the kind only a bear can make. Ivan erupts, a guttural, primal sound that rattles the boards beneath the ring and seems to shake the rafters. The arena explodes, half in joy, half in terror.

Stanislav lurches forward, his huge hand palming all of Sykes’ skull. But Jared twists out of it, ducking to the side, and hammers Ivan again with a lightning fast right hand. Ivan absorbs the blow and swipes with his huge paw of a hand, catching nothing but the air.

Nick Stuart: Listen to this place!! Jared Sykes is back, and he’s bringing the fight to Ivan Stanislav!!!!

Richard Parker: This is a setup! A conspiracy!

Security floods the ring, but they struggle to contain it. Ivan shoves bodies aside like they’re children, bellowing in Russian, his arms outstretched for Sykes. Jared breaks free from two guards and dives back at Ivan, fists flying. The two men crash into one another in a tangle of rage and history.

Ivan hurls a hammer of a punch that grazes Jared’s temple, staggering him just long enough for a figure to emerge from behind Jared. Alexei Ruslan. His baton hooks across Jared’s throat, his wiry arms cinched tight as he dangles from Sykes’ back like a Russian attack dog. The crowd howls as the old zealot wrenches with everything he has, his eyes red with hatred.

But Jared is ready. He plants his feet amidst the scrum, snaps backwards, and fires a vicious mule kick into Alexei’s groin. Ruslan’s eyes go stupid, still hanging on, and Sykes bucks hard and whips him off his back to the side.

Ruslan twists and falls into the waiting arms of two Enemigos, thrashing like a madman, his baton clattering across the canvas as he spits and claws to break free. The Enemigos have their hands full with the weasley Russian, dragging him toward the ropes as the crowd roars in approval.

Speedy throws his arms around Ivan’s massive waist, trying to drag the big man toward the ropes, but The Bear shrugs him off like he’s nothing, eyes wide, spittle flying from his mouth as he bellows.

Across the ring, Kenny Freeman and Bryan Dawkins rush to Arina, pulling her back into the corner before she’s caught in the storm. She screams to Ivan, her face pale, watching Stanislav with both fear and awe.

Randall pumps his fist and cheers for his Starshy Praporshchik, a grin plastered on his face.

Nick Stuart: Jared Sykes has ignited this entire powder keg!!

A dozen Enemigos, arena crew, and the off duty police officer swarm between the two, dragging Jared towards the ropes while Ivan thrashes against five men, sending two of them flying up and over the top rope to the floor below. Four more take their place, finally getting Ivan pushed back to the far end of the ring.

But a line is drawn from one edge to the other, from the amused glint in Jared’s eyes, teeth bared in wide smile, all the way to Ivan’s furious face, purple with rage and saliva flying from his mouth as he continues to scream in Russian.

And with that roar of the crowd still heard throughout the Kaseva Center, we move elsewhere.

Some crafty video editor in the production booth fires up his Video Toaster and transitions from the last scene into the next with the “Fly Away” effect. It’s goofy and dated, but arguably more entertaining than the previous interview.

Dude, did you know that Video Toaster was engineered by Dana Carvey’s brother, Brad? Yeah, apparently, he was the basis for Garth from the Wayne’s World skit.

…why the fuck am I wasting your time explaining this? Oh well, whatever, here’s Simon…

Simon Tillier: Ugh… what’s up, folks?

The greeting comes out as a groan. Tillier appears before us looking quite disheveled: green in the gills, sunken eyes, wilted blonde hair, and a five o’clock peach fuzz. All signs point to the junior reporter suffering through a heavy hangover.

Simon Tillier: Let’s get down to brass tacks here before I say something that gets me fired, yeah? Right now, I’m still feeling the after effects from that basement show I went to down in Palmetto Bay. And yeah, I know what you’re thinking…  small price to pay for the chance to see Proud Boy Annihilator up close — if you’ve never heard of them, then you’re not a true punk. Still, I’m in a shitty mood, as if getting pegged to do the obligatory Vae Victis interview didn’t already put me in one…

Simon struggles to open a bottle of aspirin. When he can’t seem to get the push-and-twist function down, he angrily tosses it aside.

Simon Tillier: Fuckin’ parasitic pharmaceutical scum… whatever, I can power through it. Here we are tonight, boys and girls, in the “small fishing village” of Miami, Florida. A city that was put on the map thanks to the hit 1994 Jim Carrey comedy vehicle, Ace Ventura: Pet Detective. A city that is called home to many popular figures like Crockett and Tubbs, the Golden Girls, Tony Montana, Dexter, and, of course, my guest here this evening… the Mullet Train himself, Scott Hunter.

Miami is hot.

But the moment Scott Hunter steps into the frame, the pop is thermonuclear. The Kaseva Center rumbles with a thunderous roar that reaches the very bowels of the backstage area. The only thing conceivably louder is Dolphins-colored aqua-and-orange flower shirt Scott is rocking.

Hearing the reaction, Scott’s immediate reaction is one of confusion.

Scott Hunter: (looking around at an upward 23.76 degree angle) What the – – ? What in the name of Ricky Schroeder’s mustache is that noise?? And where is it coming from??? Is it the voices again?!

Scott grabs Simon by the front of his shirt and shakes him angrily.

Scott Hunter: I won’t go back to that hellhole!!! I won’t! I WON’T!!

Simon Tillier: (pulling himself free) Those people are cheering for you, Scott. Probably because you’re the biggest thing out of this city since A-Rod.

Scott Hunter: (shoulders suddenly relaxed and calm) Oh. In that case, hey guys!

He waves vigorously into the air at the magic voices, which only makes them cheer louder.

Simon Tillier: Anyway, you’re here tonight in your hometown of Miami, rolling off a huge victory over Steve Harrison back at Ascension. What do you think got you to pull it off? Was it the hair? Please say it was the hair.

Scott Hunter: Well, Simon til-yay, while I appreciate your appreciation of my stunning haircut, I would have to say the reason I was victorious over Steven Harrison is because of the diligent work I have been putting into my training lately. I spent a really decent amount of time studying his every move, his habits, and watched every season of that TV show “Soap” to prepare for that match, and clearly, it paid off.

Simon Tillier: Why in the world would you watch “Soap” of all things to prepare?

Scott Hunter: Well, I figured that show is super boring, and Steve Harrison is super boring, so what better way to prepare?

Simon Tiller: That makes absolutely no sense.

Scott Hunter: I stayed awake, and I won, didn’t I? Sounds like it makes plenty of sense, and it sounds like you’re pretty dumb. You know nothing about training techniques, Simon.

Simon Tillier: Well, regardless, with that win, you’ve banked yourself a shot at the prestigious Five Star Championship. That’s a pretty huge deal, or so I’m told… I don’t know, I’m just a wrestling reporter… but it also puts you into a bit of a unique circumstance, given the person who happens to be “Kerry-ing” that title, as it were. Of course, I’m referring to your best friend and Wingman…

Simon looks alarmed as he sees someone approaching. As he utters their name in surprise, he inadvertently finishes the sentence.

Simon Tillier: Kerry Kuroyama!

The Emerald Apex ambles into the shot, toting the Five Star Championship over the shoulder.

He’s also wearing a black leather jacket.

Scott Hunter: KER-BEAR!!!

Kuroyama’s face shows all the emotion of a stone as he looks up at Scott’s palm, considers it for a moment… and reluctantly returns the five.

At least he didn’t leave him hanging for too long.

Simon Tillier: So, guys, now that the both of you are here, perhaps you can let us in on how the two of you are approaching the possibility that you may be facing each other for the title down the line? Are you guys punk rock bros til the end, or is it bling before wing… men?

Scott Hunter: I don’t really have an opinion on rocks or wings that I wish to share at this juncture, but I will say that we’ve stuck together through thick and thin, then a little thicker, a little thinner, then back to thick again, and we know there’s pretty much anything we can do. If we have to wrestle a match against each other, I figure it’ll be pretty much like our training sessions. We’ll have our match and we’ll go give it our all, and no matter what happens, we’ll take Kerry Koalayama to his grooming appointment, probably grab a couple of lattes, and then make fun of Simon’s stupid… uhh… I mean, and then probably catch a movie or something.

For the first time since he walked into the interview, Kuroyama’s face shows the slightest tinge of emotion. Small creases in the corners of his eyes. A faint wilt in the corners of the mouth. It’s unclear if he’s displeased, or confused, or holding in a fart.

Whatever the reason, the Emerald Apex hasn’t looked this SURRIOUS in a long time.

Kerry Kuroyama: Listen, Scott… I understand this match is a big deal for you. It’s a big deal for me, too. Which is why I feel, maybe, that you and I should maintain a bit of distance from one another. Train separately.

Scott Hunter: Train separately? What does that even mean? Like, train, but not together? Separately, like… apart? So, not train in the same place? Like… in a different building…?

Kerry cuts him off with a raised hand.

Kerry Kuroyama: It’s nothing personal, Scott. You’re still my Wingman. But we both know the goal here is to win.

Scott looks at his best friend. His shoulders slump, and in mere seconds, he seems to be looking at Kerry while his face makes the sad Puss-in-Boots face. Before Kerry can respond…

KA-THONK!

Somewhere off camera, something heavy hits the ground. The light sound of retreating footsteps can be heard in its wake.

The three on camera collectively look, blink once in confusion, then go right back

Kerry Kuroyama: What I’m saying here, Scott, is that this is the real deal.

His knuckles rap the face of the Five Star Championship.

Kerry Kuroyama: You’ve come a long way since you started here at PRIME. I acknowledge that more than anyone else. But the thing is, at this stage of the game, holding onto this title is paramount to everything else. Even friendship. You understand that, right?

Scott Hunter: I… I guess so. Is this because I wouldn’t give you my extra biscuit when we went to Cracker Barrel?

No reaction at all – a complete no-sell from the Emerald Apex.

Kerry Kuroyama: Okay then… in that case, best of luck to you. I know you won’t disappoint me.

No high five. Not even a handshake. Kuroyama coldly nods and continues walking.

Simon Tillier: Oh, Kerry! Before you leave, one final question…

Kerry stalls.

Simon Tillier: Like, what’s with the jacket? We’re in Florida! It’s in the upper eighties down here!

The Emerald Apex says nothing. After a beat, he turns and walks out of the shot, leaving the junior reporter standing with a very pensive-looking Scott Hunter.

Simon Tillier: Sounds like your Wingman is gettin’ surrious with this Five Star Title business, huh?

Scott frowns.

Scott Hunter: Hey, Simon, have you ever been punched in the face while in a tropical climate?

Simon Tillier: (oblivious) Actuall,y no, I’ve never even been…

Simon’s eyes suddenly open wide.

Simon Tiller: Uhhh gotta go.

Simon rushes off-screen, and Scott follows, slow-walking like the killer in a slasher movie.

ReVival moves on.

Richard Parker: It’s Sexy Sage tiiiiiiiime!

Nick Stuart: …Bryan Dawkins is also in this match, Richard.

Richard Parker: Bryan Dawkins hasn’t been hot since his ol’ lady was kidnapped. But Sage? Sage is hot regardless of those who are kidnapped around him. You see what I’m saying? Evergreen hotness.

Nick Stuart: Well one thing’s for sure, this match is gonna be hot! Folks, it’s Dawkins versus Pontiff!

But Sage is already in the ring. His head is shaved. His beard is unruly. He looks like Ragnar Lothbrok, and just as unhinged and bloodthirsty.

Richard Parker: Somehow, even with a shaved head, Sage remains a sex symbol for the ages.

Nick Stuart: Would you relax?

Vince Howard: The following contest is a one fall matchup! Our first contestant hails from Joshua Tree, California… Standing 6’4, weighing in, at 201 pounds. He is the BODDHISATVA OF TRANSFORMATIVE EXPERIENCE…. SAAAAAAGE PONTIIIIIIFFFF!!!

Sage does nothing but stare up the entrance ramp, awaiting his opponent.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

Vince Howard: And his opponent… from Hilo, Hawaii!

The arena’s lights fade to black momentarily before exploding in a pyrotechnic display of crimson and gold fireworks.

“The Soviet National Anthem” by the Russian Red Army Choir blasts through the PA system, eliciting a cascade of boos from the PRIME faithful.

Out steps the newest member of The Red Army, the former Flyin’ Hawaiian himself, Bryan Dawkins.

Vince Howard: Standing 6 feet tall, weighing in at 232 pounds… BRYAAAAAN DAAAAAWKIIIIINSSSS!!!

Clad in his signature Red Army issued crimson and gold sunglasses, he slowly makes his way to the ring devoid of any emotion. The young kids that once chanted “BRUH” now boo his presence and the worst part is? He doesn’t care.

He slides into the ring and does a quick check of the ropes before settling into his corner of the ring.

DING! DING!

Immediately Pontiff marches right to the middle of the ring, points at the mat beneath his feat, beckoning Bryan Dawkins to meet him there and exchange fists.

Dawkins sighs — relieved, he finally gets to beat the living shit out of somebody.

Dawkins steps towards Pontiff.

Nick Stuart: Here we go!

Pontiff and Dawkins begin swinging on each other. Lefts, rights, jabs, hooks — Pontiff starts peppering Dawkins in the ribs, leaving his face exposed to a VICIOUS roaring elbow that drops Sage like a bad habit to the canvas below!

Right away, Dawkins mounts Sage in a full mount and begins pounding his fists right into Sage’s face.

He needed this.

Lord knows he did.

And frankly, so does Sage.

After a particularly brutal shot that busts Sage’s nose open, he lies back, arms out like Christ, and allows Dawkins a moment to just scream and punch.

Nick Stuart: I think Sage is off his fucking rocker, Richard!

Richard Parker: That’s partially why he’s so hot, Nick!

Bam, bam, bam, punch after punch, landing flush against Sage’s now bloodied face.

WHAM!!!

Nick Stuart: OH MY GOD!!!

Nick screamed like that because in one fluid motion, Sage traded his grace for violence, rising up with what might challenge the World Record for the fastest sit-up, finishing it with an absolutely brutal headbutt that appears to knock Bryan out, sending the former Flyin’ Hawaiian falling away from Sage, eyes closed, limp.

Sage stands to his feet.

He looks around at the crowd, buzzing at the violence that’s unfolding before him.

Richard Parker: HE’S OUT! MAKE THE COVER, SAGE!!!

But Sage isn’t making any sort of cover.

Instead, he begins nudging Dawkins with his foot.

When Dawkins doesn’t respond, those foot nudges become kicks. Stomps. And that snaps Dawkins out of his daze, just to feel Sage’s foot collide into his ribs. Not a great feeling.

Dawkins takes those kicks continuously as he scrambles towards the turnbuckles, pulling himself up just in time to narrowly avoid an enziguri with which Sage fully intended to take his head clean off!

Sage tries to scramble up to his feet, but upon doing so is driven right back down to the mat with a double-leg takedown by Dawkins! Sage attempts to roll away, and Dawkins immediately transitions to an ankle lock!

Sage roars in agony! He tries to lunge for the nearest set of ropes, but Dawkins, with veteran savvy, drags him back and places his knee into the small of Sage’s back, then transitions him to an Indian death lock!

Nick Stuart: Some impressive wrestling from Bryan Dawkins!

Richard Parker: Maybe he should use some of that to wrestle his wife away from her kidnapper!

Indeed, maybe he should — or at the very least, he should be more prepared for the underhanded tactics that heels present. But guess what? Sage reaches back and thumbs Dawkins in the eye, deep and brutally, so that Dawkins immediately rolls away, clutching at his eye socket.

And when Sage rises to his feet?

He PUNT KICKS Dawkins right in the side of his fucking head.

Richard Parker: JEEEEEESUS CHRIST!!!

This time, Sage makes the cover!!!

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

THREEEEEEEEEEE!!!

Nick Stuart: NOOOOOOO!!! AT THE LAST POSSIBLE SECOND, DAWKINS KICKS OUT!!!

Richard Parker: Sage kicked the smarts right out of his brain! A rational man would’ve just taken a three count after that, but not Dawkins!

Nick Stuart: Couldn’t that just show, I don’t know, bravery? Courage?

Richard Parker: Nope. Mushy brain.

Maybe it is mushy brain. Maybe it is courage.

But either way?

It’s Dawkins who, somehow, gets to his feet first.

And that’s all the time he needs.

KATYUSHA!!!

The Brogue Kick SMACKS with authority and lays Sage Pontiff out like some meat thats gonna get cooked. This time its Dawkins who covers!!!

ONE!!!

Dawkins hooks the leg!!!

TWO!!!

THREEEEE – NO!!!

Nick Stuart: I’m not even sure we’re calling a wrestling match anymore, Richard.

Richard Parker: No, you’re right. There’s some real primordial, subconscious level shit going on here, Nick, stuff beneath understanding. Which makes sense, right? You got one dude, his wife has been kidnapped and he still hasn’t rescued her. Another dude, despite being FOINE as hell, is completely batshit. In a way, I suppose it was always going to be like this, wasn’t it?

Nick Stuart: Are you done reading that boring book or whatever? We kinda have a match to call.

Richard Parker: Wow.

Nick Stuart: Just sayin’.

Richard Parker: Wow.

Dawkins, meanwhile, has Sage Pontiff back up to his feet and he whips the Boddhisatva of Transformative Experience into the turnbuckles so hard that he damn near flies over the back of them upon impact.

Instead, it sends him marching out towards the center of the ring, before falling to the mat…

Only —

Nick Stuart: WHAT A SHOT BY SAGE PONTIFF!!!

He caught Dawkins with a swift left jab to the nose on the way down, busting Dawkins nose open.

Dawkins smears the blood from his nostrils away, and they leave paint trails shaped like fingers on his face. He mounts Sage again and this time, Sage fights from his prone position.

The two men are just straight up boxing one another at this point. Dawkins raining fists down on Sage, and Sage, despite his prone position, sending stiff return shots. And for some reason, they’re both laughing – smiling with bloodsoaked teeth exposed with every shot until Dawkins, laughing so hard, simply falls away off Sage.

Richard Parker: Neither of these men seem to be doing well with their mental healooolllly SHIT!!!

Richard said that because as they were both lying beside each other on the mat, cruelly, brutally, Dawkins just reached out and CHOPPED the fuck out of Sage’s Adam’s apple.

Nick Stuart: CHEAP SHOT BY DAWKINS, BUT THAT MIGHT JUST BE WHAT HE NEEDS, RICHARD!!!

Richard Parker: I’m not talking to you, Nick. You hurt my feelings.

Nick Stuart: The book thing?

Richard Parker: tHe bOoK tHiNg????

Sage rolls around, grasping at his throat. Dawkins, meanwhile, reaches his feet, and TRIES TO STOMP SAGE IN THE THROAT!!!

No! Thankfully, Sage managed to grasp Dawkins’ foot and stop it from possibly crushing his windpipe. Sage sweeps his own legs under himself, rising with the fluidity of river water, only to dragonscrew Dawkins’ ankle and send him to the mat!

Another punt kick!

Dawkins somersaults out of the way, just barely, but barely is all he needs!

Dawkins kips up. Sage is in wide eyed, bloodlust and bewilderment — matching Dawkins’ own. Regardless of what anyone else thinks of this match, for these two, this has been a spiritual experience.

This time it’s Dawkins who steps to the center of the ring, points to the mat.

Nick Stuart: Dawkins wants to finish this how they started it!

Sage, to his eternal credit, is more than happy to oblige.

He steps within striking distance and the two begin trading blows that would make a lot of the roster in the back blush. Just insane hooks and jabs and uppercuts, absolutely no defense from either one, both men just promising to strike until the other stops them from striking!!!

WHAM!!!

Nick Stuart: A HEADBUTT BY DAWKINS!!! THIS TIME IT’S DAWKINS WITH THE HEADBUTT!!! ANOTHER HEADBUTT!!! ANOTHER HEADBUTT!!! THREE HEADBUTTS, AND SAGE DROPS TO THE MAT LIKE A SACK OF TATERS!!! DAWKINS NEEDS TO MAKE THE COVER!!!

Richard Parker: Are you done reading your book? Trying to call a match here.

Nick Stuart: Do you feel better, now?

Dawkins does indeed make the cover!

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

THREEEEEEEEEE!!!

DING! DING!

Vince Howard: The winner of this match as a result of a pinfall… BRRRRRYANNNNN!!! DAAAAAAWKIIIIIINS!!!!

Bryan Dawkins, bloody and beaten, stands to his feet. Hand raised, victorious, after a war that both contestants will surely remember fondly.

We cut away.

Replay of Colossus 2024, Night One:

The crowd is on their feet. There’s a feeling in the air.

By god…

By god it’s…

Black. Sheep. Mania!!!

Black Sheep Baez sends a jab to Hanlon. Another jab. Another jab. Spinning back fist! Uppercut! 

SPINNING KNIFE EDGE CHOP!

LEAPING CLOTHESLINE!!!

Hayes hits the mat like a sad sack of taters, and Baez is feeling it. He turns to the crowd. Roars for them to get up and they do. SoFi loves themselves some Black Sheep Baez!!!

Nick Stuart: These are the moments you dream of when you begin your wrestling career – and Black Sheep Baez is on the verge of it!

Richard Parker: Not for long! Hanlon’s up on his feet!

Baez turns around–

RIGHT INTO THE FLASH POINT BY HANLON!!!

NO!!! 

HEADBUTT BY BLACK SHEEP BAEZ!!!

Baez sets Hanlon Up!!!

NORTHERN LIGHTS SUPLEX INTO A BRAINBUSTER!!!

Nick Stuart: HE HIT IT!!! THE DIVINE INTERVENTION!!!

Richard Parker: NOOOOOOO!!!

Nick Stuart: MAKE THE COVER KID!!! MAKE A NAME FOR YOURSELF!!!

Richard Parker: YOU ARE BEING SO BIASED RIGHT NOW!!!

Black Sheep Baez makes the cover! He hooks the legs!

ONE!!

TWO!!!

THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

DING DING DING

It’s over.

Nick Stuart: Black Sheep Baez has just opened Colossus with one of the biggest upsets of 2024!!!

End replay.

Why are we showing you this?

Why?

It’s Colossus season, of course!  So, why not get started with a replay of how Colossus began in 2024?  A two time Universal Champion conquered at the hands of a young Puerto Rican upstart from Buffalo.

One of the biggest upsets of 2024?

Or, was it?

Perhaps the real upset was what came after the conclusion of that epic bout?  The business side of this gig often gets a bit skewed.  Baez’s development contract was coming to an end once 2025 rolled around.  Needless to say – he stayed and wrestled abroad.  PRIME was in the rearview with a lot left to be desired.  It wasn’t anything personal.  It was all about growth.  It was about leaving nests and learning on his own.

But, ya boi is back.

Black Sheep Baez: On God!

The scene fades to the image of Black Sheep Baez, backstage, here tonight, live on ReVival.

The crowd is going absolutely nuts.  The hero…is home.

Their voices are heard.  He removes his polarized aviator sunglasses.  A smirk slowly rises while his blue eyes lock on the camera with an undeniable intensity.  The glasses are tucked into the breast pocket of a slate gray Peter Millard Excursionist sports jacket.  That’s a coat that epitomizes luxury and style, a different level of gentlemen that only Black Sheep Baez can pull off.  He adjusts a navy blue tie that pops against a white button up.  The gold chain is draped just about mid-tie, and his various rings glisten in the surrounding light.

He’s an immaculate caramel gawd.

BLACK SHEEP BAEZ!

The crowd wants to ensure that he hears their roars through the thick labor riddled concrete walls.

BLACK SHEEP BAEZ!

He wants to be humble, but he loves his people, and he opens his hands to embrace one more show of PRIME’s respect.

BLACK SHEEP BAEZ!

He stops them before they can cheer him a fourth time.  Baez leans toward the camera and spits off with an emphatic opening.

Black Sheep Baez: People be seekin’ answers about Black Sheep Baez.  A lot of people have somethin’ to say about Black Sheep Baez.  They have their theories.  Everybody’s a critic, fam.  Ya boi ain’t got no time for that, nor will he entertain’ misinformation.

His grin grows larger as he claps his hands together.  The crowd is hooked, and he’s got them right where he needs them.

Black Sheep Baez:  Fact of the matter is this: Black Sheep Baez has always had one goal in mind and that’s to be the greatest this sport has ever seen.  To be the greatest wrestler from the Baez family tree.  To prove it, to myself, that I can reach the pinnacle and carry a company for an era that’s defined by a culture that ya boi represents.  Because I fuckin’ love this sport.  It drives me each and every day.  I care about it way too much.  I want to be the fuckin’ poster boi of this beeb.  Y’all know my steelo, cuh.

Baez tilts his head, lifts his chin, and curls his upper lip.

Black Sheep Baez: The same dream that everybody in the locker room has, but in my own special way.

Then he shakes his head.  The reaction is an intentional interception because Al knows there’s still a whole ass elephant in the room.

Black Sheep Baez:  That’s not enough explanation for several months of absence after a phenomenal start in ‘24.  That’s not the answer y’all were looking for after ya boi defeated Hayes Hanlon at Colossus last year then did the dipsy dip.  It’s just not enough ‘cause it isn’t.  It never will be, but that’s OK.  ‘Cause ya boi did what he had to do.  Let me make it make sense.  At the end of the day?  This is a business, and I made the best business decision to further my career.

His tattooed hand covers his heart.

Black Sheep Baez: Trust the process.  For those that stuck with me?  Y’all the real ones, and y’all the ones I fight for.  Y’all know.

That hand is balled into a fist and he slams it against his chest with a thud.  He follows that with a deep breath so that he’s ready for what he’s about to say.

Black Sheep Baez: So, let’s just focus on this, the present, the here-and-fuckin’-now.  Let’s focus on the fact that Black Sheep Baez is back, in PRIME, and he’s not exactly starting where he left off.  Nah.

There’s a look that people give when they’re trying to subtly get someone’s attention.  We believe, in narration analysis, that Baez is hinting at Max Kael to fuck off for right now.

Or, perhaps he’s getting at something else?  Ah, yes, he is.

Black Sheep Baez:  Nah, the BSB y’all gettin’ finna be different.  This one got layers.  There are dimensions to this Sheep some of y’all might understand, but most of y’all finna be flabbergasted.  Things are different now: skin’s calloused, muscle’s bigger, I’m movin’ faster, thinkin’ clearer, and vibin’ like a gyat’dayum champion.  More than ever before.

He straightens his composure.  This has to end with a more serious note, and BSB knows that.  The mic drop moment is en route.  He dramatically tugs at the lapels on his jacket.  Then he removes the glasses from the breast pocket.

Black Sheep Baez: Ya boi ain’t sayin’ that this shit bout to get lit.

He chuckles and then puts the glasses on.

Black Sheep Baez: But, fam?  This shit about to get lit!

He laughs like a goofball, leans forward, and smacks the camera.  It almost fell, but ya boi got this under control.  He caught it.  Don’t worry.

Baez looks concerned for the camera’s safety, for a brief moment, but now he’s back to business.

Black Sheep Baez: Y’all gettin’ the exclusive Sheep.  The Primetime Sheep.  Ya boi know the world ain’t ready for it, but that’s ok.  ‘Cause the world needs it.  It’s time for a new campaign to hit the streets.

“No bullshit; all Black Sheep.”

Black Sheep Baez: Get with it.  Ayo, PRIME, you ‘member how these end?

He pauses for a second, and then throws it down.

Black Sheep Baez: That’s…on GOD!

Baez grins, his pearly whites nearly blinding us all.  There’s a bright white light that instantly shines behind him, as if the gates of Heaven have opened.  The light engulfs the scene as the crowd can be heard shouting…

ON GOD!

A Sketti Bucket sits succulently in a sink.

Fred Dick stands voluptuously, in a suit, pink.

You know what time it is people.

Fred Dick: We don’t have a jingle yet, but this is my fuggin’ shooooooow!!! Give Gavin Yum credit, he’s got armored nut-balls, and this is my fuggin’ shoooooow!!! It’s Baffroom Fights and ya better be ready, it’s mothafuggin’ Freddy and a Bucket of Skettiiiii… which you win if you kick my ace!

Grumpus: Nyak! Nyak! Nyak!

Fred clears his throat, moves his feet in a bizarre dance that is all at once post-modern avante-garde river dance, and fat-boy bdances,

Fred Dick: Now, ain’t nothin’ wrong with getting your nuts kicked into your pelvis and tappin’ out of a baffroom fight. Am I pissed I lost last week? Yeah, hell yeah, but when a man shows up and kicks yo’ big ol’ fuggin’ ball bag all the way up into yo’ sternum cavity not once, not twice, not thrice, but quadrice times? Yeah, I’d say, ‘That’s worth surrenderin’ for. I’d say, ‘Protect ya nut satchel, live to fight another day!’ Lawd yes! BUT ANYWAY, y’all muhfuggas know the rules by neow, and if ya don’t, kiss muh dick dude. Nawmean? Can’t be wastin’ time explainin’ the rules every damn time I do this show, can I? I mean, what’s the point?

Fred glares at the bathroom door.

Fred Dick: Let’s see who my next opponent is. Let’s find out if the next man that walks through that door wants my delicious Sketti Bucket more than MY ACE does.

The door swings wide, revealing a dick.

No, not a weiner, just an asshole named Rick.

He looks upon Fred, drinking him in.

Then speaks his next words with a shit-eating grin.

Rick Hardbody: You look like a fuzzy hemorrhoid.

This is a rich statement considering who it’s coming from, as “Rock Hard” Rick Hardbody looks like 1980s got way too coked-up and farted out a moron.

Jeans that are way too tight reveal that Rick dresses to the left, and that his nickname – at least right now – is a total misnomer. This of course is complemented by a multicolored feather boa, a pair of mirrored sunglasses with little dangly teardrops hanging from the bottom, and a white tee shirt two sizes too small that is fighting for its goddamn life.

There’s also the dangly earrings to go with the dangly glasses, because every accessory must be over-the-top ostentatious. Which is also why he’s wearing a bandana tied around his head. The bandana, it should be noted, features an airbrushed rendition of Rick’s own face, and it’s making the same expression as actual Rick. So just sit with that mental image for a minute.

Rick Hardbody: Huh.

His eyes scan the bathroom, as one does.

Rick Hardbody: I see Freddy Sketti, but not his garlic bread gimps.

Fred Dick: Who the fug’re you, Cocksuck?

This catches Rick off guard, because he’s the kind of dipshit who expects everyone to know who he is despite being in the business long enough for two cups of coffee.

Rick Hardbody: You serious?

Silence.

Rick Hardbody: You seriously don’t know who I am?

The door to the baffroom creaks open long enough for Ollie Cade, Rick’s tag team partner, to poke his head in.

Ollie Cade: Hey, are you done yet? We’ve gotta film this thing with Steve, and you know how much Mills hates dealing with us, so.

Rick Hardbody: This dumbass doesn’t know who I am! Time to educate this dumbass.

Yes, everyone is aware that Rick has said “dumbass” twice in as many sentences. Everyone except Rick, because he thinks he sounds cool and tough.

Rick Hardbody: I’m “Rock Hard” Rick Hardbody. One half – the BETTER half – of the hottest free agent tag team on goddamn planet earth.

Ollie Cade: (sighing) Here we go.

Rick Hardbody: If my partner hadn’t choked it away, you’d be looking at the reigning Flynn Cup champions, buddy. I played college ball. Set a record for touchdowns.

Ollie Cade: He played D3.

Rick Hardbody: You shut up!

Ollie Cade: He majored in bitch.

Rick Hardbody: I said-

WHAM!

That sound is the sound of an American football, coated in a film of sketti sauce, nailing Rick Hardbody right in the nose.

That’s because in the time Rick and Ollie had been arguing, Fred Dick had crept over to the Sketti Bucket, reached his grubby hands inside of it, and removed a football he’d planted from it. Then, he threw it in a perfect spiral right into Rick’s face.

As a follow up, Fred literally kicks Rick in the gut, then hits Rick with an ace crusher — the second legitimate wrestling “hold” he’s performed.

Fred stands up, lords over Rick’s body.

Fred Dick: Ya know, given who I was just two weeks ago, I might’ve held a grudge that lasted the rest of my life towards you on account of you callin’ me a dumb ass twice, coupled with my mental health issues which I’ve come to discover are not only severe and life-alterin’, but hinderin’ my growth as a man as well. BUT I’M TRYNA GET BETTER, RICK!!!

Fred stomps Hardbody in the nuts.

Fred Dick: I’M TRYNA BE A FAMILY MAN!!!

Fred stomps Hardbody in the nuts.

Fred Dick: I’M TRYNA BE SOMEBODY PEOPLE IS PROUD TO CALL DEY FRIEND!!!!

Fred stomps Hardbody in the nuts.

Fred Dick: But a man who’s done the things that I’ve done? Fucked on all the people I’ve fucked on? It’s heavy on the soul, m’man.

Fred stomps Hardbody in the nuts.

Fred Dick: Real hard, nawmean?

Fred stomps Hardbody in the nuts.

Fred Dick: Point is, I got some shid to thank about. And I can’t hold a grudge towards ye, because shits too heavy on me already.

Fred walks over to the Sketti Bucket. He pulls a handful out with his bare fist, shoves it into his mouth.

Fred Dick: Sketti Bucket’s good as hell. Lawd yes, I love me dat skettiiiiiiii.

Fred gives a big, spaghetti sauce-soaked thumbs up towards the camera and walks out of the bathroom.

And for the first time in, maybe ever, Fred Dick seems like he’s been thinking about the future.

ReVival moves on.

A scene from the early hours before tonight’s doors opened plays as we approach a pair of familiar faces headed toward the Kaseva Center.

Sonja Cuchilla, wearing a black designer bomber jacket and white hip-hugging jeans (despite Miami’s humidity), looks over at her “significant” other, Blaze Claymore.

Blaze has two tote bags slung over his shoulders, sweat pouring down his face. The droplets fall from his forehead, leaving streaks that reveal dark, seeping stains beneath the caked-on foundation.

Sonja Cuchilla: Christ. Now I’m going to have to reapply. This stuff isn’t cheap, Nathan.

Blaze glances at Sonja, then back at the arena.

Blaze Claymore: I never said you had to cover it up…

Sonja lets out a snort as the camera operator manages to remain quiet, following them just out of ear shot.

Sonja Cuchilla (tersely): Oh yes, because that is what will win you back over to D and Elise’s side… black goo pouring from your eye sockets.

Blaze tenses up.

Blaze Claymore: But they aren’t even booked tonight…

Sonja lets out a dry laugh.

Sonja Cuchilla: Yeah? And whose fault is that!? You can’t believe what I had to go through to convince them not to cut us out of their orbit completely after what happened at Ascension.

Blaze Claymore (nervously): But.. I… Max was coming after you and then… I couldn’t move my feet. Something was holding me down. Smothering me.

Sonja Cuchilla (scoffing): Whatever. It doesn’t change the results. I just-

Sonja stops, turning her head ever so slightly to catch a reflection of the camera operator in the sideview mirror of a nearby cargo truck.

Blaze stops as well, lowering the bags from his arms and placing a hand on Sonja’s shoulder.

Blaze Claymore: Sonja. What’s wrong? What is it?

Sonja lowers her head, placing her hand – complete with perfectly bubblegum pink, four-inch press on nails, to her face as her shoulders begin to shake with practiced rhythm, each sob timed perfectly for maximum effect.

Sonja Cuchilla: I just…

Sonja trails off as she pulls out a thick brick of a phone, nestled in a shiny pink alligator-skin case, from her jacket. She taps the screen with her thumb before turning and burying her face into Blaze’s chest.

Sonja Cuchilla (hysterically): I just can’t believe how brave you’ve been through all of this!

Blaze blinks, instinctively placing his arms around Sonja in a hug as she wails.

Sonja Cuchilla (crying): I nearly lost you once and I won’t ever let that happen again!

Blaze lets a smile cross his lips as we see his eyes begin to water as Sonja hugs him around his waist, turning her head to watch as the camera operator lowers his equipment and turns around, walking away.

Blaze Claymore: I love you so much, Sonja. I don’t want to lose you eith-

Sonja presses her thumb against her phone before pushing herself off of Blaze and taking a big step back. She brushes off her jacket with a disgusted look on her face.

Blaze Claymore: Is everything OK?

Sonja doesn’t look at Blaze. Her pupils dilate as she locks in on her phone screen, fingers twitching toward the comment section before lifting up the screen.

Sonja Cuchilla: Oh… it’s better than okay. Look at those numbers! Santa mierda!

Blaze’s expression falters slightly, but he forces a smile all the same.

Blaze Claymore: I’m glad…

Sonja remains focused on the screen as she begins typing rapidly.

Sonja Cuchilla: Yeah. Well, you should be…

Sonja looks up.

Sonja Cuchilla: The ONLY reason you’ve got any kind of following right now after that catastrophe at Ascension is because of me.

Blaze reaches out to place a hand on Sonja’s arm again, but she pulls back.

Blaze Claymore (softly): I don’t care about any of that… all I need right now is you, Sonja.

Sonja rolls her eyes and begins to put her phone away, but soon realizes the camera operator is once again pointing his lens toward them.

Sonja Cuchilla (under her breath): Shit.

Sonja taps the phone once again and holds it up above her head, pulling Blaze in tightly so the two are in frame together.

Sonja Cuchilla (weeping softly): Hey everyone.. As you know the last few weeks have been really hard on Blaze and I… and after Ascension it’s become clear to me that PRIME is just not where we need to be right now.

Blaze looks down at Sonja, confused, as a stream of happy faces, hearts, and stars roll up the side of the phone screen.

Sonja Cuchilla: We’ve decided we need a place where we can reset, relax, and get Blaze the mental health support that he needs. PTSD is R-E-A-L and it is about time we had a serious conversation about what we – as a community – are going to do about it!

Sonja places a soft kiss on Blaze’s cheek as he sees comments explode across the screen. For a split second they look like eyes.

Watching him.

Sonja smiles and blows a kiss to the camera.

Sonja Cuchilla: Son-ja soon, everyone! Until then, please keep us in your prayers and remember that you will always be in ours. #SAVEBLAZE!

With a click of her thumb, Sonja lowers the phone and sighs, looking over to see if the camera operator has left. They haven’t.

She grabs Blaze’s wrist and begins to walk-slash-drag him away from the arena as he scrambles to pick up their duffle bags.

Blaze Claymore (confused): Wait… where are we going?

Sonja smiles and pushes air through her teeth.

Sonja Cuchilla (hissing): Change of plans. The D and Elise can wait – for now. I’m done relying on others. I am going to fix this. Everything you’ve done.

Blaze Claymore: What I’ve-

Sonja Cuchilla (hissing): We’re going to Montevideo. Tonight. By tomorrow everything will be set right.

Blaze Claymore (confused): But… what about the show? I thought you-

Sonja Cuchilla quickly turns and grabs Blaze’s hands, then his wrists, and then his forearm. Sonja’s pink talons press deeper – enough that a small trickle of blood slides down the pink, glossy nail on her pointer finger – as Blaze’s breath catches.

Sonja Cuchilla: You could have learned so much from your time with Max Kael, Nathan. Such a shame that you didn’t…

A beat. A smile.

Sonja’s hands move down his arm like a caress, until she releases Blaze and raises a single, bloody fingernail to her lips and licks.

Sonja Cuchilla: Don’t worry, babe. Just relax.  I’ll take care of IT.

Sonja pauses, smiles and then turns to face the camera with a barely noticeable wink as the scene goes dark.

We head back to live coverage.

Backstage.

With all of the cheering and bloodsport and shuffling of production, there’s one corner of the Kaseva Center where you can hear a mouse fart.

Rob Williams has carved it out. Staked his claim.

His face is visible only in the glow coming off his phone.

Sat on his ass in this dirty corner he stares at a picture of him and John Gordon.

John is trying to pull away, but Rob’s coiled him up in a bearhug. He’s planting a big kiss on John’s cheek.

It was when he won the UCW Title.

A voice cuts steamrolls through the silence.

Todd Haywood: Shame to hear about your friend, Robbie.

Rob’s stomach wretches – half from Todd’s presence and the other from the pure affront to his haven.

Rob Williams: Tod—

The callouses on Little’s hand scratch Rob’s neck as he’s lifted from his meditation.

Todd Haywood: Easy, on the merchandise Brother Little. You break, you buy. I must say, Robbie, I’m let down in our accommodations. You made the Church pay for our seats? Tsk tsk – that’s going on the bill.

There’s a beat between Todd’s perverse laugh and the chorus of Little and Big joining in. Rob’s central nervous system takes over, his hands swatting at Little’s arm out of survival instinct.

It doesn’t do anything.

Todd waddles closer, putting a hand on Rob’s elevated foot.

Todd Haywood: This is a friendly house call, Brothers. You haven’t forgotten about The Lord, have you Robbie? He hasn’t forgotten about you. And neither have we.

Rob Williams: I get it.

Todd Haywood: Wonderful!

Little once again drops Rob like a bag of shit.

Todd Haywood: Please make sure we have a suite for the next show. You know, with my sciatica I can’t be sitting in one of those regular chairs. We’ll be seeing you, Robbie.

A single bullet train kick to the stomach from Big levels Rob. Little pulls back for a follow up but Todd’s voice stops him in his track.

Todd Haywood: STAND DOWN, BROTHER BIG! Brother Little, would you kindly remind Brother Little that Robbie here is an investment? Now come on, I want to get a corn dog.

Pain and agony – Little grabs Big by the ear like a parent might a disobedient child. Rob smirks. At least there’s that.

Once they’re gone Rob calls out to The Father.

Rob Williams: Thanks for your help.

The Father: I’m a thinker, Robert, not a fighter. They’re a bunch of hicks, but Todd is smart enough to not let you get jammed up before a fight. He’s probably got a few weeks of the collection basket on this fight.

Rob Williams: Yeah, I figure the same. I don’t know, this is all spinning out of control. Nobody is going to fucking believe Max Kael attacked John. And John is going to wake up at some point.

The Father: You’re thinking in moments. Max Kael isn’t the play here, that just got some eyes off you. No, everything is playing out perfectly. Trust the process, Robert. Have faith.

Rob uses his elbow to wipe away some spittle from the corner of his lip pushed out by Big’s kick.

Rob Williams: Oh, you know me. I’m just overflowing with faith.

The Father: Hm. Time to go serve Max Kael some fire and brimstone.

ReVival moves on.

The match graphic shows before a brief visit at ringside.

Nick Stuart: Got another good one coming up here, should be a very competitive match.

Richard Parker: It should, but you know what they say.

Nick Stuart: No, actually. I do not.

Richard Parker: Oh, me neither. Hence why I was asking.

Stuart sighs into the transition of “Man in the Box” by Alice in Chains, as Rob Williams emerges, barbed wire baseball bat in hand. He takes swings of madness, along with cries of “redemption”, “honor” and other ramblings.

Richard Parker: Dodgers could use another bat, you think he signs with them in the offseason?

Stuart ignores his partner as Williams continues his descent down the rampway.

Vince Howard: This match is… FOR ONE FALL!

RRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH, just one fall this time.

Vince Howard: Introducing first… weighing in at two-hundred-forty pounds… he is THE LEGEND… ROB WILLIAMS!

Rob takes a couple more swings with the barbed wire bat before rolling under the bottom rope and into the ring where referee Ashley Barlow proceeds to tell Rob he will have to get rid of that thing. Meanwhile…

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

Richard Parker: I’m scared, partner. Hold me?

Nick Stuart: No!

Back to Darkly…

Snark Darkly: Introducing my client… Standing at six-foot-four-inches and weighing in at two-hundred-sixty-five pounds… MAAAAAXIMILLIAN. WILHELM. KAAAAAAAAEL!

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

“You should see me in a CROWN!”

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

“I’m gonna run this nothing town,

Watch me make’em bow

One by One by… ONE

One by one by…”

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

Richard Parker: You know, one day I’d like to be as oblivious as Max.

Nick Stuart: …One day?

Richard Parker: Sorry, what was that?

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

“You should see me in a CROWN!

Your silence is my favorite sound

Watch me make’em bow

One by one by ONE

One by one by oooone!”

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

Richard Parker: Nice crown, too. I should get one of those for the announce desk. You could call me The King. Fresh new take on play-by-play. Searching the depths of my mind I don’t think it’s ever been done before.

Before the referee can call for the bell, Max digs into his tights and reveals a 9 inch nail. Grinning from ear to ear, as he looks over at Rob with his barbed wire baseball bat… well, Ashley Barlow’s even more frustrated than Nick Stuart could ever be at dealing with Richard’s nonsensical banter. She points to the nail and tells Max he has to place it outside the ring. Kael “pretend tosses it away” and hides it behind his back like Barlow is some fucking moron who would clearly believe it’s gone.

Spoiler: she’s not.

However, Rob Williams takes a step forward, baseball bat in hand and shouting like a madman, some kind of antihero, willing to take a nail for the team, while trying to get his own licks in.

Barlow changes course. She points at the bat and walks directly over to Williams. For a split second there, it’s like Rob just allows it to happen – Barlow taking the baseball bat away and walking it to the steel steps outside the ring.

Perfect timing.

Mayor-Elect Maximillian Wilhelm Kael emerges with the nail again and right before he’s a foot away from Williams (who hasn’t even noticed, he’s watching Barlow), the ref snaps around, points at Kael and tells him she has no problem with a disqualification!

Kael’s shoulders sink. He’s not mad, it’s like he’s depressed. A kid no longer able to use his toy, and he only wanted to have some fun. Snark Darkly isn’t happy on the outside of the ring. Nevertheless, Kael walks over to the other side of the ring and the other steel steps. He places the 9 inch nail on them.

Ashley Barlow calls for the bell.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: Ashley Barlow’s got her hands full with this one- look at that slithering snake!

Richard Parker: Which one?

Nick Stuart: Max!

DIRECTLY after the bell rings, Kael realizes Barlow’s guard is down so he tries to creep up behind Rob, drops to his knees and cocks his right arm back for a low blow. However, Ashley is a pro, she knew the second she looked away, she should bring her attention back ASAP.

Kael doesn’t swing his arm forward. He’s caught, but he didn’t perform any action yet so he won’t be DQ’ed. Meanwhile, Rob’s taken a couple of steps back, since Kael was frozen and couldn’t do shit, or risk getting disqualified. Williams rolls his shoulders in the corner, locking his eyes on Kael as he emerges and wants to challenge with a grapple. A noble way for Rob to start this match-

Max pokes him in the eyes! Kael chuckles as he sneaks away, he finally got a cheat in! The Mayor-Elect cautiously moves towards the ropes, hoping Williams won’t be able to hear him and, therefore, won’t be able to figure where he’s coming from.

Kael slingshots off the ropes, picking up speed at a frantic pace. He looks for a clothesline, but Williams is able to hear what direction Max is coming in at the VERY last second. Rob ducks, Max misses and stumbles forward, falling flat on his face in comical fashion.

Williams regains his vision, spins around and snatches Kael by the arm. A short-arm, inside-out clothesline later and Kael is planted face-first on the mat for a second time.

Elbow drop by follows. Rob stands up and drops another elbow to the back of the head. Then one more. And another. Williams peels Kael off the canvas along with him and hurls Max into a corner. Williams goes rumbling in with a splash that knocks the spit right out of Kael’s mouth.

Williams hoists Kael onto the second rope and then immediately whips him into a piledriver position… completing the move with a piledriver from the second rope!

Nick Stuart: I have to say, that was nice! Rob didn’t even need to go on the second buckle with Max, he simply pulled Kael off with ease!

Richard Parker: Strength, I tell you.

Williams doesn’t go for a pin, however. Instead, he drags Kael to a vertical base and clubs Max across the chest with a hard axe handle smash. Kael doubles over, grinning sadistically. What is the smile in reference to? Who the hell knows. Needless to say, Williams bounces off the ropes and intends to clothesline it right off his face.

NO! Kael ducks. This time it’s Rob who stumbles forward and almost falls over, since he was laying every ounce of momentum into that clothesline. Kael slides behind Williams and proceeds to clubbing the former Five-Star Champion in the back of the head with a vicious looking elbow.

Pop, the sound of Rob’s neck crunching as the point of the elbow meets its target. This time, Max shoots off the ropes, the entire time he is pointing the end of his right elbow directly at its target.

Pop, again, the shot meets Rob Williams at the bullseye.

Nick Stuart: Working the neck, no doubt for the Madame Guillotine.

Richard Parker: Guillotine? Fantasy football guillotine?

Nick Stuart: What are you even talking about- are you paying attention to the match?

Richard Parker: Of course I am but guillotine fantasy football is all the rage right now!

Nick Stuart: Since when do you- since- oh nevermind.

Kael hits the ropes again and is looking for one more fluent, full-blast run at Williams’ neck with the point of his elbow.

SLAM!

Nick Stuart: And Rob Williams turns the tables with a powerslam!

Kael folds like an accordion upon impact. This time it looks as though Max’s lights are out, so Rob will make the pin.

ONE.

TWO.

LIGHTS ON – KICKOUT!

Williams goes back to work. First, numerous forearm blows to the back of Kael’s head. Next, knees into Kael’s chest to double him over. Finally, a hard-out head-butt to send Max into loopyville.

With The Black Heart of PRIME™ on rollerskates, Williams takes a couple of steps back and looks for another clothesline when Mayor-Elect Maximillian Wilhelm Kael suddenly latches onto Ashley Barlow and throws her in-between them!

Rob PUTS ON THE BREAKS! The crowd seems shocked, but this good guy act? shows itself, as Williams moves Barlow to the side-

Low blow by Kael.

DDT by Kael.

Pin by Kael!

ONE.

TWO.

SHOULDER UP!

Williams gives his head a shake on the canvas, he doesn’t know what hit him as Kael moves behind his opponent and drops an elbow to the neck again. Now Max proceeds to stomp on Williams’ neck over and over, relentlessly, as Rob is trying to get to a corner of the ring, the corner where he placed his barbed wire baseball bat on the steel steps before Barlow rang the bell.

Rob is in the corner, so the ref asks for a break from Max but he’s not going to stop. The FIVE count begins.

Stomps, stomps and more stomps. We are at FOUR when Max finally backtracks and raises his hands like he did nothing wrong. Ashley Barlow is scolding Kael while Snark Darkly appears, leaning onto the apron. He tries to choke Rob Williams while the referee isn’t looking!

There’s a bit of a choke in there before Barlow moves away from Kael in an effort to allow the match to continue. Meanwhile, Rob is recovering, looking at the barbed wire baseball bat while drooling out words such as “redemption” and “justice for all”…

Kael BRUSTS in with a clubbing knee strike, knocking Rob in the side of the head! Williams’ lights are definitely out!

Nick Stuart: I think it’s over, partner!

Kael drags Williams away from the ropes, hooks a leg and seemingly begs Ashley Barlow with his eyes to COUNT REALLY FAST!

ONE.

TWO.

FOOT ON THE ROPES!

Kael grumbles as he looks over, he thought he pulled Rob far enough away. As The Number One News Source in PRIME Entertainment gives his neck a large crack to the right, and then a swoop crack to the left, he leans down and quietly starts…

Nick Stuart: Is he… BITING Rob!?

Richard Parker: I think so!

Nick Stuart: In the neck!?

Richard Parker: I think so!

Nick Stuart: Or the ear?

Richard Parker: Might be both!

Kael is trying to use his arms as protection from referee Ashley Barlow’s vision as he sinks his teeth in, while Rob shouts, attempting to swat the Arkham native away.

Richard Parker: You would think Lindsay and company provide enough catering to avoid things like this.

Kael is getting a real good bite in there, as he finally rolls away and tries to bring Ashley Barlow along with him, no doubt to avert her eyes from looking at the trickle of blood now spilling down Rob’s right ear.

The Legend rolls onto his stomach, as he looks over at the barbed wire baseball bat that none other than Snark Darkly is eyeing as well. Upon seeing this, Max decides to spin Ashley Barlow around in a circle, dizzying her up, as he runs to his side of the ring and grabs the 9 inch nail!

Nick Stuart: Oh boy.

Richard Parker: You knew these guys were going to get their weapons.

And then, seemingly out of nowhere, Rob Williams gains a second wind! It’s like he did an emergency line of blow or something, because he’s up, all red-eyed and willing to go, the trickle of blood still rolling down his ears.

Max Kael: Shit.

Immediately, Kael drops the nail and exits the ring, he starts running for the rampway. The only issue is Maximillian had to exit on the opposite side of the entranceway and now Rob is coming directly for him!

Kael scurries around a corner, still keeping a bit of a lead on Rob. Max is almost near the rampway now… when he accidentally slips, realizing Rob was gaining ground.

Richard Parker: Look out!

A furious legend barrels in with a shoulder block, sending Kael flying halfway across the floor and landing at the foot of the rampway! Max has no doubt reached where he intended, it’s just that now… he’s down on all fours.

Williams comes charging in again.

WHAP!

Nick Stuart: I’ve never seen such a clothesline!

It’s not a clothesline that flips Max Kael inside-out, oh no. This one is simply a straight on lariat, knocking the spit right out of Max’s mouth and sending him to the ground back-first in a FLASH.

Williams peels Kael off the floor and walks him towards the apron. He rolls Kael into the ring and begins to pull himself into the ring with use of the ropes-

Wait a second.

Snark Darkly has the barbed wire baseball bat!

He’s about to wind up behind Rob, when Rob notices the guy so Snark stops cold in his tracks.

Only for Max Kael to gain another one of those nine lives, spring into action and connect with a running Unquestionable Kick!

Somehow, someway, Williams isn’t knocked off the apron or else Snark Darkley would be stuck between him and the floor, and potentially the barbed wire baseball bat, too. Nonetheless, Rob is reeling on the apron as Max leaps onto the second buckle and jumps off again, connecting with a Roaring Hellbow!

Kael pulls Williams into the ring, setting Rob up on his knees as Max begins to work the neck. It’s kick after kick, knee after knee into the neck when Max rears back and goes for what looks to be a final blow-

BLOCKED BY WILLIAMS!

Williams sucks Kael in and lands a snap piledriver!

Nick Stuart: We have a pin!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Williams isn’t done. Almost RIGHT after the kickout was made, Rob has Max up and into another piledriver position.

JUMPING PILEDRIVER!

Nick Stuart: Another pin!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Never phased, Williams continues to roll with the momentum. He tosses Max between his legs.

Pumphandle back-to-belly piledriver!

Nick Stuart: This time it’s over!

ONE.

TWO.

FOOT ON THE ROPES!

But it’s a foot on the ropes thanks to Snark Darkly!

Williams is pissed. He stands and points to Darkly, he saw it all! Barlow, however, did not and she’s trying to tell him that.

The Mayor-Elect is crawling away. He sees the 9 inch nail in the corner of the ring. After all, he had brought it into the squared circle a while ago. He finds it, clutches it with both hands and stands. It takes a moment to regain a sense of direction before The Arkham Mayor races in.

Barlow and Williams spin around at the EXACT same time, catching Max red-handed a couple feet away. Kael hides the nail behind his back and acts as if he’s coming over to grapple, with one hand.

Barlow won’t have it. She storms over and snatches the nail right out of Maximillian’s grasp. As she moves to the apron, ready to toss the nail out of the ring, Max smirks and tries for a low blow on Williams.

No. Rob was ready. He grabs Max’s arm before it gets there. Backup plan: Kael goes for an eye poke with the other hand but Rob blocks that, too. Once Barlow tosses the nail out and is back to calling the action, Williams tries for another piledriver…

But Kael counters with a backdrop!

Struggling to remain on his feet, Maximillian ends up collapsing on the second rope, neck dangling on the rope and head out of the ring. Snark Darkly shouts encouragement as Williams comes racing in…

And Kael moves at the very last second!

Rob hangs himself up on the ropes, so Kael lands a leaping DDT.

Nick Stuart: Another cover!

ONE.

TWO.

KICKOUT!

Kael slams the mat. He rolls to a vertical base and takes Williams along with him. There are three clubbing blows to the neck before he tries to put a choke on…

Williams pushes Kael to the ropes.

But Max rebounds with an Unquestionable Kick, shoving Williams into the ropes and then landing The Arkham Uppercut!

The MAYOR Arkham Uppercut!

Complete with The Suplex That Broke Time!

The MAYOR Suplex That Broke Time!

(Trying too hard? Probably.)

Nick Stuart: PIN!

ONE!

TWO!

LAST SECOND KICKOUT!

Nick Stuart: What a combination by Max! Proof that, yes, when he puts his mind to it, he doesn’t need to resort to cheating!

Right on cue, though. Max Kael is frustrated he hasn’t put Williams away. Therefore, he leaps up and “accidentally” bumps into Barlow, acting as if he was “out of sorts”. This gives Darkly the opening to toss that 9 inch nail back in.

Kael’s eyes go wide with evil intentions. His smile might be wider than Darkly’s during the entrance portion of the match. Pure, scary-as-shit clown-like-evil is about to happen. Because who doesn’t like evil clowns?

Kael readies-

When Rob Williams rolls to the ropes, grabs his barbed wire baseball bat and suddenly we have a stand off.

Until Ashley Barlow comes back to her senses.

She’s none too pleased. She’s pretty tired of it, to be honest. Rob discards the bat but Max basically says “fuck it” with his body language and charges at Williams with the nail.

…

MISSES!

Rob connects with a leaping knee to the chest. The move hits so flush and hard, Kael can’t hold onto the nail. Williams kicks it out of the ring, ready to inflict FINAL damage on his opponent when Snark Darkly appears on the apron.

Barlow’s reached peak patience! She marches over and tells Darkly if he doesn’t remove himself from the apron THIS VERY SECOND, she will kick him out.

Green Vale Gang.

Hugo Vale. Daniel Green. Both in the ring. Hugo has a 9 inch nail. Because why wouldn’t he?

It looks like Rob Williams mouths “fuck no” as he spears Hugo to the ground, avoiding the nail to the top of the head completely. Daniel Green takes a run at Williams but The Legend sidesteps and pushes Green into the corner, using Daniel’s momentum against him.

Max Kael bursts forward, but he’s destroyed with a spine buster slam!

…Except the mat doesn’t make a sound.

…Except Rob Williams falls to his knees instead.

…Except Maximillian Wilhelm Kael is released very easily.

There was no spine buster slam.

Daniel Green stands behind Williams, his own 9 inch nail in hand after just plunging it into Rob’s head.

Green makes a HARD exit out of the ring as he checks on Hugo while Snark Darkly also leaps off the apron and tells Ashley Barlow to “have it your way”.

Kael follows with the Madame Guillotine.

Barlow slides into the middle of the ring. She looks into Rob’s eyes, snatches his right arm and dangles it high.

It falls.

For a moment there she wonders why there’s a trickle of blood going down the top of his head but she figures it was something Max did legally.

She rings the bell.

DING DING

The crowd boos as Kael drops the hold and Snark Darkly enters the ring.

Vince Howard: The winner of this match… MAX KAEL!

Nick Stuart: Tough outcome. No way of knowing Green Vale Gang would show up and succeed in doing so.

Richard Parker: I have to say, excellently wrestled by both men, barbed wire bats and 9 inch nails aside. Hmmm, 9 inch nails. I’ve heard that somewhere before?

ReVival moves on as Darkly holds Kael’s arm high.

We’re backstage, and we’re following Joe Fontaine as he walks casually down the hallway. In one of his hands is his coffee, and in his other is a large plushie of Cecilworth Farthington that Joe seems to have conjured up from the ether through sheer will of effort. He also has the PRIME Tag Team championship wrapped around his waist, because of course he does. Did we also mention that he’s wearing what amounts to a gay pride version of his usual sparkling suit? Because he is.

Anyway, Joe’s just minding his own business. Doing Joe things. Perhaps he’s already coming up with his latest jolfventure.

He stops.

He stops in a way that makes it clear that this is involuntary. As though something grabbed hold of his foot.

He looks down.

The coffee goes flying out of his hand, and someone off-screen (probably fabby) screams at the coffee being thrown at them. The Cecilworth plushie also flies out of his hand.

Joe Fontaine: Holy shit, FLAMBO!

The camera pans down to see FLAMBERGE lying on the ground, barely conscious, covered in blood. Judging from the blood on the ground, he’s been lying there for through the last two matches worth of content.

Joe screams bloody murder.

Joe Fontaine: WHAT THE HELLLLLLL!?

He picks up FLAMBERGE’s body and cradles him.

Joe Fontaine: LOOK WHAT THEY DID TO MY BOY!!!

FLAMBERGE winces as though he can’t believe the guy that found him on the ground is also the loudest guy that could have found him.

Joe Fontaine: I SHOULD HAVE BEEN THE ONE TO FILL YOUR DARK SOUL WITH LIIIIIIIIGHT!!!

Oh, his voice cracked on that one. Oh no. Oh dear.

Joe Fontaine: WHO DID THIS!? WHAT MONSTER WOULD DO THIS TO YOU!?

FLAMBERGE can be heard barely mumbling. Joe stops his overdramatic yelling and listens carefully to what his tag team champion partner is saying. He almost instantly deflates.

Joe Fontaine: Oh. It was Rose.

All of the gusto has gone from Joe’s hamming it up, and he looks up at the ceiling.

Joe Fontaine: Yeah, that makes sense.

He pauses.

Joe Fontaine: We should probably get you to a doctor.

FLAMBERGE: (barely audible) Ouais.

And so, Joe goes to get a doctor, and ReVival 75 moves right along.

After more than six months of being forced into the role of “Steve Lemieux’s dedicated interviewer apparently,” you might think that Matt Mills is used to the role. You would be wrong. Every two weeks he goes back to his hotel room, just as he’ll do tonight, and pour himself a strong drink while he laments being “The Tillier” for a man who has likely never won a fight in his life, even in videogames.

But Mills is a professional, which is why he keeps showing up for the role knowing there is a dice-roll’s chance at just how goddamn weird things are going to get for those few minutes he’s contractually obligated to do this.

All of that is to say that it should be no surprise that when we fade into this next segment, that our intrepid interviewer looks thoroughly nonplussed to be there.

The setting is the same as it always is. One man – the only real adult in the shot – wears a suit and holds a microphone. Another, the one with the ski mask and cane, looks like he Katamari Damacy’d his way through a Goodwill circa 1973. The third and final man is Steve Lemieux, and his noodle arms are trembling because he’s holding up a boom mic.

Yes, we’re still doing that gag.

Also, it should be noted, he’s been holding it for only twenty seconds. Dammit, Steve, do some biceps curls or something. Fuck’s sake, man.

Matt Mills: Hello, everyone. I’m Matt Mills, and with me tonight is…

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Hello, yes! As the personal representative for Stefon Lummox, I know that everyone is excited to hear about how Stefon’s petition to have many belts is going.

Matt Mills: Actually, I…

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: But before we get to that, I know that this is a topic that everyone is eager to talk about. An event happened earlier tonight that must be addressed.

Matt Mills: You’re talking about the ret…

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: I know that everyone saw The Dickman fight the Angry Toilet Man for Some Pasta earlier, and as professional wrestling’s only lawyer-doctor I am prohibited by hippos to disclose the specifics of The Dickman’s condition. However please know that we all find it very funny.

Rick Hardbody: (off camera) No we fuckin’ don’t.

Ollie Cade: (off camera, laughing) And I don’t think we can call him The Dick-anything after that fight.

Steve’s face has started to turn a very interesting shade of pink. A single bead of sweat rolls down his forehead. Apparently boom mics are very heavy for people with no muscles. Also, apparently anyone backstage can just grab a boom mic and walk off with it.

Then again it has been a rough night for security.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Yes, yes. There will be many penis and penis-related surgeries in The Dickman’s future. But that is not why we’re here.

Matt Mills: (deadpan) You don’t say.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: We are here to talk about… JERRY!!!!

Zeke stabs out an accusatory finger to something out of frame, and the camera rotates to reveal more of the backstage area. About fifty feet away, Jared Sykes navigates a path through crates and production personnel on his way through the loading area.

Steve Lemieux, already little more than set dressing in his own interview, is now a complete afterthought.

The image jostles as interviewer and cameraman alike rush in his direction.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Hey! I have more to say about Hard Richard Dickman’s pulverized nethers!

Matt Mills: Jared! Hey, Jared!

He pivots mid-step, swinging his raised foot around to shift his direction towards Mills’ call. There’s a fresh bruise forming under his eye. Three thin lines of dried blood; scratch marks left as a gift from Alexei Ruslan. He wears the grin of someone who’s enjoying this a little too much.

Matt Mills: Jared, we have to know… What was that earlier? Ivan… The Red Army… Are… Is this…

It’s a rare moment of confusion on the part of Matt Mills, though in his defense his plans for the evening had been, in order, to show up, interview an idiot and his idiot cadre, feel real salty about it, go back to his hotel and pass out.

Jared Sykes: I suppose an explanation is probably in order.

He steps up next Mills and rests an elbow on the interviewer’s shoulder.

Jared Sykes: How long’s it been, Matt? Almost a year and a half? Something like that? It’s been a minute, Matty, I know that much. Got married. Had a baby. Y’know she’s walking now? Fucking crazy how fast that goes. A year and a half away from all of this.

He cocks his head and raises a finger.

Jared Sykes: But I’ve been paying attention. I watched as a new benchmark was set for this company when Coral Avalon became the standard that every other Universal Champion in the ReVival era will be measured against. I watched when the tag team division – OUR division – was dusted back off. I saw it when Tom and Mort, or… Zapp? I think? When they took that banner back up and said, “This is ours to carry now.”

A grin spreads across his face.

Jared Sykes: And I was watching when Joe Fontaine finally got the belt he always wanted. Just think, Joey. All it took was waiting long enough for us to go away. Maybe if I watch long enough I’ll get to see you defend it.

He takes his elbow off of Mills’ shoulder and puts up both of his hands in a placating gesture of surrender.

Jared Sykes: But hey, no shade. It’s his now. The man earned his gold, and we’ve gotta respect him for it.

He clasps both hands together behind his back, leans in slightly, and offers a quick nod towards the camera.

Jared Sykes: Hey, Julien.

Jared takes a single step back, unclasping his hands before quickly stepping forward again. The gesture is so sudden that Matt Mills is caught off guard and sidesteps out of the way. There’s a certain energy to Jared tonight, one closer to the naive rookie that debuted in the late 90s than the battle-worn vet he was towards the end of his last run.

He keeps moving forward, until it’s just his torso in the frame of the camera.

Jared Sykes: But you know… I learned something while I’ve been away. The last year has been very eye-opening. I don’t know if it’s the distance, or the new responsibilities that come with being a parent… Hell, maybe a bit of both. There have been some very hard truths that I’ve had to reconcile with, and one of those is that I have been lying to myself for a very long time.

He runs both hands through his hair before briefly locking his fingers together behind his head. Jared exhales a quick breath, and continues.

Jared Sykes: For a long time I’ve been telling anyone who would listen that this isn’t what I was supposed to do with my life… that in a perfect world no one would ever know my name. That I wasn’t a pro wrestler, I was just a guy who wrestles. I told people that I hated this. That the only reason I went out to that ring week after week is because I didn’t know how to do anything else.

He shakes his head with pursed lips.

Jared Sykes: But that? It’s not the truth.

He nods once, slow and deliberate.

Jared Sykes: And it took me a very long time to understand that.

There’s a pause, ever so brief.

Jared Sykes: It took me a long time to understand that I didn’t hate professional wrestling. I love it. I just didn’t think it loved me back.

Jared shrugs. The man is truly all over the emotional map tonight.

Jared Sykes: But then… well…

He raises his eyebrows and sucks in a breath through his teeth.

Jared Sykes: You just had to go and do it, didn’t you, PRIME? I step away to start the next phase of my life, and you hit me with… just… the biggest mindfuck. You know what they did?

He raises his right hand and wiggles his ring finger. There is no Hall of Fame ring on it tonight, but the gesture is symbolic.

Jared Sykes: They etched my name in gold. Me. Of all the people who have ever walked these halls, they picked my name and said, “Hey, Jared, we know it hasn’t always been easy. We know there’s been friction. But we know… that you’re one of us. We know that this is your home. That this is where you belong. So this is your house now. Here are the keys.”

Beat.

Jared Sykes: Me. They gave them to me.

For a brief moment it looks like those feelings of acceptance are bubbling back up to the surface. He dismisses it with a laugh.

Jared Sykes: I know it’s a joke, I know it’s a meme. “Oh, look, Jared likes to cry lol.” But I’d be lying if I said that didn’t get to me. For twenty-five years I’d been lying to myself, and then this company made me realize the fucking truth.

He takes a step back, and the next name out of his mouth is spoken with a booming authority.

Jared Sykes: Ivan Stanislav.

And almost immediately, Jared is smiling again, a playful edge to his voice.

Jared Sykes: Been a minute, big man. Do not get it twisted. Make no mistake. One day, maybe one day real soon, they’re going to give you your own set of keys. You ready to be roommates, Ivan? We can make our own bunk beds to have plenty of space for activities. Buuuuuuut, until then…

Just as he did earlier tonight, he holds up two fingers – one on each hand – to indicate that the audience should wait. Upon closer inspection, it’s clear they’re trembling slightly. Whether from adrenaline or raw emotion we may never know.

Jared Sykes: You are a guest in MY home. And we do not tolerate liars in this house. We don’t tolerate tantrums. You don’t get to throw the furniture around just because the chairs aren’t red enough. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from the people who came before me, it’s this…

He leans in close, voice dropping to a whisper. Because the softer you speak, the more you force people to pay attention.

Jared Sykes: You take your goddamn shoes off before you walk through my door.

Back in Massachusetts, Justine Calvin seethes in front of the television. And not just because her husband inadvertently called out her previous Tsonden behavior in front of millions of people.

Jared Sykes: And you do it so that you don’t track your bullshit all over the carpet. I am the ghost of your accountability, Ivan. I am the walking “well actually” that’s going to follow your ass from city to city just to keep you honest. Sometimes we learn things we don’t want to, Ivan. I know that all too well. But mark my words, bud… I will show you the truth.

He steps back again, placing one hand over his heart and the other on the side of his head as if in disbelief.

Jared Sykes: My god, where are my manners? You know, we’ve got a lot of new faces around here since the last time I walked these halls, and I can’t believe I’ve blown right past the introductions. Clearly I need to work on my hosting skills.

Jared moves in closer, his demeanor becoming incredibly serious as though someone simply flipped a switch and made it so.

Jared Sykes: My name is Jared Sykes. We can talk about titles. We can argue my resume. But what I want you to remember is this – I’m the guy you can’t kill. I’m the phantom you can’t exorcise. When you fuck up, I am the guy you get to deal with. I am your accountability come to haunt you until the end of time.

He gets closer. It is just his eyes in the frame of the camera.

Jared Sykes: My name is Jared Sykes… and I am goddamned eternal.

And with one last grin he turns and quickly moves back along his path. The camera pans back to reveal a bewildered Matt Mills watching as Jared dips between the boxes before catching sight of Nate Colton heading in the opposite direction. The two men share a brief bro hug, followed by a handshake whose intent is clear.

You son of a bitch.

As the two move off in the same direction, the camera turns past Matt to where Steve Lemieux still stands, still holding that boom mic. He’s now alone, Dr. Zeke having collected the rest of the weirdos some time ago. He’s also a waterfall of red-faced sweat.

Steve Lemieux: Guys? Hello? Can I put this down now?

At long last his arms give way, and he topples to the floor under the weight of the heavy microphone.

Steve Lemieux: Aww, beans.

We fade.

Miami has had a whole feast for the eyes already this evening, and now it was time for them to chow down on the ooey gooey desert of the main event… with their eyes… they are viewing more things with their eyes is what I’m saying here.

Nick Stuart: Well, it has come down to this… I don’t even know how to describe the journey that has brought us to the Intense Championship match between Sebastian Gold and Fred Dick here this evening…

Richard Parker: It’s the classic boy gets brainwashed, boy becomes a lasagna, boy breaks free and tries to commit an actual live murder on Pay Per View. A tale as old as time itself, Nick.

Nick Stuart: As flippant as my colleagues summary is, it gets to the heart of the match. Months of abuse and… I mean I don’t know how to begin to describe it, but Fred Dick did a real number on Gold and now Sebastian is finally claiming his Alias right… the goal? Revenge, and what better revenge than to take a title away?

As the lights dim in the arena…

I GET AHEAD ON MY MOTORBIKE
I GET AHEAD ON MY MOTORBIKE

The Opening riff of “The Living End” coats the arena as yellow smoke covers the top of the ramp. Out of the fog, riding a sweet hog, out screeches Gold, slamming through the smoke like he’d been fired out of a cannon. The challenger does a rad drift on the entrance ramp, stopping in place dead centre, as he basks in what is mostly strong adulation from the Miami fans. Gold has a lot of support, give or take a few people who were worried he was going to kill a man at Ascension.

Nick Stuart: You have to wonder what’s going through the mind of Sebastian Gold as he steps out into this Intense Championship match…

Richard Parker: Probably a lot more than had been there the past few months, if I had to take a guess.

THERE’S NOTHING ELSE BUT MEEEE

Out from the back walk The Anglo Luchador and Crash Jackson, cutting through the smoke and standing at either end of Gold, as he lets the magnitude of the moment sink in, absorbing the Miami atmosphere.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is your MAIN EVENT for the evening and is for the PRIME Intense Championship. Introducing first, hailing from Los Angeles, California, weighing in tonight at one hundred and ninety pounds, and standing at an individual height of five foot eleven… SEBASTIAN GOLLLLLLLLLLLLD!

THERE’S NOTHING ELSE BUT MEEEEE

The Bastion of Action takes his time heading to the ring, signing autographs and taking selfies with fans, most of whom still feel safe to do such a thing without the concern of bloody murder in their future. His fellow members of the Heroes are dutifully doing the same at his back.

Nick Stuart: This is Gold’s first ever main event in PRIME. As an Alias Champion, and one of PRIME most successful at that, he no doubt knows how to step it up in a challenging environment but will he handle the pressure of every eyeball in this arena watching his every move.

Richard Parker: I don’t blame the fans for keeping their focus on Gold, they’re probably worried their next at the skull caving factory if they look at him the wrong way.

Nick Stuart: I didn’t know this Miami crowd had also tortured the challenger for months.

Richard Parker: You just don’t know Miami, Nick.

AN EMPTY ROOOAAAAD
AND A COOL, COOL WIND
MAKES IT FEEL SO GOOOOOOOOD

He climbs the top turnbuckle and points to the sky, the energy shooting through him, his body shaking with anticipation, excitement and probably a touch of dread as he awaits the champion, the man who tried to break him and almost succeeded.

As Gold’s music fades, The Lasagna Boys (Toddrick and Miguel) step onto the entrance ramp, a microphone in Miguel’s hand. Gold looks at his former brothers(?) with a downtrodden forlorn look of wishing this wasn’t the situation.

Miguel: EVERYBODY SHUT THE FUCK UP!!! THE KING OF WRONG STYLE IS HERE!!! BOW YOUR HEADS AND KNEEL, YOU FUCKERS!!!

BOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

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

The drums and lame synthesizers of Starship’s “We Built this City” hit the speakers, and Fred Dick steps out from the gorilla position onto the entrance ramp, not with fellow Whoresmen in tow, but rather Randi Dick…

Nick Stuart: There’s a dark hint to the eyes of Gold as he looks upon the Intense Champion and his…

Richard Parker: She’s got STRONK 2 all up in there, that’s what I know from my journalistic sources.

Nick Stuart: This is what PRIME pays you for.

He does some shadow slap-boxing, gets a tad out of breath, and strolls to the ring. He rolls under the ropes, stands in the middle of the ring and — you guessed it, shadow slap-boxes some more.

Vince Howard: And his opponent… he hails from Chicken City, and tonight weighed in at three hundred and four pounds…

Nick Stuart: Quite the weight difference in this one…

Vince Howard: …he stands at an individual six foot one… THE REIGNING AND DEFENDING PRIME INTENSE CHAMPION FRED DIIIIIIIIIIIIICK!

Sebastian almost lunges at the simple mention of Dick’s name, particular with Dick now in swiping distance. Dick pays no mind to the man clearly with murderous intentions as he shadows slap boxes even more, with clapping encouragement from Toddrick, Miguel and Randi. Sweaty and gassed, he moves to his corner and awaits the bell, while his cohort of a lady friend and brainwashed thralls back him up at ringside.

Elvis Nixon takes the belt from Dick, albeit with the reluctant concern of considering where it may have been. He presents it to Gold, but Gold doesn’t pay much mind, keeping his attention on Dick while the Heroes give last minute words of wisdom in his corner. In Dick’s corner, less words of wisdom but instead certainly words of praise and support from people who definitely like Dick due to legitimate means.

Nixon presents the belt to the crowd and signals for the bell.

DING DING

The bell rings and the variety of support parties all step off the apron after whispering their final sweet words to their respective talents. As everyone departs to their corners, Sebastian Gold notices a wide opening as Fred Dick seems almost distracted by Randi stepping down the ring steps. This momentarily lapse of concentration from the Intense Champion’s end gives Gold enough of an opening to go right back to his stuntman roots and hurl his entire body into the mid-section of the much heavier Dick. Due to the sheer velocity of Gold’s sprint in the opening seconds of the match, the attack is forceful. Gold smacks off Dick’s stomach straight on, collapsing down to the mat, not concerned, as he’s satisfied with the damage done. He looks at Dick, who is clutching his guts and roaring on the mat next to him. Sebastian hears the crowd’s support and it lights up his eyes for the briefest of moments as he wipes himself down and gets back up to an even base.

Nick Stuart: Sebastian Gold firing himself like a projectile right into Fred Dick in the opening moments of this contest. You know Gold has been waiting for this moment, he may have started the attack at Ascension, but this is the revenge he seeks.

Richard Parker: Fred Dick is retching, this is very uncomfortable for all involved. Particularly hearing the screams of Toddrick and Miguel. I don’t need that in my life.

As Dick continues to writhe on the mat, Gold tries to work out what his next move should be. On the outside of the ring, Miguel manages to slide a chair into the ring, and as Gold leans over to continue his attack, the Intense Champion manages to find enough power and force to launch the chair into the side of Gold’s face, as if he was slapping Gold with a chair accessory arm. Gold wobbles and falls into the ropes, trying to clear the cobwebs as Dick, still clutching his gut, starts getting back up to an even base.

Nick Stuart: It’s an Intense Championship match, we knew we’d get here, but I’m surprised we got here so quickly.

Richard Parker: You’re surprised? I had “match immediately breaks down” as the free spot on my bingo card. That’s two maniacs in there!

Dick looks around the mat, trying to find the chair that he had just launched straight into the temple of Sebastian Gold. As he leans down to grab it, Gold has managed to shake enough of his cobwebs free to launch himself straight at Dick at the same weak spot. If this was something like The Simpsons Arcade Game, Fred Dick would now be flashing red, but only a little, not a lot, after Gold rushes the same weak spot full force for the second time. Dick is a bit more ready for Gold’s attack this time and firms up just enough to absorb some of the impact. Gold crashes into the mat again, but Dick manages to stay upright. Staggered but upright. He bends down once more to grab the chair.

Nick Stuart: We’ve always known that Gold had a bit of a laissez-faire attitude to his own wellbeing in these matches, but I don’t think I’ve seen a competitor so willing to sacrifice their own body so early in a contest.

Richard Parker: If a man made me eat dog food, I’d rip off his dick. But that’s a bit more complicated with Fred… you know, not going down that path.

As Dick goes to grab the chair, he doesn’t spot that Gold actually rolled through on his attack, likely due to his unique set of skills, and managed to land and position himself behind the Intense Champion. As Dick tries to find Gold, Sebastian uses his nimble footing to stay behind Dick at all times, which is very confusing to the Intense Champion, who really expected to see Dick during his three hundred and sixty degree inspection of the battlefield. With the yelling of his boys at ringside, Dick works out that Gold is behind him and swings around quickly to attack with the chair. As Dick swings, Gold ducks and then leaps, dropkicking the chair right into the face of The Street Cat. The force of the shots gets Dick to drop the chair and Gold looks to follow-up, locking Dick in a headlock with visions of a DDT right onto the chair.

Nick Stuart: Sebastian Gold is not letting anything stand in the way of his revenge this evening. This isn’t just about Fred Dick, this is about the pay off to a long journey that began when Gold first won the Alias Championship.

Richard Parker: He may need to let himself stand in his own way if he keeps up this pace. You wouldn’t want your Intense Champion in actual literal jail due to murder.

As Sebastian looks to drop The King of Wrong Style, he hears a voice yelling out at him.

Toddrick: DON’T DO THAT TO DADDY SAGNA!

Toddrick, who is definitely healthy and has all of his limbs in perfect condition, yells just loud enough to catch the ear of the challenger and as Gold’s brain thinks about his old Lasagna Boys colleagues(??), it gives the champion just enough space to deliver a full force slap straight to the gut of Gold, who immediately drops the facelock and backs away. Dick keeps up the attack, slapping Gold full force in the gut once more, and that’s enough to double the challenger over. The Intense Champion digs deep into what we have been told to inform you is leopard print underwear and grabs a pair of brass knuckles deep down in his nether regions. Jackson and TAL try to warn Gold, but Gold is still suffering from two swipes from the Street Cat. The next thing the challenger knows, he is nailed in the gut once more, but this time there’s an extra metal crunch that drops the challenger to his knees.

Nick Stuart: Gold looked clearly in control, but we’ve got a lot of forces here at ringside and momentum can shift so quickly.

Richard Parker: I can’t even imagine what’s running through Gold’s mind, any time he spots Dick’s boys, a wave of emotion must rush over him.

With Gold on his knees, the cat swipes once more, smashing the brass knuckles against the jaw of Sebastian Gold. The camera picks up a little of Dick’s yelling as he swings, and it sounds very much like “AFTER EVERYTHING I DID FOR YOU!”. Another shot from the knuckles across the temple sends Gold to the mat hard, a cut opening in his forehead and…

Nick Stuart: Gold’s gushing!

Richard Parker: Looks like Dick struck oil, that is a spurt and a half. I can barely look.

Dick, heavily breathing from having at full force of an entire human launched at his whole gut twice, decides the quickest path for victory is to drop down and fall on top of the face smashed Gold. The champion flops on top of Gold, stretching out an arm across his challenger’s chest.

ONE!

TWO!

No!

Gold manages to roll his shoulder up, in a manner much more energetic than you’d expect for a man smashed with brass knuckles across the face a couple of times. Fred Dick looks at Elvis Nixon, who makes it clear that the count was very much a two. Dick decides not to waste a moment and looks for a mount over Gold, but as the champion tries to position himself, the challenger proves himself to be a difficult man to pin down. Dick tries to use his mass to assert control, but in the power shift of this moment, Gold is able to kick the knuckles out of Dick’s hand and as Dick tries to force himself on Gold, Gold manages to hook his arm around the champion’s neck and drives Dick’s face right into the mat.

Nick Stuart: Quick moves and quick thinking from Gold have given him a bit of an opening here.

Richard Parker: If Sebastian Gold is breathing in this match, he’s fighting. This is his chance to get even.

Gold feels his forehead and notices the trickle of blood that has been spurting out of it. Rather than seeming at all concerned by this, it fuels him back up from the mat, as an excitable Miami crowd cheer on this shift of momentum. Dick remains down on the mat, as you would expect from a three hundred pound man hitting his face on the mat with a thud. The challenger sees the chair they had previously battled over and sets it up in the ring. There’s a dent in the middle of it, but it manages to sit open in the ring. A dazed Dick gets back up to his feet and swings at Gold, who swiftly drops down and as Dick moves towards him, trips him up with a drop toe hold that sends the Intense Champion flying face first into the chair. Dick doesn’t go down as much as he remains slumped across the chair itself.

Richard Parker: Thinking of a lot of beached whale pictures I’ve seen right now for some reason.

Nick Stuart: Gold is looking to hurt Dick and no amount of ringside yelping from Randi Dick is going to stop him. No matter how much she screams in terror, there’s no stopping Gold.

Richard Parker: Should we be concerned about that?

Nick Stuart: Fred Dick earned this, I wouldn’t worry too much.

With Dick across the chair, Gold takes a few steps back, bounces off the ropes and drills a knee straight into the back of The Street Cat’s skull. The force from Gold sends both Dick and the chair tumble over as Dick’s skull meets very unfriendly metal at a high force. The camera picks up a shot that Dick hit the chair at a bad angle and now seems to be leaking from the ear. Gold wipes the blood from his brow as he considers what his next move should be. He sees the now very broken chair that has almost been the central character of this match. He grabs the chair and begins to climb the ropes, keeping an eye on Fred, making sure he isn’t stirring as Gold ascends the turnbuckle.

Nick Stuart: Gold has something planned here… this could destroy him, or it could destroy Dick.

Richard Parker: Well, destroy Dick even more. That tragedy of humanity is already a walking calamity.

Positioning himself on the middle rope, Gold hugs the steel chair and leaps with all the energy he can muster, he spins in the air and lands chest first with a chair vest on top of Dick.

Nick Stuart: THE PLOT TWIST! A CHAIR ASSISTED PLOT TWIST!

Richard Parker: Is that blood, is Fred Dick coughing up blood?

We have little time to explore the questions of Richard Parker, because Sebastian Gold stays on top of Fred Dick for the pin.

ONE!

TWO!

MIGUEL!

You would be correct in assuming that Miguel would not be the word for “three” in any language. The less infirm of the Lasagna Boys, clearly in a panic about Daddy Sagna’s fate, grabs the ankle of Elvis Nixon and yanks him out of the ring. Nixon, very annoyed at this development begins to scream his head off at Miguel, and Miguel looks absolutely terrified. Almost as if regretting the very action he just took. Crash Jackson and TAL, after being patient with the first involvement of Miguel and Toddrick decide that in fact they’ve had quite enough of this nonsense and they walk over to join the conference.

Nick Stuart: We had a new champion!

Richard Parker: You never know, the universe loves Fred Dick. He could have got his shoulder up, but now we won’t know.

Randi Dick takes a step back from the fray, on account of the whole heavy pregnancy situation. Inside the ring, a frustrated Sebastian Gold can spot what just happened out of the corner of his eye, between all the blood that keeps leaking into it and trying to blind him. For his part, a very out of it Fred Dick paws at nothing in particular in the arena ceiling in a posture where if it was another other situation, you’d think it was a cat seeking a belly rub. A staggered Gold manages to pull himself back up while the out of ring dispute rolls on between the Boys and the Heroes. No one is happy, Elvis Nixon seems to be in his personal hell.

Nick Stuart: Absolute madness out here, the Heroes are clearly irate at Miguel’s actions.

Richard Parker: It’s not his fault, Nick, he means well. He just cares.

The Plot Twist may not have brought the curtain down on this match, but Sebastian Gold knows what will. The challenger once again scales the ropes and climbs up to the turnbuckles. This time he is not satisfied with the mere second rope area, no, no, Gold and his new chair friend are going to ascend to the very top of the ring and Gold is going to make Fred Dick suffer, he’s going to make him feel, he’s going to hurt Fred Dick. Gold once again hugs the steel chair around his chest as he carefully balances himself on the top rope. He takes one last look at Fred Dick, still pawing at the sky, his ear leaking circles of blood upon the mat.

Nick Stuart: NO! NO! NO!

In the fray of the moment, in the heated argument outside the ring, in the potential murder of Fred Dick in the ring, everyone lost track of one thing…

A heavily pregnant woman.

With his attention so locked on the champion, Gold did not spot Randi Dick trying to climb the stairs next to him, so when her arm nudged him just enough, Gold wasn’t entirely sure why he was falling straight to the mat. He didn’t have much time to consider the consequences of this moment as the chair wrapped around his chest smashed into the mat, his chest acting as the upper slice of bread in a chair sandwich with the ring mat below. This crash (not the other one, he’s still yelling at Miguel on the outside) takes the wind out of Gold. Randi Dick slowly climbs back down the stairs and TAL and Jackson only realise what’s happened seconds too late.

Nick Stuart: The Heroes were so caught up with the Lasagna Boys, they forgot about the heavily pregnant Randi.

Richard Parker: Which is surprising… considering… y’know… you know.

The Heroes begin to yell at Elvis Nixon, who is still trying to moderate the debate between the ringside forces. TAL grabs Nixon and turns him in the direction of Randi, but before he can explain why he wanted a referee to look at a heavily pregnant woman, Nixon notices something inside the ring.

The Intense Champion has managed to roll over onto his belly and put a paw across the chest of Gold. Nixon slides back into the ring for the count.

Nick Stuart: This can’t be it! After everything that Sebastian Gold has gone through! This can’t be it!

Richard Parker: We live in a cold and uncaring universe Nick, it could very much be it.

TAL and Jackson try quickly to consider their options and realise that they have very few, with Nixon’s hand already slapping off the mat.

ONE!

TWO!

The Heroes get close to the apron, they even consider pulling Nixon back out of the ring.

THREE!

The pause to decide is just long enough for the hand to hit the mat for a third and final time.

DING DING DING

To say the Miami crowd are displeased with this result would not do justice to the reverberation of boos that echo across the entire arena, enough to cause the building to feel like it’s shaken. TAL and Crash Jackson are immediately in the ring trying to appeal to Elvis Nixon, but Nixon tries to explain he can only call what he sees. Realising the argument won’t get them anything, they go to check on the chest crushed and bleeding Jackson. Gold’s brother Dio rushes into the ring and begs Nixon to look at video evidence to little avail.

Nick Stuart: I know this must hurt for the Heroes and Dio, but Elvis Nixon didn’t see Randi. He was tied up with the Lasagna Boys.

Richard Parker: I am loath to support the Heroes on this, but… how could you not spot her.. like.. just.. you know… look…

There’s a deep sense of frustration in the Heroes side of the ring, but around Fred Dick, there is a festival-like atmosphere. The Intense Champion is slowly getting back to his feet as Elvis Nixon presents his championship back to him.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentleman, your winner via pinfall… and STILLLLLLLL INTENSE CHAMPION. FRED! DIIIIIIICK!

Nick Stuart: Sebastian Gold just had his rightful vengeance ripped away from him by Randi Dick. Randi and The Lasagna Boys ruined what many would call justified revenge.

Richard Parker: You have to wonder if Gold wishes he had actually caved in Dick’s skull at Ascension.

As the Heroes help Sebastian back up, Fred Dick becomes aware enough to see Elvis Nixon presenting him the championship. He rips it out of his hands in excitement and slaps that bad boy over the shoulder of Randi Dick (who, may we add, is heavily pregnant). Clearly swept up in the moment, he tries to lift Randi off her feet and out of the ring, but this is a bit more of a struggle for the Intense Champion than he had anticipated for a multitude of factors. As he wobbles at the knee, clearly still not fully recovered from the match, his dutiful Lasagna Boys see the situation and do the needful, supporting the champion in carrying Randi out of the ring and up the ramp, the Intense championship still upon her shoulder.

At the top of the ring, both Dicks and the Boys hoot and holler after their victory as if it was hard fought. Inside the ring, a still bleeding Gold is held up by his brother, and the Heroes, he is surrounded by family who are all trying to process what just happened. They all know deep down that this was Sebastian’s match to win. They look on at the spectacle that is unfolding at the entrance way, it only makes them all the more sickened and frustrated.

The Lasagna Boys and Fred Dick twirl and spin Randi around on their shoulders, Randi lifting the Intense Championship up high.

And us?

Well, we…

FADE.

TO.

SAGNA.