ReVival 77

The.

Signs.

Are.

Here.

THIS CARD IS BULLSHIT, I WAS PROMISED A BUTT-OFF
WITH THIS MANY TITLES POTENTIALLY CHANGING HANDS, THIS SHOW SHOULD TAKE PLACE AT THE OFFICE OF THE REGISTRAR OF DEEDS
BORIS YELTSIN BROUGHT PIZZA HUT TO RUSSIA
STANISLAV SHOOK HANDS WITH BOTH RONALDS: REAGAN AND MCDONALD’S
LABELLE’S ALIAS GIMMICK: REMEMBERING HOCKEY PLAYERS
IF A SPIRIT HALLOWEEN 10-FOOT SKELETON DOESN’T WIN ONE OF THESE DAMN TITLES, WE RIOT

Nick Stuart: HELLLLLLLLO South Carolina!

Richard Parker: South Carolina is a state, Nick. It can’t hear you.

Nick Stuart (ignoring Richard): We’ve got a great show this evening, including a hotly-anticipated Universal Title match, but first we’re kicking things off with a showdown between the sandwich man and the Lawnmower Man. Three.

Richard Parker: Don’t disrespect the Lawnmower Men who have come before, Nick. They are hardworking, dedicated … Americans? I’m not quite sure.

Nick Stuart: Well, I’m not sure there is anything more American than a classic sandwich, Richard, and Steve Lemieux is just as hard working as any Lawnmower Man. Plus, you shouldn’t eat grass. Or smoke it. That’s just not healthy.

Richard Parker: Well neither is that.

We see Steve Lemieux already in the ring and he can hear everything being said about him. Everything. He paces nervously in a button-down long sleeve shirt and khakis, but over the top of the khakis is what appears to be a bottom part to a medieval suit of armor.

Nick Stuart: You never can be too careful protecting the family jewels, Richard. Maybe someday we’ll be calling a match for Steve Lemieux III.

Richard Parker: You’re paying for my next therapy session putting that in my mind, Nick.

“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.

Vince Howard: Laaaaaaaaadies and gentlemen, joining MR. BEEFST Steve Lemieux in the ring is the CHLLLLLLOROPHYLL CANNNNNNIBAL. Hailing from TURF, Michigan, at 6-foot-2 and 245 pounds, we have LAWNMOWER MAN THREEEEEEE.

Marching to the ring with a purpose, Lawmower Man IIl 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.

A nervous Steve Lemieux retreats into the corner as he looks over to Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq., who flashes a thumbs up as the bell rings.

DING DING DING!

Lawnmower Man III makes a loud revving sound as he runs straight at Steve Lemieux. And that is literal – he runs in a straight line, head down, Naruto style, toward a fleeing Lemieux!

Nick Stuart: Lawnmower Man III has pivoted away from Lemieux now and is turning the opposite way to running down the side of the ring!

Richard Parker: Is he… mowing the ring?

Nick Stuart: Any good lawncare artist knows you gotta be precise. And symmetrical.

Lawnmower Man III continues his snake-like path across the ring as Steve nervously tries to avoid the masked man, holding his hands to his armour-protected buttocks.

Zeke reaches through the ropes to hand something to Steve as Elvis Nixon quickly approaches and begins to chastise him, giving the pair a warning.

Nick Stuart: Are those… ketchup packets?

Richard Parker: Look like they’re from McDonalds, Nick. Dr. Zeke must have made a pit stop on the way to the arena tonight.

Seeming to believe the condiments entirely useless, Elvis steps back toward to the center of the ring just as Lawnmower Man III reaches the distracted Lemieux!

Nick Stuart: OH! Lawnmower Man is getting a little bity! Steve is holding out those packets as some sort of peace offering but his opponent is just ripping and tearing them apart!

Richard Parker: Lemieux looks like he had a very bad day in the kitchen, Nick.

Nick Stuart: A CHOP! Lawnmower Man just tried to use both hands to “prune” the neck of Steve Lemieux and the sandwich man is stunned!

Richard Parker: I’d be stunned too, Nick! Prunes have no place in a sandwich – especially not one with ketchup!

A reeling Steve Lemieux puts his hands up to try and defend himself and flails wildly, getting ketchup all over the mask of the Chlorophyll Cannibal.

Nick Stuart: Lemieux is trying to escape and OOOH! He collides with Lawmower Man and I believe the masked fighter is a bit disoriented! Now’s Steve’s chance?

Richard Parker: To do what? Run away harder?

With the sound of a roaring engine and tenacity of the T-1000, Lawnmower Man III spots Steve Lemieux on the other end of the ring and goes into on turbo mode, rushing full force at the sandwich man!

Nick Stuart: OH! OH GOD! I think Steve may be dead.

As Lawnmower Man III connects, Steve flies like a ragdoll into the ropes, but like a ragdoll wearing a giant metal diaper. The extra weight of Mr. Beefst’s metal security against having his ass mowed (phrasing) by his opponent causes him to drop like a paperweight to the outside with a huge THUMP!

Richard Parker: Don’t worry Nick. Lemieux’s stupidity broke his fall.

We can hear Steve whining “owie owie owie” on the outside as Lawnmower Man III paces – no… glides around the ring as Elvis begins a count.

ONE!

TWO!

Dr. Zeke is helping Steve up and helps roll him back into the ring!

THREE!

Nick Stuart: Steve looks out of it, Richard, but I think he may have a plan!

Steve holds his hands up high in an “I surrender” motion.

Nick Stuart: Nope. Nevermind.

Lawnmower Man III just yells, or … spurts? As he begins to swing his arms wildly like a combine and Steve Lemieux starts doing the same out of a sense of pure survival instinct!

Richard Parker: Simpson’s did it!

The pair run towards each other with flailing arms and careen into one another in a mass of humanity – and spilled ketchup.

Steve and Lawnmower Man roll around on the mat before Lawnmower Man wraps Lemieux up for a pin! Elvis Nixon drops to the mat to make the count!

ONE!

T-

Lemieux kicks out – rather, he squeezes his way out from underneath tries to run away!

Nick Stuart: Steve isn’t able to get far! Now Lawnmower Man III has the sandwich man and is lifting him over his head even with the added weight of the metal armor.

Richard Parker: So you’re saying it’s an elevated concept, Nick?

Nick Stuart: No. And neither should you!

Lawnmower Man III yeets Lemieux into the turnbuckle with a giant metal CLANG!

Nick Stuart: It’s the Weed Eater! Lawnmower Man is kicking Steve in all his exposed areas! F

A groggy Steve drops onto his well-protected buttocks as Lawnmower Man turns to the crowd and lifts his arms in victory as the crowd roars back in unison.

Nick Stuart: Not a smart move by Lawnmower Man III here, walking away from a pin attempt!

Richard Parker: Nothing about this match is even remotely approaching smart, Nick.

As Lawnmower Man tries to “rev” up the crowd, Dr. Zeke is slapping Mr. Beefst to get him to wake up. Just as Steve comes to, Zeke hands his fighter something and this time manages to sneak it past the referee.

Richard Parker: What’s he giving him now!? Some sort of grass-infused ketchup!? It’s not going to work! Lawnmower Man III doesn’t want to be fed, he wants to cut!

Steve pushes himself up from the turnbuckle just as Lawnmower Man turns around! The yardwork enthusiast revs himself up, sputtering behind his mask as he wraps his arms around the head and neck of Steve Lemieux!

Nick Stuart: He’s going for the Yard Cutter! This may be it!

A yelp of pain comes from the ring as Lawnmower Man III drops his hold and reaches up towards the eyes of his mask. As we turn and look, there is a single, minature bottle of sriracha ketchup in Steve’s hands that has very clearly been discharged into Lawnmower Man’s eyes.

Richard Parker: Ohhhhh ooooooo that’s gonna sting.

Dr. Zeke, still in Steve’s corner, yanks the bottle away from his fighter and shoves him forward, after Lawnmower Man! The momentum, Steve’s probably concussed head, and the weight of his chastity belt cause Lemieux to run directly into the screaming Lawnmower Man and SPEARS him down to the mat!

Nick Stuart: Lemieux’s got the cover!

Richard Parker: That’s not a cover, it’s a cry for help!

Either way, Elvis Nixon drops and begins his count – the weight of Steve’s underwear helps the sandwich man press Lawnmower Man’s shoulders to the mat as he tries to push himself up from the wreckage.

ONE!

TWO!

THREEEEE!

DING DING DING!

Vince Howard: The winner of this match is… STEEEEEEEEEVE LEEEEEMIEEEEEUX!

A confused Lemieux rolls off of Lawnmower Man, whose eyes have swollen shut behind his mask, as Dr. Zeke rolls into the ring and begins to lift up his protege and parade him around the ring like a show pony.

Richard Parker: That has to be one of the dumbest things I’ve ever seen in my life.

Nick Stuart: Hey now. The night is young, Richard! It could always get dumber!

We go to commercial.

…Previously On…

…THE NEWS…

Gritty grey and white footage shows the WON ACTION NEWS VAN in a garage, Max’s disturbing plexiglass face staring dead eyed from the front of it. The driver’s side door opens as the Herald jumps out and begins to skip away.

Max Kael: So it was him.

We pan away from the security footage to show Max Kael, glaring in the glow of the screen.

Snark Darkly: You think that your Herald was the one who helped get Dawkins the NEWS VAN?

Max Kael: And the one who helped Kai hack the NEWS feed.

Kael’s lip curls with furious disgust as his green eyes flicker with malevolence.

Snark Darkly: Do you have proof other than your Herald being the last one to have the key? Perhaps Dawkins stole it from him?

The Mayor of Arkham shakes his head.

Max Kael: If Dawkins had attacked my the Herald, he would have bragged about it and Bentley would have come crying to him No… no my dear the Herald has finally decided that he’s grown too big for Max Kael.

Hissing the words through clenched metal teeth, Max reaches out toward the screen.

Max Kael: … and he’ll pay for that… heh-heh…

Flicking the screen off, Max is swallowed by darkness.

☠️☠️☠️☠️

…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 WON ACTION NEWS TEAM members.

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

The Son of Scions, Sutler Reynolds-Kael.

Kirk the Sportshead, reanimated head of Lowell Dot Com.

And of course the Mayor of Arkham and Lead News Anchor…

Maximillian Wilhelm Kael!

We cut to the WON ACTION NEWS STAGE where Max Kael is seated behind his famed NEWS DESK in his usual black three piece suit and #D60000 red bowtie. He wears his usual silver toothed grin while his green eyes pulse with an unhealthy green glow.

Max Kael: WORMS of PRIME, welcome to WON ACTION NEWS! I am your lead NEWS anchor and MAYOR of ARKHAM, Maximillian Wilhelm Kael. Tonight I want to start off on a serious note and then move into something to lighten the mood.

The lights on the stage dim, a single pillar of light illuminating Max.

Max Kael: We’ve recently had to let one of our WON ACTION NEWS FAMILY go. Our dearest Kai Makana has been endeavored due to an inability to continue her duties here on WON ACTION NEWS. Her health has recently taken a turn for the worst… we send her all your thoughts and prayers… mmhehmm..

Stifling a laugh, Max’s wild green eyes fill with a vindictive poison.

Max Kael: We here hope for her swift recovery… heh-heh.

Slapping his hands off his desk excitedly, the lights rise on the stage again.

Max Kael:  But the show MUST go on! And so it is with great pleasure that I introduce you to our newest WON ACTION NEWS TEAM member…

Standing, Max throws jazz hands at the side stage door.

Max Kael: The Son of Scions, my boy, Sulter Reynolds-Kael!

Canned cheering fills the studio as the door opens to reveal the dour looking Sutler Reynolds-Kael. Long black hair with flashes of vibrant pink hair falls across dark eyes. His handsome face is twisted in disgust for his adopted father, a feeling many people watching share. He’s very underdressed compared to his father, a black tank top tucked into skinny jeans that terminate in a pair of chucks.

Max cheers his son’s arrival, clapping his hands and waving him over. Sutler sighs and lazily drags across the stage.

Max Kael: You’ll have to excuse Sutler, he’s one of those emotional kids. Anyway, Sutler, go ahead and take a seat over there!

The Mayor of Arkham indicates for Sutler to sit in a chair a few feet behind him. Sutler obeys though the resentment burning in the young man’s face is unmistakable. Once he’s seated, Max stops his relentless applause and sits back down. The canned applause slowly fades out as Kael turns his face toward Camera 1.

Max Kael: My guest tonight isn’t even from PRIME! Apparently he used to like video games but now he’s in DEFIANCE, I guess he’s a friend of my son…. CONOR FUUUUUUUUUUSE!

Sutler’s expression goes from disgust to silent rage as Max stands once again, jazz handing toward the side stage door.

It takes a moment, but Conor Fuse walks into the frame, sporting dark blue slacks and a faded lime green t-shirt. He’s appeared on PRIME television before, albeit sporadically either opposing Cancer Jiles, or, more recently, being a part of the Egg Bandits. Needless to say, the typical happy-go-lucky, prolly on the spectrum man-child isn’t all smiles today, he’s got a much more serious demeanor. His usual ratty blonde hair remains but you can see it’s trying to stay more in place, like Conor actually ran a comb through it. Maybe just once.

Kael keeps the jazz hands going as Conor looks down at them, raising both eyebrows. Fuse shakes his head in confusion, but finds a seat across the way. The Ultimate Gamer glances around the room, however, he purposefully? does not look in Sutler Reynolds-Kael’s direction. In fact, he acknowledges everything except SRK.

Conor Fuse: This is… uh… this is nice, Max. It’s so good to formally meet you.

Max Kael: Thank you! You know you’re not as dough-faced as my son led me to believe! Have a seat Big Conor “Blown” Fuse!

The jazz hands cease their jazzing as Max eases down into his seat. Behind him Sutler seethes, glaring at Conor despite the fact Fuse apparently reFUSEs to acknowledge the Son of Scions.

Conor leans forward, collapsing his hands into one another, looking dead into the Mayor of Arkham.

Conor Fuse: It’s great you’ll have me on this fine, fine news program of yours, as Lindsay Troy isn’t a big fan of myself. She finds me… annoying. Even deleted me off the PRIME roster page, despite my direct ties to Cancer Jiles and company. Johnny Dorn gets a roster page, but Conor Fuse can’t? I digress, Maximillian. I guess I have to go through other routes to show my cute and adorable little face. It is adorable, my mom told me I am a good looking man the other day. Anyway, I’m also not currently on DEFIANCE television, either. But this is a story for another time.

Max Kael is nodding through Conor’s speech, checking his watch occasionally to see how long they are running.

Conor Fuse: So anyway, I caught a lot of Pokemon this past week while I was walking around and doing some solid thinking. I’ve been wrestling in the “big leagues” for about eight years now, and I’ve had rivals come and go. A lot of good battles. You’ve had good battles too, right?

Max Kael: I’m not legally allowed to talk about most of them and besides, I’m the one who asks questions around here but I’m sure you’ll ramb-

Sutler rolls his eyes in the background as Conor continues like Max had never been speaking.

Conor Fuse: Ahaha, ya of course you have. Lots of good battles for you and lots more to come, I’m sure!

Conor swings his feet freely under the desk. You can hear his feet knock into the front board over and over as he continues to ramble.

Conor Fuse: It’s a shame you were dead when I first met you. I bet we would’ve had some real awesome back and forths! People think I’m all about playing video games, but like I also read comic books. Additionally, I indulge in lots and lots of wrestling-related activities! Been watching you, Max. Been watching since you were… resurrected. Did you ever figure out if you were hatched from that Cecilworth jizzpod? Or a clone from another universe? Pretty slick origin story if you ask me… either way!

It looks like Max wants to reply but Conor is so oblivious and head-in-the-clouds, he keeps rambling right through whatever initial word starts out of Kael’s mouth.

Conor Fuse: There’s another name of a fierce rival I had – Cecilworth. Only wrestled him once, though. A solid Conor Fuse victory, I gotta say! He’s pretty lucky I am not a downloadable character on this PRIME roster. I’m not even an easter egg!

Again, it seems like Max tries to interject but Conor keeps on going.

Conor Fuse: Or DLC. I should’ve said DLC. I’m getting rusty on making sure I stay sharp and crisp with the gaming references! But, again, alas, I am not all one dimensional, Max-i-million. I am more than meets the eye!

Yes, Fuse STILL keeps steamrolling. Max’s face starts to turn red as his guest continues to ramble. Sutler starts to look amused.

Conor Fuse: As previously mentioned… gamer, avid comic reader, Funko Pop collector. I used to build seriously sick LEGO sets, but man some of that shit is getting EX-PEN-SIVE! I was considering buying the new Arkham Asylum 3,000 piece set but it’s already on backorder. Dude, aren’t you the Mayor of Arkham!?

Again, no chance for Max to even respond. Well, he did, Conor just wasn’t listening.

Conor Fuse: Congrats on that, BTW. I’m a big dreamer, and sometimes in my deepest slumber I think of myself in this massively constructed Conor Asylum, where all my Rogues’ Gallery of rivals resides. It’s super nifty neato shit man. I feel like you’d make a perfect Hannibal Lecter. Or is that too on-the-nose? So, there’s lots to yours truly. I also have a family. Like I’m not married or anything, I mean I have a mom, a dad, a brother. My brother wrestles! Although he’s nothing like me. He barely says a word. Family is important.

Finally, a drawn out pause. Deliberate?

Conor Fuse: Do you have family, Max?

Without seemingly taking a breath in-between 99% of this diatribe, now Conor Fuse is… apparently done talking? In fairness, he covered A LOT of ground in what might have only been one minute of air time, it just took you longer to read it (or skip the text entirely if you’re Lindsay Troy.)

Max looks like he’s about to speak but pauses, staring at Fuse. He is half expecting him to interrupt him but as the awkward silence draws out, Max begins.

Max Kael: Well, I mean, according to my son, Sutler.

Throwing a pair of thumbs over his shoulder at Sutler, Max continues.

Max Kael: You two already knew each other I thought? Anyway, I got Sutler, I got my daughter Chloe Sektor-Kael, my sister Elenore Sinclair-Kael and… uh my estranged dad who lives in my head, Wilhelm Kael.

Conor nods along, he really enjoyed how Max’s dad resides in his head. That’s total badass villain shit. Regardless, Conor really flipped a switch there. He went from totally in his own world to now absolutely 100% consuming what Max has to say. He consistently says “uh-huh” after almost every word coming out of Kael’s mouth.

Scratching his chin, Max shrugs.

Max Kael: Outside of that everybody is dead. Dead deady dead-o.

The Ultimate Gamer keeps his eyes locked on Maximillian Kael this entire time.

Conor Fuse: That’s great, bro! Because family is SOOOOO important. I really wouldn’t be here otherwise. Family is like the bee’s knees or whatever they say. My brother and I are totally, totally, TOTALLY different people but he’s still a pop’n’fresh badass dude. As for your family…

Conor cracks his neck to the left. In a flash, he expresses a completely different side of himself. Gone is the joyous, carefree look across his face. He’s not even swinging his feet against the desk anymore. You can tell because the sound stopped. Instead, Fuse leans back, removing his folded hands that were once calmly placed on the WON ACTION NEWS DESK. He talks in a much more calculated and paced tone. Perhaps this was his end game, after all.

Conor Fuse: …I don’t care for it. Sure, I don’t know you too well but Max, I’m a pretty dialed in guy. Once I got wind your family was coming to PRIME…

Fuse pauses, stoically looking at the Mayor before suddenly changing complexion again and popping a grin worthy of rivaling someone like The Joker.

Conor Fuse: I just had to be here.

Max Kael: In fairness I don’t care for Sutler either buuuut he is my boy.

Behind him SRK jumps to his feet and sneers at the two of them while Max giggles childishly.

Sutler Reynolds-Kael: Jesus fucking Christ, you both fucking suck!

Immediately “triggered”, for lack of a better term, Conor Fuse stands up and acknowledges Sutler for the first time. He points at him with hate spewing from his mouth as spit flies in the air. Max quickly pulls a small umbrella out of his desk and opens it, hiding behind it as Conor lets his saliva rain.

Conor Fuse: NO, you listen here you sand throwing, pencil dick, mamma’s boy… YOU FUCKING SUCK!

Fuse’s eyes are about to bug out of his head.

Conor Fuse: Where have YOU been this entire time!? I needed YOU! You were supposed to be my super villain! We were gonna do this forever YADDA YADDA YADDA!!

Conor takes a moment to glance over to Max, changing his tone to calm and collected.

Conor Fuse: I even Weapon Got your headbutt to cave his worthless skull in and win a World

Title.

Max Kael:  ooooo!

Sidebar over, back at full blown anger directed to Sutler.

Conor Fuse: You’re so god damn emo and depressive looking! I HATE YOU! I HATE THAT YOU’RE A PART OF MAX’S OTHERWISE PRETTY SICK AND SWEET FAMILY!

Conor springs to life, leaping over the table and making a dead sprint to Sutler.

Conor Fuse: LET ME SEE IF YOU STILL HAVE THOSE GOD AWFUL RED HIGHLIGHTS IN YOUR HAIR YOU EMO COLLECTING ASSHAT!!! I NEED A CLOSER LOOK! AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Sutler spits at Conor and charges forward! Just as both men are about to collide the scene freezes while soft jazz music plays. The screen then flickers.

…WE’RE EXPERIENCING TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES…

…PLEASE STAND BY…

☠️☠️☠️☠️

We return from the technical difficulties over to the Sports Nook with Kirk the Sports Head! He’s vibrating excitedly as he finally, after weeks, gets to unleash his SPORTS!

Kirk the Sports Head: I’m Kirk the Sports Head here to fill you in on all the SPOR-

The signal glitches, garbles and then cuts off completely. After a few moments the screen flickers back to life with a new face.

Bryan Dawkins: Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh MaAaAaAaAaX!

Dawkins stands in front of the NEWS van, NEWS microphone in hand and a smug smirk on his face. The van has seen better days, with whisps of smoke hovering around Max’s fiberglass face and fluids of varying colors leaking from underneath. The face still looks like it just finished a 10 round baffroom fight, a stark contrast to Dawkins’ smiling face.

Bryan Dawkins: Sorry – that was really unprofessional. Let me try this again.

He coughs in an attempt to clear his throat and mockingly adjusts an in-ear monitor that presumably indicates that he’s on air.

Bryan Dawkins: Good evening, PRIME viewers! We’re here on scene with another breaking NEWS story!

An overlay pops up on Dawkins’ right side with a photo of Kai and “ABDUCTED” in big, red letters.

Bryan Dawkins: As you all know, the mother of my child was abducted by the Mayor of Arkham, that spineless fuck Max Kael.

Kai’s photo is replaced by a harrowing image of Kael. It’s very clearly been altered to make the normally chilling image of the Mayor look even more menacing. You know, yellowed teeth, piercing red eyes, the whole nine yards.

Wait a second, we’re being told that’s actually how Max looks these days.

Gross.

Anyway.

Bryan Dawkins: I’ve heard the criticisms – from our Universal Champion, from computer viruses…hell, I’ve even heard them from our President and CEO, a woman who I used to be able to call a friend.

The overlays disappear and the camera now focuses solely on Dawkins.

Bryan Dawkins: It must be so easy for you all to say “oh you should’ve done this” and “should’ve done that”…call the police! Call the FBI! Surely they’ll take this seriously!

Dawkins chuckles to himself.

Bryan Dawkins: I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy. Not even King Blueberry himself. No, no…what Max Kael has done to my family can never be forgiven. There’s not a fate suitable enough for the damage he’s caused…

He looks over his shoulder at the mangled effigy of his foe.

Bryan Dawkins: …but that doesn’t mean I won’t try. Max – you and I both know where this is going. This road ends at Colossus. You know how to find me to give me your answer.

The camera follows Bryan as he hops into the driver’s seat of the van. The engine comes alive, sputtering and fighting for its life before Dawkins slams the accelerator, peeling away from the scene as the camera dissolves into static.

☠️☠️☠️☠️

Cutting back to the NEWS STAGE, Max Kael can be seen sitting angrily behind his desk while the wailing of Kirk the Sports Head can be heard in the background. It’s quite unpleasant.

Max Kael: Great! Just Great! You hear how much you’ve upset Kirk the Sports Head!? All he wants to do is the SPORTS and that cretin Dawkins is out there hijacking MY time on camera. MY TIME! Why couldn’t you have interrupted when Conor Fuse was rambling for sixteen years?!

He slams his hands on the desk, a vein sprouting out of his reddening forehead.

Max Kael: Go fuck yourself, Dawkins, you’re so fuckin’ below me. You don’t deserve a match with the Mayor of Arkham, the Lord of Kaelsalvania, the fuckin’ BLACK HEART of PRIME! What have you done to earn it, huh? Lose your baby momma?! Commit grand theft auto!?

Shaking his head, Max waves his hand toward the camera in a dismissive manner.

Max Kael: There is absolutely nothing you have that I… that I…

Blinking, it is clear that Max’s brain is soaking up a lot of his processing power. After a cautious moment something seems to spark in Max’s twisted, sponge like brain. His chin lowers as he glares forward toward the camera with a cruel, malicious smile stretched across his face.

Max Kael: … let’s put a pin in that.

Turning to Camera 2, Max’s sinister expression softens back into his cheerful resting NEWS face.

Max Kael: Sage. Pontiff. I won’t spend too much time on you, old bean, because Conor Fuse decided to have a Ted Talk on the NEWS but I will say this.

Pointing toward the camera, Max winks. Or perhaps just blinks out of order.

Max Kael: Wipe your god damn feet off before you get into the squared circle, I don’t want to get no fuckin’ ring worm from your nasty-ass. Okay, that’s it, Sage, see you in the ring!

Clearing his throat, Max turns back to Camera 1.

Max Kael: And that’s THE NEWS!

We immediately smash to black before moving to the next segment.

From the cutting edge of The WON Action News Desk, which definitely probably involved more crime than sports ONCE AGAIN, surely, definitely, this is definitely how that segment likely went, you know it and so do I, it’s just the basics at this point. Yes, keep pushing back Kirk The Sports Head and his updates. And here we are, wondering why the public’s trust in our news media is in the sorry state it is in the current day.

Yes.

From that, and the fade out, we arrive at a new place, a new location. It is devoid of the trappings of the Colonial Life Arena, for it is a place more primordial, carved out in the time of darkness, before man and even dinosaur dwelled on this mortal coil. Yes, we find ourselves not in a physical plane, but rather, the conceptual, the ethereal. What is it? Is it the evil inherent to man? Is it the need to rise and overcome adversity and challenge? Nay; it is a place of want. Of greed.

Dank, and with a purple and pink and blue and green luminescence, this philosophical construct is made manifest in what appears to be a cave. Jagged stalactites hang from the ceiling, imperiling any who dare trend, for they are definitely extremely sharp and not made of foam that has been spray painted upon. Nope. You are imagining things. Is that the crackle of real fire you hear from the flames upon the sconces? Like, sure? I mean, maybe? At one point? Because the LED glow from them definitely does not match any natural order one would expect from flame, instead oscillating between the four colors previously mentioned. The camera follows along a path before a waterfall with a raised pool. This pool would not be adequate for Hank swim time, as he would not have the ability to properly stretch his long Dusk-family-spiking limbs. It would be fine for a nice soak, though. Bellowing, from off camera, we hear a familiar voice. You know who it is. We, however, refuse to say exact WHO just yet, as to build up adequate tension for a few more moments.

???: THE PRIMEPORIUM…

Her face is hazy, superimposed upon the camera shot of the pool. Blue bangs and dip dye of purple on black. We all have clearly seen her in the past, for she is a beast tamer who has played prominently in the segments involving the current 5 Star Champion, Kerry Kuroyama. So you know who she is.

But we are going to keep this going for a little bit longer.

A little bit looooonger.

Annnnnnd…

Ami Troy: AWAITS YOU!

A harsh cut.

And then…

Huffing and puffing. Sweetshire shrubs and sweetgrass and palmettos. An ominous, eerie tune fills the air. A snare drum, as though for war, beats like the telltale heart. Wild swings of the camera scan over the forest floor, and then, once again, superimposed, is the hazy face of Ami Troy.

Ami Troy: COME TO ME, MY TRASHLINGS!

Two sets of legs, both of which are fitted with base black combat style athletic joggers. On one set, neon green and white camouflage patterns down the sides. The other? Neon blue and white camo. Black and neon green and white sneakers for one, the other, replace the green with neon blue. Definitely the kind of attire one should wear while in the forest. Definitely don’t use hiking boots. These are good decisions being made. These legs are made for running, and so they are, through the wilderness. Then, with more camera cuts to showcase different terrain being crossed, we see the backs of the two people in question. One is wearing a white tank top and has midlength black hair in an undercut. She is jacked, and we can see the dimples on her back. The other is not as muscular, but is still rather cut. Her hair, platinum blonde with neon blue woven throughout, is long, worked into a mix of mohawk tight braids pulled back.

Running Women: WE HEAR YOU, WEED DAUGHTER!

Over the shoulder of the one with black hair, Ami shouts.

Ami Troy: MY SON IS A DEBTOR AND HE OWES ME MY MONEY!

The pair of women keep running through the brush.

Running Women: WEED DAUGHTER, WE KNOW!

Suddenly from the forest cover, a clearing. The camera shot swings around, showing the faces of the two women we had been following.

Ami Troy: COME TO ME, AND LET’S DO THE IMPORTANT THING; SELL MERCHANDISE!

The two women look out as if hearing this voice boom from up above. They, needless to say, are conventionally attractive. The gal with the undercut wears dark lipstick, her eyes a vivid green (not basilisk or toxic) with a touch of black eyeshadow. A septum ring features prominently as well. The other’s face is accented with bold neon blue face paint streaks extending from the corners, giving her the appearance of a war queen valkyrie. Big Margot Robbie vibes from that one.

Blonde Running Women Who Is Not Running Anymore: THIS IS TRUE! EVER SINCE THAT MOUTH ASS ALIEN SPACE BITCH STOPPED SAYING BUY THE SHIRT YOU COWARDS, THE PRIMEPORIUM HAS BEEN WOEFULLY NEGLECTED!

Muscular Running Women Who Is Not Running Anymore: WEED DAUGHTER! WE HEAR YOU! WHICH WAY DO WE GO?!

Ami Troy: JUST A LITTLE FURTHER! LIKE RIGHT AROUND THE CORNER! LIKE GET OVER THERE…NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW!

The pair take off running once again, only to fall to their knees in a space where the sky is visible between a pair of palmetto trees. Do you remember Teletubbies? Remember The Sun? Well The Sun is there, but instead of the baby, we get a babyface, in Ami Troy, looking down upon the two as they look up toward her, their arms thrown up as though in prayer.

Ami Troy: BEX SAVAGE! ANGEL QUINLEY! IT IS TIME…TO MAKE THAT MONEY!

A flash! The two women are gone!

Running Women Who Just Disappeared In A Special Effect, with An Echo Attached To What They Are Saying: YEEEEAAAAAH!

Do you see it? The Ami-Sun? She is raising Wrestle Buddies. But not just any Wrestle Buddies. We got RIA! We have Cecilworth Farthington WITH Universal Championship. Kerry Kuroyama is here! A Daytona Diamonds that seems like he is about to explode from his stitching? Clay Byrd and his catering table and cowboy hat and truck what goes vroom? Max Kael with a pull string that laughs maniacally and is sure not to come alive and try to kidnap you for torture things like Chuckie. And there’s one of Rezin!

Not anymore, she just kicked that one. Stupid Raisin.

Ami Troy: ONLY THIRTY-NINE NINETY-FIVE, WITH POSTAGE AND HAAAANDLING! COLLECT THEM ALL…

And then…the final blow.

She raises the Alexei Ruslan Wrestle Buddy, with his very punchable body and very punchable face.

Ami Troy: EVEN…MY DEADBEAT DEBTOR SON…MUUUUUWAHAHA!

On the bottom, a chyron scroll with the PRIMEPorium logo.

PRIMEPorium…

The Pinnacle Of All Shops!

We go elsewhere.

Vince Howard: The following contest is set for one fall and has a thirty minute time limit. Introducing first…

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 proud(?) member of The Red Army, the former Flyin’ Hawaiian himself, Bryan Dawkins.

Vince Howard: Standing 6 feet tall, weighing in at 232 pounds…from Hilo Hawaii…he is a former PRIME Alias Champion… 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.

The beat of “RATATATA” by BABYMETAL and Electric Callboy thumps over the sound system of the arena. Pink and blue lights pulsate throughout in impressive coordination with the music. The vocals soon kick in.

EVERY NIGHT WHEN THE SKY TURNS RED UP ABOVE

I FEEL THE BEAT IN MY VEINS, AND I’M SEARCHING FOR LOVE

YOU KNOW THAT HIPS DON’T LIE, I LEAVE YOU HYPNOTIZED

JUST GIVE ME ONE MORE TRY TO MAKE YOU FEEL THAT VIBE

WHEN IT GOES

(RA-TA-TA-TA-TA-TA)

MY BODY IS A WEAPON

(RA-TA-TA-TA-TA-TA) WE’RE GONNA HIT THE FLOOR

(RA-TA-TA-TA-TA-TA) WE’RE GONNA MAKE IT HAPPEN

(RA-TA-TA-TA-TA-TA) NOW GIMME SOME MORE

The light rumble that permeated throughout the faithful PRIMEates packed in the Colonial Life Arena burst into outright raucous cheers as RIA Lockhart steps onto the stage. With an exaggerated cadet cap on her head, her usual heart-shaped glasses on her face and a short leather jacket ending just above a corset that trailed a lace train, RIA soaks in the adoration from the audience.

The Psychoberry gallops to one side of the stage, encouraging the crowd to raise their volume even further. After a moment, Lockhart takes off to the other side, mimicking her previous action. As the second verse begins, RIA heads down towards the ring. Though she’d usually be more gregarious, Lockhart puts her game face on as she heads to the ring. On the way, she yanks her shades off and tosses them haphazardly into the audience.

Vince Howard: His opponent…from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, weighing 160 pounds!…Representing VAAAAAAAAE! VICTIS! A FORMER PRIME ALIAS CHAMPION…SHE IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIS…THE PSYCHOBERRY…RIAAAAAAAA! LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOCKHART!

Once ringside, the Rainbow Riot leaps onto the ring apron. She gazes out to PRIMEates before stepping between the middle and top rope to enter the ring, bending at the waist to do so before swinging her outside leg into the squared circle. She starts taking off the various pieces of gear, her focus 100% on the upcoming match.

The music fades.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: And this match…is underway. Former Alias Champions both. And the two of them–

Richard Parker: RIA is coming into this as The Phantasm. Surgical repairs to the nose. And in PRIME, when your nose goes, it tends to be an ominous sign for things to come.

Nick Stuart: The assault to RIA after her hellacious bout with Nate Colton at Ascension, after everything she spent, after everything she put up and fought with, and only to have someone who she thought was close, only to have someone she looked up to in ability and skill…and RIA is slowly coming from her corner, the size discrepancy already apparent–

Richard Parker: And let’s talk like that isn’t the expectation every time she gets in the ring. Seriously, fighting from underneath. People being bigger. That’s just window dressing. Say what you will, and plenty of people do, if it was true, why would Bryan Dawkins be so tentative in engaging?

Nick Stuart: It’s interesting, seeing both of them on the perimeter, in the stances most applicable to their styles. Dawkins, we know the former Flyin’ Hawaiian used to be more about pressing the speed, getting off his feet, launching himself, but that philosophy is completely antithetical to the more grounded striking base he has. And that’s not even his strongest suit.

As if on cue, Dawkins takes his shot at an amateur single leg. RIA is in stick and move mode, and tries to take a step back from the drive. A feint. The Red BRUH drops to the canvas, his legs splaying, catching Lockhart at the ankle and calf. A trip attempt. Successful in causing a stumble. In a shifting of head and shoulders, of the torso. Instantly, in the scramble, Dawkins grabs hold of RIA by the scruff of the neck, pulling her down to the canvas and into his guard.

Richard Parker: And THAT’S the LAST place you want to be–

Nick Stuart: RIA trying to posture up but Dawkins has her wrists in control. And Lockhart, she is staying composed here, she’s not going wild or in a panic, and that’s going to serve her well, and Dawkins making her have to expend energy just at the very notion, the very thought, that at any moment, he could swing and go for any number of chokes or an armbar or OH! OH! RIA DROPPING A CRUSHING FOREARM STRIKE–

Richard Parker: That’s ALL elbow–

Nick Stuart: –RIGHT on the button and she goes for OH! OH! DAWKINS! DAWKINS HAS HER AND HE’S GOT HER IN A HEAD HOOK ARMLOCK AND SHE’S DESPERATE! His ankles…his legs…

Richard Parker: HER ARM–

Nick Stuart: OH MY WORD THE WRENCH HE HAS–

Ashley Barlow is deep in, making sure to be there at a moment’s notice in case something goes terribly wrong, or RIA needs to tap. The Red BRUH is not playing with his food; he’s drawing his strength, wrenching on the arm as best as he can with his grip, which is not as great as he’d like. If it was? The Rainbow Riot would be dealing with a broken arm, or maybe even an elbow. Through her mask, RIA bites down hard on her lip, instinctively, drawing blood. The rush of iron comes as she pushes with her legs against the canvas, driving the two towards the ropes.

ONE

Dawkins isn’t letting up.

TWO

He’s still fighting for that optimal grip.

THREE

RIA is struggling trying to position herself to throw shots, maybe to the kidney, maybe just anywhere. All because she knows she is sinking deeper and deeper into the deadly waters of Ju Jitsu.

FOUR

The South Carolina crowd is audible in their disdain. Or is it the fact that the grimace smile of Dawkins flashes as he torques JUST right and–

Barlow NEARLY completes the count for five. And Lockhart, let loose, grabs hold of her arm, at the elbow.

Dawkins gets up to his feet, grabbing onto Lockhart’s arm and snapping it back to the canvas. He then grabs hold of it by the wrist, twisting as he drives it and himself to the canvas. Is he giving up the wrist? No. Instead, he yanks The Psychoberry to her feet, only letting go of his grip to get a standing switch off an errant elbow strike.

High.

Angle.

German.

Dawkins bridges with his toes planted into the canvas.

ONE

TWO

NO!

If Dawkins is going to let up, he makes no indication, as he continues his smothering presence, snagging RIA in a facelock and driving her onto the canvas. Not a basic facelock either; his fingers lock in a Gable grip. Positioning is everything.

His mouth practically waters as he sees the strap to her mask.

Is his shaking of the head in regards to the urge surging through him? Is it mere instinct? The thought is there, surely, especially because it changes EVERYTHING for him. After all…Garrota is deadly if the pressure is applied to the neck, or in this case, to the nose. Soft meat. Cartilage. Surgical repair and recovery. Not enough time. If he did so, the damage he could do…Anna Daniels would’ve been mere vanguard to something even more awful.

So why doesn’t he pull on the mask? It’s RIGHT there.

Maybe because RIA, her fist pumping in the air, shaking, the South Carolina crowd willing her to a stand, is playing a part. Dawkins tries to close the intake of air, but the surge rushing through The Rainbow Death Doll is too strong, and with them both to their feet, suddenly, she finds herself in a unique place where being short is a blessing. Heavy knee to the hip. Another. The blows bring about grunts, hisses. Dawkins relents, releasing Lockhart for a moment, but once again, he is on her, smothering her, standing switch, waistlock. The whole nine.

That strap would be a lot better if it was off.

Or maybe it doesn’t matter. It’s not like it’s made of steel.

If it were, it would be Dawkins having to contemplate facial reconstruction surgery. The back of RIA’s head annihilates the former Alias Champion, his head rocking back, his hands still lingering around her waist with all the casualness of an unwelcome lover. For be it from her, then, to grab him by the back of the head and drop to her knees, the top of her head a spear driving into the bottom of Dawkin’s jaw. Now he can enjoy the wonderful taste of iron.

He stumbles in a daze, eyes glassing over. RIA takes off, bouncing off the ropes. Jumping high knee. Dawkins drops instantly to the canvas, the thud reverberating throughout the entire arena. The roar of the crowd. It doesn’t help that he rockets back to his feet, trying to hit an errant clothesline, only to get caught and…

And…

SNAP DRAGON SUPLEX!

Oh SHE’S FEELING IT! RIA gives a roar to the crowd, adjusting her mask before taking off to the near corner, climbing to the top rope. A singular point of the gun at her target. That a hit marker? Headshot?

Bitch, you got KNEEMOTIONAL DAMAGE!

The Meteora hits.

It does.

But RIA also gets hellaciously cocked with a VICIOUS elbow from Dawkins right at the bridge of the nose. Even through the plastic, the shot is brutal. Her eyes water. Fight or flight kicks in, and the two of them are scrambled, back to their feet. Through the blur, RIA throws a hook at the middle of three Red BRUHs. It’s ALWAYS the middle.

Not this time.

Any sense of fair play is gone, and with one snatch, Dawkins savagely rips the elastic band of RIA’s mask with all the force he can muster. The Psychoberry knows what he’s going to try to do.

FUCK.

THIS.

MOTHERFUCKER.

She DRIVES him with all her might, charging him into the near corner. The air surges out his lungs, but his arms, trained through countless hours of repetition, are quick to work. Grabbing onto her. Twisting his entire body as violently from the corner as he can.

D’arce Choke.

Garrota.

Not under the neck.

Across her goddamn nose.

All the weight in his body pushes towards the canvas, and he spikes himself downward. A quick attempt at a scramble. The sounds of guttural pain and belching dismay. Lockhart digs her fingernails into Dawkin’s flesh. He does not provide a bit of quarter.

There are times to fight. There are times to make a play to get out of what you are in.

There’s also surgery, and broken facial features, and lord knows, at a certain point, you have your nose broken enough, there’s nothing left to rebuild it. Maybe Dawkins grip, in normal cases, wouldn’t be enough. But the placement means the world.

This isn’t strangulation.

This is sheer pulverization.

She taps.

DING DING DING DING DING DING

Dawkins isn’t letting go.

Ashley Barlow isn’t having it, latching onto him, wrenching him as best as she can. It isn’t enough to get him off RIA, but it is enough to have The Psychoberry get out of the hold, and, surging forward, throwing BRUTAL elbows into the nose and ocular cavities of Bryan Dawkins. If he is going to get away, he needs to make a better play, as the crown of Lockhart’s head, completely unburdened by healing surgical weakness, crashes into his face.

He rolls out of the ring, grabbing his own face, his eyes filled with malice as he glowers towards her.

Vince Howard: THE WINNER OF THIS MATCH…BRYAN! DAAAAAWKINS!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Hey, dickhead, how about a parting shot?

RIA launches the plastic mask in Dawkin’s direction, grabbing onto the ropes, beckoning him for round two.

Hands on his haunches, he takes a few steps back, then thinks about going for another contest. He stops. A middle finger. Go fuck yourself. The words aren’t audible, but if you can read lips, you can see them.

What a wonderful and clean sporting contest where there is no tension, and where things might not lead to something else down the line.

ReVival like RIA and Bryan Dawkins, rages on.

RELIVE IT ON THE ACE NETWORK

As we come out of the commercial break, we get greeted by Nick Stuart and Richard Parker, who have to speak over a chorus of boos.

Nick Stuart: Folks, if you hear the jeers coming from this capacity crowd in the Colonial Life Arena, they’re not meant for Richard Parker, as deserved as that may have been.

Richard Parker: What are you talking about? I’m a saint!

Nick Stuart: Questionable veracity of that statement aside, the boos are in fact meant for our brand new Alias Champion, Luc Labelle, who is currently in the ring ready to make an announcement. Let’s see what he has to say.

The camera pans to the ring. Luc Labelle leans against the ropes, and his older brother, Michel, stands at a podium outfitted with a skinny microphone. He holds a large brown briefcase with “ASSISTANT” written on it in big block letters, as if the position hadn’t already gotten to his head. Neither Michel nor Luc look like they’ve slept in weeks.

Michel Labelle: Mesdames et monsieurs, c’est mon plaisir d’accueillir VOTRE Champion D’Alias, Luc Labelle!

He’s drowned out by boos as he welcomes his younger brother to the podium.

Richard Parker: Typical of the PRIMEates to boo a language just because they don’t understand it!

Nick Stuart: Or maybe they just know that they’re going to hate whatever Luc Labelle has to say.

The Alias Champion grabs the microphone, looking as irritable as ever.

Luc Labelle: Alright, alright, let’s get this over with! I don’t wanna be in this hellhole any longer than I have to be! (He takes a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and slams it down on the podium.) It’s been two weeks since I won the Alias Championship, and to be honest with you, I’m still not too clear on what the rules were for the match I won it in. So in just a few moments, I’m gonna make things real plain and fuckin’ simple for everybody in this arena. But first, Mic, open that briefcase.

Michel obliges, snapping the case open to reveal a beautiful new championship emblazoned with the words “PRIME FC”. Carved into the gold is a non-descript wrestler German Suplexing an opponent, and each sideplate features the flag of Quebec.

Luc Labelle: Until I win my three defenses and cash in, that title is no longer called the Alias Championship! (He begins to raise his voice.) I don’t need a damn alias, I know who I am! I AM A FIGHTER, and that championship, the PRIME FC Openweight Championship, will be defended in FIGHTS! Not in comedy sketches, not in Bunkhouse Brawls of Falls Count X matches, and certainly not in anything that any of you people want to see! I know what’s best for this company, and what’s best is for this place to be built in my image! So without further ado, here’s how things are gonna work when that title is on the line.

Luc smooths the paper out and begins to read.

Luc Labelle: (He clears his throat.) Every title defense will consist not of a wrestling match, but of an MMA fight. Three rounds, five minutes each. Three judges, selected by the local athletic commission of whichever city is hosting the fight, will be scoring from a remote location. Should a competitor attempt to engage in BULLSHIT, even without the referee noticing, the judges will IMMEDIATELY DISQUALIFY THEM! No interference! No leaving the ring! If someone gets knocked out of the ring, they have a strict, fast-paced ten second count to return. No rope breaks, no champion’s advantage regarding count-outs or DQs.

The crowd vocalizes their displeasure as Luc flips the sheet over.

Luc Labelle: However, modern MMA rules are a little too devoid of violence for my tastes in some ways, so let me just list off some of the things banned in most MMA promotions that I’ve decided to allow. Headbutts? Legal! Strikes to the back of the head? Legal! Kicks, knees, and stomps to the head of a downed opponent? ABSOLUTELY LEGAL!

There’s a smattering of cheers from the sickos in the audience, but the vast majority have continued to spew hatred at the Openweight Champ.

Luc Labelle: You people don’t appreciate this right now, and you won’t appreciate it when your favourites inevitably get destroyed, unable to rely on their bullshit crutches. But one day, you’ll be able to watch a PRIME where the best are truly the best, and you’ll look back and realize that this moment was the catalyst for ALL of it! At the end of the day, the PRIME FC Openweight Championship belongs to Double L, and what’s good for Luc Labelle is what’s good for PRIME! From this moment on, I choose what happens here…and I always choose right!

Labelle’s theme song plays to yet another symphony of boos, and we fade to the next segment.

He scampered around the Colonial Life Arena.

If you left food out, it was eaten.

If you left a drink out, it was drunk.

Like a ninja he goes from trash can to trash can hiding behind each one as he gets closer and closer to his target.

Suddenly he sees who he is looking for. A child-like giggle follows his realization that he has found his prey. He was going to eat tonight and it was going to nourish him for the rest of the weekend.

He tip-toed quietly and then jumped out.

Person: JOE FONTAINE, I HAVE FOUND YOU!

Joe Fontaine and his fabby turn towards the person with a startled look. His look is mostly startled because he’d been in the middle of polishing the 8-iron for tonight’s dumpster match to a sheen only seen with the tag team championship set on display on the table next to him.

Person: It’s ME, Dashing Jacky Marl-Marl and today you are the lucky brotato to be the first guest on an Ounce of Jack! By the way, great shine you got going today…even Steve would agree.

Jack Marley stands in front of Joe and fabby with a goofy smile on his face multiplied by the absurdity of him still wearing the facemask. The facemask still adorned with every sticker imaginable makes Jack the equivalent of a walking billboard for rehab or better pay for teachers. It could be both, no reason to think any deeper when it comes to the clownfish with gumby arms.

Joe Fontaine: Thanks? What? Ounce of Jack? Did you just come up with that one today?

Joe turns to fabby for answers, and then realizes what a stupid error of logic that is to be asking furniture for answers. He turns to God instead, and that works out a little better.

Joe Fontaine: You know what? Don’t worry about it. What’s up? How’s tricks? Did you know that endangered whale oil isn’t the best thing to polish your championship belts with? The more you know.

Debatably.

Jack nods along with Joe’s words but come on everyone, you know damn well the only thing he understood was oil because of hash oil. Did you know you probably shouldn’t use too much of it because it is very messy. But man…my legs…MY LEGS! I couldn’t feel them afterwards.

Jack Marley: The wrestling word…no…the entire universe wants to know if you like this Elmer Glue sticker on my facemask.

He leans in.

Jack Marley: Look at the cow…(giggles) his eyes are red (winks) from the weed.

Joe leans slightly away.

Joe Fontaine: Very subtle!

Jack Marley: I know, I have been told that I sometimes have a lot of stubble. But look here my champion compadre, I neeeeeeeeeeds to know. (Clears throat) What is your (fake drumroll) favorite sticker on my facemask?!?!

Joe Fontaine: I like the one that’s, like, a very high Boo from the Mario games, but with the blunt. That one’s pretty low-key sweet.

We’re pretty sure that’s not actually one of the stickers on Jack’s facemask, or else Uncle Nintendo and his wacky team of lawyers would already be descending upon us.

And Confirmed.

Jack Marley: I drew that one myself the other night when I took some Sour Blue Raz gummies. It only took me (puts both his hands up) this many times to get it right. I am happy that YOU, the GREAT Joe Fancypants Fontizzle respect my art. It means a lot. But hey…

He freezes in mid sentence and stares blankly at fabby. He shakes his head as the THC created cobwebs float out of his head.

Jack Marley: …Ever kill someone?

fabby reluctantly shakes his head. Since he’s furniture, nobody cares about his response. Joe has an answer, anyway. An important answer.

Joe Fontaine: Well, I killed Max Kael once.

There is a long, painful pause.

Joe Fontaine: But I mean, who hasn’t?

Jack nods with a grin on his face seemingly not hearing what was said.

Jack Marley: Yea, mon, me either! Guys like us just want to have fun and live in peace.

Joe Fontaine: Right!

It’s unclear if Joe Fontaine is just playing along.

Joe Fontaine: I mean, maybe you will some day? I believe in you.

fabby looks uncomfortable at the prospect of Joe Fontaine’s belief in Jack Marley’s capability of committing murder, but Joe – as always – ignores his non-verbal concern.

Jack nods happily and then looks down at this cell phone.

Jack Marley: An Ounce of Jack is all about getting the straight answers that the PRIME Galaxy wants to know, so my phone is telling me to ask Joe (the greatest tag champion in all feds other then Harrison, of course) what is the newest Jolf club on the horizon that we can look forward to? (AI definitely didn’t write that for Jack’s phone, he certainly has horizon in his vocabulary).

Joe Fontaine: People really like the screaming one, which is weird since I have the only one that exists in the world since it was built from the weird space metal found in my dad’s backyard. So I’m working on one with, like, a speaker built into it so it can scream louder. I’m calling it the 6-calcium. Very scientific. Eventually, we’ll have ourselves a whole periodic table of jolf!

There is a pause.

Joe Fontaine: Jeriodic jable.

The Marley Man of reefer madness gives Joe the thumbs up.

Jack Marley: Yea, mon, aliens, volcano tubes, and plunder!

HUH?

Before any of that nonsense can be sorted out Steve Harrison walks in and bumps right into Jack. Jack falls back like he is trying for a ref to give The Miracle Man a red card. Steve just stares down at him and shakes his head. Jack shrugs and stands back up after realizing who actually ran into him.

Steve Harrison: What the hell are you doing?

Steve looks back up to see Joe Fontaine.

Joe Fontaine: Hey, Steve. How’s tricks?

Steve Harrison: (Raises eyebrow) Uh…hey Joe, I hope whatever this walking embodiment of patchouli wasn’t annoying you while you (looks around the room) polished your tag title. I get it, gotta keep em clean.

Joe Fontaine: Yeah, I keep coming in last on the Glueminati belt polishing competition and I gotta step up my game, figure out some new polishing techniques. Maybe I’ll figure that out after FLAMBO and I deal with the Dumpster Club. It’s like the Breakfast Club, except Ally Sheedy is seven feet tall and smells like old cheese.

Steve Harrison: Well you know, the elderly often smell bad…with dying inside and all.

Joe Fontaine: I mean, life is often spent waiting for the elderly to get the whole damn hell out of the way, right?

Ol’ Banditsbane strokes his chin and gives Joe a slow nod.

Steve Harrison: Good luck tonight, give Flambo my regards as well. Soon, we will be left with a Battleship adorned inside with skeletons. We will reminisce about the eGGs when they were once fresh but we all know what happens when they go rotten.

Joe Fontaine: Yeah, looking forward to the ghost ship era.

He slaps fabby on the shoulder.

Joe Fontaine: Come on, fabby, we out. Later, Steve. Jack.

Joe exits, stage left. fabby lingers for a second, and is then dragged away by Joe.

Jack jumps back into camera view.

Jack Marley: And that’s our first OUNCE OF JACK! I hope everyone got enough hits when the information blunt was being passed around.

Harrison groans and shakes his head. He turns away and begins walking away from Jack.

Steve Harrison: With family like this, I may as well join…

And the camera cuts before Steve can finish his amazing perspective on family and the implications of hating it here.

“GARBAGE DAY!”

The well known meme from the movie Silent Night, Deadly Night 2 assaults the ears of the PRIME faithful before “The Sense” by Hot Water Music rockingly follows. It doesn’t take long before Angel Quinley and Bex Savage bound out onto the stage, joined shortly after by Ami Troy.

Nick Stuart: After a few setbacks and delays, PRIME is finally getting the debut of the New World Trash.

Richard Parker: Took them damn long enough. It was starting to feel like Itchy and Scratchy going to the fireworks factory!

With boundless energy, the three women slap hands, zipping to and fro between each side of the aisle. As they draw near the ring, Ami comes between them. Putting a hand on a shoulder of each Trash member, she hypes them up with words not fully captured by the camera. A slap on the back of both sends them charging into the ring. Each flies to a corner, scrambling up to the turnbuckles to soak in the adulation from the crowd.

Vince Howard: Accompanied by the ‘Merry Mischief Maker’ Ami Troy! From Seattle, Washington! Weighing in at a combined ‘None of my damn business’! ANGEL QUINLEY! BEX SAVAGE! THIS IS THE NEW WORLD TRAAAAAAASH!

Angel and Bex hop down and switch placement, giving the PRIMEates a good long look at each. They again jump down and gather with their manager into the designated corner for the upcoming tag match.

A trap remix of the Soviet Anthem begins to play, signaling the arrival of the Masters of the Moscowverse to a bunch of booing from the crowd…about as much for the simple fact they’re aligned with Ivan Stanislav as anything else, but it doesn’t help that Kenny Freeman and Randall Schwartz come to the ring holding giant Soviet Union flags, waving them around to raise the ire of the crowd even further.

Vince Howard: Representing the Red Army, at a combined weight of 336 pounds…

Vince stops as a stagehand at ringside hands him a notecard, forcing the announcer to give him a cold stare before reading the card with a sigh while the Masters make their way toward the ring with Alexei walking close behind, rooting them on.

Vince Howard: …and at a combined height of 11 feet and 7 inches, they are the team of Kenny Freeman and Randall Schwartz…the MASTERS OF THE MOSCOWVERSE!

The crowd boo the fact that someone had the audacity to bring this old gag back up, as Kenny and Randall wave their flags one more time before handing them off to Alexei. The duo step into the ring, taunting the crowd some more as Alexei safely carries the Soviet flags to the back.

Nick Stuart: It seems we won’t be “graced” with Alexei’s presence at ringside for the Masters.

Richard Parker: Why’d you say it like that?! Anyone looking for success in the world of wrestling could stand to learn a thing or two from Alexei!

DING DING

The Trash confer over in their corner. No such thing takes place in the Moscultiverse side, as Randall Schwartz shoos Kenny to the apron. Freeman complies, but not without a roll of the eyes in the process.

Nick Stuart: Seems like a serious strategy session is going on over in the New World Trash corner.

Richard Parker: Uh, Nick?

Bex Savage and Angel Quinley slowly move away from each other before settling into combat stances. On the ringside floor, near their designated area, Ami Troy raises her arm up with a dramatic flair.

Ami Troy: THREE! TWO! ONE! GO!

Down goes the arm with the same level of pageantry as it was raised. The moment the T flies out of the Merry Mischief Maker’s mouth, Savage and Quinley belt out roars of their own and thrust powerful strikes forward.

Nick Stuart: Are they…?

Richard Parker: Playing rock, paper, scissors? Yeah. Yeah, they are.

Indeed, each woman has made a choice between one of the three options available in the game. Savage? Scissors. Quinley? Rock. Angel beams brightly, pumping her fist. Bex scowls, shaking her head before stepping through the ropes and onto the apron. Ami gently pats the calf of the larger Trash member.

Angel bounces on the balls of her feet, shaking out her hands, inflated cheeks slowly exhaling air. Before any movement forward can be made, Schwartz puffs out his chest and swaggers his way over to her. Quinley raises an eyebrow towards her opponent, who begins a series of bodybuilder poses; lat spread, double biceps, side chest and most muscular.

BOOOOOOOOOOO!

YAAY!

That’s right. Some small section of the audience does cheer the less than impressive routine from Randall, either from the sheer audacity of it or from the unintended comedy. Angel? The scoff that emanates from her person makes her feelings on the display abundantly clear. Kenny facepalms over in the Masters corner.

Schwartz pantomimes the height difference between himself (5’10” or about 178 cm for those that hate freedom) and Quinley (5’6” or near 168 cm if you’re stinkin’ commie scum). He pokes his finger into her collarbone as his lips flap away. That lasts a few seconds before Angel reaches up and clutches Randall by the nose. He squeals, frantically bouncing from foot to foot.

Richard Parker: Hey, that’s not fair!

Nick Stuart: Suddenly, you care about fairness?

Richard Parker: I happen to be a founding member of the Selective Fairness Act.

Nick Stuart: That’s not a thing.

Richard Parker: Not for you dirty neutrals, it’s not.

The Master of Fluff belatedly reaches up and smacks Angel’s hand down and away… hurting himself in the process. The Eternal Sunrise makes little attempt to stifle a giggle, leading Schwartz to grit his teeth and throw a wildly furious lariat. Quinley ducks and blasts off towards the opposite ropes. Randall stumbles towards the middle of the ring and tries another lariat, this one far less anger filled and more the product of trying to slow down the lightning quick Angel.

Again, she ducks under. On the rebound, Quinley clobbers Schwartz with a perfect dropsault. Up to his feet goes Randall, about as steady as a drunk on roller skates. He’s not standing for long as he flops face first to the mat, courtesy of a step up enzuigiri from Quinley. She smirks and looks to cover, but Schwartz hysterically scrambles over to his corner, clutching Kenny Freeman by the waist.

Nick Stuart: Not sure that’s how Randall planned the whole thing to go down.

Richard Parker: Sure he did, Nick! Lure these two PRIME rookies into a false sense of security!

Nick Stuart: By getting whooped in quick fashion?

Richard Parker: Never question Red Army strategy.

Kenny pats Randall’s head much in the same way you would your dog after it ran head first into a wall. Freeman slaps Schwartz’ back, Jimmy Turnbull signifying a tag. K-Free and Quinley pace opposite one another before coming together into a collar and elbow tie up. Kenny grabs a quick headlock before smoothly transitioning it into a hammerlock.

Angel swings an elbow back that Kenny manages to dodge. An attempt to pick the ankle is also thwarted, thanks to his great positioning and awareness. With few other options, the Eternal Sunrise wraps her free arm around the chin and behind the head of Freeman. A strong push from her legs sends her up and over K-Free! She hits the ropes… and crumples to the mat, thanks to a sloppy but effective knee to the back from Randall Schwartz!

BOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: Dirty move by Randall!

Richard Parker: Boo freaking hoo! The Masters want to win! Maybe she should’ve watched where she was going!

Quinley clutches at her back with a grown and a grimace. Kenny wastes little time moving over to grab Angel, snapmaring her into a sitting position. A pinpoint low dropkick to the neck has Bex Savage frothing at the mouth on the apron. Frowning with a face full of worry, Ami does her best to calm Ripper down with her words. Freeman stays on the downed woman with a rear chin lock.

Angel thrashes, ripping at the veteran’s hands. Kenny adapts, switching to a laying headlock instead. Randall spastically waves in an attempt to get Jimmy Turnbull’s attention; effort used in vain as the referee ignores him. Schwartz flings the tag rope down and stomps out of the corner, again flailing his arms around manically. Turnbull turns his back to sternly orders Randall back towards his corner. Kenny takes that opening to prop his feet on the middle rope.

Nick Stuart: Oh come on! That’s blatant cheating!

Richard Parker: Is it though?

Nick Stuart: YES!

Richard Parker: Maybe someone should tell the dolt of a referee.

The Entertainer continues to find any and every reason to keep the referee’s attention. But Kenny’s feet are shoved off the ropes by Ami Troy! A perplexed K-Free whips his head around before spotting a smirking Ami. He leans between the ropes, face reddening while he chastises her. The Trash’s manager sticks her tongue out, pressing an L to her forehead with her left hand. Still fuming, Freeman turns around… just in time to see Angel inches from Bex.

He rushes over to grab an ankle… and succeeds. As he tries to drag Quinley back towards center ring, she pushes herself up onto her one free foot. Kenny chuckles at her predicament, but that laughter cuts out when the Eternal Sunrise leaps up and crashes her foot into his chest with a mule kick! She manages to flip onto her back in the process. Again, Quinley tugs her body along the mat, aching neck and throbbing back slowing the process. Kenny does his best to hurry to his feet to cut off the tag.

Nick Stuart: She’s so close!

Richard Parker: But Randall’s in the ring!

Indeed, Schwartz has found his way into the squared circle, rushing over to prevent the tag himself. Unfortunately for himself and his partner, Randall’s haste causes him to collide with Kenny! Angel gives one big leap… AND MAKES THE TAG!

YAAAAAAAAAAY!

Savage rips into the ring! Forearm shot for Kenny! Palm smash to Randall! A thunderous big boot for a recovering Freeman! A discus lariat turns Randall inside out! Bex lets out a primal scream that fires the crowd up even further. She turns her attention to the dazed Kenny Freeman. As Ripper bends down to get him up, Randall wobbles over and throws a forearm into her upper back. Bex winces, but straightens up and whips around, practically shooting fire out of her eyes.

That look may as well transported Schwartz back to the apron with how quickly he retreats. Savage saunters over to jaw at The Entertainer. Kenny charges recklessly, but Bex dodges at the last moment! K-Free crashes into the corner, hand shooting to the ropes to steady his wobbly knees. The buff woman grabs a handful of hair to yank him away, but Randall manages to get a piece of his arm with a swing of his hand!

Nick Stuart: Tag by Schwartz, but I don’t think Bex Savage saw it!

Richard Parker: Where do you think these girls get their weird hair done? You think it’s done by a guy named Julio?

Nick Stuart: Richard, why does it matter?!

Richard Parker: I feel like I’m in college on acid again when I look at their hair!

Nick Stuart: Again?

Richard Parker: Nothing! Forget I said anything! She better keep an eye on Schwartz!

Bex turns Kenny around and slaps on a waist lock. Like a barrel tossed by Donkey Kong, Freeman goes flying onto his shoulders and neck in brutal display! Savage pushes him over with her foot and goes for a cover, but Jimmy Turnbull waves it off! Before Bex can object, Randall drops a leg across her neck! She rolls off of Freeman, who flops out to the ring floor in turn. Schwartz plays to the crowd.

BOOOOOOO!

He leans over the ropes to check on his partner, who offers no response. With a shrug, Randall turns around… to find both Trash members waiting for him, as Bex just made the tag to Angel. He raises his hands, taking a few cautious steps back. Savage snatches him by the back of the shirt and shoves him forward into a spinning back fist from Angel! Schwartz doesn’t get a chance to collapse as the larger of the Trash yanks him up into a hanging back suplex. Quinley is up top in a flash before flying off with a devastating double stomp!

Nick Stuart: Trash Run! Trash Run! This one’s over!

Richard Parker: Alexei ain’t gonna be happy about this one…

Angel covers while Bex keeps the recovering Kenny from even entering the ring!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING

Ami slides into the ring as Savage helps Quinley to her feet. The manager stands between the two wrestlers and raises their arms to the roar of the crowd!

Vince Howard: The winners of this bout: THE NEW WORLD TRAAAAAAASH!

Nick Stuart: The Masters of the Moscowverse certainly tried, but their trickery could only take them so far.

Richard Parker: Gotta give these gals credit, they might be goofballs away from the ring, but they’re all business inside of it. Better keep an eye on this team.

ReVival moves on.

A Sketti Bucket sits peacefully in a sink, unaware that moments from now, the greatest trilogy to ever happen in the history of trilogies is about to unfold.

Fred Dick looks like he doesn’t know it either. He’s just happy as a pig in shit, wearing a seafoam green suit with a big ol’ smiiiile on his face.

Fred Dick: We don’t haaaave a jingle yet, but this is my fuggin’ shoooooow! My boss and her friend beat my ace last time, and this is my fuggin’ shooooooow! It’s Baffroom Fights, and ya better be ready! It’s mothafuggin’ Freddy and a Bucket of Skettiiiii… which ya win if ya kick my ace!

Grumpus: Nyak! Nyak! Nyak!

Fred Dick: Hard to be mad about the last episode, Lawd yes. Even though them Mean Girls fans whooped my ace up and down the baffroom, ya gotta admit — they are really cool. I wish I could sit with them at lunch. But ol’ Fred knows if he tries, they’ll roll they eyes and tell him to fug off bc they think he ugly and he don’t smell good and he come from bad stock. Well, all that might be true, but I’d still like to sit with ya. Nawmean?

Fred sighs.

Fred Dick: ANY FUGGIN WAY… let’s see what fuggin’ acehoe decided they’d like to compete for a Sketti Prize.

Mark Paul Gosselaar immediately bursts into the bathroom, two handing some arena beers.

Fred Dick: Aww God damn it!!!!!

Mark Paul Gosselaar: “God damn it” is right!!! God damn it!!! God damn YOU!!! BECAUSE GOD. DAMNED. ME!!!!

Fred Dick: What the fug are you doin’ here Mark Paul Gosselaar you blasphemous piece of shit??

Mark Paul laughs a maniacal, unhinged laugh as he opens his mouth and looks up at the sky. He pours both arena beers simultaneously down his gullet, getting it all over his chin and shirt like a fucking asshole.

He belches.

Mark Paul Gosselaar: The state saw my episodes of Baffroom Fights, decided I was… ‘mentally unfit’ to raise a child. Meanwhile, my daddy beat the fuck out of me with a metal chain any time I got in trouble! But you have one, blackout drunk act of shame where you dress like a clown and fire your only son out of a civil war era cannon, and suddenly YOU’RE the bad guy! These liberal fuggin’ governments don’t know shit about freedom, do they Fred? These LIBERAL, SOFT, LIBERAL GUBBAMINTS DONT KNOW A GOTDAMNTHANGABOUTFREEDOMDOTHEYFREDDY!?!!?!?!

MPG gasps for air.

Fred looks unimpressed.

Fred Dick: I don’t know what that’s like, Mark Paul Gosselaar, because I’m not a drunk piece of shid like you. Don’t talk shid about liberals, they ain’t the ones having to give their kids up for pretending their flesh and blood is made out of gunpowder. You did that shid. And guess what? I’m GLAD you did that shid, because you suck as a daddy, and your boy sucks too.

Mark Paul Gosselaar: Aww FUCK YOU, I was tryna get you cancelled!

Fred Dick: Cancelled?

Mark Paul Gosselaar: Yeah, I thought for sure you was some kinda psycho Publican and the second I mentioned liberals you’d start talking that sweet shit and getting ya self in a mess of trouble. It was a whole revenge plot. It was a revenge plot and you fucking ruined it like you ruin everything because you’re an asshole.

Fred Dick: 500 years ago, I do believe, Sun Zoo said, ‘Thou ort know thine enemy better than thine own self.’

Mark Paul Gosselaar: Everything you said in that statement was factually incorrect.

Fred Dick: Irregardless. I am a liberal. And canceling people isn’t real you sad sack of ball sweat. You ready to fight or not?

Mark Paul Gosselaar: Yeah, just one thing.

Fred Dick: What’s that?

A smile creeps across MPG’s face.

Mark Paul Gosselaar: I lied about everything.

Fred Dick: AAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!

That primordial scream from Fred happened because of several events which unfolded during that conversation.

A stall door had opened.

And who had stepped out of it? None other than Mark Paul Gosselaar Jr., holding a switchblade.

He then stabbed that switchblade directly into Fred’s right butt cheek.

Mark Paul Gosselaar Jr: I got him Daddy! I got him, just like you told me! I love you, Dad!

Fred Dick: MY ACE!!! MY ACE!!!

Mark Paul Gosselaar: God damn it I love you so fuggin’ much, boy. And guess what? Dinner is served!!!

MPG and MPGJ wander over to the sink and begin enjoying the delicious Sketti.

Fred lies on the bathroom floor, belly down. He removes the blade from his ass with a yelp as he observes this father-son bonding moment.

He thinks about STRONK TWO and how they will share many bonding moments like this.

Fred Dick: Say it tastes good.

Mark Paul Gosselaar: Pardon?

Fred Dick: Put it over.

Mark Paul Gosselaar and Mark Paul Gosselaar Jr: It tastes good.

Fred sighs. He stands to his feet, holds his butt and limps over to MPG.

He sticks out his hand.

Fred Dick: Let’s end this here.

MPG takes Fred’s hand, they shake. When he pulls his hand away, he realizes Fred has handed him a card.

Mark Paul Gosselaar: What’s this?

Fred Dick: It’s a lifetime free meals card from Sketti Bucket. It’s mine, part of my deal, see. But… hell, I got money. Take it. You and your boy don’t never need to go hungry again.

Mark Paul Gosselaar looks Fred in his eyes. Both of them tearing up.

Mark Paul Gosselaar: You’re a good man, Fred.

Fred Dick: I’d like to be, sho’nuff.

Mark Paul Gosselaar Jr: Sorry about the knife in your ass.

Fred Dick shrugs.

Fred Dick: I’da done the same thang in yo shoes! Go on now, get out of here! Couple of Gosselaar boys, stayin’ outta trouble and eatin’ sketti. Now dats a good life, ain’t it?

MPG Jr hugs Fred by the leg.

MPG hugs Fred by his other leg.

Fred feels wildly uncomfortable.

We cut.

The Whorehouse is quiet, as it seems to be these days.

Rob Williams sits alone holding something on the couch in the center of the room.

Do they bring this couch with them to every show? Is it ever cleaned? It looks remarkably like a very famous black leather couch. Is this a doppelganger? Who knows.

The item Rob is holding looks like a book for ants in his giant paws. Zooming in we see it’s a photo frame. One of those plastic joints that’s supposed to look fancy, but feels hollow the moment you touch it..

The Father’s voice pulls Rob back from the abyss

The Father: What do you see, Robert? Is it the family you never had, hm? Or is it your wayward band of misfits The Whoresmen?

Rob Williams: All of it. You know, I was just sitting here thinking, this is my fault.

The Father: What is?

Rob Williams: I shouldn’t have attacked Dawkins. Things were going pretty good, you know? Had my tag partner and our group was mostly whole. Finn. Then I gave Dawkins advanced CTE and it all just kind of…

The picture frame clatters to the ground. It was a stock family picture inside the frame highlighting the importance of diversity in marketing photo frames.

No one bothered to remove the stock photo, but would you expect anything more from The Whoresmen?

Rob Williams: And I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out why I did it. I said karmic balance. (chuckling) The fuck do I know about karmic balance? It’s just what I do, Father. I look at Charlotte and Finn and The Whoresmen and The Whoresaw Pact. John. As soon as things are in cruise control I jerk the wheel towards the jersey wall and jump out of the car.

The Father: Look alive, Robert.

The door closes softly, triggering Rob to spin around.

She stands like the vision of an angel. The light somehow elevates the little hints of autumn in her blonde hair.

Charlotte: Who are you talking to?

After all these years her curves are still dangerous and exhilarating. Rob bites his bottom lip, but his eyes smile at the sight of her. He motions her over.

Rob Williams: Nothing. I mean, nobody. Hey, you.

Charlotte: You ok, big guy?

She moves to the couch but sits a safe distance from the black hole that is Rob Williams, knowing that if she gets any closer she’ll be sucked in again.

Rob gushes over her, her beauty and presence temporarily washing away all the guilt and shame.

Rob Williams: Never better. I am so glad you came.

Charlotte: Well, I got your text. You, uh, you care to explain?

The door opens again. Enter Finn Thorne. Welcome back guilt and shame, oh how we’ve missed you. Rob explodes, subconsciously using his body to create a faux barrier between these two people he loves.

In his own way.

Finn Thorne: Rob, where the hell have you been?

Rob Williams: Hey, uh, man. Sorry. I know, there’s just been a lot going on. My friend John was attacked.

Finn Thorne: Yeah, I saw. I’m here, man – let’s go fuck up The Red Army. I got your back. Hi – I’m F….

Rob Williams: Right! Why don’t you come out with me tonight.

He’s the Berlin Wall between these two versions of Rob Williams he desperately wants to be.

Charlotte: Are you going to introduce us?

Saved by the door. This may be the first time Rob was relieved to hear the slimy saccharine crawling out of Todd Haywood’s mouth.

Todd Haywood: Robbie, Robbie, Robbie. You don’t call. You don’t write. You know the Church had a LOT riding on that last match with Max Kael? Tsk tsk.

His little white suit is impeccable – no stains, no frills, and no wrinkles. Big and Little, however, look like they were left in the laundry pile. Everyone in the room seems tense and confused – a tripwire ready to explode at any moment.

Rob Williams: Not now, Todd. Please.

Todd Haywood: Aww, Robbie. You think you get to decide when and how I bear witness to Our Lord? That is cute. (spitting on the floor) Still, I am a family man, Robbie. Aren’t I, Brother Little?

Little: You sure are, Brother Todd. A family man.

Finn is wound up like a claymore aimed right at Little. Rob’s hands feel sweaty as he balls them into fists. He reckons Charlotte is far enough away she won’t get caught in the crossfire. She’s seen this movie before and will know to get out of the way.

The Father: (whispering) Robert, do you want to hit the jersey wall again?

In honesty, Rob wants nothing more. Finn and Rob together could easily overpower Big and Little. Put the small man on a pike.

Her hand feels warm on his neck.

Charlotte: Rob, don’t.

The ringing in Rob’s ears subsides and he loosens his jaw.

Rob Williams: Todd, please. I will come find you after the show.

Todd Haywood: Hmm. Well, a chord of three strands is not broken easily. I don’t want to break up the family reunion. Come on, Brothers. Let’s go find our suite. Remember, Robbie, the Church has a LOT riding on this match. Don’t blow it this time.

Big: Yeah, don’t blow it.

Big and Little follow Todd out like two dogs that did their trick and didn’t get their treat.

Rob Williams: Finn – make sure they leave please. I’ll come get you after the match.

Finn Thorne: Are you sure? I should be out there watching your back.

Rob Williams: Yeah, go. I’m fine. Thanks, kid.

Finn raises an eyebrow, confused by the merry-go-round act. He hangs back a second, making sure Rob isn’t going to flip flop again. With a shrug, he turns and goes after Todd.

Rob sighs deeply, trying to rub the headache from behind his closed eyes. Charlotte squeezes the hand still resting on Rob’s neck.

Charlotte: What the fuck was all that?

Rob Williams: I… I have a lot of shit to fix, Char. Too much, maybe.

She reaches in her purse and pulls out a dull, ugly penny. Its edges have been roughed damn near to a weapon.

Charlotte: I found this walking in. Take it, put it in your pocket. Do you remember the pennies?

Rob Williams: (taking the penny) Of course.

Charlotte: Good. Now, what did he mean by family reunion?

Knock, knock, knock.

Voice Outside Door: Time to go, Rob.

Saved by the door once again. Rob ought to play the lottery, he thinks to himself.

Rob allows himself to enjoy just the briefest moment, reaching up to hold her hands on either side of his face.

Rob Williams: I gotta go, babe.

He slips the penny into his pocket and stands. For a heartbeat, it looks like he might say something more – tell her about John or tell her that was his son – but he doesn’t. He just turns and walks toward the door.

The soft click of its closing hangs in the silence.

The camera lingers on the empty couch. The cheap photo frame lies face down on the floor, its cracked glass catching the light.

Fade to black.

The lights then dim inside of the arena as a siren echoes throughout it, like a trumpet heralding the end times.

What’s up, danger? (Danger)

What’s up, danger? (Danger)

Then, “What’s Up Danger” by Black Caviar and Blackway plays throughout the arena.

Vince Howard: And his opponent, representing KING. She stands at five feet and ten inches tall and weighs in at one hundred and thirty-five pounds. Hailing from San Diego, California… she is THE SECOND COMING! ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSE!

Two thousand on thermometers

Two thousand surroundin’ us

Travel two thousand kilometers to hang out with us

What’s up, danger? (Danger)

What’s up, danger? (Danger)

Rose emerges from the backstage area and the spotlight lands on her. She stands there, focused and determined, wearing a pair of black pants with ROSE painted on the sides in purple and a black sports bra.

Ayy, didn’t know they doubted us

Makes it that more marvelous

Sign ’em up, ’cause ominous vibes and I get synonymous

What’s up, danger?

Ayy, don’t be a stranger

She struts down the ramp, confident in herself, even as the fans yell at her. She blocks them out as she reaches the halfway mark of the entrance ramp before she explodes into a run and slides under the bottom rope. As she reaches the middle of the ring, she hops up to her feet and sprints to the opposite set of ropes before placing her right foot on the middle rope and her left foot on the bottom. She extends her right arm high as she screams into the void.

Vince Howard: Introducing first… from San Diego, California… she weighs in tonight at one hundred and thirty-five pounds… she represents the Red Army! THIS! IS! ROOOOOOOSSSSEEEEEEE!!!

‘Cause I like high chances that I might lose (lose)

I like it all on the edge just like you, ayy

I like tall buildings so I can leap off of ’em

I go hard wit’ it no matter how dark it is

She moves around the ring, shaking her head, stoic.

I’m insane but on my toes

I could keep the world balanced on my nose

I had a slumber party wit’ all my foes

Now I wear them like a badge of honor on my clothes

Rose reaches one of the corners and climbs up to the second turnbuckle, slamming her fist into her chest and raising both arms.

If I’m crazy, I’m on my own

If I’m waitin’, it’s on my throne

If I sound lazy, just ignore my tone

‘Cause I’m always gonna answer when you call my phone

She hops off the middle turnbuckle, moves to the opposite set of ropes, and glares out at the fans.

Like, what’s up, danger?

Like, what’s up, danger?

Don’t-don’t be a stranger

What’s up, danger?

The music then fades.

Nick Stuart: Rose is ready for action tonight, Rich.

Richard Parker: She looks as surly as usual. Don’t make eye contact.

Rose casts a sneer towards Nick and Richard.

Nick Stuart: Too late.

Richard Parker: I think that’s seven years bad luck, but I don’t know for whom yet.

The opening riff of “Man in the Box” by Alice in Chains rips through the silent arena. Fire lights up the entrance ramp and Rob Williams steps out from behind the curtains. His head hangs down, hair in his eyes as he moves down the ramp, not making eye contact with any of the fans. At a few points along the way he stops in his tracks. He looks out into the crowd as if something catches his attention, but he doesn’t directly look at anyone. Almost like he’s looking for a ghost.

Vince Howard: Her opponent… from Decatur, Georgia! He weighs in tonight at two hundred and forty pounds! Representing the Poor Whoresmen! He is ROOOOOOOOBBBBB WILLLLLLLLLIIIIIIAAAAAMMMMMSSSS!!!

When the vocals hit “I’m the dog who gets beat,” Williams climbs into the ring. He’s showered with a mixed reaction from the crowd.

Richard Parker: This guy is nuttier than a squirrel’s nest.

Nick Stuart: He might be, but he’s going to be a tough opponent for Rose to overcome tonight.

Richard Parker: Don’t make eye contact.

DING DING 

Rose and Rob Williams both start the match cautiously. Rose stays light and circles, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet while Rob paces, both wrestlers going clockwise then counter clockwise. Rob closes the gap and lunges for a collar and elbow tie-up. Rose ducks under and away, leaving Rob Williams by himself in the center of the ring.

Nick Stuart: Rose looks quick tonight.

Williams gives a slight nod to Rose and the two go back to their intricate movements. Clockwise and then counter clockwise. Williams makes the same move in and is met with a quick left jab from Rose, she slides backwards but this time Rob continues to barrel forward. She throws a snap leg kick out to Williams’ front foot that buckles his knee. Rob stumbles but his momentum carries him forward into Rose. He rushes her to the corner, and cocks back a right hand and lets it rip into her midsection.

Richard Parker: I’m pretty sure that’s how you slow a fast person down.

Nick Stuart: Williams with another bodyshot!

Rob pulls back, this time with an elbow and drives it into Rose’s midsection. She doubles over and Rob puts a hand on her face and looks for a third consecutive shot to the midsection, but this time Rose manages to slip away under Rob’s pulled back right hand. She plants and unleashes a vicious hook kick to the side of Rob’s skull. Rob stumbles backwards towards the center while Rose hits the ropes and comes back with a huge discus elbow that sends Williams flying backwards. Rob hits the canvas and rolls all the way to the outside of the ring. Rose looks to pounce to the outside but Nixon is quick to back her off as Williams slowly makes his way up the steps shaking his head.

Nick Stuart: Williams to the outside after getting his bell rung…

Richard Parker: I think Rob is trying to figure out what city he’s in, that elbow was a missile.

Rob steps through the ropes and Rose is all over him. She sprints in and plants two feet into Rob’s chest with a two footed drop kick that smashes Williams backwards and into the corner. Rose is quick to her feet and starts giving Rob a taste of his own medicine. A huge right hand, then a left hook to the body that’s looking for the liver.

Nick Stuart: Rose is trying to turn Rob Williams’ body off!

Richard Parker: Can’t happen, Rob’s been trying to do that for years and hasn’t succeeded.

Rose reaches back with a second left, but Williams smells the danger and drives his forhead into her nose. Rose staggers backwards and Rob comes out of the corner and smashes into Rose with a short arm clothesline. Rose hits the mat and Rob heads to the ropes holding his side. Rose scrambles to her feet and Rob Williams darts in with a boot to the midsection. He reaches over the doubled over Rose and lifts her from the waist. He almost has her up for a piledriver but Rose begins frantically kicking her feet and Rob is forced to put Rose back down on the mat.

Nick Stuart: That was dangerous for a moment!

Richard Parker: For a moment? That was terrifying!

When the two hit the ground, Rose drives a heel into the top of Rob Williams’ foot. Rob lets his grip go, and Rose comes up swinging with a left elbow that lands across Rob’s jawline. She takes her heel off of Williams’ foot and delivers a nasty spinning kick to Rob’s face. Williams drops to his knees and Rose heads to the ropes, she comes back and dives at him with a bicycle knee strike.

Richard Parker: That was close!

Williams hits the deck and Rose shoots over. Rob tries to get to his feet but Rose is three steps ahead of him, she’s already hit the ropes and comes back and smashes into him knee first as he gets to his feet. Rose’s knee catches Williams’ in the sternum and the two roll through. Rose manages to plant both her legs between Williams and stacks him up for a pinfall attempt as Nixon dives in.

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Nick Stuart: Williams with a thunderous kickout at two.

Richard Parker: I don’t think she caught him with all of that knee.

Nick Stuart: I think he got all of it, I think she just missed putting Williams to sleep.

Rob grabs at his sternum as he gets to his feet, Rose launches herself forward but Rob surprises Rose by sweeping her legs and sending her to the canvas. Rose kips up, but Williams is already back on his feet. He plants a kick to her stomach and this time is able to lift her up, he stalls for a moment as Rose is completely vertical, and then brings Rose crashing down on her head and neck.

Nick Stuart: Piledriver! Center of the ring!

Williams spins Rose over and Nixon dives in for the pinfall.

ONE!

TWO!

….

……..

…………

……………..

KICKOUT!

Nick Stuart: Rose with her shoulder up at the last second!

Richard Parker: Woah! Rose barely got that up in time.

Williams looks towards Nixon and wiggles three fingers, but Nixon reassures him by showing him two back. Rob gives a shrug and brings Rose to her feet. He goes to lift Rose for another piledriver, but Rose leaps, spinning up onto Williams’ shoulders. Rob tries to get control, but Rose spins on Williams’ shoulders and drops down behind him. She makes sure to grab the back of Rob’s head on the way down and drag him to the mat with her. Williams’ skull bounces off the mat and Rose reaches down, sliding her knee into Rob’s chest and yanking both his legs up for a pin attempt. Nixon slides in.

Nick Stuart: Big counter from Rose!

Richard Parker: Williams is out!

ONE!

TWO!

….

……..

…………..

……………….

KICKOUT!

Rose drops Williams’ legs and falls over to her side.

Nick Stuart: Rose is still feeling the effects of that piledriver.

Richard Parker: Williams spiked her head off the canvas. Of course she is.

Williams rolls towards the ropes holding his head, while Rose holds her neck. Rose is the first to her feet, Williams is mid-yanking himself up off of the mat as Rose stumbles over. Rose winds up for a side kick but Rob manages to jab an elbow into her midsection. Rose stumbles backwards a step, but lunges back in at Williams. Rob steps out of the way and Rose bounces off the rope.

Nick Stuart: She heard his footsteps!

Williams rushes behind Rose, but Rose accelerates away from Rob into the far ropes. She comes back off of them and leaps at Williams, she twists sideways and the two make sternum to sternum contact. Williams collapses backwards into the ropes, Rose lands on her feet and follows.

Richard Parker: Rose is hot on his heels.

Williams hits into the ropes and comes back with a big short arm lariat that Rose deftly ducks under, Rob stops and spins, Rose hits the ropes and leaps at Williams looking for the springboard cutter, but Williams steps into it and catches Rose, Rose barely taps her toes before Williams has ripped her over his head with a german suplex.

Nick Stuart: Huge german suplex from Williams!

Rose’s goes headfirst into the canvas, Rob holds the grip and drags Rose to her feet. He spins her around and in an instant rotates Rose from a front face lock into a cutter of his own.

Richard Parker: Old time rock and roll!

Nick Stuart: Rose is out!

Nixon slides in and begins counting as Williams hooks both legs with the cover.

ONE!

TWO!

….

………..

………………

……………………

THREE!

DING DING DING! 

Nick Stuart: Big win for Rob Williams there!

Richard Parker: Rose is banged up here. Looks like she’s hurting.

Rose slowly makes her way to her feet as Williams is quick out of the squared circle clutching at his head while Rose slowly makes her way to her feet in the ring.

Nick Stuart: What a match from two veterans!

RELIVE IT ON THE ACE NETWORK

The low hum of the live crowd filters through concrete and steel, a pulse that beats beneath the floor. Production assistants weave between crates and cables, and we find a familiar figure moving with quiet purpose.

Arina Timofeyevna.

Olive coat buttoned, posture straight, and eyes alert. She carries a small, carefully wrapped box in crimson paper and gold ribbon close to her chest. The wrapping bears the faint emblem of The Red Army stamped in wax on one corner. It’s not large, not heavy, but she holds it with both hands as though it’s fragile.

She walks through the narrow hallway, past the catering table and a cluster of monitors showing the live feed. A few staff members glance up, some nodding politely, others bracing to see if a certain Russian monster is pulling up the rear.

There isn’t one.

Arina offers a polite half-smile to them as she passes, but her pace slows as she nears a door marked “JARED SYKES.”

She stops. Takes a breath. Looks down at the box, the corners slightly worn from travel, and then looks back at the door.

A flicker of nerves. Her free hand smooths the edges of her coat, then rises hesitantly to knock.

Nothing.

She tried again, louder this time.

Still no answer.

She exhales through her nose and looks over her shoulder. She debates walking away. Then, she gathers her courage, knocks once more, and calls out with an accent both soft and clear.

Arina Timofeyevna: Mr. Sykes? It is… Arina Rakhila Timofeyevna. Please may I speak with you?

There is no sudden burst of a door swung wide, threatening to tear itself from its hinges. There is no slow, trepidatious creak as the figure inside peeks one eye between door and jam. Instead, Jared Sykes casts this door open as if there is no reason to fear what imminent threat might lurk on the other side.

Jared Sykes: Hey, Arina.

He leans against the door frame, hands tucked into the pockets of his sweatshirt. Given the circumstances, and the fact that he’s spent the last month poking the bear, his demeanor is all too casual.

Still, that doesn’t preclude him from casting a quick glance in either direction.

Jared Sykes: Huh.

He does not find what he was expecting.

Jared Sykes: Sorry, this is just a little unexpected is all. What can I do for ya’?

Arina straightens just slightly at his greeting, relief flickering across her face, but she allows anxiety to eclipse it. She shifts the small box from one hand to the other, thumb brushing the edge of the paper.

Arina Timofeyevna: Ah… thank you for opening door. I… was not sure if you would.

She hesitates, weight shifting from heel to toe. Her next words are gentle, as if she is afraid to disturbed the quiet between them.

Arina Timofeyevna: I do not wish to take much of time. I only hope we might, um, speak, if this is all right. Please?”

She clears her throat, and offers a small, apologetic smile.

Arina Timofeyevna: I know it must be strange. Someone like me from…

She trails off, and glances down at the Red Army seal on the paper.

Arina Timofeyevna: uh… yes, standing at door. But it is not about politics or Ivan. Not… exactly. It is something…

She straightens her back.

Arina Timofeyevna: It is something I feel I must do. Even if it is mistake.

Her voice softens even more, almost tentative.

Arina Timofeyevna: Can I please come in? For just moment?

Jared Sykes: Yeah, for sure.

He pushes away from the door frame and opens the door the rest of the way. Of note, he does not close it behind them. If her motives are sincere, then he’s not about to do anything to further the wellspring of anxiety. And if it’s a trap, then it’s one he’s willing to let spring.

She hesitates at the doorway for a moment, hand tightening around the box as if she’s afraid it might slip. Then she steps inside.

Inside the belly of one of the “most evil, corrupt, horrible individuals in PRIME” is rather unremarkable. She looks around, not seeing a room seeped in the “trappings of capitalist decadence and wickedness” that she’s heard certain brown-clad Russians crow about constantly.

Just a simple dressing room, and the words escape her lips awkwardly.

Arina Timofeyevna: It is different than I… imagined…

There is no suitcase or duffel full of gear. No equipment strewn about. Nothing to indicate that a professional wrestler is making it his temporary home.

Jared Sykes: Yeah, I know what you mean.

He lets his hand drift from one wall to the next.

Jared Sykes: But, with a little paint… maybe a picture or two… I could probably make it look at least a little presentable. Probably need some softer light. This one’s giving “converted storage space.”

He nods to the couch, an honest smile playing at his lips.

Jared Sykes: That’ll have to go, of course. Clashes with the ferns. Room’s gotta have a fern.

She can’t help but laugh, slightly.

Arina Timofeyevna: Starshy Praporshchik… he has desk and flags and radio. Lots of banners… eh… you know. You see I am sure. No ferns though…

She looks down at the box again and thinks, before she swallows softly.

Arina Timofeyevna: Mr. Sykes, I know that no one understand why I stand beside him. Most of PRIME think it must be fear, or foolishness, or I am blind or stupid. Maybe all of above. But… I see man who can still be good. Who… wishes to be good. Even when his anger makes him forget. Maybe…

She realizes this will no doubt reach Russian ears.

Arina Timofeyevna: …even fear. I know things Ivan did to you. What he said. I know the harm. But… you hurt him too. Both of you did terrible things and you both pay for them. You fought. It ended.

She looks pained, frustrated, and saddened as her brow furrows.

Arina Timofeyevna: But now he cannot rest because you will not stop. You come back and reignite war that was over.

She stares at Jared, directly in the eyes, and wills herself not to falter.

Arina Timofeyevna: He will not stop, Mr. Sykes. He does not know how. So I am asking, please, do not make him fight you again. Do not make him commit to another war.

For a moment he doesn’t say anything, simply holding his gaze. And then, after a moment, offers a small nod.

Jared Sykes: I know he won’t. And that’s… Well… It’s kind of the point.

Through it all he keeps his voice calm and collected, free of any hint of ill intent. When he finally looks away it’s so he can move towards the small sofa, the one that would clash with the as-yet-nonexistant fern, and takes a seat.

Jared Sykes: I don’t know the words to explain this, Arina, and I wish I did. But this isn’t what you think it is. It’s… complex, I guess.

He takes a breath and then another while trying to find the words to describe it. Unfortunately, they don’t come. Not yet.

Jared Sykes: I can only imagine what this must look like to you. And I take you at your word about all of this, but…

He sighs.

Jared Sykes: This isn’t war, Arina. I don’t know how to explain what it is, but I know what it isn’t. And it’s not that.

She watches him, still holding the small box in her hands. She shakes it once but holds her ground, her brow twisting with concern and a small amount of frustration bleeds through.

Arina Timofeyevna: How can you do this without knowing how to speak it?

Jared Sykes: Because I’m not quite sure I understand it yet myself.

Arina’s jaw tightens, and the faint tremor in her hand betrays the emotion she tries to suppress.

Arina Timofeyevna: You do not understand, but you do it still?! You keep standing in front of him. You must know, Jared Sykes. I speak not like Alexei. Or even Ivan. I speak as Arina. Not… not propaganda.

She winces internally.

Arina Timofeyevna: If you stand in his way, he will walk through you and break you again. It will not be something… something just in wrestling ring. It will be total. I not want it and I think he not want it either. What good comes from this?!

From his seat on the couch Jared looks up. This time it’s he who finds Arina’s gaze.

Jared Sykes: No, I don’t believe he will.

The words carry with them an air of absolute conviction, and he pauses a moment to let that resonate.

Jared Sykes: I know that probably sounds crazy. Hell, I’m sure most of what I’ve said tonight sounds crazy. Would that fight hurt? Of course. I’d be a fool to say otherwise.

Jared rises from the couch and begins walking a slow path back and forth across the room, though he is careful to remain far from Arina.

Jared Sykes: Arina, I will never question your opinion of that man. I won’t judge you for it. I won’t hold it against you. And I won’t try to convince you that you’re wrong. Your experience is your experience. But I have a… a different perspective, I guess. It sounds really messed up, but you learn a lot about someone when you get in that ring with them. There is an intimacy to this. And every time you fight a person, they reveal another truth, even if they don’t mean to. So when you say you think he doesn’t want to destroy me… You’re right. He doesn’t want that.

He pauses, and once again finds her eyes. Once again there is a certainty in his voice that cannot be denied.

Jared Sykes: Which is why I know he won’t.

She stares at him and shakes her head. She mutters to herself in Russian and rolls her eyes.

Arina Timofeyevna: Каждый из вас, рестлеров, безумен. Каждый. (Every one of you wrestlers are crazy. Every one.)

Resigned to the futility of the gesture, she shrugs her shoulders and shakes the box in her hands.

Arina Timofeyevna: In any event, Mr. Sykes, I bring you gift. I um… I open it for you. From over here. Because I fear you think it might… be dangerous. I promise. It not explode. Alexei has not touched it. And there are no… bugs or chips in it… but still I… I want give to you.

She carefully unties the ribbon with frustrated, trembling fingers, and peels back the paper. Inside is a small wooden box, with polished grain and clear varnish. She lifts the lid and, nestled inside, wrapped in tissue, are four nesting dolls, each one smaller than the last. She tilts her head to the side as she places them in a row on the table.

Arina Timofeyevna: I… am not artist. I just order wooden outline of dolls but… I paint as best I can. They are called matryoshka Mr. Sykes. In my country we give them as symbol of family… or lessons. Each one protects next. Until you find smallest. You see?

She gestures to the largest, painted in crimson with broad shoulders and medals. The painting is haphazard and hardly very well practiced, but the figure is unmistakable.

Arina Timofeyevna: This first is Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav. Сила. Strength. He carries others inside. It is both curse and duty.

She lifts the next doll, slightly smaller, painted in blue and gold. The detail work is more delicate, with a subtle reference to Lindsay Troy.

Arina Timofeyevna: This one is Mrs. Troy. Мужество. Courage. Because she stands against him. Even when she is alone. I think he respects it more than he admit.

The third doll emerges, a woman painted in purples, eyes intense and perhaps angry.

Arina Timofeyevna: This is Rose. Терпение. She is endurance, or perhaps in English um… it means patience. She endures what breaks others and still remains herself.

She stares at the doll for a moment, and then lifts the last one. The smallest one. Barely the length of her thumb. The paintwork is very slight, but it’s clear that it’s supposed to represent Sykes himself.

Arina Timofeyevna: And this, is you, Mr. Sykes.

She cradles the doll in her fingers and lifts her eyebrows.

Arina Timofeyevna: Do you know what I think this represent?

Jared Sykes: I wouldn’t presume to guess.

She places it gently on the table once more, lined up with the rest. She nods thoughtfully.

Arina Timofeyevna: You see, Mr. Sykes. You are mилосердие. Mercy. Smallest one is always heart. It is one rest much protect. You see?

Her eyes lift to meet his. The frustration is eclipsed by sadness.

Arina Timofeyevna: If you fight him, Jared Sykes. If you make him remember all of this… between you and him… this little one will be first to be destroyed. I not want that. Not for him. Not for you.

She looks down at the dolls again, fingers hovering over the smallest, before she steps back, closer to the door and farther from him.

Arina Timofeyevna: Please, you keep them. You throw them away if you want later, even. I understand. They are Russian.

His eyes focus on the dolls, while his thoughts linger on her words.

The little one will be first to be destroyed.

Jared Sykes: Thank you, Arina. I appreciate the thought and the care that was put into this.

At home. Sleeping soundly in her crib. Blissfully unaware of what her father is getting up to.

For now.

Jared Sykes: For what it’s worth, I give you my word. I would never throw something like this away.

She smiles gratefully, allowing it to reach her eyes, and exhales through her nostrils.

Arina Timofeyevna: Thank you for listening to me, Mr. Sykes.

She turns and grips the handle of the door, opening it, but casts one last look over her shoulder.

Arina Timofeyevna: It is not too late for mercy to be last, Mr. Sykes. Not lost.

With that, she slips out of the room, and gently closes the door behind her.

Steve Lemieux is having himself a terrible time.

When he learned that his opponent for the evening was going to be Lawnmower Man III, he went and fashioned himself a plan. A plan for fashion as it were, because sweet, innocent Steve done went and gussied up his outfit by adding a jaunty metal codpiece.

He wore it over his khaki pants, because of course he did. He tucked his white polo into it, because hey why not. And then he went and wrestled a match in a pair of steel underwear, because the alternative was “having his buns mowed clean off.”

Because that’s how this works, apparently.

So why is Steve having a terrible time? Because Steve needs to pee. And Steve is about to learn an unfortunate truth about his plated pecker protector.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Hello, yes. Just a minute, Stefon. I need to find the right key.

Right now, Steve has his hands cupped over his nethers and is doing the pee-pee dance. Also right now, Dr. Zeke is sorting through a massive keyring that would make any janitor on earth jealous. Why would he need keys? Well, this is why Steve’s luck has turned sour.

It’s not a codpiece. It’s a chastity belt.

One that nobody seems to know how to unlock.

Steve Lemieux: Oooooooooooh. Oooooooooooh. Please hurry, Mister Doctor Badguy. Oooooooooooh. I have to tinkle so bad.

Zeke tries another key. The lock does not disengage.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: That’s the last key.

Steve Lemieux: Oooooooooooh. Oooooooh nooooooo.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy. Esq.: Don’t worry, I know what to do.

Steve Lemieux: Oooooooooooh. What can we do?

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Check my other keyring!

Sure enough, the bad doctor produces another, larger keyring from inside his sport coat. It jingles in a very jingley way.

Unfortunately, we are already passed (pissed?) the point of no return.

Steve Lemieux: Ohhhh nooooooooo it’s starting to come out.

The valve releases. The seal breaks. The dam bursts. Other words for water escaping.

The presence of the chastity belt complicates things, the unforgiving steel forcing the moisture out both sides so that it looks as though Steve’s pants are rapidly growing whiskers. Those whiskers turn into a sad frown, and by the time Steve is finished his shoes are properly soaked.

Steve Lemieux: Oh no, not my New Balance 740 sneakers.

Dr. Zeke looks at Steve, then at the floor where a puddle has formed at his charge’s feet, and then back at Steve.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Yes. Umm, let me go see if I can find a urine sorcerer to magic away all of this urine.

And with that, Zeke heads off to search for the only piss wizard whose name he remembers, but alas Mike McGee no longer works in PRIME.

Steve sighs, the way one does after they’ve just soiled their brand new New Balance 740s on live television, and slowly starts meandering his way down the hall. Arms stiff, head down, the man leaves a trail of sloshing, wet footprints behind him as he Michael Cera’s his way down the hall.

And as any Arrested Development fan will know, when you Michael Cera – I mean really Michael Cera – you are bound to walk into something or, in this case, someone.

With a soft thump, Steve’s ambulatory motion halts against a befuddled Blaze Claymore.

However, the Main Event isn’t just befuddled by the sight of Steve Lemieux. He is bewildered and baffled. Other words for confusion.

Steve looks up, his eyes brimming with tears.

Steve Lemieux: I… I’m so sorry to ask, Mister Blaze, sir, but can you help me? I’ve had a terrible accident in my khaki pants and it has ruined my New Balance 740 sneakers.

Blaze, whose attention had been focused just feet ahead, at the locker room door of Max Kael is now fully on the soiled Steve Lemieux. Blaze takes a surprised step backwards, hand clutching his head as he shakes his head.

Blaze Claymore (softly): Did she… Did she put you up to this? Where is she?

Steve Lemieux, his pants soaked and shoes beginning to turn from white to yellow, ignores the question and proceeds to list off all the possible magic-wielders who could help get his loins out of their metal prison.

Steve Lemieux: Or do you maybe know where I can find someone who can help me? This feels like what happened after Mr. Gillman’s history class in sixth grade and the whole school made fun of me for months and I really don’t want all the performers to make fun of me.

Blaze begins to shout – not at Steve – but at the shadows in the hallway.

Blaze Claymore: I’m not playing this game anymore, Sonja! If you think reminding me of what happened with the Anglo Luchador is going to get me to freak out or act like a maniac for your next social media hit – you’re wrong! Just tell me why! Why are you doing this?

Steve continues.

Steve Lemieux: Oh no, what if they do it on television every week? That would just be awful. It would be so horrible. And then what if they find out about this back home in beautiful Peoria, Illinois. Oh no, even the city name sounds so terrible now because of what happened. It is such a cruel pun. I wish that Mister Doctor Zeke could find a wizard who had a book full of spells to make this all go away.

Blaze’s eyes flicker as he spins around, back towards Max Kael’s locker room.

Blaze Claymore: SHIT! The book! Dammit! They are probably already on their way to the ring right now. Dammit! This was my chance!

Steve Lemieux: But I know that there is no real magic, only the magic of love between family, and even that can’t save me now.

Blaze Claymore: Fuck magic! And FUCK YOU!

A furious Blaze turns to Steve and shoves him backwards. The sandwich man falls to the ground with a metal clang and then a sloshing sound and then all the urine that had been dripping down his pants begins to roll up his shirt and pool behind his back.

Steve Lemieux: Oh no, it’s ruining my Old Navy Men’s Uniform Pique Polo and I don’t know when I will be able to get another because I bought this one on sale.

Blaze pauses, looking at his hands, and then back down at Steve with a look of what seems to be regret, but then looks back over his shoulder and shakes his head – turning and sprinting down the hallway just as Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq. arrives with a third massive keyring.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq: Hello, yes! I have found more keys to try and free you from this iron crotch dungeon.

The bad doctor quickly glances back over his shoulder towards the fleeing Claymore.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: What did Flamberge want?

Close.

We are in the ring with Vince Howard.

Vince Howard: This match is for…

He holds the mic high and everyone knows what to do by now. It’s the once-in-so-often random SCREAM THE FALL INTO THE AIR.

The Crowd: ONE FALL!

Vince Howard: That’s right! Only one fall this time!

Richard Parker: Ugh.

Nick Stuart: It’s called having fun.

Richard Parker: Is that what this annoying stupidity is called? Sorry, I wasn’t aware.

Vince Howard: Introducing first… from Joshua Tree, California… weighing two-hundred-one pounds… he is The Bodhisattva of Transformative Experience… Sage Pontiff!

“Satori Part II” by Flower Travellin’ Band begins and out comes Sage Pontiff. He widens his arms to embrace whatever it is the crowd is sending his way as he walks down the ramp, eyes on the ring.

Richard Parker: So Sage moves the hair off the top of his head and puts it on his face? Do you think he did this because he’s balding?

Nick Stuart: Let me get this straight, you’re ripping on Vince Howard for having fun with the crowd and then you come at announcing with comments like that?

Richard Parker: I was just wondering. Most men who shave their head have a serious reason behind it. I kind of miss the dreadlocks.

Pontiff rolls under the bottom rope as his theme song comes to a close.

The lights dim; the fans know what’s coming. 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 Columbia 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: Well at least we don’t have to hear Vince anymore.

Snark Darkly: Introducing my client… accompanied to the ring by the Son of Scions, Sutler Reynolds-Kael!

Out of the shadows next to Snark stalks the long haired SRK. This youthful wrestler stands in stark contrast to his adopted father maintaining a smaller, leaner frame and black gear highlighted by bright pinks and purples. He’s also pretty emo so he looks sad and stuff.

Snark Darkly: Standing at six-foot-four-inches and weighing in at two-hundred-sixty-five pounds… the reigning Mayor of Arkham… MAAAAAXIMILLIAN. WILHELM. KAAAAAAAAEL!

The lights in the arena cut out, an ominous, low sound drowning out the Colonial Life Arena’s booing.

“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 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 crowd’s hostility. Lost in his own mad vision of the world around him, Kael moves to the angry music shadowed by Sutler who has chosen not to join Max in dancing. Unless scowling is considered a dance move, then Sutler is cutting a rug.

Reaching the edge of the ring, Max moves to the steps before climbing them slowly. He wipes his boots off before ascending the turnbuckle, raising both of his hands upward. The SRK sighs and takes a seat on the steps hoping to wait out the rest of the intro.

“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 where he removes his crown, holding it high above his head, a wretched laugh spilling from his gaping smile. The music slowly fades while the arena lights return to their original radiance. Max drops his crown into Sutler’s lap, the points of it causing Sutler to scream out in pain. The Mayor of Arkham laughs at his son before settling into his corner.

Richard Parker: This Sutler Reynolds boy, he could use a trip to the ice cream store!

Nick Stuart: First of all, it’s Sutler Reynolds-KAEL. Second, what do you mean by a ‘trip to the ice cream store’?

Richard Parker: Uh, doesn’t an event like that help kids with depression? Good lord, one look at this guy and he’s screaming to be in a My Chemical Romance music video!

Nick Stuart: How do you know who My Chemical Romance are?

Richard Parker: I don’t!

Nick Stuart: Anyway, our referee is good ol’ reliable Jimmy. He’s going to call for the bell after he runs over the rules. Rules, no doubt, Max Kael is planning to break.

The ref leans over and calls for the official start of the contest.

DING DING

Kael storms towards Pontiff and delivers a hard forearm shot to the side of the head! Sage is stunned, as Max grins sadistically before sending another into Sage’s bald skull. The Mayor takes a few steps back and delivers a HARD, stiff as shit rising knee strike into Sage’s face!

Wobbling around, Pontiff is waiting to be put out of his misery when Kael delivers a short-arm clothesline.

Nick Stuart: Clearly trying to bring out the big guns early and over-power Pontiff.

Richard Parker: It’s not a bad strategy, considering Max has a good fifty pounds on Sage.

Kael tries deadlifting Pontiff into a gutwrench powerslam… and completes the process with a hook of the leg. Upon waiting for the pin count, Max makes eyes with his son… as if to say “that’s how it’s done”.

Maybe Sutler should take notes.

ONE.

TW-

KICKOUT!

…Or maybe Sutler shouldn’t.

Nick Stuart: A lot more work to be done!

Kael has proceeded to send Arkham Hellbows into Pontiff. There are at least three before Max drags Sage up along with him… and wants to deliver an inside out clothesline-

Pontiff ducks. Kael goes into the ropes and upon return Max is met with an armdrag into a step over toe hold… into an STF sleeper!

Richard Parker: Is that- is that a slight smile across Sutler Reynolds-Kael’s face as he sees ol’ papa in trouble!? It might be.

Pontiff has Kael locked in but since it’s the early stages, Max is trying to battle out as best he can. He’s already on a knee… now a foot… now MWK sends a few elbows into Pontiff’s stomach. A few more. Kael breaks free. He hits the ropes.

Running leaping forearm strike by Pontiff! Max looks like he’s been shot out of a cannon!

Nick Stuart: Another pin!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Pontiff rises as Kael reaches out towards the ropes… or, wait. He’s not reaching out towards the ropes, he is reaching in the direction of his son. He’s shouting something at his adopted kiddo. However, instead of listening, Sutler walks over to the ring steps and takes a seat, looking rather disinterested and stares off in the other direction.

Kael pouts a frowny face as Pontiff drops an elbow into the back of his head. Sage whips Max onto his feet… when Max grabs the referee, Jimmy Turnbull, and interjects him into the situation! Kael spins Jimmy around and then the Mayor of Arkham instantly goes for a poke of the eyes!

Richard Parker: Opportunity struck!

Jimmy doesn’t see it, as BOTH of Max’s index fingers make their mark in Pontiff’s sockets rather flawlessly, like Max has done this, many, many, many times before. Pontiff doubles over, grasping at his eyes while Kael cackles mischievously, quickly looking over to “the boy” as if to tell him that’s how it’s done. Except Sutler isn’t watching ATM.

Anyway, Kael hits the ropes, leaps off them-

And EATS a running knee to the side of the temple!

Nick Stuart: It’s not like Sage is beloved in this crowd either, but the sheer impact of the move popped the fans!

Pontiff falls to his knees, it’s clear he’s having a hard time seeing… well, anything. But it’s a move that bought himself time, and Sage really didn’t know if he hit anything.

Pontiff stands, taking a couple of steps back. He finally registers a blur in his eyes on where the Mayor of Arkham resides.

Measured dropkick to the temple.

Kael is trying to rise, yet a wheel kick from Pontiff follows. Another. Another. It backs Max into a corner and by now, Sage can see with 50% vision. He props Kael in the corner…

And SMACKS The Black Heart of PRIME™ in the chest.

Sage places both his palms on Max’s face, leaning him back as he does. While doing so, it seems like makeup rubs off from Max’s head and onto Sage’s hands. That’s show business for you, everyone needs to look good for WON ACTION NEWS.

Not Sutler, however. He seems disinterested as his father is getting ready to be whapped across the chest once MOAR.

SMACK!

The smack echoes throughout the entire arena. Pontiff Irish whips Kael into the corner across the way and comes running in with a high angle BOOT to the side of the head. Max folds like an accordion, falling out of the corner and into a heap on the mat.

Pontiff doesn’t let up. He can see clearly now (the rain has gone), and proceeds to drop down on all fours and headbutt the piss out of the Mayor.

One… two… three… four… you’d think if SRK cares enough, he might have worry spread across his face. Spoiler: he does not.

More headbutts. Lots of them. Pontiff peels Kael off the mat with a running release gutwrench suplex!

Kael FLIES into the corner where SRK resides. Needless to say, things don’t look good for the former UNQUESTIONABLE One.

Pontiff steers himself towards his opponent but as he gets there, Kael springs to life! Like snapping his body back together like a Dry Bones Koopa Troopa. Even though video games aren’t prolly Max’s thing, it’s the best description that can be provided.

Kael with a Roaring Hellbow, catching Pontiff off-guard and both men fall to the mat.

Nick Stuart: A much needed recovery move from Max!

Pontiff kicks his feet against the canvas in an effort to try working the pain out of his body. Meanwhile, Kael rolls out of the ring and, on rollerskates, starts to make his way towards his adopted son. Once there, Max points to Sutler and then points inside the ring… to the referee?

Nick Stuart: What is this maniac trying to accomplish?

Richard Parker: I think he wants to use his son as a distraction!

Richard is an idiot, but an idiot can still know what he’s talking about. Either way, as Max rolls into the ring, Sutler removes himself from the steel steps but doesn’t really do anything further. Now inside the squared circle, Max shouts a command but doesn’t see Sage Pontiff creeping up from behind.

High angle backdrop!

Pontiff hits the ropes and completes a spinning heel kick, placing the bottom of his right boot STRONGLY against the mouth of Max Kael. Spit flies in the air as MWK crumbles to the canvas.

Nick Stuart: Sage is taking it to Max!

Pontiff jumps into the ropes and springs off with a tilt-a-whirl DDT. He shoots upright, rolls his shoulders forward and waits for the Mayor to figure things out.

Nick Stuart: Is he going for that Canadian destroyer!?

No- not yet anyway. Max falls on all fours and rolls outside the ring again. He’s looking for his son. Whatever they “agreed” upon didn’t end up happening this previous time and now Kael needs to reconnect.

Just one problem…

As Kael reaches Reynolds-Kael, there is a figure blocking their direct father-to-son contact.

It’s Sage Pontiff.

Pontiff with an elbow to Kael. Another. Another. Sutler merely watches in what some would say is disinterest. Pontiff hammers Max all around the floor until he looks for a clothesline-

PING!

And ends up whacking his right arm against the ring post!

Stunned, Sage leans over.

Richard Parker: I think he might have broken his arm!

Nick Stuart: Pontiff got a little out of sorts. He really wanted to lay into Max and unfortunately he laid into the post instead!

Kael slithers over to SRK. He is now pointing back at Pontiff and demanding Sutler do something. Referee Jimmy is shouting at both legal parties to make it back into the ring, but instead, Max hops onto the apron and grabs the ref by his shoulders. Kael starts explaining how makeup is running off his face, and how he might need to be repaired backstage.

…All the while, Sutler Reynolds-Kael is creeping towards Sage Pontiff, who’s still dealing with his arm.

Sutler seems to be dead inside while creeping over there. He emotionlessly moves towards Pontiff, maybe almost reluctantly. But then SRK grabs Pontiff by the shoulder and swings him around-

WHAP!

Nick Stuart: Pontiff with a strong right forearm to Sutler!

The Son of Scions falls and although the forearm shot hurts Pontiff as well, he’s shaking off the pain and it’s clear his arm isn’t broken.

Pontiff enters the ring. He marches towards Kael and the referee, moving Jimmy aside and sling shooting Kael over the ropes and back into the squared circle. Kael is on his feet… frothing at the mouth while more makeup runs off his face.

Pontiff with an armdrag.

Kael is back up, and like a rabid dog, he’s going back for more.

Pontiff with another armdrag.

This doesn’t keep Maximillian down, however. He runs at Pontiff.

Armdrag.

Armdrag.

Armdrag.

Max exits the ring in a huff! He immediately pulls back the apron and snatches a steel chair. He tosses it to Sutler, who barely catches it before hitting the ground.

The toothy, sinister grin of Max Kael suggests his son should know what to do with it.

Kael slides into the ring, this time stopping short when he reaches Pontiff, on the look out for another armdrag. Instead, Sage kicks Max in the gut and aims for a DDT-

NO! Kael pushes off and Pontiff hits the mat back-first, empty handed.

HARD ELBOW INTO THE HEART, Max to Sage!

With both his arms, Max swings them up and down frantically, directed at Sutler. Max latches onto Sage’s head and pulls them both to a vertical position. Additionally, Kael takes his free arm and grabs referee Jimmy Turnbull along with him.

Nick Stuart: What a crafty… cheater.

Richard Parker: If you’re not cheating, you’re not trying!

Kael has Pontiff in one arm and Turnbull in the other. He’s continuing to say his makeup is running, and it definitely is, no doubt, to the point there are black stained tear streaks running down his face. So as the Mayor of Arkham pleads his case to the referee, Max pushes Sage Pontiff towards the ropes… the side where SRK resides.

Once again, Sutler’s reluctant but Reynolds-Kael jumps onto the apron and swings the chair in Pontiff’s general direction.

SWOOSH!

Pontiff ducks! He kicks the chair out of Sutler’s hands and then hangs the kid up on the ropes with a cutter!

Pontiff spins around, as Kael lets go of the referee and charges over.

POCKET SAND!

Nick Stuart: JIMMY DIDN’T SEE IT!

Followed by a spinning tombstone piledriver!

Nick Stuart: This one is OVER!

ONE!

TWO!

SHOULDER UP!

Air is rushed out of the arena, because even though no one is cheering for Max, they definitely bought into the piledriver ending it.

By now, most of the makeup is completely off Max’s face. He looks down at Pontiff and frowns. He looks over at his adopted son and scowls.

Kael peels Pontiff off the mat-

DDT BY SAGE!

Pontiff rolls Kael over and HOOKS BOTH LEGS.

ONE!

TWO!

LAST SECOND KICKOUT!

Richard Parker: Surprised the DDT didn’t do it, partner! You could hear the smack of Max’s skull against the mat from here!

Pontiff fumbles onto his feet and stumbles into a corner. He waits for Kael to get on all fours before taking charge…

Sling blade!

Nick Stuart: The Cosmic Resonator lands!

If Sage Pontiff considered a pin, he can’t do so.

Because Sutler Reynolds-Kael is on the apron!

The referee sprints over and DEMANDS SRK drop down this instant… but as Pontiff marches over in an attempt to knock Sutler off and redirect the referee back to, well, refereeing… Max Kael once again slides to his feet.

He snatches Pontiff by the shoulder and spins him around…

POCKET SAND!

…Wait. No. There’s no more sand in Kael’s pocket. It’s empty.

He’s fucked!!

Sage is JUST about to wreck Max with a potential Canadian Destroyer but the Mayor digs into his other bag of tricks. It takes Max a millisecond to figure it out, but he proceeds to poking Sage in the eyes for a second time.

Then a low blow.

Pontiff remains upright, but he stumbles into the referee and Sutler Reynolds-Kael on the apron. Sage bumps into Jimmy hard, so with the referee not looking anymore, Sutler takes Sage by the head.

Sutler looks at his dad, his dad back at him.

HEADBUTT.

A one-off Brow Beater, knocking Pontiff back to where he came from… the middle of the ring.

And Max Kael’s arms.

Max follows with an inside cradle with SOO MUCH TIGHTS. But Jimmy Turnbull is already pretty rattled himself, only now seeing it… so he definitely does not see the tights being held!

ONE.

TWO.

THREE.

DING DING DING

Sage Pontiff kicks out but it’s a moment too late as Max retreats directly after hearing the bell.

Vince Howard: Here is your winner… MAX KAEL!

Richard Parker: Max did it! Sutler with the assist, too! Ice cream store here we come! Happy faces for everyone in the Kael family! Conor Fuse die a terrible death!

Max makes his way towards Sutler, taking his son under his armpit and placing him in a type of lovingly-father headlock. The two march quickly up the rampway, just in case Sage was pissed off enough to go after them.

Meanwhile, Pontiff rests in the middle of the ring, on his knees, knowing he was so close. Perhaps Sage would continue the fight, but after being poked in the eyes twice, and still flushing out leftover pocket sand, he can’t see shit.

ReVival goes elsewhere.

Previously recorded

Sydney, Australia. The Glass Jaw Academy. Inside doors that have seen sweat by the gallons, bodies pushed to their absolute limits and the occasional destroying of dreams is one Jacky Daniels. Today is a rare off day, a moment of silence for walls accustomed to wails of torment. The big task for the day? Cleaning. Those very same walls, the mat, any item in need of sanitation was on the docket.

With a huff, the large man tosses a rag to the side. At that same moment, someone comes into the Academy, the jangle of the butcher’s bell over the door the only thing heralding their entrance. Jacky’s focus stays on the task in front of him, unconcerned with any guest’s arrival.

Jacky Daniels: Nah, mate. Sorry. Closed today. Come back tomorrow.

???: I am not here for training.

Daniels turns around to see a Japanese woman; taller than average, her well muscled physique hidden only so well by her conservative clothing, long straight hair the color of a panther’s coat and a face so sweet it struggles to look serious. Kohime Mori…he assumes. Lord, please don’t let it be the Yakuza hiding behind that face.

Though even if she is, there’s no reason to be apprehensive at this point. So Jacky did what Jacky always did. The Aussie offers an easy, friendly smile to match the Zubaz-pattered sweatpants and neo-80’s tank top with the Academy’s name blazened upon the chest. His muscled frame relaxes, but ready at the first sign of tension.

Jacky Daniels: Well, shelia, if ya aren’t here for training, you’re here for consultation. Suppose you didn’t set up an appointment for that?”

Kohime Mori: You are Mr. Jacky Daniels, correct?”

Jacky Daniels: Mr. Daniels was my old man. I’m just Jacky to those that ain’t my students or my wife.

Despite the circumstances that brought this woman to his doorstep, Jacky can’t help but feel butterflies at the thought of his Muse. Even shaking his head in an attempt to refocus doesn’t fully take it away.

Jacky Daniels: Either way, unless you have something more important than asking my name, the story remains the same. Shop’s closed. Come back tomorrow.

The voice still keeps its even keel but the glint of the camera lingering in the background makes him aware of the peril she’s putting herself in, even if she wasn’t aware of it. If you’re bold enough to record your folly, make sure you’re prepared for the fallout.

She shifts her shoulders and rocks between each foot. Yet her line of vision remains on Jacky. Kohime’s eyes slowly close; Calming breath. She meets his gaze, her own determined but without malice.

Kohime Mori: It is your wife that I want to talk about. I do not expect you to disagree with them or what they have done. But they hurt a very close friend of mine. I just want answers.

The former Iron Fist sighs. Then after a while, those boulder type shoulders shrug. He sits himself down on the apron of a wrestling ring on perpetual loan from friends. Rough palms touch canvas.

Jacky Daniels: I can’t promise I have the answers you want. I only have the answers I got.

Mori nods. She knows she might not like what she’s about to hear. There was a possibility that this conversation might not even put her mind at ease. But the chance, the potential that Kohime could get anything to shed light on this whole mess between Anna and RIA was worth digging for.

Kohime Mori: I appreciate that and your honesty, Mr. Jacky. So you know about Miss Anna and Miss RIA’s problems?

Light steps on dangerous ground. But she thought the direct approach would be the best for cutting right to things. Kohime knows she occasionally has a bad habit of rambling when her mind wanders. Better to not even allow the possibility of such a thing.

Jacky Daniels: I know they’ve been on opposite sides of things for a while. I reckon Annie finally reached her limit with the whole thing and decided to make a move. Honestly? It seems like it had been a burden on her, at least for as long as I’ve been back in the picture. She was trying to move forward but something about that place of yours…

Another sigh as he combs his hair with his fingers.

Jacky Daniels: I told her she can just quit and go elsewhere. Pro wrestling is very vast and there’s plenty of promotions that would chomp at the bit for her star power. But she can’t let it go, ya know? She has the same chip on her shoulder she had when they first came around.

Kohime slowly strides over, gently setting herself on the apron a few feet from the male Daniels. The floor has her attention until she raises her head, letting her eyes wander all over the building.

Kohime Mori: Do you think it is just that they drifted apart? They used to be so close…

A number of thoughts whiz through the Moé Monster’s mind, each brawling with another for attention. Maybe they weren’t as close as she thought? Perhaps Lockhart did have more fault in things than she knew (or wanted to admit)? One word kept pushing its way ahead of the others. Sister. It howls in her mind, crying out for consideration. What did she have to lose?

Kohime Mori: They called each other sisters… I do not think it was a bond Miss Ria took lightly.

Jacky Daniels: And you think Annie did?

The Relentless one scoffs at the hidden insinuation behind Kohime’s comment.

Jacky Daniels: She’s the most devoted person I have ever met. She hangs on long after others let go. My beloved didn’t just randomly wake up and say I’m gonna beat up my sister. There’s moments of impulse, sure. But…

He notices Mori’s freewheeling glance trying to take in the seemingly contradictory vibes of the place. Glass Jaw’s building was a warehouse in a past life before ol’ Angus set up shop. It was never meant to be the fanciest establishment, yet they made do in trying to balance the gritty days of the past with the endless striving for a better future.

Just to the side of a work in progress mural from a local artist–a pastel colored landscape of a sunrise on the beach–is a shrine to just that. Picture frames of a man with his wild hair grinning as he cashed another paycheck from doing the job, of his son holding his amateur wrestling trophy with pride, a still of young Jacky himself holding his big time contract. One of them come into focus for him: a picture of the Daniels’ on the day of the grand reopening. Tired because of all the work they had done, but proud to carry the dream regardless.

Jacky Daniels: Nah. I’ll go out on a limb and say that the reason why it didn’t happen sooner is because she took it very seriously.

Kohime ruffles her hair in frustration.

Kohime Mori: I am not trying to accuse Miss Anna of caring less. I just… I wish I could understand why they must hurt each other…

Mori’s gaze finds her fingers fiddling in her lap. Why couldn’t this just be easy? She just wanted to help them both, for things to be the way they used to be between them.

Kohime Mori: I want them to be safe. To be okay.”

To this statement, Jacky can’t help but laugh.

Jacky Daniels: They’re pro wrestlers, shelia! Safe and okay aren’t always things you can be when you’re bashing your body, mind, and soul across canvas for a crumb of respect every night.

He nods at her.

Jacky Daniels: I get what you mean though. And look, I dunno Ria, right? But if she’s even the slightest bit like Anna, she’s bullheaded and isn’t about to really listen to a damn word you say anyway.

Mori sighs, her head slowly nodding up and down.

Kohime Mori: Miss Ria can be very stubborn. She will listen to my words, but she will do what she wants in the end. I guess I will just have to accept that this fight will happen, even if I don’t want it to.

Kohime gingerly slides off the apron and onto her feet. Her eyes scan over the Academy once more before she turns towards Jacky. The Moé Monster meets his gaze one last time before offering a bow, hands folded against her pelvis as she does.

Kohime Mori: Thank you for your time, Mr. Jacky. I am sorry to have bothered you during a day off. Please take care.

The Japanese woman straightens up and turns around. With a sigh that bubbles up from her heart to spill out of her mouth, Kohime slowly walks towards the exit. And in watching this sad figure walk off, Jacky…can’t help himself.

Jacky Daniels: Oi!

The exclamation causes Kohime to stop in her tracks as the head trainer bounces to his feet.

Jacky Daniels: A few nights before the whole mess, she said she’s already mourned what she’s lost. Whatever that means? I think she’s prepared for what happens on the other side of this. Maybe your friend should get ready too.

And with that, he snags the rag from the floor.

Jacky Daniels: Good luck. You’re gonna need it.

With that, the feed cuts and we head elsewhere as ReVival moves on.

We jump to Argyle. Simon Tillier, blonde hair rebelliously spiked up and clad in his patch-covered sleeveless blue blazer, greets the viewers with a pointed glare into the camera.

Simon Tillier: What’s up, PRIME faithful? You know, other than the constant acts of government-endorsed fascism that surrounds our society on a daily basis. But I digress… who tunes into ReVival to listen about the gradual collapse of Western civilization? “Rhymin’” Simon is here backstage to get the lowdown on all the GREAT WRASSLIN’ ACTION we got going on tonight.

He finger-guns over to somebody on his left. The camera pans, revealing “The Emerald Apex” Kerry Kuroyama standing nearby.

Simon Tillier: And for those of you who haven’t already skipped ahead in the program because there aren’t enough funny things going on, I’m here with one such WRASSLER… our very own super serious, super tough, super professional Five Star Champion, Kerry Kuroyama! So how are tricks, Kerry? How are you feeling about this title match?

Kuroyama says nothing. He stands idle, staring straight ahead while stretching out his wrists. Along with the emerald, silver, and pink tights and the belt draped over his shoulder, he’s wearing a sleeveless “DOJO CASCADIA” hoodie, because you never know when you’re in a situation where your head is cold but your arms are hot.

Simon Tillier: Oh no, don’t tell me you’re doing the silent bit now?! What would be the point of even doing this interview then? Hell, at this rate, I’m likely to lose my job by the time Colossus comes around!

Again, Kerry says nothing… but it’s clear that he’s deliberately ignoring the junior interviewer.

Something is noticeably off in the Five Star Champion’s demeanor. To the layman wrestling fan with a short attention span, it’s just plain old, boring, stale Kerry Kuroyama, standing there doing nothing.

However, to the rare individual who actually pays attention and has a shred of cognitive reasoning, there’s more than enough that can be seen within his stiffened posture, tensed jaw, creased eyeline, and thousand-yard stare to infer that there’s much going on under the surface.

Fortunately for us, Tillier is one such individual. Rebuffed but not completely put off by Kuroyama’s efforts to block him out, he makes the risky choice to go HAM with the questions.

Simon Tillier: Alright… let’s cut to brass tacks here: Are you worried about facing Scott Hunter in a title match?

Simon puts himself directly into the Five Star Champion’s line of sight as he hits him with the big Q. The spell breaks, as Kerry slowly turns his head in the interviewer’s direction.

Simon Tillier: Let’s just get right to the root of the matter here before you go out there and defend that title against the first Five Star Champion of the Revival Era, Hayes Hanlon. Weeks ago, in light of Scott earning his title shot, you made the decision to split up the Vae Victis VVingmen. But do you think anyone’s buying that it hasn’t affected you in any meaningful way? Because I’m willing to go out on a limb and say it HAS!

Kuroyama turns his body toward the junior interviewer now, eyes fixated and intense.

Simon Tillier: But if you walk out tonight with your championship reign intact, it all but assures that at Colossus, you’ll inevitably have to face the music against your friend and VVingman, Scott Hunter! But I think what the people want to know, Kerry, is if it comes to that, what will you decide? Will you be cold and remorseless in your mission to end yet another dream of stardom — in this case, your best friend’s dream? Or, will you let your emotions get the better of you, and collapse beneath the pressure?

Kerry looms over Tillier. Despite the obvious height and size differential, Simon takes a step closer, until they are practically chest to chest.

Because somebody has to keep this place punk rock.

Simon Tillier: So what’s it going to be, Kerry? Scott, or the GOLD? Is holding onto that Five Star Championship more important than supporting your VVingman? Are you SOOO dedicated to your serious, no-nonsense WRASSLIN’ that you’d be willing to sacrifice literally the only friend you have in this company?

Silence.

Then Kerry slowly draws back his hood, revealing an Airpod set into his ear. As he removes it, we can faintly hear the ethereal tones of Mr. Mister playing.

He holds out his open palm to the junior interviewer…

Kerry Kuroyama: …give me the mic.

Suddenly second guessing himself, Simon obligingly hands over the stick. Kerry nods to him, gesturing to give him space, and Tillier backs out of the shot.

The camera recenters on the Emerald Apex as he briefly looks down at the belt on his shoulder, then locks eyes with the millions of viewers at home.

Well… several hundreds of thousands, in light of this new Nielsen ratings system. Big Data plus Panel, my not-so-objective narrator ass.

Kerry Kuroyama: The only person I’m concerned about defending this title against right now… is Hayes Hanlon.

Kerry’s grip on the mic tightens. The ferocity of Seattle’s BEAST is creeping forth

Kerry Kuroyama: As to what will happen should I retain? That’s the furthest thing from my mind right now. I’m more focused on punching my ticket to Colossus than worrying about what waits for me there. But you want to know what has been on my mind lately? Fuck it, I’ll tell you… I’m reminiscing about two years of grinding through this company, driven by nothing more than a single-minded mission to climb the ladder and prove my worth as a wrestler. I’m remembering all the shit-talking, dick-stroking, drug-addled, pants-shitting, indie-minded clowns I had to endure over that time. I’m thinking back on all the times some smart-ass in the locker room, or some dipshit keyboard jockey on Reddit, went out of their way to say that Kerry Kuroyama was too boring. Too bland. Too SERIOUS. Or at the least, just some Yakuza cosplay enthusiast trying to substitute a slick presentation for an actual personality. Because heaven forbid we acknowledge things like nuance. Or reticence. Or the basic concept of “less is more”. Well, too all that hated on me in my path to this title… to all that tried to tear me down, because I was willing to dish out the hard truths you didn’t want to hear… to all that tried killed my momentum by just outright refusing to acknowledge my presence here, because I wouldn’t play along with their trampoline circus ring… have fun with the never-ending circle jerk you’ve built for yourselves. Because despite your efforts, I proved that by sticking to my code and leaving my business to the ring, I rose above all that bullshit and proved my worth to this company.

He unslings the belt and holds it forward.

Kerry Kuroyama: This title in my hands is the embodiment of all that you refuse to see, and everything you refuse to hear. But you can’t ignore it any longer…

He takes a step forward until his furious, quivering face nearly fills the screen.

Kerry Kuroyama: And whatever happens in that ring tonight, whether I leave with or without this belt, not a goddamn single one of you will be able to look up to the top of this company any longer without seeing me standing there at the APEX.

Kerry returns the mic to its owner by thrusting it into his chest. Simon stumbles back and rearranges his glasses, while Kuroyama re-inserts his Airpods and turns away.

Simon Tillier: Okay, but, um… I mean, you technically didn’t answer my question.

Kerry doesn’t hear him. He’s back in his insular world of sad yacht rock, lost in thought.

Simon Tillier: Ugh, this is pointless. I guess good luck out there, or whatever.

Throwing in the towel, Tillier holsters the mic and walks out of the shot.

The feed goes out to ringside…

Vince Howard: The following match is one fall and is for the Five Star Championship! Introducing first, the challenger…

Distorted guitar heralds a black hole emerging on the PRIME*View, dangerously close to the screen; hanging in the void among planets and nebulas.

Sirens accompany as the screen shakes, pulling us in violently, until the lyrics scream throughout the PA system.

“WHEN MY BACK’S TO THE WAAALLLL!!!”

And huge, white block letters fill the screen:

I!!!

WILL!!!

CON!!!

QUER!!!

The speakers and amplifiers hold on for dear life as “Daggers” by We Came as Romans absolutely bludgeon the eardrums. And speaking of explosions, those planets and stars on the PRIME*View do just that, bursting into blinding eruptions of violent light. It carries into the arena, rumbling flashbulbs explode in various points throughout the building; in the ceiling, in the stands, one after another.

And then, from the ramp, The Event Horizon. He marches forward, those dark eyes focused, ‘stache on point. The eruption of lights and noise makes the building feel like a mosh pit. If the fans are booing, you’d never know.

Vince Howard: FROM WEST LINN, OREGON! STANDING SIX FEET, THREE INCHES AND WEIGHING IN AT TWO-HUNDRED AND SIXTY FIVE POUNDS!!

Hayes climbs the apron, steps through the ropes, and b-lines for the turnbuckle.

Vince Howard: The Event Horizoonnnnnnn…HAAAAAYESSSS!! HAAANNNLLOOOONNNNN!!!

Up one rope, then the second, chest and jaw jutting out, and a thumb across his neck.

“DRAW! THE! DAGGER!
CUT OUT THE PAIN! TO FIND THE POWER!”

He hops down, making way to the next post to repeat the process one more time.

“DRAW! THE! DAGGER!
CUT OUT THE PAIN!”

He remains on the ropes, and in timing with the song, beats his chest four times while roaring out the crescendo.

I!!!

WILL!!!

CON!!!

QUER!!!

The Comeback Kid stays for a moment, eyes scanning the arena, allowing the music to reach its breakdown. He hops to the mat and takes his place in his corner, ready to go.

Nick Stuart: The first of three title matches and we’ve got a doozy for you!

Richard Parker: Hanlon, reclaiming his Five Star Championship. It’s so beautiful.

Nick Stuart: That may not happen.

Richard Parker: That’s what I told my bookie!

The arena goes black…

BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!

BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!

BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!

BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!

The PA bumps with “Blouses Blue” by Konrad OldMoney and Sleep Steady. Light suddenly fills the arena when the PRIMEview powers up to a view of animated green and gold scales whooshing by. After a moment, a gilded DRAGON flies into full view, and ROARS into the screen!

KRACKA-BOOOOOMMM!!

A flashing pillar of levin suddenly EXPLODES over the stage, accompanied by a colorful array of green, silver, and gold pyrotechnics. A series of spotlights arrange themselves into a triangular pattern, with the point of focus resting upon the head of the rampway.

When the pyro smoke clears, two figures gradually come into view. The first is KERRY KUROYAMA, proudly wearing the Five Star Championship around his waist and clad in newly customized gear with golden star motifs to compliment the regular emerald and black. Standing beside him is AMI TROY, leaning in slightly with her arms crossed and wearing her characteristically wry smile while showing off her finest “SEATTLE’S BEAST TAMER” halter.

The duo accept a greeting of loud cheers from the thousands of fans in attendance. After savoring the reaction for a few moments, Kuroyama dutifully unhooks the title belt from his waist and hoists it over his head. More pyros. More cheering. Then the belt goes over his shoulder as he begins to descend along the rampway with Ami at his side.

Kerry’s eyes remain fixated squarely on the ring as he comes down the aisle. When he reaches ringside, he hops straight to the apron and steps through ropes with all the briskness and tenacity of a caged lion.

He climbs the turnbuckle and raises the Five Star Title once more to a massive pop from the crowd. Crossing the ring to repeat the action on the other corner, he momentarily pauses to stare down the opponent with a face that plainly gives off FAFO energy. Then he climbs the next turnbuckle, and raises the belt to more cheers.

Vince Howard: And his opponent, weighing in at 244 pounds and hailing from Seattle Washington… he is the FIVE STAR CHAMPION! THE EMERALD APEX! KERRRRRRRRRRRRRY! KUROYAMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMA!

Richard Parker: Cool cool, let’s get this match started.

Barlow takes the championship and holds it up in the air before handing it off to the ringside attendnat. She gives her final set of instructions before signaling for the start of the match.

DING DING

Hayes Hanlon and Kerry Kuroyama circle each other cautiously, the tension palpable in the arena. The PRIMEates are already buzzing with anticipation.

Nick Stuart: The Colonial Life Arena is alive right now and this feels like a monumental match.

Richard Parker: Hard to argue with that when you consider the back-half of this card is stacked with matches that you would find at Colossus, but they’re being given away for free here on ReVival.

Nick Stuart: Both men are sizing each other up. Kuroyama, you have to imagine he wants this match badly, to take the title into Colossus.

Richard Parker: And Hanlon would love nothing more than to take it off of him.

They lock up in a collar-and-elbow tie-up, and immediately Hanlon uses every pound of his 271-pound frame to muscle the champion backward. Kuroyama’s feet slide across the canvas as Hanlon drives him into the corner with overwhelming force, pressing him against the turnbuckles. Ashley Barlow steps in, calling for a clean break.

“Break it up! One! Two! Three!”

Hanlon obliges, but not before delivering a disrespectful slap across Kuroyama’s chest that cracks like a rifle shot.

WHACK!

The sound reverberates through the arena and the crowd reacts immediately.

BOOOOOOOO!

Hanlon backs away with a smirk plastered across his face, that trademark mustache curling with arrogance as he points at the champion.

“Welcome to MY show, champ!”

Richard Parker: Well, that’s a sure fire way to piss off the Emerald Apex.

Nick Stuart: Is that a strategy you would employ?

Richard Parker: No, but I’m also not Hayes Hanlon.

Nick Stuart: That is an understatement.

Kerry Kuroyama’s eyes narrow into slits. The Emerald Apex’s jaw clenches. He explodes out of the corner and fires off a stiff forearm smash that snaps Hanlon’s head to the side.

CRACK!

Before Hanlon can recover, Kuroyama follows with another forearm, then another, backing the challenger up. He whips Hanlon into the ropes and as he comes back, he connects with a standing dropkick that catches Hanlon square in the chest!

YEAH!

Hanlon stumbles backward but stays on his feet, shaking his head as if to clear the cobwebs. Kuroyama presses the advantage, grabbing Hanlon’s arm and whipping him into the ropes. On the rebound, Kuroyama drops down, Hanlon leaps over, hits the opposite ropes, and Kuroyama springs up with a beautiful Japanese armdrag that sends the challenger rolling across the ring!

Nick Stuart: Kuroyama going for the basics here in the outset. Kerry is as trained as they come and while Hanlon is no slouch, Hayes is going to have to rely on sheer power to put Kuroyama down tonight.

Richard Parker: Hanlon is also crafty. He’s an outside of the box kind of thinker. Sure, power will go a long way for Hanlon here, but it’s not like Kuroyama is a pushover either, you know? That man has more muscles than I can count.

Nick Stuart: The crowd here in Columbia is eating up every single second of this, though.

Richard Parker: I mean, it’s Columbia. What else do they have to do here?

Hanlon pops up quickly, looking surprised and slightly annoyed. The two men circle again, and this time when they lock up, Hanlon immediately transitions into a side headlock, grinding down on Kuroyama’s skull. The champion shoots him off into the ropes, but Hanlon comes back with a leaping shoulder block that puts Kuroyama down hard!

BOOM!

Hanlon pops up immediately, beating his chest with both fists and letting out a roar.

BOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: Hanlon is doing a bit of showboating and you have to imagine that’s going to rub Kuroyama the wrong way.

Nick Stuart: It’s like you know Kerry or something.

Richard Parker: I’ve seen him once or twice.

Nick Stuart: This is a good opporutnity for Kuroyama to get a victory under his belt before he heads off to Colossus to face Hunter.

Richard Parker: Careful. He’s gotta win first.

Kuroyama rolls to his feet and the two men face off again. Hanlon charges in, but Kuroyama sidesteps and catches him with a side Russian legsweep that plants the challenger on the mat. Kuroyama immediately floats over into a front chancery, wrenching on Hanlon’s neck. Barlow checks on Hanlon, but The Event Horizon powers up to his knees, then to his feet, lifting Kuroyama with him. Hanlon delivers three hard shots to Kuroyama’s ribs—

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

—and breaks the hold.

Hanlon shoves Kuroyama into the ropes and catches him on the rebound with a massive spinebuster that shakes the ring!

CRASH!

Nick Sutart: And there goes the Event Horizon, showing off his impressive prowess and power.

Richard Parker: Keeping Hanlon down is easier said than done. This man thrives off this kind of environment. Big matches is what Hanlon eats for breakfast.

Nick Stuart: Well, Kuroyama is no slouch in that department either, having been near the top of the pyramid since joining PRIME.

Richard Parker: Yeah, but Hanlon has been at the top before and will do it again before his career is over.

Instead of going for a cover, Hanlon stands up and flexes for the crowd, showing off his physique while Kuroyama writhes on the mat.

BOOOOOOOO!

“IS THIS YOUR CHAMPION?!”

The disrespect is dripping from his words. Kuroyama uses the ropes to pull himself up, and when Hanlon turns back around, the champion is waiting. Kuroyama unleashes a rapid-fire series of open-palm slaps—

SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!

—that rock Hanlon’s head back and forth. The challenger’s head snaps left, right, left again. Kuroyama pivots and throws a rolling elbow that staggers Hanlon backward into the corner!

YEAH!

Nick Stuart: Clearly Kuroyama didn’t appreciate the showboating from Hanlon and Kuroyama is making him pay for it.

Richard Parker: Pissing off someone like Kerry, who can suplex you on your head repeatedly trust me I’ve seen it, doesn’t sound like a sound strategy.

Nick Stuart: I mean, Hanlon can get away with that. You? Not so much.

Richard Parker: Trust me, I cross to the other side of the city when I see Kuroyama coming.

Kuroyama charges in and delivers a vicious Yakuza kick that connects flush with Hanlon’s jaw!

SMACK!

Hanlon slumps in the corner, and Kuroyama backs up, measuring him. He charges again, but this time Hanlon explodes out of the corner and catches the champion with a devastating powerslam!

WHAM!

The impact is massive. Both men are down for a moment, the early pace taking its toll.

Richard Parker: Well, Hayes Hanlon stepped up in a crucial moment there. Antoher Yakuza kick would’ve been devastating in the early stages of this match.

Nick Stuart: And Kuroyama looks like the wind has been taken out of him. He did not expect Hanlon to reverse that.

Richard Parker: These two are stepping it up in a big way and I think these fans in Columbia are in for a treat.

Hanlon is first to his feet. He pulls Kuroyama up and whips him hard into the corner. The champion hits the turnbuckles back-first and Hanlon charges in with a running back elbow that crushes Kuroyama against the pads.

BOOM!

The Emerald Apex slumps down, and Hanlon grabs him by the hair, dragging him to center ring.

“Watch the hair, Hayes!”

Hanlon ignores Barlow completely. He hoists Kuroyama up with disgusting ease and slams him down with authority. Scoop slam. But Hanlon immediately pulls the champion back up before he can even register the pain. Another slam.

CRASH!

The crowd groans. Another.

CRASH!

The Scoop Slam Party is in full effect now—three, four, FIVE consecutive slams right in the center of the ring, each one driving the air out of Kuroyama’s lungs.

Richard Parker: I don’t think I’ve ever seen a scoop slam used to such great effect like Hanlon is doing now.

Nick Stuart: Rapid succession of slams that is going to wear on Kuroyama. His lower back is going to be in pain, he’s not able to get his breath in and thus his lungs are working overtime. This is a great idea that will help wear Kuroyama down for Hanlon.

Richard Parker: You know who I bet came up with this idea? Farthington.

Nick Stuart: Of course you would think that.

Hanlon finally releases his grip and struts around the ring, arms spread wide.

“THIS IS YOUR KING?!”

BOOOOOOOO!

Kuroyama clutches his lower back, grimacing. Hanlon stalks back over and pulls him up, hooking him for a vertical suplex. He lifts Kuroyama high into the air and holds him there—five seconds, ten seconds—showing off his strength before finally dropping backward and driving the champion into the canvas.

THUD!

Hanlon floats over for a cover. Barlow drops down.

ONE

TWO—

Kuroyama kicks out, but the damage is mounting.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think a vertical suplex is going to put Kuroyama down.

Richard Parker: All you need is one moment, Nick. One moment for Kuroyama to be dazed, out of it, to get the three count. You never know what’s going to do that. And that’s going to put Kerry on alert. He’s going to want to get control back in this match and may be willing to take a larger risk as a result.

Nick Stuart: Well, Hanlon has dialed in on Kerry and it’s working so far.

Richard Parker: Glue power, baby!

Hanlon pulls Kuroyama to his feet and backs him into the corner. He unloads with chest chops—each one echoing through the arena.

WHACK!

WHACK!

WHACK!

WHACK!

WHACK!

LET’S GO KU-RO-YA-MA!

The PRIMEates try to rally their champion, but Hanlon is relentless. He backs up to the opposite corner and points at Kuroyama, making sure everyone knows what’s coming. He charges forward with a full head of steam and crushes Kuroyama with a corner clothesline that makes the turnbuckles shake. Kuroyama slumps down to a seated position, dazed.

Richard Parker: Kuroyama better do something fast or else we’ll be seeing a new champion crowned here tonight, the first of potentially three!

Nick Stuart: Huge matches still to come, but Hanlon has a lot of work to do before he’s being crowned as the new champion.

Richard Parker: I mean, the Glue could be walking out of here with all the big belts outside of the Intense and Alias championships. You think Luc Labelle wants to join Glue?

Nick Stuart: What about Fred Dick?

Richard Parker: Fred Dick answers to no one. Except the other voices in his head.

Hanlon drags Kuroyama out of the corner and sets him up. With theatrical flair, he lifts the champion onto his shoulders in a fireman’s carry and begins his signature ENORMOUS tilting, stalling Samoan Drop. But he doesn’t just hit it—he walks around the entire ring, holding Kuroyama high in the air like a trophy, showing off his raw power for a full ten seconds.

“LOOK AT YOUR CHAMPION NOW!”

Finally, Hanlon falls backward and drives Kuroyama into the canvas with devastating force.

BOOM!

The ring trembles.

Richard Parker: There’s a bit of showmanship here tonight from Hayes. He’s come back from his injury with a renewed focus and confidence that you know what, I’m digging.

Nick Stuart: You would. Hanlon either thinks he’s a class above Kuroyama or he’s masking over something.

Richard Parker: I think you’re wrong on that last point. Hanlon knows he’s been to the top of the mountain, that comes with a certainty in your mind that most of PRIME has never experienced. Not even the likes of Nate Colton. That gives you a boost of confidence you couldn’t imagine.

Nick Stuart: Well, he better keep a close eye on it because it could give Kerry the ammo and drive to prove Hanlon wrong.

Hanlon hooks the leg, but it’s arrogant. One arm draped lazily across Kuroyama’s chest.

ONE

TWO—

Kuroyama’s shoulder shoots up! The crowd erupts!

YEAH!

Hanlon sits up, showing the first hint of annoyance. He holds up three fingers to Ashley.

“That was three!”

“Two! Only two, Hayes!”

Nick Stuart: And now Hanlon is arguing with Ashley after that half-assed pin attempt.

Richard Parker: I mean, the onus is on Kuroyama to kickout, not on Hanlon. And I think Ashley was a bit slow on that count.

Nick Stuart: That was clearly a two count.

Richard Parker: That could’ve been a three count!

Hanlon pulls Kuroyama to his feet, forcing the champion to look him in the eyes. Kuroyama is glassy-eyed, running on instinct. Hanlon pie-faces him disrespectfully, shoving him backward with a palm to the face.

“Let me show you how REAL wrestlers do it, champ.”

He pulls Kuroyama close again.

“Let me show you what a REAL champion looks like.”

Nick Stuart: Man, Hanlon is getting really bold here.

Richard Parker: I love it. Hanlon has earned that.

Nick Stuart: Well, these fans in the front row are giving them their opinions.

Richard Parker: Oh please, like these fools from South Carolina have anything important to say.

Hanlon grabs Kuroyama by the wrist and pulls him in close, hooking him for another vertical suplex. He lifts the champion up and over, and Hanlon holds Kuroyama vertical at the apex, stalling, showing off his strength and control. Five seconds pass. The crowd counts along mockingly.

ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR! FIVE!

Finally, Hanlon falls backward and drives Kuroyama into the canvas with authority.

THUD!

But Hanlon isn’t done showing off. He kips up theatrically, landing on his feet with a flourish, and spreads his arms wide to the booing crowd.

“THAT’S how it’s done!”

BOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: It may not be flashy, it may not be pretty, but it’s damn sure impressive. Blood rushing to his head, body crashing into the canvas, Kuroyama is getting carved up seven ways to Sunday.

Nick Stuart: It’s the showboating, Richard, that’s going to get him in trouble.

Richard Parker: Oh stop, you keep saying that and Kuroyama hasn’t done a damn thing.

Nick Stuart: Not yet.

Kuroyama doesn’t appreciate the lesson. The Emerald Apex rolls to his feet, and before Hanlon can turn around, he’s already moving. Kuroyama grabs the challenger from behind, hooks his arms, and delivers a picture-perfect snap dragon suplex that dumps Hanlon directly on the back of his head and neck!

CRACK!

YEAH!

Hanlon’s body folds like an accordion before he rolls through to his feet on instinct. He staggers slightly, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, and despite himself—despite the situation—he looks impressed. A slight nod of respect.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think Hanlon knows where he’s at.

Richard Parker: He knows full well! He’s happy that Kuroyama has stepped up, he wants everyone to know when he beats Kuroyama that Kerry gave it his best. So far, we haven’t seen that Kerry. He’s clearly got Scott on the brain.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think that’s the case in the least bit.

Richard Parker: And as usual, you are wrong.

But respect doesn’t mean backing down. Hanlon charges forward, grabs Kuroyama around the waist, and hoists him up and over with a German suplex! He bridges beautifully, his back arched, shoulders pinning Kuroyama’s to the mat. Barlow drops down for the count!

ONE

TWO—

Kuroyama kicks out! But Hanlon maintains his grip on the waistlock, his fingers still clasped tight. He pulls the champion back up to his feet, showing his veteran savvy.

Richard Parker: Like I told you Nick, there are levels to this. Hanlon has gears that he can go to. Does Kuroyama? I guess we’ll find out!

Nick Stuart: Hanlon is taking it right to Kuroyama and playing Kerry’s game to boot. You have to both admire that and question it.

Richard Parker: Question it? Not in the least bit. This is a great strategy. Kerry never would’ve thought this was what Hanlon was going to do. He’s caught by surprise!

Nick Stuart: We shall see.

Hanlon connects with another German suplex!

BOOM!

Kuroyama’s body slams violently into the canvas. But Hanlon still doesn’t release. He drags Kuroyama up again, the champion’s legs rubbery, and delivers a THIRD German suplex!

CRASH!

This time Hanlon releases, letting Kuroyama roll limply across the ring.

The Event Horizon rises to his feet and poses, arms spread wide, soaking in the hatred from the PRIMEates.

BOOOOOOOO!

“THREE IN A ROW! WHAT’S HE GOT?!”

Richard Parker: Oh man, this is as tasty as the fried chicken I had last night. Finger licking good.

Nick Stuart: You had KFC last night?!

Richard Parker: And what, trust these people to know how to cook fried chicken? The Colonel never loses!

Nick Stuart: You are something else.

Kuroyama uses the ropes to pull himself up, hand over hand. His movements are slower now. There’s something different in the way he’s moving—a slight hitch in his step. His right ankle seems to give just a fraction as he puts weight on it. It’s subtle. Most people wouldn’t notice.

Hayes Hanlon notices.

The challenger’s eyes narrow. His expression shifts from cocky showmanship to predatory focus. He’s spotted weakness, and sharks don’t ignore blood in the water.

Nick Stuart: And Hanlon looks like he just lined up for a Chinese buffet!

Richard Parker: Can you imagine how much he puts away at one of those things?! He’s probably put fifty or sixy out of business by now.

Nick Stuart: Probably not.

Richard Parker: Probably not, but that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Hanlon charges in for an overhead belly-to-belly suplex, but Kuroyama’s instincts kick in. He blocks the attempt, drives an elbow into Hanlon’s ribs, and counters with his own snap belly-to-belly that sends the challenger flying across the ring!

CRASH!

Hanlon lands hard and rolls to the corner. Both men are feeling the effects of this war now.

LET’S GO KU-RO-YA-MA!

The PRIMEates rally behind their champion. Kuroyama feeds off their energy, stalking toward Hanlon. He pulls the challenger up and hooks him, lifting him high into the air before driving him down with thunderous impact—the Northern Lights Bomb! BOOM! Kuroyama holds for the pin!

ONE

TWO—

Hanlon powers out! But he’s slower getting up this time. The bombs are taking their toll.

Nick Stuart: And Kuroyama is working to change the momentum of this match.

Richard Parker: He’s got a mountain to climb for that to happen.

Nick Stuart: If anyone can do it, its Kuroyama.

Richard Parker: We shall see.

Kuroyama pulls Hanlon to his feet, looking to maintain his momentum. He hooks the challenger for another big suplex—a release tiger suplex. He lifts Hanlon up and launches him backward, but as Kuroyama releases and follows through, his right ankle buckles. Just for a split second. Just enough.

Kuroyama completes the move and Hanlon crashes to the mat, but the champion lands awkwardly, all his weight coming down on his right side. He immediately favors the ankle, a grimace flashing across his face before he can hide it.

Richard Parker: And Kuroyama’s ankle is bothering him. That would be ironic!

Nick Stuart: Ankles are a tricky thing when you’re carrying someone the size of Hanlon, but with Hayes having just returned from his own ankle injuries, you know he’s going to pounce.

Richard Parker: As he should, Kuroyama is wounded!

Hayes Hanlon sees everything. The showboating stops. The taunts cease. His entire demeanor changes in an instant. He circles Kuroyama like a predator stalking wounded prey, his eyes locked on that right ankle. The champion tries to shake it off, tries to hide the injury, but it’s too late.

Hanlon knows.

Without warning, Hanlon drops low and delivers a vicious chop block to Kuroyama’s right ankle!

CRACK!

The champion goes down immediately, both hands clutching his ankle, his face contorted in pain.

BOOOOOOOO!

Barlow moves in to check on Kuroyama.

“Kerry, can you continue?”

Kuroyama waves her off immediately, too proud to quit, but the damage is visible. He tries to put weight on the ankle and winces.

Nick Stuart: Hanlon knows a thing or two about ankle injuries.

Richard Parker: All thanks to that no good bitch.

Nick Stuart: Whoa!

Richard Parker: What? I can take her!

Hanlon doesn’t give him time to recover. He grabs Kuroyama’s injured leg and violently wrenches it with a dragon screw leg whip that has the champion spinning through the air before crashing to the mat.

THUD!

Kuroyama clutches his ankle, rolling in agony. The methodical breakdown has begun.

“Not so tough now, are you, champ?!”

The challenger stalks around Kuroyama like a vulture circling a dying animal. He grabs the injured ankle with both hands and applies a standing ankle lock, wrenching and twisting with malicious intent. Kuroyama’s face is a mask of agony as he claws desperately toward the ropes.

LET’S GO KU-RO-YA-MA! LET’S GO KU-RO-YA-MA!

Nick Stuart: Could we see the Five-Star Champion tap out here?!

Richard Parker: I would, if I was him. This could be disastrous in the long run for Kuroyama. He’s got nothing to be ashamed of.

Nick Stuart: You and I both know that Kuroyama won’t just tap out unless he absolutely has to.

Richard Parker: Well, that’s why we’ve got the brains and he doesn’t.

Kuroyama digs deep, using his upper body strength to drag himself and Hanlon across the ring. Inch by agonizing inch. His fingers stretch out, reaching, grasping, and finally close around the bottom rope!

“Break! One! Two! Three! Four!”

Hanlon releases at four and a half, milking every legal second of the count. He backs away with his hands up innocently, but there’s a cruel smirk plastered across his face. He knows he’s broken something inside the champion.

Richard Parker: Kuroyama’s climb back has suffered a significant setback. Hanlon is on the fast track to taking back the Five-Star Championship!

Nick Stuart: Match isn’t done yet, you’re crowing a bit too much I think.

Richard Parker: Crowing? Is that a South Carolina thing?

Nick Stuart: Sure, Richard.

Kuroyama uses the ropes to pull himself up, his right leg barely supporting his weight. The limp is pronounced now, there’s no hiding it. But the fire in his eyes hasn’t dimmed. The Emerald Apex isn’t quitting.

As Hanlon moves in for the kill, Kuroyama explodes with a desperation rolling elbow that catches the challenger flush on the jaw!

CRACK!

Hanlon’s head snaps to the side. Before he can recover, Kuroyama unleashes a series of stiff Kawada kicks to Hanlon’s chest—

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

—each one echoing through the arena, each one backing the challenger up toward the ropes.

YEAH!

Nick Stuart: Kuroyama might be wounded, he might be on the ropes, but he’s not willing to quit!

Richard Parker: Joy. Rah Rah Rah.

Nick Stuart: You’re just a ball of sunshine.

Richard Parker: It’s South Carolina. It brings the worse out of me.

Kuroyama winds up for a fourth kick, putting everything he has left into it, but Hanlon catches the leg! In one fluid motion, the challenger sweeps the leg out and transitions into an elevated cloverleaf, stepping over and lifting Kuroyama completely off the mat! The champion is suspended in mid-air, his back bent at a sickening angle, maximum pressure on both his spine AND his compromised ankle!

Kuroyama screams in pain. The sound is primal, raw. Barlow drops down to check on him.

“Kerry! Do you want to give it up?!”

“NO!”

Nick Stuart: Kuroyama is in a world of hurt, but is refusing to give up! He is gritting through it. That is the HEART of a champion.

Richard Parker: And the brain of a fool. You’re in a world of hurt, but let’s keep going. As if he’s not going to get another shot at this some day. Or go challenge for the Universal Title.

Nick Stuart: You never know.

Richard Parker: Except if your ankle is dead, you’re not wrestling period.

The champion’s face is beet red, veins bulging in his neck as he fights through the pain. Using every ounce of upper body strength he possesses, Kuroyama begins clawing across the mat, dragging both himself and Hanlon toward salvation. The PRIMEates are on their feet, willing their champion forward.

LET’S GO KU-RO-YA-MA! LET’S GO KU-RO-YA-MA!

Inch by inch. Hand over hand. Kuroyama’s fingers stretch out—closer, closer—and finally wrap around the bottom rope!

YEAH!

“Break! One! Two! Three! Four!”

Hanlon releases as Barlow orders him and stumbles backward, frustration etched across his features. He was so close. So damn close. He runs both hands through his hair, looking up at the lights, trying to contain his anger.

Richard Parker: Hanlon, keep that anger in check!

Nick Stuart: He doesn’t have a great history of that and he’s going to need to keep it in check or else he’s going to find himself put down just like Scott Hunter did to him.

Richard Parker: Hunter was a fluke. That’s not going to happen again.

Nick Stuart: Never say never.

But frustration quickly turns to cruelty. Hanlon’s eyes go dark. He stalks back over to where Kuroyama is trying to pull himself up using the ropes. The challenger grabs the injured ankle and drags the champion away from the ropes, back to the center of the ring. Kuroyama tries to fight back with his free leg, but Hanlon swats it away.

Hanlon lifts Kuroyama’s right leg high into the air and holds it there for a moment, making sure everyone sees what’s coming. Then he jumps and brings all 271 pounds down in a devastating stomp directly on the ankle!

STOMP!

The sound is sickening. Kuroyama’s scream echoes through the arena. He immediately rolls away, clutching his ankle with both hands, his face a mask of pure agony. The limp isn’t just pronounced now, it’s debilitating.

BOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: What an asshole! You would think after his own ankle injuries he wouldn’t go at it the way he just did.

Richard Parker: Oh, you sweet summer child.

Nick Stuart: Don’t. I’ll smack the taste out of your mouth.

Richard Parker: You would never.

Hanlon stands over the fallen champion, arms spread wide, soaking in the hatred.

“THIS IS YOUR KING?! THIS IS THE EMERALD APEX?!”

But as Hanlon turns to play to another section of the crowd, he makes a critical mistake, he takes his eyes off Kerry Kuroyama. And the champion is nothing if not a survivor.

Kuroyama pushes through the pain, using the ropes to pull himself up. As Hanlon turns back around, still running his mouth, Kuroyama explodes forward on one good leg and catches the challenger completely off-guard. He lifts Hanlon onto his shoulder and drives him into the mat with the Emerald Oblivion—his over-the-shoulder back-to-belly piledriver!

BOOM!

The impact shakes the ring! Both men are down!

YEAH!

Barlow begins her count!

ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR!

Richard Parker: Kuroyama sneaking up behind Hanlon — what a cheap move!

Nick Stuart: What?! Hanlon should stop showboating and do his job.

Richard Parker: Oh, these fans love it.

Nick Stuart: They loved seeing the Emerald Oblivion!

Both men stir. Both men struggle to their feet. Kuroyama is up first, but he can barely put any weight on his right ankle. He’s essentially fighting on one leg now. Hanlon rises on the opposite side of the ring, dazed and disoriented from the Emerald Oblivion. His eyes are glassy.

They meet in center ring, face to face, and without a word, they begin trading forearms. Hanlon’s power shots versus Kuroyama’s stiff strikes.

CRACK!

THUD!

CRACK!

THUD!

Back and forth. Back and forth. Neither man willing to back down.

Richard Parker: Go down Kerry!

Nick Stuart: Hanlon eating these shots and while Kerry is one hell of a striker, Hanlon is all power and you’ve got to imagine each of those shots are devastating.

Richard Parker: Which is why I’m telling Kerry to go down!

Nick Stuart: Oh, looking for his health. Such a nice guy.

Kuroyama begins to get the better of the exchange! His fighting spirit is overcoming the pain! Forearm! Forearm! Another forearm that rocks Hanlon back on his heels! The champion winds up and delivers a picture-perfect Yakuza kick that catches Hanlon square in the jaw!

SMACK!

Hanlon staggers backward, dazed. Kuroyama sees his opening. This is it. This is his moment to end it. He reaches down and grabs Hanlon, hooking him for the Kuroyama Driver—his pumphandle Emerald Flowsion finisher.

The crowd is on their feet!

LET’S GO KU-RO-YA-MA!

Kuroyama tries to lift Hanlon, but his ankle completely gives out. The leg buckles entirely and Kuroyama crumples to one knee, unable to complete the move. Pain shoots through his entire leg. He tries again, grimacing, fighting through it, but the ankle won’t support him.

Nick Stuart: Damnit! Kuroyama’s body is betraying him.

Richard Parker: Heh heh heh.

Nick Stuart: You’re a sad person.

Hayes Hanlon’s eyes focus. Through the fog of being rocked by that Yakuza kick, he sees Kuroyama down on one knee, vulnerable, broken. The predator sees wounded prey.

Hanlon grabs Kuroyama by the hair and yanks him to his feet. The champion can barely stand, his right ankle screaming in protest. Before Kuroyama can react, Hanlon hooks him and delivers a brutal short-arm clothesline that nearly decapitates the champion. Kuroyama flips completely inside out, his body twisting grotesquely in mid-air before crashing to the canvas.

BOOM!

BOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: And just like that, all is right in the world.

Nick Stuart: You call that right in the world?! That’s an asshole.

Richard Parker: Whatever you want to call it, Nick, the order is resetting itself.

Nick Stuart: You’re a disgusting person.

Hanlon pulls Kuroyama up immediately—no rest, no mercy. He positions the champion and hoists him up into the air, holding him inverted across his shoulders. The Judgment Bolt Bomb. Hanlon parades around for just a moment, then sits out and drives Kuroyama into the mat with devastating force.

CRASH!

The ring shakes from the impact.

But Hanlon doesn’t go for the pin. His eyes are wild. He’s not done. Not even close.

Nick Stuart: Why isn’t he going for the cover?! Hanlon has a wounded animal and is playing with his food!

Richard Parker: He gave Kuroyama plenty of chances to tap out and he chose not to. Kuroyama chose this route.

Nick Stuart: And you condone this behavior!

Richard Parker: You’re damn right I do!

The challenger grabs Kuroyama’s injured right ankle with both hands and lifts it high. The champion’s eyes go wide, knowing what’s coming. Hanlon jumps and brings all 271 pounds down in a vicious stomp directly on the damaged ankle!

STOMP!

“AHHHHH!”

The champion’s scream is primal, echoing through the arena. He tries to roll away but Hanlon grabs the ankle again. Another stomp!

STOMP!

Kuroyama is writhing in agony, clutching his ankle with both hands.

“Hayes! That’s enough!”

But Hanlon is in a zone. He can’t hear her. Won’t hear her.

Nick Stuart: Barlow is telling him that’s enough, but he’s not listening to her!

Richard Parker: This isn’t illegal!

Nick Stuart: Purposefully injuring someone is pretty bad behavior.

Richard Parker: Oh, suck it.

Hanlon drags Kuroyama to center ring by the ankle and applies a figure four leg lock, looking to put maximum torque on the knee and ankle. He locks it in tight, sitting back, adding pressure, wrenching the damaged limb. Kuroyama’s face contorts in absolute agony.

LET’S GO KU-RO-YA-MA! LET’S GO KU-RO-YA-MA!

Barlow drops down, checking on the champion.

“Kerry! Do you give up?!”

“NO! NO!”

Richard Parker: He might be shaking his head no, but you know that Kuroyama wants to say yes, that I tap out to the better wrestler!

Nick Stuart: That feels like a mouthful.

Richard Parker: Look, I can’t help that it’s what Kerry wants to say!

Nick Stuart: And yet, he’s not saying it.

The pain is unbearable. Sweat pours down Kuroyama’s face. His teeth are clenched so tight it looks like they might shatter. But he refuses to quit. The warrior spirit burns too bright. Using every ounce of strength in his core, Kuroyama begins to turn his body, fighting through the pain, twisting, turning before he manages to flip over, reversing the figure four and putting all the pressure on Hanlon!

Now it’s the challenger who’s screaming! Hanlon’s surgically repaired ankle is being tested, the pressure shooting through the joint that was just put back together weeks ago. He immediately scrambles toward the ropes, clawing desperately, and grabs the bottom rope with both hands!

“Break! One!”

Kuroyama releases immediately, rolling away and clutching his own ankle. Both men are compromised now.

Richard Parker: What kind of evil shit was that from Kuroyama?!

Nick Stuart: Oh, we’re doing this now.

Richard Parker: Barlow should strip Kerry of the title immediately!

Nick Stuart: You keep yapping, I’m going to drink this jug of moonshine I keep hidden under the table for moments when you act like a crazy person.

As both men struggle to their feet—Hanlon favoring his surgical ankle, Kuroyama barely able to put weight on his right leg—something shifts in the champion’s eyes. He wasn’t going to go there, but now he had no problem attacking it. Hanlon’s recent ankle surgery. The weakness. Two can play this game.

Kuroyama drops low and delivers a vicious chop block to Hanlon’s surgically repaired left ankle!

CRACK!

“FUCK!”

Hanlon goes down hard, clutching his ankle, genuine pain flashing across his face for the first time. The tables have turned. Kuroyama, fighting through his own agony, immediately targets the weakened limb like a shark that’s caught the scent of blood.

Nick Stuart: What goes around come around!

Richard Parker: What goes around goes around goes around goes all the way back arooooooooound.

Nick Stuart: Are you… singing?

Richard Parker: It’s a weird tic I get sometimes.

Kuroyama grabs Hanlon’s left leg and violently wrenches it with a dragon screw leg whip.

TWIST!

Hanlon’s face contorts—that surgical site is being tested, the hardware and healing tissue screaming in protest. Both men are now compromised, both ankles damaged. This has become a war of attrition.

The champion doesn’t let up. He maintains his grip on Hanlon’s leg and applies an ankle lock, the same hold Hanlon used on him earlier. Kuroyama wrenches and twists, targeting the surgically repaired joint with surgical precision. Hanlon is clawing toward the ropes, his face showing genuine concern now.

This isn’t just pain—this is his career potentially being ended.

Hanlon reaches the ropes and grabs on desperately!

“ROPE! ROPE!”

Kuroyama breaks cleanly, but the damage is done. Both men pull themselves up using opposite sets of ropes, and when they face each other across the ring, the visual tells the story: two warriors, both limping, both damaged, both refusing to quit.

Richard Parker: Hanlon out here just trying to survive while Kuroyama is looking to end a man’s career.

Nick Stuart: No, I don’t want to hear that drivel come out of your mouth.

Richard Parker: It’s called facts, Nicholas!

Nick Stuart: Shut up, dick.

Hanlon’s face twists with rage. The pain, the embarrassment of having his own weakness exploited—it all boils over. He charges across the ring on his bad ankle and pulls Kuroyama up, hooking him for a release German suplex. Hanlon throws Kuroyama up and over, the champion landing directly on the back of his head and neck.

CRASH!

Kuroyama’s body crumples in a heap.

Hanlon gets to his feet, limping noticeably, his ankle throbbing. But his pride won’t let him slow down. Won’t let him show weakness.

Richard Parker: Hanlon taking the fight back to Kuroyama now! He’s awoken a beast!

Nick Stuart: A beast? You’re truly something else.

He pulls Kuroyama up and positions him between his legs. Powerbomb. Hanlon lifts the champion high into the air and sits out, driving him into the canvas with authority.

BOOM!

He hooks both legs!

ONE

TWO—

Kuroyama kicks out! Hanlon slams his fists on the mat in frustration. His ankle is screaming at him but he ignores it.

Nick Stuart: And Barlow almost had her hand down for a third time.

Richard Parker: We need instant replay. And AI doing this. Time for humans to stop rigging it.

Nick Stuart: We need to get you out of South Carolina as soon as possible.

Richard Parker: Thank you, Nick, for being a true friend.

Hanlon pulls Kuroyama to his feet and delivers his signature series big, flashy right hands that snap the champion’s head back. One! Two! Three! Then Hanlon spins his forearm around comically, winding up like Popeye for the big finish. He throws the haymaker and it connects flush with Kuroyama’s jaw!

CRACK!

Kuroyama goes down hard, flat on his back. Hanlon stands over him, breathing hard, and the crowd knows what’s coming.

Richard Parker: Let’s go, baby! Put him away!

NIck Stuart: Kerry needs to do something. Fast.

Hayes Hanlon begins the “Showtime!” setup for The Epoch. He throws both arms out to the side, then slowly reaches them toward the ceiling, his hands and forearms shaking as if he’s absorbing the arena’s energy. But there’s a slight wobble in his stance. His left ankle is hurting more than he’s letting on.

BOOOOOOOO!

The PRIMEates are showering him with hatred, but Hanlon feeds off it. Meanwhile, Kerry Kuroyama stirs. The champion uses the ropes to pull himself up, hand over hand, his face a mask of determination and pain. He’s running on pure heart now. Pure pride. Pure refusal to quit.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think Kuroyama knows what’s about to happen.

Richard Parker: But, we do. Let’s get this show on the road!

Hanlon sees Kuroyama standing and his eyes light up. This is it. The moment. He grabs the champion and shoves him into the ropes. Kuroyama rebounds and Hanlon grabs him by the throat with both hands, preparing for the pop-up 180 sit-out choke bomb. He lifts Kuroyama HIGH into the air, his hands locked around the champion’s throat—

But at the apex, Kuroyama’s survival instinct kicks in. He hooks Hanlon’s head with both arms and throws his weight forward, turning the move into a DDT counter!

CRASH!

Both men hit the canvas hard! The crowd EXPLODES!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Richard Parker: No. No. No. No.

Nick Stuart: Just when you thought Kuroyama was dead to rights, he rises like a Phoenix!

Both men are down. Both men are hurt. Ashley Barlow begins her count.

ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR! FIVE! SIX!

Both men stir. Both men crawl toward opposite sides of the ring, leaving trails of sweat on the canvas. Both are limping heavily.

SEVEN! EIGHT!

Both men pull themselves up at the same time, meeting in center ring. They’re exhausted, battered, barely able to stand. Kuroyama’s right ankle is destroyed. Hanlon’s left ankle is compromised. They lean on each other momentarily, then begin trading weak forearms.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Nick Stuart: Both men, emptying whatever they have left in their tanks!

Richard Parker: It’s a miracle either man is still standing.

Kuroyama digs deep, summoning reserves he didn’t know he had. He throws a STIFF rolling elbow that rocks Hanlon backward. The champion pivots and delivers a Yakuza kick—but not to Hanlon’s head. To his surgically repaired left ankle!

CRACK!

Hanlon crumples like he’s been shot, clutching his ankle, and Kuroyama falls too from putting all his weight on his bad ankle. Both men are down again. The crowd is on their feet.

LET’S GO KU-RO-YA-MA! LET’S GO KU-RO-YA-MA!

Richard Parker: A Yakuza kick… to the ANKLE?!

NIck Stuart: It was a beautiful think, Rich!

Kuroyama crawls over to where Hanlon is clutching his ankle. The champion senses it. Victory. The end. He hooks Hanlon’s arms, positioning him for the Kuroyama Driver—the pumphandle Emerald Flowsion that has ended so many matches. The crowd is going absolutely insane!

YEAH!

Kuroyama tries to lift on his destroyed right ankle. It won’t support him. He grimaces, fighting through it. He tries again. The pain is excruciating. But somehow—SOMEHOW—through sheer force of will, he gets Hanlon up! The champion has him lifted! He’s going to do it! He’s going to retain!

Richard Parker: Oh, kill me now.

Nick Stuart: Never underestimate the heart of a champion, Rich!

Hayes Hanlon hangs in the air, held in the pumphandle position, one second away from being driven into the canvas and losing this match clean. Reality crashes down on him like a tidal wave. He’s about to lose. He’s about to be pinned. His chance to bring gold to the Glue, his pride, his ego—it’s all about to end.

His mind races. The championship. The reputation. The embarrassment.

No. No, he can’t let this happen.

Won’t let this happen.

In a moment of pure desperation, of absolute cowardice, Hayes Hanlon makes his choice.

He reaches up and rakes his fingers across Kerry Kuroyama’s eyes!

RAKE!

“AHHH!”

Kuroyama’s grip loosens immediately, his hands going to his face. He drops Hanlon, stumbling backward, blinded. Barlow sees everything, mouth open to admonish Kuroyama–

But before she can do anything, Hanlon drives his knee up with savage force, delivering a blatant, deliberate low blow directly into Kuroyama’s groin!

THUD!

DING DING DING

The bell rings immediately! Barlow is calling for the disqualification, her arm waving frantically!

Kerry Kuroyama crumples to the mat like a puppet with its strings cut, clutching himself in absolute agony, his face twisted in pain. The crowd erupts in a deafening cascade of boos.

BOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: Oh screw you Hayes Hanlon! SCREW YOU!

Richard Parker: What happened? I missed it.

Nick Stuart: Of course you did. Hanlon low blowed Kuroyama!

Richard Parker: If there’s nothing there, is it really a low blow?

But Hayes Hanlon isn’t done. The frustration of nearly losing, the embarrassment of being out-wrestled, the pain shooting through his own surgically repaired ankle—it all boils over into pure, unfiltered rage. He delivers a vicious stomp to Kuroyama’s injured right ankle!

STOMP!

The champion screams. Hanlon stomps again!

STOMP!

And again!

STOMP!

Barlow grabs Hanlon’s arm, trying to pull him away.

“HAYES! STOP IT! IT’S OVER!”

Hanlon shoves her aside—not violently, but firmly enough to move her out of his way. He’s lost control. The beast has fully taken over. He delivers one more stomp to Kuroyama’s ankle before finally stepping back.

STOMP!

Nick Stuart: That is absolutely sickening from Hanlon!

Richard Parker: I don’t think it is. You’re overreacting.

Hanlon drags Kerry to his feet and goes to whip him into the ropes, looking for The Epoch. Yet, before anything else can happen…

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

NIck Stuart: SCOTT HUNTER IS HERE! SCOTT IS RACING DOWN THE RAMP!

Richard Parker: Run, Hayes, run!

Hanlon quickly slips out of the ring, an evil grin on his face, as he looks up at the #1 Contender for the Five Star Championship. He waves at him as he makes his way up the ramp.

Richard Parker: Smart thinking, Hayes!

Scott yells at Hanlon, threatening him in the process, before he turns his attention to his friend. Kuroyama is sitting up, in a world of pain, but happy to see his buddy nonetheless. Hunter walks over to the timekeeper’s area and is handed the Five Star Championship. He walks over to Kuroyama and helps him up to his feet.

For a brief moment, Scott’s eyes linger on the Five Star Championship. It’s only for a second though, because Scott is as good as they come, and he immediately thrusts Kerry’s arm into the air and hands him the title.

Vince Howard: Your winner, by disqualification, and still Five Star Champion…. KERRY! KUROYAMA!!!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: Thank goodness for the save by Hunter!

Richard Parker: It just shows how little Hunter is thinking. He should’ve let Hanlon finish the job and set up for an easy victory at Colossus!

Nick Stuart: And this is why you don’t have any friends.

We then cut elsewhere as we see Hunter and Kuroyama standing together in the ring.

RELIVE IT ON THE ACE NETWORK

Back from commercial, the lights in the Colonial Life Arena go out, plunging the building into darkness.

“I Fucking Hate You” by Godsmack.

RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: A mixed, but boisterous, response from the Carolina crowd here tonight for the self-proclaimed Anti-PRIME.

The Inhuman Being emerges, and both the cheers and jeers grow louder. Ward makes his way to the ring with steady, determined strides and a smirk on his face. In the middle of the squared circle, a table and two chairs sit. On the center of that table is a contract, Colossus logo visible at the top, waiting for two very specific signatures.

Nick Stuart: Well, ladies and gentlemen, the arrival of Tchu, and the set-up in the ring means it’s time to officially sign the Colossus contract to make it official… Lindsay Troy vs. Matt Ward.

In the ring, Tchu marches over to the ropes and hollers at Vince Howard. Howard steps over to the ring and the two exchange a few words, with the long-time PRIME ring announcer looking perplexed and a bit annoyed. Ward barks something as his music dies off.

Richard Parker: What’s going on?

Nick Stuart: I have no idea… and what the hell is Ward wearing? That’s his Anti-PRIME Heavyweight Championship over his shoulder, but… what’s around his waist?

Richard Parker: It looks like the Universal Championship, Nick.

Nick Stuart: That was non-title. And not exactly clean.

Ringside, Vince Howard picks up a microphone and clears his throat.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the PRIME Hall of Famer. He is the former Dual Halo winner, former Jewel in the Crown, the reigning Anti-PRIME Heavyweight Champion, and he is the Four-ish time Universal Champion… The Inhuman Being… Maaaaaattttt Waaaaaaarrrddd!

RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

In the ring, Ward unsnaps the Universal Championship and holds both his title belts overhead as the crowd continues to work themselves into a riot.

Nick Stuart: Good Lord, he can’t be serious. And that… yeah… that appears to be a replica Uni title belt from the PRIME shop.

Richard Parker: Only $499!

Nick Stuart: Get a hold of yourself, Richard.

Richard Parker: Hey, if that relic needs a fake pretend belt to make himself feel better than he can have it. There’s no way he could beat your Uni Champ and mine C-Money when it matters.

Nick Stuart: Once again, get ahold of yourself, Richard.

Tchu folds over the championships and sets them on the table, picking up a microphone.

Tchu: Two weeks ago… I did exactly what I said I was going to do. I did something that nobody has been able to do in something like a year. I pinned Cecilworth Farthington, right here in the middle of this ring.

The Inhuman Being points down at the canvas beneath his feet, as if “middle of this ring” wasn’t self-explanatory.

Tchu: I did it… because I said I would. And I am a man of my word. Some other peo…

“Put ‘Em In The Grave” by Jedi Mind Tricks

The Inhuman Being is cut off by the sounds of a piano, violin, record scratches, and the deafening cheers of 18,000 South Carolinians who just heard the Boss’s theme music cue up. The Queen of the Ring wastes no time in making her way out from the back and walking briskly down the ramp.

She already has a microphone in hand, and she’s white-knuckling it. She also has a clenched jaw and is staring bullets through her fellow Hall of Famer.

Nick Stuart: Oh boy, if looks could kill.

Richard Parker: I haven’t seen the Boss this angry at someone who isn’t Ivan Stanislav or that piece of shit crumb Cancer Jiles in a long time. And she and Ward are supposed to be friends!

Nick Stuart: I don’t know if Lindsay Troy would call Matt Ward a friend after the way he’s been acting.

The Lady of the Hour enters the ring and signals for her music to be cut. Her eyes flick to the two belts on the table, then they resettle on Ward.

Lindsay Troy: I see we’re up to an impressive two make-believe championships now. I’m sure Mary loved you shelling out money for that Uni belt.

Tchu: (scowling at the barb) One of them is only make-believe because our benevolent leader didn’t see fit to book some good business and put the real thing on the line two weeks ago.

Lindsay Troy: No, see, around here, we earn things. Maybe your brain got as soft as your ass did from sitting on your couch, but I didn’t think that’d be a foreign concept to you.

Tchu: Earn things?!

Ward audibly scoffs and then rubs at his beard before glancing over at the “fake” title belts in question. For several seconds, he stares at his reflection in the gold, then turns back to Troy. His fist is clenched at his side, as if he’s ready for war, but his eyes are surprisingly soft.

Tchu: February 2023… ReVival 22. A decade in the making. The Hall of Famer, maybe the most decorated superstar in PRIME’s illustrious history… makes his return to the ring for the first time in over ten years. I was nervous, I was rusty… but I was excited. And Lindsay Troy booked that return as a throwaway bout in the middle of the card. Where matches go to die.

Lindsay Troy: Exc—

The Anti-PRIME doesn’t let her get out more than a syllable.

Tchu: Two months later… April 2023… ReVival 26. Cecilworth Farthington makes his PRIME singles debut and is placed right in the main event of the show. The buzz… the fanfare. Tell me, boss, all about how that was earned?

Richard Parker: I’m getting real tired of the Farthington slander!

Nick Stuart: I think he’s blown things out of proportion about as badly as any person ever has. There’s sour grapes and then there’s whatever the hell this is.

Up to this point, the contract, or more specifically… the table… has stood between the two PRIME icons. But now, Tchu gives the corner of the table a shove, sliding it towards the ropes and clearing the space between himself and Troy.

Tchu: For years and years I bled and I broke bones for this company. I put on tights and boots and entertained the fans and crushed skulls. I put on a suit & tie and did corporate dinners and talent evaluations. I invested my own money to save this place. Three Universal titles, Intense and tag championships, three Dual Halo final fours, a Dual Halo victory, a Jewel in the Crown, PTC titles…. I’ve earned whatever I want.

Ward takes a step towards his old friend, closing the distance.

Tchu: Farthington hadn’t earned a damn thing in PRIME, but there he was Mr. Main Event. I came back to the place I loved, the place I helped build brick by brick, show by show. I came back thinking I’d be like Jordan… returning to the court for my second three-peat, to prove I was still the best. But I was just an ol’ timer amidst the shiny new toys. And you just saw me as a novelty act.

The Inhuman Being, now just inches from Troy, stops and looks back towards the replica Universal Title belt sitting atop the table, next to that Colossus Contract.

Tchu: Cecilworth, that fucking shiny new toy, has paid for his transgressions… and while it should have been in gold… I can accept his misery and humiliation as payment. Now that leaves you.

Lindsay Troy: That leaves me nothin’.

Troy puts a hand on Ward’s shoulder and pushes him out of her face hard. The Inhuman Being stumbles back a step, a little taken aback at the move.

Lindsay Troy: Let me remind you of something, Matthew. (points at him) I let you do your Mystery Orange return gimmick at Colossus ‘22 just the way you wanted it. I thought it was a little weird that you wanted to offer a contract to Kaiser Vashaun, but I didn’t put up that much of an argument. Nor did I reprimand you when you put the screws to him afterwards and signed the contract yourself because, really, fuck Watermelon Head, all my homies hate Watermelon Head. And when you came to me after and told me – not asked, told me – you wanted Brandon Youngblood at Culture Shock, I agreed, even though I don’t let anyone tell me what they want or when they want it. So you don’t get to question my booking at any time at all after that. And you sure as hell don’t get to stand here and call your first match back in a decade a “throwaway match” and disrespect Sage Pontiff like that. Miss me with that bullshit. Who the hell do you think you are, you entitled piece of shit?

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!

The scowl on Ward’s face deepens as the Queen shows no signs of slowing down.

Lindsay Troy: You know why Cecilworth Farthington was in the main event of ReVival 26? Because he came in second in the Murder Rumble. Maybe you didn’t know that because you had already been eliminated, like, 15 people beforehand, but it’s true. He earned that main event, just like he earned a shot at the Universal Title by having an impressive Five Star Title run and by captaining the winning War Games team last year. If that doesn’t meet The Great Matt Ward’s lofty standards then, well, I guess the world will keep on turning, just as it always has.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think anyone has ever talked to Matt Ward this way.

Richard Parker: You get the Boss pissed enough and you’re in for a dressing down.

Lindsay Troy: You want to talk about transgressions, though? You wrecked my homecoming match with Henry two weeks ago, all because your fragile ego couldn’t handle some hard truths and you’re too consumed with your own bitterness to pull your head out of your ass. I was already nearing the end of my patience with you, but after that, and especially after tonight, I’m done.

She walks over to the table, rips the contract and a pen off the tablecloth, then stomps back over to a fuming Inhuman Being.

Lindsay Troy: You have no idea what you’re in for in Atlanta. I’m gonna make Colossus VII and VIII feel like a picnic in the park.

Lindsay starts to sign her name, but the pen is ripped out of her hand.

Nick Stuart: Whoa now.

Richard Parker: I thought the point of a contract signing was to sign a contract? What’s Ward doing?

Tchu has his microphone at his side, so it doesn’t pick up what he’s saying to the Queen of the Ring. Suffice to say, judging by her expression, it’s nothing nice and nothing good. They stand inches apart from each other, their conversation getting much more heated and animated.

And then, the Inhuman Being shoves the Queen.

It’s just a little push. Payback for when she pushed him out of her face a few moments ago.

But then, she shoves him back.

And before we know it, it’s a donnybrook!

Nick Stuart: Oh my goodness, things have broken down here fast between the Boss and the Wrecking Ball! Fists and forearms are flying!

Richard Parker: Feels like I’ve gone back 15 years. Man, those were simpler times…

The PRIMEates are cheering the escalation on, and neither Tchu nor Troy have managed to get an upper hand. It doesn’t look like there will be a victor in the scuffle either, but here comes Wade Elliott, barreling down the ramp, followed by Dametreyus and a handful of Enemigos running to the ring.

Wade slides in deftly for a man of his age, and he’s immediately gripping Tchu by the cuff of his shirt, barking and spitting as he drives the Anti-PRIME into a corner. Dametryus is tasked with keeping the Boss at bay, while the Enemigos fill the gap between them.

There’s a lot of shouting and snarling going on but, eventually, Tchu wrestles himself out of Elliott’s grip and storms backstage. Wade is aggressive to chase, but a few Enemigos keep him from escalating things further. The Son of a Bitch hollers, wild-eyed, as the Wrecking Ball makes his way up the ramp.

Dametreyus has managed to calm Lindsay down slightly. She snatches the Colossus match contract off the mat, makes her way over to Wade, and puts a reassuring hand on his back.

Her eyes don’t leave the stage, however, and they lock with Ward’s before he disappears behind the curtain.

Nick Stuart: Folks, it’s safe to say that things continue to heat up between Lindsay Troy and Matt Ward. Let’s take it backstage where Angelica Brooks is standing by with Nate Colton.

Richard Parker: Uggghhhhh snoooooorrreeeeee….

And backstage we go!

Backstage.

Angelica Brooks is there. Looking as professional as ever. God, she’s so good at this. Large pockets of PRIME staff often gather around water coolers and talk about how great Angelica Brooks is, both in a performance sense as well as her personal style. That weird guy who does the hype videos says he shared an elevator with her once, and her hair is even more perfect than it looks on TV.

Angelica Brooks: Hello, everyone! Angelica Brooks here, and I’m joined by tonight’s challenger for the Universal Title, “The New Diamond” Nate Colton.

Nate Colton is also there, ready for battle in his standard uniform: white trunks, blue pads, blue satin ring jacket with his name on it in case he ever forgets.

Nate Colton: Evenin’.

Angelica Brooks: Nate, you’ll be facing Cecilworth Farthington tonight for the Universal Title. What are your thoughts heading into such a colossal contest?

Nate Colton: I think I–oh. Heh. I see what you did there. ‘Colossal.’

See? That’s why she gets paid the big bucks.

Nate Colton: This ain’t gonna be a cakewalk, that’s for sure. Cecilworth’s been the champion this long for a reason–he’s one of the absolute best wrestlers in the world. An absolute killer in that ring–and I should know, ‘cause he’s killed me a bunch of times already.

Angelica Brooks: Yet something tells me you’re not about to go quietly.

Nate Colton: Not on your life, Ms. Brooks. Everyone should know by now that this is the kind of fight I live for. Testing myself against the best, with the highest stakes possible. If the day comes when I’m not up for that, then I might as well just hang up my boots.

Angelica Brooks: How would you describe your mental state heading into this match? A lot has been made about your private life in recent months, and you’ve had a lot of battles in the last year that have gotten very personal. With all of that, in addition to your brother’s pending participation in the Belmont Classic, are you emotionally ready for Cecilworth Farthington?

Don’t make that face, Nathan. You know Angelica doesn’t fuck around.

Nate Colton: It’s been a pretty rough stretch lately. But it’s like Winston Churchill said, “When you’re going through hell, keep going.”

Yeah, and he’s dead now, so look where that got him.

Nate Colton: I’ve finally started getting my act back together. Hasn’t been easy, and I’ve had to make some tough moves. That’s fine. Nothing worthwhile ever comes easy, but if you put the work in and get some help along the way, you can get back to where you want to be. I’m just about there now, and I’m ready to take that next step.

Angelica Brooks: Oh? And will winning the Universal Championship solve all your problems?

Nate Colton: Nope. But it’ll sure as hell make ‘em easier to ignore for a while.

“Did you say ‘get some help along the way’ as a way to lure me into this lovely tete-a-tete, Colton?”

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Favorite Metallica song whose title, lightly modified, describes the arrival of one (1) Model Citizen?

Enter Chanman.

It’s nearly go time for Tsonda v. Hunter, so the face of the Almasy is in ring gear, with a light lather. He nods at the veteran interviewer.

Chandler Tsonda: Brooksy.

Angelica Brooks: (nods) Chandler, it’s timely for you to arrive. You as much as anyone have a vested interest in the winner of—

Chandler Tsonda: AHHHHHNT!

This is the sound a buzzer makes, not a grown man. But it sounds like the buzzer that goes off for an incorrect answer on Family Feud.

Angelica Brooks: Why?

So many of us wonder this, Angelica. Truly.

Chandler Tsonda: I was trying to be subtle. And I hate to thunderheist you, but (he gingerly steps around Brooks so that he’s now side-saddle to Colton) I think this very capable Universal Title challenger should face some questions from a very capable Universal Title #1 contender, don’t you?

Angelica Brooks: I genuinely do not.

Chandler Tsonda: (talking to Brooks, but absolutely not listening to her response) Tell you what, your microphone-holding game is second to none. You keep that thing right here and watch sparks fly.

The Model Citizen, now in the typical position that an interviewer would stand in relation to Colton, makes a dramatic stage clearing of his throat.

Chandler Tsonda: Nate-o, now come the hard-hitting questions. For example…(dramatic pause) how we feelin’, big dog?

Nate Colton: As good as I can be. Got a hell of a task ahead of me, but I’m up to it.

Chandler Tsonda: I know that’s right, dude. Question the second: pretty tremendous bummer that I gotta go out there and pull the e-brake on this magical Scott Hunter run, right?

Nate Colton: Don’t take him lightly, Chandler. Scott’s really put things together this year. Top contender to the Five Star, took Ivan Stanislav to the limit…if you ain’t careful, he might add “upset the Almasy winner” to that list. The guy’s a lot more dangerous than he looks.

Chandler Tsonda: Seems like a beautiful soul. Hair like a Lippizanner stallion. Not sure how he even gets a brush through it. You think it’s a conditioner alone? No, you’re right, there’s gotta be some kind of thickening product, what am I thinking?

Nate Colton, as he sometimes does, looks back at Chandler Tsonda like the Viet Viper is speaking in tongues. [feel free to change this as you like]

Chandler Tsonda: But he seems like a sweetie. Real sad I gotta kick his teeth into his lungs. T’s and P’s and a “best of luck in your future endeavors” floral arrangement for him. But just because you like somebody doesn’t mean you pull any punches, ya know?

Nate Colton: How the business goes sometimes. Whole point is to find out who’s the best, right? You don’t have to love the other guy, you don’t have to hate ‘em…but you do have to fight ‘em.

Chandler Tsonda: (nods) The only way out is through. You do gotta fight ‘em.

It has occurred to both men what they’re talking about. Their eyes meet. It occurs to a live South Carolina crowd seemingly as one hive mind, and a light “oooooh” rises in the crowd.

Chandler Tsonda: No doubt in my mind you can win out there tonight. You’ve got everything you need to do it. I’ll be pulling for ya. And after that…

The Model Citizen offers up a sincere shrug that says many things, chief among them: there’s only one limit to this long-term relationship, which has always been built on mutual respect and doing things the right way. And that one limit currently sits around the waist of Cecilworth Farthington.

Nate Colton: We can worry about that when–and if–it happens. I got bigger things on my plate right now…and so do you.

Chandler Tsonda: Give him the fight of his life. Here’s hoping you beat that prick. If and when you do, well…they don’t do ties at Colossus. (a gleaming grin crosses his face) And you know how I like to win.

The Viet Viper makes a fist and thumps his chest twice, and points to the main eventer.

Chandler Tsonda: We both got work to do. See you when it’s done for…whatever comes next.

With a nod towards Colton, the Viet Viper is off to Argyle, where Scott Hunter awaits.

Angelica Brooks: (icily) Thank you for your time, Chandler Tsonda…

Nate Colton: Yeah, he’s a character all right.

Angelica Brooks: And thank you for your time, Nate. Best of luck tonight.

Nate Colton: Thanks, Angie. Always a pleasure.

Angelica Brooks: Nick, Richard…back to you.

She flashes her most professional smile at the camera; you probably can’t even tell how bad she wants to kick the Model Citizen in the shins right now. Colton also gives a grin; not quite as professional but considerably more honest.

A few years ago, you could see a twinkle in his eye on nights when he was booked. A genuine excitement to be a part of this grand, glorious, ridiculous circus of combat and pageantry.

That went missing some time ago…but if you look close, you might see a hint of it again.

A sparkle in the eye of the New Diamond.

Cut.

Nick Stuart: What a match for the Five Star Championship we just witnessed! Next up, it’s a battle between the contenders to two major championships! “The Tsuperstar” Chandler Tsonda takes on “The Maven of Miami” Scott Hunter!

Richard Parker: It’s the Challenge of Challengers, partner! This match will determine who’s ready and PRIME’d to claim the gold at Colossus, and who might need a bit more work before the big event!

Nick Stuart: They may be future challengers, but I have little doubt that this will be an incredible contest between two of PRIME’s most popular stars! Let’s head to the ring, where Vince Howard is ready to make the announcements!

“Burning Heart” by Suvivor plays over the PA. The stock Vae Victis video package on the PRIME*view is suddenly interrupted by a blue and yellow “HUNTERMANIA!!” streaking across the big screen. The crowd pops loud as Scott Hunter strides through the curtain, wearing in addition to his usual ring gear a blue and yellow do-rag and a flimsy muscle shirt that reads “SCOTT RULES!”

Following him out and riding a rascal scooter, Kerry Koalayama cruises out, wearing a specially tailored blue and white paint-splatter suit that perfectly fits his rotund figure, along with matching sunglasses. He also has a megaphone clutched in his two-thumbed grip, although koalas aren’t known for saying much.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, representing VAE VICTIS, and accompanied to the ring by “The Thunder from Down Under” Kerry Koalayama…  he hails from the small fishing village of Miami, Florida… tonight, he is UNDEFEATED for forty-nine consecutive days! Weighing in at two-hundred and forty-five pounds, please welcome… SCOTT HUNTER!!

Hunter marches down the aisleway, slapping hands with the fans while Kerry Koalayama laps behind, lazily weaving his scooter around in a snake-like pattern as his glossy eyes stare into the buzzing crowd, searching for more of that sweet, sweet eucalyptus.

Nick Stuart: Quite the ovation for Scott Hunter, still riding high after an impressive showing in the Almasy Tournament, and earning a shot at the Five Star Championship back at Ascension! Tonight could be another major step forward, facing off against a man he watched win the Universal Title back when he was a child!

Richard Parker: Can’t ignore the fact that “Huntermania” has been running WILD through PRIME as of late. Makes you wonder if the Vae Victis guys backed the wrong horse…

Nick Stuart: Scott Hunter’s magnetism can’t be denied! These fans love him, and want to see him grab hold of that brass ring against all odds!

Scott slides under the ropes to enter the ring, continuing to work the crowd as he gets to his feet. After pulling off his bandanna, he grabs the shoulder straps of his shirt, bares his teeth, and widens his eyes AS HE… gently takes it off, folds it up, and hands it over to the timekeeper.

Koalayama doesn’t successfully negotiate a turn as he comes around the ring, overturning the rascal and sending his fuzzy ass rolling over the ringside floor.

“I said ‘kiss me, you’re beautiful’

These are truly the last days’”

The weathered voice from the beginning of Godspeed You! Black Emperor’s “Dead Flag Blues” fades into the short acoustic section that begins Coheed & Cambria’s “Welcome Home.” After twelve seconds, the guitars thunder in and start to kick ass, as gold and green pyro goes off in perfect timing with the power riffs.

As the PRIME*View displays the words “Model Citizen” in white over a black background, Tsonda swaggers out from behind the curtain. He soaks up the fan’s reaction at the top of the ramp, smirk painted across his face. And amidst the haze of pyro, smoke, and green & gold lights, he sprints to the ring, slides in under the bottom rope, and finally acknowledges his opponent. Tsonda bounces on his toes, mouthing something that’s inaudible to anyone but him.

Vince Howard: And the opponent, hailing from San Diego, California by way of Hanoi, Vietnam! He is the PRIME Hall of Famer! A former Universal Champion! A former Five Star Champion! A former Alias Champion! He is the winner of THE 2025 PRIME ALMASY TOURNAMENT!! Here is THE MODEL CITIZEN… CHANDLER TSONDA!!

Nick Stuart: What an INCREDIBLE ovation for the Tsuperstar! Although to be fair, it’s been an incredible year! After overcoming the odds and conquering the Almasy Tournament, “The Model Citizen” Chandler Tsonda is back at his — pun intended — career PRIME!

Richard Parker: He could send a pretty clear message to whoever walks out tonight with the Universal Championship just what’s waiting for them at Colossus. The guy is enjoying a huge career renaissance right now.

Nick Stuart: Hard to believe at his age, that Chandler Tsonda can still GO at the amazing level he goes to, but he has been defying all the odds as of late! And tonight is his chance to prove he can still go the limit against a potential future PRIME star in Scott Hunter!

Richard Parker: Tonight should be a good test run for both of these guys going into their respective matches.

Nick Stuart: Definitely!

Both competitors go to their respective corners for the final checks. When all is in place, the ref gives the cue to the timekeeper.

DING DING

Chandler and Scott advance toward the center of the ring. Much to the latter’s surprise, the Tsuperstar’s first move is extending his hand for a respectful pre-match shake. Unsure if he should accept it, Hunter’s head whips around, looking into the cheering crowd for a second opinion. Finally, after seeing his marsupial counsel flash him two raised opposable thumbs in approval, Hunter takes Tsonda’s hand into his own and they shake.

Nick Stuart: There’s a great show of sportsmanship between competitors to start off this match!

The shaking of hands intensifies. So do the gazes of both competitors. Realizing the time has come to start the battle, the handshake becomes a tether for both wrestlers to pull themselves straight into a collar-and-elbow!

Richard Parker: Yeah, mutual respect is great and all, but the point of every match is to win!

Nick Stuart: They go right into the tie-up! Tsonda and Hunter are waltzing the ring in the struggle for leverage! Neither one is giving the other an inch!

Scott digs his feet into the canvas and puts his sixty-pound weight advantage to work by forcing the Model Citizen into the corner. Referee Ashley Barlow instantly swoops in calling for the break, and Hunter abides, cleanly. Neither competitor takes his eyes off the other. Chandler comes out of the corner and goes straight into another lock-up.

Nick Stuart: Clean break, and they tie up once more! Tsonda’s got control of the waist… I think he’s looking to sweep Scott to the mat!

Chandler hooks his leg behind Scott’s, but before he can force him down, Hunter pivots and traps him into a headlock. Scott wrenches hard on the head and neck for a few moments while Tsonda grits his teeth and assesses his next move. Finally, he backs into the ropes in an effort to push Scott off. Hunter tries to counter this with a headlock takedown as he’s rebounding, but Chandler rolls through it, slips out from under Scott and snakes his arm behind him into a hammerlock.

Nick Stuart: Quick reversal by Tsonda! And there’s the legsweep, putting Hunter face-first on the canvas! Chandler sprawls to the other side and locks in front chancery!

Richard Parker: Cause he’s taking NO CHANCES with Huntermania!

Tsonda repays the favor from the earlier headlock, squeezing down on Scott’s head and neck while keeping him on the mat. Scott waves off the calls from the ref to give in, instead pushing his hands off the canvas and forcing himself back up to his feet. With the Model Citizen still clutching him by the head, Hunter suddenly pulls Tsonda into a waistlock, and throws him overhead!

Nick Stuart: Hunter counters with a released Northern Lights suplex…

Richard Parker: …but Tsonda landed on his FEET!

Nick Stuart: Wow!

The crowd cheers the show of athleticism, but Tsonda wastes no time basking in the reaction. In a flash, he hits the ropes and comes back just as Hunter is turning around, unaware that his move didn’t hit as he expected.

Nick Stuart: Here comes Chandler of the ropes… leaps into a cazadora around Hunter’s waist… rolls through with an inside cradle, and Hunter’s shoulders go to the mat!

One!

Two!

Hunter kicks out!

Scott rolls onto his belly and pushes his way up, but is almost immediately brought down again by way of a facecrusher after Tsonda comes off the ropes in a blur! While he’s left stunned on the mat, Chandler swiftly scrambles to his legs, wraps one under the arm, and pulls back.

Nick Stuart: And now the Tsuperstar has Scott Hunter put into a HALF CRAB! He’s got the TSUBMISSION ATTEMPT set in place as the former decorated champion attempts to wear down the young upstart from the small fishing village of Miami!

Richard Parker: He’s moving faster than Scott can think! Which, to be fair, isn’t all THAT fast…

Nick Stuart: Scott Hunter is only thinking about escape right now as the Model Citizen pulls back on that leg!

Tsonda torques back on the leg. Once more, Scott shakes his head at the ref when asked if he’ll submit. Out at ringside, Kerry Koalayama tries to drum up support from the crowd by raising the megaphone and making that weird belching sound that koalas make. Seeing he’s too far from the ropes to make the break, Hunter realizes he has to will himself out. Pushing himself off the mat, he finds the leverage to twist inside and boot Chandler off with his free leg!

Nick Stuart: Hunter breaks free!

Off the boot, Tsonda stumbles into the ropes and takes a bounce. When he comes back and launches himself into a cross-body block, Hunter has popped back to his feet and has his arms out and waiting.

Nick Stuart: Powerslam by Scott Hunter!

Richard Parker: I think he should’ve kept his feet on the ground!

Nick Stuart: I think he was going for big air, but Scott foiled the attempt! Now Hunter hooks the leg for the cover!

One!

Two!

And Tsonda kicks out!

Both competitors scramble to their feet. Chandler moves in for another lock-up, but catches a jab to the jaw. Followed by a second. And a third! Scott dances a circle around the Almasy Tournament winner, popping him with consecutive 80’s style punches that leave him stunned in place!

Nick Stuart: Hunter, treating the Model Citizen’s face like a punching bag!

Richard Parker: I smell a lawsuit coming after this match! That’s a million dollar face if there was one!

Nick Stuart: Scott winding up for the knock-out blow… NO!! Tsonda DUCKS! Counters with a boot to the gut… facelock, and LIFT… GOLGOTHA DROP!!

The PRIME faithful cheer as the legend lands his famed Impant DDT, leaving the Miami Mullet face down and unmoving on the mat. Finally buying himself a moment, Tsonda returns to his feet and begins cranking out the kinks and smoothing out the aches sustained across his nearly fifty-year-old body.

Nick Stuart: With that move, Chandler Tsonda may have firmly brought this match under his control! Here he is, bringing Scott Hunter back to his feet… ELBOW to the jaw leaves Scott reeling!

Still noticeably groggy off the head-plant, Hunter gets his bell rung again and staggers back into the ropes. Chandler pushes him off to send him into motion. Muscle memory snaps Scott back to attention as he hits the other set of ropes and comes back with a full head of steam.

Nick Stuart: Hunter on the move… but TSONDA with a TSLINGBLADE, brings him right back to the mat!

Richard Parker: This is where it gets real for Scott Hunter! It doesn’t get any more “big leagues” than it does going up against a decorated PRIME veteran like Chandler Tsonda!

Nick Stuart: For once, I don’t disagree with you, Rich! Tsonda goes for the cover now, hooking both legs!

One!

Two!

And that’s a kickout!

Hunter quickly sits up, but Chandler stays on top of him, twisting the arm back into a seated hammerlock. Scott tries to rise, but as he does, the Tsuperstar easily traps him into an inverted facelock and wrenches back.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda with a hammerlock dragon sleeper set in place… OOH, and drops Scott Hunter over the KNEE for a SPINAL TAP! And now he puts on the body scissors with that sleeper locked in place!

Richard Parker: Another dangerous TSUBMISSION hold!

Chandler stretches Hunter in the center of the ring amidst a cheering crowd. Barlow moves in close, looking for the tap.

Nick Stuart: Scott Hunter is undoubtedly in a world of hurt, but he’s still hanging on!

Richard Parker: He pretty much has to!

Nick Stuart: This is exactly what’s waiting for him when he goes to challenge for the Five Star Championship at Colossus! If he can’t hold out through this, what hope does he have then?

Richard Parker: On the other hand, Chandler Tsonda is right at home in these high-stakes type of match ups! He lives for fights like this!

Nick Stuart: At nearly fifty years old, it still amazes me how Chandler Tsonda still operates at an amazing high level! Age certainly doesn’t outweigh experience and incredible wrestling acumen!

Scott bobs and wriggles his body in an effort to create space. His free arm finally manages to pry aside one of Chandler’s legs. Seeing his chance to escape, Hunter pushes his feet off the mat and somersaults himself over.

Nick Stuart: Wait a sec, Scott Hunter ROLLS THROUGH! Back on his feet now with the tables turned on Tsonda… NO!! Back elbow from the Model Citizen knocks him right off!

Hunter stumbles and bumps off the corner pads. Quickly seeing a chance to capitalize, Tsonda hops up and perches himself on the second turnbuckle. Scott barely has time to react as Chandler snags him by the head and flips forward, bringing him down with a three-quarter facelock jawbreaker!

Nick Stuart: RUNWAY VAULT by Chandler Tsonda! That could do it as he makes the cover!

ONE!

TWO!

NO! Hunter pops the shoulder!

Richard Parker: If there’s anything that can be said about Scott Hunter, he certainly is resilient…

Nick Stuart: The former multi-time champion of PRIME has been dishing out some of his best moves, but Scott Hunter thus far refuses to stay down! Like you said, Richard… it doesn’t get any more “big leagues” than this! Chandler Tsonda’s body of work is indisputable, but young Scott is eager to prove that this is where he belongs!

Tsonda shakes his head in the first real sign of frustration, but nevertheless pulls Hunter back to his feet and begins to lock him into a Cobra clutch.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda could be looking for the Breathtaker here!

Richard Parker: Another TSUBMISSION attempt?!

Nick Stuart: NO! Scott Hunter breaks free! Now he pushes Tsonda into the ropes and sends him into motion! He stands waiting with the CLOTHESLINE–but Tsonda COUNTERS WITH A CRUCIFIX ROLL-UP!!

ONE!

TWO!

HUNTER ROLLS TSONDA OVER ONTO HIS SHOULDERS!!

ONE!!

TWO!!

KICKOUT!!

Hunter is quick to pop back to his feet, but Tsonda is two moves ahead, craftily grapevining his leg and tucking the head back under his arm.

Nick Stuart: MOUSETRAP PIN BY TSONDA!!

ONE!

TWO!

THR–NO! ANOTHER kickout!

Richard Parker: I thought he had him!

Both competitors hustle to their feet. The faster Tsonda is there a fraction of a second sooner. Scott turns around and his face goes straight into a waiting boot.

Nick Stuart: SAVATE KICK by Chandler Tsonda! Hunter goes down, and finally stays down!

Tsonda wastes no time sprinting to the near turnbuckle and perching himself on the top. He briefly rises up to his full height with his arms outstretched at his sides in a stunning photo-op moment before launching himself into a picture perfect backflip.

Nick Stuart: THIS IS IT! TSONDA with the MODEL CITIZEN MOONSAULT–

Richard Parker: NOBODY HOME!!

Hunter rolls off to the side. Mid-flight, Tsonda readjusts the arc of his moonsault and sticks the landing, rather than splashing open canvas. He charges after the Maven of Miami in hopes to cut him off from rising to his feet, only for Scott to suddenly burst up to full height and catch him into a waistlock.

Nick Stuart: OVERHEAD BELLY-TO-BELLY SUPLEX BY SCOTT HUNTER!!

Tsonda takes the bump hard and rolls to his side, clutching at his back in pain. Hunter is back on his feet, shaking his fists and getting the crowd charged up.

Nick Stuart: And just like that, Scott Hunter might have the chance to turn this back around in his favor!

Richard Parker: He better hope he takes every advantage of the situation, and not get lost in the shucking and jiving!

At ringside, Kerry Koalayama once again making that weird burping noise through the megaphone while he erratically drives around in his rascal scooter. He apparently forgets that he’s a stoned koala from Australia and imagines himself as a drunk rattlesnake from Texas, because he soon crashes his scooter into the barricade and launches himself into a popcorn bucket he probably mistook as deep-fried eucalyptus.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda slowly back onto his feet… and Scott Hunter is waiting for him with a HIP TOSS! Absolutely INCREDIBLE elevation on that! Tsonda back up… ANOTHER hip toss! And a THIRD! And a FOURTH! And a FIFTH!! HUNTERMANIA is RUNNING WILD!!

Richard Parker: That back of Tsonda’s has seen its fair share of punishment over the years! He must be feeling like hell after all this!

Nick Stuart: He’s definitely favoring that back, and much slower to rise up this time! Here comes Hunter, with double underhooks on both arms… BUTTERFLY SUPLEX sends Tsonda up and over, dropping down on that back again! Now Hunter with the cover! Could that be IT?!

ONE!

TWO!!

TH–NO!! Tsonda kicks out!

Scott pushes his way back up, only to come back down with an elbow, which he rinses and repeats a few times before walking to the near corner and boosting himself to the second turnbuckle. He waits as the weakened Model Citizen slowly rises back to his feet.

Nick Stuart: Scott Hunter is taking it to the winner of the Almasy Tournament right now! Tsonda coming up and he turns around… here comes SCOTT WITH THE FLYING FOREARM–DUCKED BY CHANDLER!!

Hunter’s feet hit the mat, but he stumbles off balance. Tsonda quickly pulls himself back up, ignoring whatever pain his back is feeling and springboard himself off the near set of ropes.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda with a SPRINGBOARD HURRICANRANA to roll Hunter onto his back!

ONE!!

TWO!!

THR–HUNTER ROLLS FORWARD AND REVERSES THE PIN!!

ONE!!

TWO!!

THR–NO, THAT’S A KICKOUT!

Richard Parker: This match is putting my blood pressure through the roof, Nick!

Nick Stuart: It’s been a wild battle as both men are firing on all cylinders! Tsonda back up… Hunter catches him into a TEXTBOOK BODY SLAM!

Tsonda winces in pain as his back hits the canvas once more, and Scott adds two elbow drops to his sternum to keep him lying in place. Back on his feet once more, Hunter grabs the leg and looks into the crowd. They begin cheering wildly.

Nick Stuart: Scott Hunter plotting something here! Could we be seeing his patented FIGURE FOUR LEGLOCK!?

Richard Parker: He innovated that move himself, you know! It’s also as high as he can count!

Nick Stuart: The VVingman is looking to end things here as he wraps the leg around into–NO!! A swift BOOT to his posterior from Tsonda’s free leg knocks him off!

Hunter is uncontrollably driven shoulder-first through the ropes and into the steel ringpost. He’s favoring the shoulder as he pulls his way out, but turns around straight into a boot to the gut from Tsonda.

Nick Stuart: ANOTHER GOLOTHA DROP from Tsonda!

Richard Parker: That has to be it!

Nick Stuart: Tsonda HOOKS THE LEG!

ONE!!

TWO!!

THREE–NOOOO, KICKOUT!!

Richard Parker: Unbelievable! Must be that incredibly thick Floridian skull of his!

Nick Stuart: Chandler Tsonda has been absolutely on point tonight, but no matter what he throws at Scott Hunter, the young hopeful from the small fishing village of Miami absolutely REFUSES to stay down!

Tsonda hammers the mat a few times, more in an effort to pump himself up than as a show of anger. Resolved to finally put Scott away, he takes him by the mullet and pulls him up once more.

Nick Stuart: Chandler has to know he’s–WAIT! Forearm to midsection! ANOTHER! Scott is fighting back! Now he’s up, and a boot to the gut doubles over the Tsuperstar! There’s the facelock… and the LIFT!

The crowd cheers wildly as Chandler Tsonda is held in the vertical position for several long seconds in a stalling suplex hold.

Perhaps TOO many seconds, as after long, he kicks his legs and frees himself from Scott’s grip.

Nick Stuart: TSONDA SLIPS FREE! HE’S BEHIND HUNTER!

Scott twirls into a lariat, only for Chandler to smoothly DUCK beneath the arm, hook him around the head, and stoop low while reeling Scott back over his shoulders.

The Model Citizen ROARS as he fights through the pain in his back and squat presses up to his full height with all two-hundred and sixty-five pounds of Scott Hunter on his shoulders.

Nick Stuart: MY GOD, THIS IS UNBELIEVEABLE, WHAT STRENGTH WE’RE SEEING FROM CHANDLER TSONDA!!

Richard Parker: I know, Nick! MY back hurts just looking at it!

Tsonda holds Hunter in the torture rack for only a moment, before dropping him into an absolutely fatal-looking neckbreaker!

Nick Stuart: NARCISSIST’S NOOSE!! NARCISSISSIT’S NOOSE!! HE GOT ALL OF IT!! CHANDLER TSONDA WITH THE PIN TO WIN!!

ONE!!

TWO!!

THRREEEE…

–HOLD THE PHONE, THERE’S A FOOT ON THE ROPES!!!

Barlow juuuuust sees Scott’s foot hanging on the bottom rope in time to divert her hand from slapping the mat for the third time, almost faceplanting herself on the canvas in the process. Tsonda looks up in astonishment to see the official pointing to the foot and denying the pinfall. The crowd, split down the middle through this entire bout, reacts with a cocktail of bewilderment and sheer joy.

Nick Stuart: I DON’T BELIEVE IT, THIS MATCH CONTINUES!! Scott’s foot SOMEHOW got to the bottom rope right before the count of three!

Richard Parker: This Hunter kid is something else…

Nick Stuart: Make no mistake, Scott Hunter is ready for the “big leagues”!

Richard Parker: And Chandler Tsonda has to be thinking to himself, what does he do next? What if this very thing happens with the Universal Title on the line?

Tsonda nods to himself, knowing that he’s been in this situation plenty of times in his career and seen himself through it. Methodically, he pushes himself up, taking Hunter by the hair and bringing him up with–

Nick Stuart: HUNTER SWEEPS THE LEG!!

On a dime, the fans shriek in surprise as Scott Hunter erupts to his feet with Tsonda’s ankle in hand, and pivots like he invented it.

Nick Stuart: FIGURE FOUR!! FIGURE FOUR LOCKED IN THE CENTER OF THE RING!!

Richard Parker: I don’t believe it, Nick! This kid is actually going to pull it off over the winner of the Almasy Tournament!

Nick Stuart: He’s got that move locked in tight! This crowd is about to blow the roof off the place! Tsonda is hanging on, fighting through the pain, but he may only be moments away from tapping out!

But that doesn’t happen.

Because, as we’ve established, the Model Citizen has seen himself through these situations plenty of times in the past.

And despite never, ever having felt the deadly wrath of the dreaded Figure Four Leglock — considering it was only invented when Scott Hunter debuted — he somehow knows exactly to see himself out of this one.

Nick Stuart: TSONDA GATOR ROLLS!!

Hunter’s mouth turns into a perfectly round “O” of complete surprise. With the leverage being reversed into his own legs, he is now the one fighting against the pain.

Richard Parker: How could Scott Hunter POSSIBLY predict someone would figure out how to reverse his completely original maneuver?!

Nick Stuart: He looks as though he never imagined something like this could be real!

It suddenly clicks to Scott that the very thing that got him in this predicament is also his way out. Quickly, he gator rolls over onto his back…

But what he doesn’t count on is Tsonda rolling with him. His added momentum causes Scott to over-turn, bringing himself and Chandler right into the ropes, which the Tsuperstar grabs without hesitation.

Nick Stuart: TSONDA ROLLS INTO THE ROPES!!

Richard Parker: That’s just veteran instinct right there! Played Hunter like a drum, right out of his own finisher!

Barlow immediately calls for the break. Scott is slightly surprised at what has taken place, but nevertheless breaks the leglock. Both competitors begin climbing the ropes to get to their feet…

Nick Stuart: These two are still going, despite everything they’ve sustained through this match! Scott, up on a single knee, delivers a CHOP to the chest of Chandler Tsonda! Chandler with a KNIFE-EDGED CHOP of his own that nearly knocks the both of them over!

Richard Parker: It’s all or nothing at this point!

Both competitors continue trading blows back and forth every grueling inch of the climb to their feet. Once they’re up, Tsonda blocks a right hand out of nowhere and traps Hunter into an inside cradle.

Nick Stuart: TSMALL PACKAGE!!

ONE!!

TWO!!

THREE–NO, KICKOUT!!

Richard Parker: A HAIR away from three!

Nick Stuart: Tsonda up–SCHOOLBOY FROM HUNTER, ROLLS HIM ONTO HIS SHOULDERS!!

ONE!!

TWO!!

THRE–NNNO!!

Immediately after popping up the shoulder, Tsonda readjusts his legs into a legscissor and grabs the wrist to extend the arm into a cross armbreaker. Hunter almost immediately breaks free by pulling the Tsuperstar up and dropping his head and shoulders against the mat.

Nick Stuart: Chandler was looking for the armbreaker, but took a hard bump to the back of the head… now here’s Hunter–OKLAHOMA ROLLL!!

ONE!!

TWO!!

THR–KICKOUT?!

Richard Parker: He got it, but it took a lot of back power!

Tsonda hits his second wind after the kickout, bursting to his feet just as Scott is getting up on his own. Without warning, he leaps up to his shoulders.

Nick Stuart: VICTORY ROLL BY TSONDA!!

ONE!!

TWO!!

TH–

HUNTER ROLLS BACK!!

ONE!!

TWO!!!

T–NONONO, ANOTHER KICKOUT!!

Richard Parker: Something’s gotta give at some point!

Nick Stuart: These two are going ALL OUT right now!

Despite the reversal, Tsonda is living in the moment, moving with a rhythm that can’t be seen as anything but his absolute best. To his credit, Hunter is right there with him. They scramble to their feet together, and the Model Citizen promptly catches the VVingman with a knee lift that leaves him reeling!

Nick Stuart: Here goes Tsonda, pushing Hunter off the ropes after the knee lift… Hunter REVERSES the Irish whip, and it’s Tsonda going into motion!

Richard Parker: Might regret that!

Nick Stuart: Tsonda hits the ropes, coming back with a head full of steam… LEAPFROGS the backdrop… hits the ropes… looking for the FOREARM on the way back, but SCOTT hits the deck… Tsonda STILL IN MOTION… HUNTER WITH THE LARIAT–DUCKED BY TSONDA… OFF THE ROPES AGAIN… HUNTER DUCKS FOR ANOTHER BACKDROP…

TSONDA WITH THE SUNSET FLIP!! HE ROLLS HUNTER RIGHT INTO–

–SCOTT-WITH-A-EUROPEAN-CLUTCH-OUTTA-NOWHERRRRRE!!!!

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

THREE!!!! GOOD GOD, HE DID IT!!!

DING DING DING

The arena unleashes a THUNDEROUS pop! Tsonda immediately sits up, his face blanched in disbelief. The bell doesn’t register to Hunter, who quickly moves to grab Chandler once again and has to be pulled back by Barlow. Only then does he realize he’s won.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of the match by pinfall… now FIFTY DAYS UNDEFEATED… SCOOOOOOOOOTT HUUUUUUNNNNTTTEEEEERRRRRRR!!!

“Burning Heart” stomps over the PA once more. Triumphant and ecstatic, Hunter marches up and down the ring, pumping his arms and feeding off the crowd’s energy. Someone in the front row yeets Kerry Koalayama over the ropes and into the ring, and Hunter immediately begins celebrating with his marsupial cohort, who doesn’t seem to register the painful-looking bump he just took.

Tsonda slowly gets up and walks to a neutral corner, head down and letting things sink in. Disappointment hangs heavy in his body language, though after a while, a camera catches a smile spreading across his face.

Nick Stuart: Unbelievable match we just witnessed! I think we are bound for a set of great title matches at Colossus, when these two contenders vie for their respective title shots!

Richard Parker: If they fight like they did here tonight, I’d be especially worried if I was either of the men carrying the gold after tonight!

Nick Stuart: Both men were completely on point, but somehow, Scott Hunter eked out the victory in those intense final moments! Tsonda has nothing to be ashamed of here tonight, proving why he IS just as much the top star of PRIME today as he was years ago!

Richard Parker: If he’s smart, he’ll see this match as a wake-up call. Whether it be Farthington or Colton holding that Universal Title at Colossus, now he knows that things can easily shift out of his favor in the blink of an eye. Scott Hunter proved tonight it’s as easy as that.

Nick Stuart: For Hunter, this has to be a great momentum-building moment as he looks ahead to claim the Five Star Championship! After that performance, let any talk about Scott being a “cartoon character” be put to rest! Right now, ladies and gentlemen, let’s take a quick break! When we get back, the Tag Team Titles will be on the line! And then in our main event, the battle for the Universal Championship! It’s a jampacking evening of the VERY BEST wrestling has to offer here on ReVival, so don’t go away!

Up until a few minutes ago, it was Matt Mills’ lucky night.

He didn’t have to interview Steve Lemieux and the band of idiots that surround him. And while that meant he didn’t have an assignment for the evening, the PRIME Senior Interviewer wasn’t that upset.

But then, Angelica told him the Boss wanted five.

And now, Mills finds himself standing next to a seething Lindsay Troy and trying not to breathe the wrong way.

Matt Mills: Lindsay.

Lindsay Troy: Mills. I’m going to make this quick. I’m not going to talk about what happened out in the ring with Matt Ward. What I am going to talk about is something Matt said. He mentioned that he’s bled and broken bones for PRIME. Entertained the fans for years. Well, in two weeks, when PRIME comes to Raleigh on Halloween, I think I want Matt Ward to entertain me. If he wants to have his “Jordan tour” and be the Wrecking Ball of old, and maybe bleed and break some bones for PRIME again, then he’s going to have his chance.

She looks dead center through the camera’s lens.

Lindsay Troy: Against Clay Byrd.

There’s a roar of surprise and excitement from inside the Colonial Life Arena at the prospect of the Inhuman Being against Vae Victis’ Cowboy Colossus. The Queen smirks.

Lindsay Troy: Oh, and Mills?

Matt Mills: Y-Yeah?

Lindsay lifts her hands, which had been by her sides holding the Colossus match contract and the pen from earlier. She finally signs her name and then hands the clipboard over to Mills.

Lindsay Troy: Make sure Matt gets that. And that he signs it.

With that, she walks off camera, and ReVival goes back to the ring.

Nick Stuart: Folks, if you’ll have a look up at the PRIME entrance ramp, just off the stage there — yes, that dumpster. Take a hard look at it. Because tonight, the PRIME Tag Team Titles are on the line. And how do they win this match, Richard?

Richard Parker: Well Nick, the first team to throw the other team in the dumpster – and, this is CRITICAL, Nick — close the lid, will win this bout and walk out of this arena with the gold around their waists.

Nick Stuart: What a match this is gonna be! The Glueminati Hotties! The Captain-less Bandits! All kinds of hall of fame and legend power in this one. Let’s! Get! It!

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following tag team contest is a Dumpster Match, and it is for the PRIME TAG TEAM CHAMPIONSHIP!

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

Vince Howard: Introducing first, at a combined weight of five-hundred and fifty seven pounds… they are the team of TONY “THE GRIN” GAMBLE and THE MURDER SHOW, HESSIAN… THEY ARE… the EGG BANDITS!!

Richard Parker: As the stench of Cancer Jiles gets further and further away from PRIME, the more free I feel to admit I actually like these guys.

Nick Stuart: Putting your uh… “eggs in their basket,” so to speak? Haha.

Richard Parker: Eww, no. Also, not funny. Don’t laugh.

Nick Stuart: Hahahaha.

Richard Parker: Ugh.

As Big Hess and Tony G discuss strategy in their corner, we begin to hear the first few beats of a slowly-becoming-more-familiar melody. White lights pulse throughout the stadium.

“Razzmatazz” by I DON’T KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME tastefully blasts out.

🎵

WAIT

DON’T HOLD YOUR BREATH FOR GOODNESS’ SAKE

NOBODY’S HOME

🎵

As the white lights continue to pulse, green and teal and orange beacons slowly swirl about the stage to reveal a very handsome cardboard cutout lineup of four gentlemen.

Cardsworth.

Hayesboard.

CardJoe.

FLAMBoard.

Each figure strikes a dangerously weird pose with the sort of wild unblinking gaze that can only be achieved from a print shop.

🎵

BUT YOU’VE GOT PARLIAMENTS FILLED WITH PARASITES, PLUS

MARQUEES WITH YOUR NAME IN LIGHTS

A STAR IS BORN AND THAT’S THE TRADE, FOR EVERYONE YOU KNOW

🎵

Teal and green sparks begin to fire off as CardJoe and FLAMBoard are violently kicked over by the very real Joe Fontaine and FLAMBERGE. They take a few steps forward, shoulder-to-shoulder, before turning and fistbumping Cardsworth and Hayesboard.

🎵

LET’S GO PAINT THE TOWN ON OUR WAY HOME

THE BLINKING LIGHTS ARE BREAKING BONES

CAST ALL YOUR SPELLS, AND THEN YOU HAVE

THAT GOOD OLD FASHIONED RAZZMATAZZ

🎵

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, introducing…at a combined height of 11 feet 9 inches…THEY ARE, THE PRIME TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS!!!! JOOOOOOE FONTAIIIIIINE, AND FLAAAAMBERRRRGE!

FLAMBERGE and Joe climb into the ring.

Nick Stuart: No tag-ins required for this one, Richard.

Richard Parker: No countouts. No DQ’s. It’s about to get reeeeeeealllll fucking weiiiirrrrdddd.

Nick Stuart: Gnar, dude.

Just before the bell sounds, fabby emerges from the back and runs down to ringside, Joe’s jolf bag around his shoulder.

FLAMBO and Joe glower down at him from the ring.

DING!! DING!!

With the sound of the bell, FLAMBO and Joe beckon Gamble and Hessian to make the first move. The Bandits, never to be outdone in matters of civil society, insist that champion’s advantage dictates that JoeBERGE make the first move.

Some negotiations, some back and forth, and suddenly, it is decided.

A join flip.

Joe beckons fabby to dig a join out of his pocket. Turns out, he doesn’t have one.

With nothing left to do?

HESSIAN LARIATS THE LIVING DAYLIGHTS OUT OF JOE AND FLAMBO!!!

Nick Stuart: Finally, this match is getting going!

Richard Parker: That was a whole ordeal.

Nick Stuart: jordeal.

Richard Parker: I don’t think it works like that.

Nick Stuart: What do you mean?

Richard Parker: You added a ‘j’ to a word. I believe it’s “justomary” to actually change the first letter of the word to the ‘j.’

Nick Stuart: …jrdeal?

Richard Parker: There ya go.

Nick Stuart: I’m not positive that rule applies when the word starts with a vowel, Richard.

As this riveting conversation unfolds, Hessian and Gamble lay their boots into the tag champions with great gusto and force, until finally FLAMBO and Joe are forced to roll out of the ring to escape.

The fans in attendance are none too pleased with Hessian’s cheap move and they’re letting him hear about it.

But Hessian is zeroed in and focused on the tag champs, as Joe reaches in the jolf bag and pulls out his favored 7-iron. Crafted from apparently alien metal and screaming incessantly, the 7-iron, gripped tightly in Joe’s hands, yells as Joe slides back into the ring!

He DUCKS another lariat,

ROLLS away from a Gamble dropkick.

Stands up to his feet, swivels on his heels, and—

CRACK!!!

Nick Stuart: 7-IRON TO HESSIAN’S SKULL!!!

CRACK!!!

Richard Parker: 7-IRON TO GAMBLE’S SKULL!!!

CRACK!!!

CRACK!!!

CRACK!!!

CRACK!!!

Richard Parker: Welp, the Bandits are fucking dead.

In most wrestling matches, JoeBERGE would’ve just retained the titles by way of disqualification, and Gamble and Hessian, blood pouring from their foreheads already thanks to Fontaine’s assault, would be receiving medical treatment.

But this is a Dumpster match. And as it stands, FLAMBO and Joe are trying to figure out how exactly they are going to get Hessian’s big ass out of the ring, up the ramp, AND tossed into the dumpster — without having to exert much, if any, energy of their own.

Suddenly, Joe has an idea.

He claps his hands and, as if anyone away from ringside could hear it, temu fabbys begin pouring out of the back and scrambling (like eggs, dare I say?) to the ring.

FLAMBO reaches into the ring, grabs Hessian’s ankles, and slides him out of the ring and right onto a…

…conveyor belt made of temu fabbys?

As if engineered for this precise activity, the temu fabbys, on hands and knees, form a line, and Hessian, bleeding profusely, is carried away from the ring on their backs.

Joe, having slid back out of the ring, slaps the last one on the butt, and off they fucking go.

Richard Parker: Well, this is… inventive?

Nick Stuart: It certainly is that.

But, unfortunately for the glue bois, the temu fabbys are stupid. And rather than carrying Hessian up the entrance ramp in order to dump him in the trash can, they carry him around the entrance ramp, down the side of it.

Once Hessian is finally brought to the dumpster, they realize their horrible mistake.

FLAMBO and Joe both WOULD be utterly apoplectic right now, except—

Nick Stuart: OH MY!!! A SUICIDE DIVE FROM A BLOODY-FACED GRIN WIPES OUT THE TAG CHAMPS!!!

Richard Parker: AND HE’S NOT DONE!!!

Gamble, apparently pissed that he took three consecutive shots to the head from a 7-iron to open this match, mounts Joe and rains down fist after fist after brutal fucking fist.

Joe’s face is starting to look like a jolf club hit HIM, but then—

Nick Stuart: MARINE ANTOINETTE FROM FLAMBERGE TO GAMBLE!!!!

Richard Parker: THE MARIE ANTOINETTE!!! GAMBLE IS TAPPING, BUT IT DOESN’T MATTER!!!

Meanwhile, up at the Dumpster, the temu fabbys have been attempting to HOIST Hessian into the dumpster with some sort of temu fabby lift/pully system. If it wasn’t so utterly ineffective, it would’ve been impressive.

However, it was such an awful fail from the very concept, that when Hesian comes to, he just starts leveling the temu fabbys in wave after wave of big boots to the head. Sometimes, taking them down two or three at a time.

Hessian looks down towards the ring. Sees FLAMBO choking the life out of Gamble.

The Murder Train leaves the fucking station.

As fast as he can, Hessian sprints towards the ring. It’s not all that fast, but my god, the momentum. It’s like Bowser in Mario Kart. Low acceleration, but once he gets going, look the fuck out.

And make no mistake, Hessian got going.

He reaches ringside, and concludes his sprint with a—

Nick Stuart: HOLY GUACAMOLE!!! THAT PUNT KICK TO FLAMBO’S HEAD MIGHT HAVE JUST KILLED HIM!!!

Richard Parker: Call a dentist!!!

Hessian checks on Tony, who is pretty much passed out from lack of oxygen. Hessian shakes him gently, on his knee, until Gamble starts to come to. A couple friendly slaps to the face snaps Gamble out of his daze, and—

Hessian gets his DREAMS SHATTERED by Joe Fontaine!!!

He clutches his balls and falls to his side.

Gamble sweeps Fontaine’s legs out from under him!

Now all four men lie outside the ring!!!

Nick Stuart: What even is this match, Richard?

Richard Parker: The logical conclusion of a couple of Bandits and a couple of gluebois who have been playing dumpster games.

Nick Stuart: Ok.

But it’s FLAMBO who begins to reach his feet.

And the audience fucking loves it.

OOH, LA LA

AH, OUI OUI

OOH, LA LA

AH, OUI OUI

FLAMBERGE reaches his feet. He looks around.

Three men down.

A neglected dumpster with beat up furniture lying all around it.

So, he scoops Gamble up, like a bride, and carries him towards the dumpster.

It’s a bit of a long walk from ring side to the dumpster up the entrance ramp stage. And halfway there, Gamble comes to. Starts delivering some stiff shots to FLAMBO until the Lizard is forced to drop him!

Gamble lands clumsily to his feet.

SPINNING ELBOW FROM FLAM—

NO!!! TONY DUCKS IT!!! HE LIFTS FLAMBO UP!!!

SPINEBUSTERRRRR ONTO THE ENTRANCE RAMP!!!

Back at ringside, Hessian and Joe start stumbling up to their own two feet. Joe sees Hessian, looks up at the entrance ramp, and does some quick jost-benefit analysis. He could stand and trade blows with the Murder Show, or he could run up the ramp, beat Hessian there, and help FLAMBO take out Gamble.

He wisely chooses the ladder.

Joe runs up the entrance ramp, Gamble goes for a clothesline, Joe ducks!

Does a split!!!

JOHNNY CAGE PUNCH TO THE NARDS!!!

Gamble falls, Joe reaches his feet, and—

TILT-THE-WORLD BACK—

Oh, nope, Hessian didn’t finish that with a backbreaker. Rather, he just sent Joe hurtling with it further up the ramp, and he lands with a sick THUD.

Nick Stuart: An absolutely deranged match, Richard. I don’t even know how to call this thing right now.

Richard Parker: Let me give it a shot?

Nick Stuart: …sure…

Richard Parker: Well folks, Hessian has Joe by his pretty hair and is dragging him up the entrance ramp. Fuckin… FLAMBO and Gamble are lying on the ramp like a couple of… couple of uh… well, lovers, quite frankly. Facing each other, close proximity. Hell, they could kiss—

Nick Stuart: That’s enough, Richard.

It’s true. Hessian has Joe by his hair and is dragging him up towards the stage where, down below, a Dumpster sits, waiting to receive human bodies.

Hessian feels it would be prudent to go ahead and donate one now.

He Gorilla Presses Joe into the air and…

Nick Stuart: Oh my… did… did fabby just do something smart?

He did. He grabbed Joe by the ankle and pulled him out of the gorilla press. Sure, Joe hit the stage surface like a sack of taters, but better there than the bottom of the dumpster.

Hessian swivels, just in time to see—

FLAMBERGE?

HE THROWS fabby AT HESSIAN LIKE fabby IS A STEEL CHAIR!!!

HESSIAN CATCHES HIM!!!

FLAMBERGE DROPKICKS fabby INTO HESSIAN’S FACE!!!

HE STUMBLES BACKWARDS, RIGHT OFF THE STAGE!!!

CRASH!!!

Nick Stuart: Hessian is in the dumpster!!!

Richard Parker: But this match isn’t over until both members of a team are in the dumpster, and the lid is shut!!!

Joe points down at Gamble, who is on his hands and knees, trying to find his way back to his feet. FLAMBO sprints halfway down the ramp, lays a couple of stiff, martial arts kicks right into Gamble’s midsection!!!

Joe meets FLAMBO down there, and both glue bois grab an ankle…

They drag Gamble by his legs up the ramp. All they have to do is dump him in the dumpster with Hessian, have the temu fabbys close to the lid, and voila. Champs retain.

Only…

“The Soviet National Anthem” hits the speakers.

The fans react appropriately with hysterics and jeers.

Ivan Stanislav’s video package begins lights up the PRIMEView.

Nick Stuart: What is going on???

Richard Parker: I… for once I have no idea. A glitch maybe? Was this supposed to happen?

Joe and FLAMBO seem to have the same questions. They look at the Argyle curtain, waiting to see if Ivan emerges.

But the music just… stops.

Richard Parker: Yep. Somebody in the

production truck royally messed up.

FLAMBO and Joe set back about their work. They toss Gamble in the dumpster.

Nick Stuart: If they close the lid, this match is over!!!

Richard Parker: But all the temu fabbys are all still incapacitated!!!

It’s true. No one put the furniture back together after Hessian broke it, and unfortunately all the assembly instructions are in Cantonese.

FLAMBO and Joe both athletically hop off the side of the entrance ramp stage and land to their feet.

They grab the dumpster lids.

They close them.

DING!!! DING!!!

…Well, that’s what they should’ve heard.

But there’s a hand between one of the lids and the dumpster itself, creating an inch of lift on that lid.

Joe rolls his eyes, lifts the lid with full intentions of slamming it down on the hand when—

CRACK!!!

Steel. Pipe. To. Joe’s. Head.

CRACK!!!

Steel. Pipe. To. FLAMBO’S. Head.

We have mentioned the dumpster a lot, haven’t we.

But we never mentioned its contents.

It wasn’t exactly empty. It’s not like PRIME went and rented a brand new, never-before-used dumpster for this. Whats the point? These are fully ensured employees who wanted this stipulation. So the dumpster was, in fact, about a quarter full of miscellaneous plastics, cardboard, and bags of trash from the arena.

And under that layer, for presumably the entire time, was a masked figure with a lead pipe.

And when the figure, steel pipe in hand, removes their mask?

Everyone in the arena boos as loudly as anyone has ever booed.

All, except for one person.

Richard Parker: YES!!! YES!!! ROSE!!! IT’S ROSE!!!

Nick Stuart: This is an injustice!!! This is a travesty!!!

Richard Parker: THE SOVIET ANTHEM!!! ROSE!!!

Nick Stuart: Yes, very clever.

Richard Parker: No, Nick! I’m starting to see the vision! These aren’t Egg Bandits, anymore!!! They’re Red Bandits!!!

Nick Stuart: Now, wait a minute. Rose might have went into business for herself here.

Richard Parker: Let’s me dream, Nick!!! Let me dream that these two legends of our sport have separated themselves from the Cancer that has afflicted it once and for all!!!

Rose, meanwhile, has climbed out of the dumpster.

And she beats the tar out of FLAMBO and Joe with that steel pipe.

Finally, she drops the pipe and brings FLAMBO up to his feet. Hessian, standing in the dumpster, beckons her to bring him

Nick Stuart: Not like this…

Hessian grabs FLAMBO by the throat.

Hoists him up.

Chokeslams him into the dumpster.

The very same thing happens to Joe.

Then, Hessian, picks Gamble up and throws him out of the dumpster.

Hessian: HE’S OUT!!! CLOSE THE LIDS, ROSE!!!

Richard Parker: YES!!! YES!!! YES!!!

Hessian lowers his head.

Rose closes the dumpster lids.

Tony Gamble is outside of the dumpster.

JoeBERGE is in it.

DING!!! DING!!!

Nick Stuart: I cannot believe this… This is a travesty… an embarrassment.

Richard Parker: huehueehueheueheueheu!!!

Hessian climbs out of the Dumpster, spills onto the floor. Gamble comes too, realizes the plan worked. Hessian and Gamble, for the first time in a long time, have genuine grins on their faces. Not ones carved there. Not ones forced there through a philosophy of grinning and bearing it.

Genuine smiles.

Vince Howard: HERE IS YOUUUUR WINNERS…. AAAAAANNNNND NEWWWWWWWWWW PRIME TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS!!! HESSIAN AND TONY GAMBLE!!!!

Rose brings them the tag titles, drapes them over their shoulders.

Fans begin throwing trash at the dumpster.

And Rose, Hessian, and Gamble, scamper like some Bandits to the back with the gold they just stole.

We cut.

The aftermath of the Tag Title Match is in the rear view on this momentous edition of ReVival. A wide shot filters on through of Colonial Life Arena. The Columbia fans are buzzing in anticipation, knowing what is next. However, before the pomp and pageantry, as the lens scans the crowd, we hear the voices of Nick Stuart and Richard Parker.

Nick Stuart: And so, here we are. The final bout of the evening. A match announced weeks ago, but one those within the sport of professional wrestling have been relentlessly salivating over. Mind you in the clarification; the sport of professional wrestling. There is pomp and circumstance inherent to what we do.

Richard Parker: This is, after all, the pinnacle of THE sport. We would be remiss if we did not provide ample level of theatrics.

Nick Stuart: But in the world of professional wrestling, many misconstrue certain notions. Charisma, the gift of gab, a look, perhaps a lineage or bloodline…that can make you a star. It can carry you to a certain level. Maybe even to the top. But when the sizzle fades, what remains is empty. That…is not on the menu tonight.

Richard Parker: My adoration of the Universal Champion is widely known. But even I know to call a spade a spade; in many of his contests as of late, he has stuck out like a sore thumb. He doesn’t have the ascendant muscularity one would expect of a titan. He has ample charisma, but he doesn’t make it a point to be an absurd showman. Some might think he doesn’t fit the mold of Universal Champion…and their right. He doesn’t. Because what Cecilworth Farthington does in the ring, what he has accomplished in the ring, not just in PRIME, but in his wrestling career…he is doesn’t fit the mold because he is one of a kind. He is a God. He is the most skilled submission wrestler the sport has ever seen. He is the melding of art and science into something, quite frankly, near flawless.

Nick Stuart: Farthington’s place in the pantheon is without question; it’s merely a manner of how high he may soar. Doubtless are both myself and my colleague that, in a few short weeks, we will be watching this man inducted into the PRIME Hall of Fame. He might be a near unanimous winner of Wrestler of the Year. But…before him…the ultimate risk. Not just his Universal Championship. The main event of Colossus. Not only that, before him stands one singular number; four.

Richard Parker: Brandon Youngblood defended the Universal Championship four times, but he did so over the course of two reigns. Coral Avalon did so in his singular reign, and it has vaulted him from a place on a kids show to being, rightfully, considered as one of the greatest of all time. Maybe the best of all time. Mister Finish Line…the race you’re on is daunting…but can you see the two of them? You are not from the mold because you are in THEIR race. And if he crosses the finish line…he might just be considered the greatest of them all.

Nick Stuart: But professional wrestling isn’t racing. The finish line can take so many forms…and it can attack you. It can undo all. It can haunt you. Nate Colton is the one face out of the ReVival Trinity to NOT hold the Universal Championship. He hasn’t held gold in a long while. Even more shocking…he has not competed for championship glory since he last attempted to win the Universal Championship. This year has been rough for him. A round one exit in the Almasy. The battles with Jason Snow and Hayes Hanlon. The fight between himself and RIA Lockhart. This year has been one he wishes he could forget. And yet…

Richard Parker: And yet it might lead him to the greatest achievement of his professional career. Of his family’s career. There is a working class ethos to this young man from Indiana, forged to the legacy of a Diamond. The New? If he wins tonight, he becomes THEE Diamond. He is The Vanguard and Champion of this sport. He doesn’t just fulfill a destiny many think is inevitable…he does so from the bitterness of ashes in his mouth. But heavy is the crown. Heavy are the plates we spin.

Standing in the center of the ring is Vince Howard. Beside him is Elvis Nixon, his arms held behind him, his eyes outward to the crowd.

DING DING DING DING DING DING

Vince Howard: The official for the following contest. Elvis. Nixon.

A reserved clapping from the reserved, respectful crowd. After displaying Nixon, with the chyron underneath, the camera again focuses on Howard.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen…the following contest is scheduled for one fall and has NOOOOOOO time limit! It is THE MAIN EVENT OF evening and is FOR! THE PRIME! UNIVERSAL! CHAMPIONSHIIIIIIIIIIPPPPP!!!

Suddenly, the Colonial Life Arena lights dim, the clapping from the crowd growing. Out of the blackness, the PRIMEview comes alive, the PRIME logo displayed prominently. It fades, the opening tones of “Rivalry” by Colin O’Malley beginning to play. With a lashing strike of blue, words fill the screen.

THE PRIME UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP
THE PINNACLE OF ALL SPORTS

Descending, a lone spotlight shines upon a table of velvet. Stood up for prominence is the PRIME Universal Championship belt, polished and shined. As the music continues, its contours and plates are scanned with care. Every detail is magnificent. The tension of sound rises, and with it, the camera pulls away from the majestic championship. The scene abruptly cuts to black.

And with the rising dramatic percussion, the still shots. Subtle movements slowly focusing upon the figures as they appear for a few moments, their achievement marked in text in convenient spaces.

The inaugural Universal Champion and final Global Champion. The bridge between the eras, cemented at King of Kings 2. He stands an enigma, a seeming average man in build, but what he lacks in impressive physique he makes up for in mystery. One championship belt for each trench coated shoulder. His eyes are focused and evident through the white mask absconding his identity.

1st Champion
BLACK ANGEL

A titan of muscle, massive in stature not just physically, but for his time in the sport. A once hero, now, he is a betrayer, joining the Dark Age. There is no sense of shame with his smirking expression.

2nd Champion
BODA

A whirlwind of color, a form of taut muscle and artistic expression. She stands stoic, the championship belt over her shoulder. Does she care? Only she knows. Her moment has arrived, seemingly unstoppable, one of the greatest beginnings to a PRIME career of anyone. The Vanguard of the Golden Age. A trendsetter.

3rd Champion
KARINA WOLFENDEN

Behind crimson glasses protecting his eyes, a seminal figure. Chiseled from granite, his tattoos prominent, if ever a man stood as The Supreme Machine, it is he. The ender of the K-Wolf’s era before it even started. Later, the hand chosen by Tyler Nelson to put an end to a Universal charade. When one speaks of PRIME, his name is one of the first to come.

4th, 8th Champion
KILLEAN SIRRAJIN

The winds behind him sweep about, blowing his majestic hair with perfect photogenic bravado. The only true Son of God. His appearance has not changed, even today, proving his parentage. The Last Judgment features prominently on his tights. Chicago’s favored son, the roar his mere visage elicits is one of the loudest of the night. Under his hand, you shall be crucified and saved.

5th Champion
HOYT WILLIAMS

Before him were titans in stature, but in their place comes one in sheer brutality. His fists and forearms are taped for battle, his muscle built for performance and savagery. Inhuman. A wrecking ball in human form. From nowhere, he arrives at this pinnacle, only to be knocked from it in the greatest upset in the history of PRIME. He will regain it from one of his greatest rivals, The Supreme Machine on the biggest stage. Years later, he returns from the sidelines, managing to defy expectations to put a temporary halt to The Murder Show. Rushmore features him prominently. He stands as one of the truest of greats.

6th, 9th, 21st Champion
TCHU/MATT WARD

A goofy wire of man. The most unassuming of all. So long of a shot, his chance comes in the middle of Revolution, a clear expectation of how easy he shall be steamrolled. A Christmas Miracle. Perpetually silly, the joke is not only the Inhuman Being, but also, all those who thought so little of him.

7th Champion
CLYDE WALKINS

Born from the stars, beloved by all, charismatic, amongst the most skilled the sport has ever seen. He has returned from injury to claim his rightful place, but failure is all that meets him. In this moment, the drums of war sound, the very foundation of PRIME under threat from Machavallian forces. The star rises and turns his back on the fans and people who believed in him, joining the ranks of the devils who claim him to be their friend. Clean shaven, burned by the light. He fights off a record number of challengers. He is where the balance of PRIME rests.

10th Champion
NOVA

The balance of power shifts. Her face, her essence, are intrinsically linked with PRIME, but in this moment, she is an assumed outsider. This moment changes not only her place in the company, but in her life. Home. The ultimate trendsetter. The Queen of the Ring becomes The Final Boss twice over. Her spot amongst the very greats is without question. In this building, she was the one to close out the prior era. Without her, where we stand today isn’t possible.

11th, 13th Champion
LINDSAY TROY

The rival to the Queen. Scum looks down upon him. A betrayer of friendship, of allegiance, all for self service. So many times, he fell, unable to answer the challenge, and in doing so, all rejoiced. Driven mad, Ahab manages to rise in his final stand, capturing his illustrious white whale.

12th Champion
SONNY SILVER

Mismatched eyes, lacerating fingernails, and diminutive stature. In one night, she nearly conquers the Halo. In her next match, she manages to usurp the Queen. Scary and unknowable, a chameleon who can assume the identity of any she chooses. She lacks her own agency and identity, yet here, for a time, she can claim the Universal Championship as her own.

14th Champion
COZEN

The Man in Black hides his pieces and scars under a dress shirt and slacks. A mess of black hair falls along the sides of his face. Many claim him to be emo, but they will come to know him as the ruiner, death incarnate. His war against PRIME will eventually lead to its closure. Even here, with a painted black middle finger, his detestment of PRIME is evident.

15th Champion
DEVIN SHAKUR

Charisma personified. In truth, his arrival to this pinnacle has been foreseen for ages. His potential is limitless, yet in critical moments, he falters. Until here. Until now. Until he realizes the promise after years of toil made to look like a designer accessory. His presence is legendary. A hero to so many. Brash and arrogant to others. Regardless, he is can’t miss, must see, and unforgettable. His reign, to this point, lasts longer than all others before.

16th Champion
CHANDLER TSONDA

The Unbeatable. The Unconquerable. Awoken from dream, The Original Villain stops fighting with mere bits of his true skill and strength. The path he cuts lasts over a year, and in its wake, promising careers, legendary challenges, and destinies all fall under his heel. Gone, but never forgotten. Though some draw close, he walks away into the annals of history never having lost the most prestigious prize in the sport.

17th Champion
JASON SNOW

From the distance, from the ether, his face painted with black, the oddest of sorts, his skin pale, he returns. The Intense Championship is marked as his in all of lore, but after conquering the Halo, he soon after fulfills an impossible destiny, capping off a Hall of Fame career with the final piece it lacked.

18th Champion
VANGELUS OLSIG

Hollywood beckons. A silver screen savant, he brings with him pomp, circumstance, and a director’s vision. An outsider who rises.

19th Champion
CASTOR V. STRIFE

The monster incarnate. The Murder Show. Burly, powerful, a viking from a long forgotten age who has spent an age in PRIME without realizing the fullness of his potential. It is remembering what it is to be dominant that he ascends to his throne, leaving behind a wake of broken bodies and dreams. For a time, the lineage ends with brutality under his knuckles. The oppressive, uncompromising final champion of the Revolution.

20th, 22nd Champion
HESSIAN

The spear of the ReVival comes from the Revolution. Before this moment, he is considered the greatest to never win ‘the big one’. After over a decade away, the Tower of Babel rises, removing all doubt, finally taking his place amongst the true greats, perhaps marking himself as greater than all. For others in this era, this prize is transient. For him? They are one.

23rd, 29th Champion
BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD

A life’s work. Destroy the past and present and burn it all away so the future can rise. The Humble Proprietor has spent his life as an afterthought, cast aside, treated less than human despite his love of the sport he has dedicated his life to. Their cackles and machinations forge an intensity fitting for a monster. The threat. The killer. Robbed of the result of it all. Even in the distance, his name brings chills to the air.

24th Champion
PHIL ATKEN

Lights, camera, pucker and kiss. The Anti-Christ. Under t-shades and salt shoes, he brings with him an apocalypse in tracksuit and baby blue. Despised and thought little of, the ultimate cockroach doesn’t just survive but thrive. His threats carry weight because he makes good on his promise. Nobody on this list has a hope of ever being this COOL.

25th Champion
CANCER JILES

The Event Horizon, the future, all of the ReVival’s promise and dreams comes in his chiseled form. His reverence to PRIME’s past is known, but he makes his own history, taking the Universal Championship for his own and under the most dire of circumstances. He stumbles, but in Hell, he overcomes not only the yang to his ying, but the oppressive boot of the Soviet state.

26th, 28th Champion
HAYES HANLON

Punk rock in all forms, a fighter through and through. He doesn’t care about the championship, just what it brings to him in the ring. The greater fights. The ability to test his penchant for destruction. He snuffed out the promise of the horizon in his void. A goat kick to the head. A free spirit for rebellion against the norms.

27th Champion
REZIN 

Some would call him a relic of a begotten age, a frozen monstrosity thawed and set upon the world to maul and reign under a banner, an ethos that demands both domination and subjugation. An ageless goliath, The Russian Bear returns to the field of professional wrestling battle after over a decade in seclusion. And in his wake? Utter carnage. A warrior from the old age set upon the present and future, not only striding, but surmounting all.

30th, 35th Champion
IVAN STANISLAV

Few can claim to be worthy of being phenoms in the new era of PRIME, yet the pillars of such are rarefied. But for the French Super Athlete, The Neck Collector, the Lizard King, he stands not only above, but perhaps beyond all. His arrival to this place is the culmination of an undefeated year. A winning streak unmatched by ALL before him. He is the weapon promised, the embodiment of The Humble Proprietor’s vision. A puzzle perhaps unsolvable.

31st Champion
FLAMBERGE

From oblivion he rises, as if from a waking coma. Drenched with guilt, self made, self perpetuated. Look upon the clown who makes those laugh, yet do not notice his weight, his tears. Ascend from the murk and stand ready, violently so, in the face of so many oppressors. Black Sheep never again.

32nd Champion
JARED SYKES

The ultimate simp. Seemingly helpless. But powered by his love and his dedication to his Amazing Life Partner, he perseveres, and does what most think is nigh impossible for someone of his ability level. He finishes the story, and now, we live in an epilogue dictated from his success.

33rd Champion
JONATHAN-CHRISTOPHER HALL

The Crownless King. A wrestling nomad. Across near every continent, he has fought with his all, governed by an unyielding love of the sport of professional wrestling. His role was ordained to be The Never Was, the fountain of knowledge, the bridge to the future. Not marketable. Taken for granted. Yet bitterness never seeps in, never taints his drive and passion. In this, the final year of his quest, he does what some think he could not do…something many others believed he always had capacity to achieve. The crown achieved. Now, The King of Conquerors.

34th Champion
CORAL AVALON

When the Golden Era choked into embers, as the darkness swallowed the world of professional wrestling in the deepest of pits, it was this man who kept the torch, who set the standard to aspire toward. A Lord by birth who refused his right by choice, so aloof of reality’s rigor. It is the ring where his aptitude is without rival. His hands are vice grips and his understanding of placing pressure on joints, tendons, and bones is supreme.

In the muck, he strode, unbeaten. Unconquered. The Financier of a Revolution in The ReVival. One would think, with a  silver spoon, the path would be smooth, but it was anything but. His record is filled with victory over legends; it’s also filled with his stumbles at the gate, all those times the bridesmaid.

Yet here he stands, rightfully, an Emperor of the ring. Twice, a defender. Rarefied. Already considered as one of the greatest of all time, and currently, in his element.

In his domain..

36th Champion
CECILWORTH FARTHINGTON

What does it mean to be a champion?

What does it mean to stand on your own merit?

Whether it be family, whether it be the legacies or the continuities they may fulfill in their own minds, these two men are made for this moment. And why? Not just because of what is on the line. No. They are exemplars of the sport in which they compete. They are thoroughly dedicated to the craft. They aren’t side shows, or sizzle. They are the meat. They are the artists creating the works of the modern age.

They are meant for this.

To carry the burden.

Some might be looking at The Model Citizen. No. Not tonight. He is assured.

Tonight, Cecilworth Farthington, the man who has main evented every pay per view event this year, might find himself without a date to the biggest night of the year.

Tonight, Nate Colton might continue to be damned with the praise of potential.

Tonight, the two of them fight not only for the richest prize in all of sports, but they fight for themselves.

Their fight shall be one for the ages.

After the Pinnacle of All Sports, cameras catch sight of a particular guest sitting in the front row. Conspicuously so. Because when you think of the name “Chandler Tsonda,” you’re not thinking about subtlety. Or even tsubtlety. You’re thinking “a man cannot be more conspicuous than this.” You’re thinking that Chandler Tsonda looks like a Kraven the Hunter that paid a visit to Louis Vuitton and killed all of the animals he found along the way for that drip.

Of the three men who can main event Colossus in less than two months’ time, only Chandler Tsonda is a shoe-in (and we’re not just talking about his shoes, which are very fetch).

But for the other two, we go to Vince Howard.

Vince Howard: Introducing first, the challenger…

The lights go out.

The PRIME*View lights up.

The screen shows a grand, sweeping plain, untouched by modern society. Long grass, winding rivers, the occasional tree…and the Predator.

It’s a large cat-like creature with overdeveloped forelimbs and enormous canine teeth. Smilodon fatalis to any paleontology experts who might be watching. And yes, we chose that because it sounds the coolest.

The Predator snacks on the remains of its latest kill–a gargantuan, hairy beast, full of enough juicy meat to feed a saber-tooth cat for days. Except…

boom

boom

boom

boom

The Predator’s ears perk up at the sound. A simple drum beat, seemingly miles away. Faint, but steady.

The rest of this mighty beast will be left to the jackals. It’s time to move on.

The Predator pads a few feet away from the fallen beast, carefully, still listening for the drumbeat.

boom

boom

boom

boom

It pinpoints the source of the drumbeat, then walks the other way. It knows that the roles have changed. The Predator is now The Prey.

The new Predator is coming.

boom

boom

boom badump 

boom

badump badump

A new beat emerges; this one much louder, much more erratic. Another beast, charging from elsewhere on the plains.

It too has sensed the shift. There is a new target, a new prize…and only one can take it. This new contender will make the first attempt.

A new cat-like creature, something akin to a jaguar, leaps from the tall grass toward the Smilodon. Its claws spread, its jaws wide. It launches itself like a missile toward the Predator-Turned-Prey, ready to slake its thirst for blood and feed its gnawing hunger.

The Smilodon sneers at the jaguar, seeing past the complex markings on its face to the soul of the creature within. Hunger is a powerful motivator, but with hunger comes weakness. Desperation.

You made your move too soon.

The fight is brutal but short. The jaguar’s attack is fierce and deadly, but its aim is lacking. The saber-tooth, its belly full and needs sated, can focus on survival. It watches where the jaguar’s strikes will land, and makes an effort not to be there. The enemy gets many good shots in, and draws blood…but time and again it overextends itself, and the sabert-tooth capitalizes.

One mighty swipe after another cuts the jaguar down. The Smilodon opens its mouth, ready to tear the jaguar’s throat with its jaws and ensure it can no longer pose a threat…

boom

boom

boom

boom

But there is no time.

The Predator-Turned-Prey breaks into a full run, leaving the jaguar to slink off in defeat. No harm will come to it; the Predator knows who it’s hunting.

boom

boom

boom

boom

It runs and runs across the plains, leaping over small obstacles and around large ones. Despite its injuries and exhaustion, its movements are still graceful, seemingly effortless. Eventually it comes to a river, and spares a moment to quench its thirst.

boom

boom

boom

boom

The drumbeats are still some distance away. It’s not safe to sleep, but a brief rest might be in order.

boom

boom bap

boom bap bap

bap bap boom bap bap bap bap

bap bap bap bap bap bap bap bappity-bap

A new rhythm overtakes the cat’s attention. Scarcely a rhythm at all, more like a five-year-old given an espresso and a drum kit. It is chaotic, jarring…it makes one yearn to squelch it, just for the return of peace.

Hairs raise on the big cat’s back as it turns toward a massive growl. It turns to face the new adversary, and finds a scrawny, mangy hyena, tongue lolling, saliva dripping from its mouth. How could one lowly creature make such a noise?

Simple: it’s not one lowly creature. It’s a whole pack.

They surround the saber-tooth, waiting for their leader’s signal to spring the trap. When they do, the Smilodon fights with renewed fury, sacrificing calculated precision for total frenzy. Attackers are thrown aside, only to roll to their feet and charge back into the fray. Claws pierce the Smilodon’s hide, teeth find purchase in its flesh…but the Predator-Turned-Prey refuses to yield. Even as the blood runs, the breath grows ragged, the minions fall but always take a part of it with them.

The pack leader, watching it all unfold with sadistic glee, watches as the fight fades from its target. The rest of its pack has been destroyed, but they served their purpose. The kill would be his, and his alone. It throws itself at the target, dreaming of its wicked jaws clamping around the beast’s neck.

Instead, it finds its path interrupted by two rows of razor-sharp teeth, broken up only by two enormous fangs.

You think too highly of yourself. Too lowly of me.

The mighty beast stands victorious, but only just. Wounded. Tired. Vulnerable. It desperately needed to rest, to recover.

Boom

Boom

Boom

Boom

But it could not afford such a luxury.

It swam gingerly across the river, pain catching up to it even faster than the mysterious Hunter.

It would defeat this Hunter, when it arrived. It just needed rest. Space. Time.

Time that it did not have.

Boom

Boom

Boom

Boom

The beat is ever-present and consistent. Never wavering in its tempo; while other rhythms dart in and out, this one stays unchanging…with one exception. It’s definitely gotten louder.

No, not louder.

Closer.

The cat reaches the other shore, detouring toward the shade of a nearby tree. Any respite, no matter how fleeting, is welcome.

Boom

Boom whoosh

Boom whoosh CAW

CAW Boom whoosh

A flashing talon brings fresh blood to the saber-tooth’s face. The beast hisses and growls again, as it looks for this new foe.

CAW

A bird of prey circles overhead. Similar to an eagle or harrier, but with the garish colors of a peacock. Designed to draw attention, where most animals of its kind opt for stealth. But one must adhere to its nature, and this particular raptor was born to dazzle.

It only breaks pattern to divebomb the Smilodon. Every slash of talon and beak brings fresh blood, exposed muscle. It is death by inches, wearing the noble beast down until it can no longer defend itself. Constant attacks from an angle the saber-tooth is unprepared for.

The beast snarls. Another interloper, another opportunist, another pretender to its throne. Just one snap of its teeth, and this garish nuisance would be no more. But the bird stays out of reach, circling through the air.

The saber-tooth knows it will not last much longer; the raptor has an unnatural advantage.

Turn that into liability. Let the foolish fowl beat itself.

Another dive, talons extended, aiming right for the back of the beast. This will pierce skin, muscle, and even bone, revealing the tender organs inside. In its moment of victory, it cannot resist a cry of triumph.

CAW!

The Smilodon quickly rolls over, lashing out with a mighty paw as it does. It catches the bird flush, sending it pinwheeling through the air and crashing to the ground. Upon landing, it gives a few desperate croaks, then falls silent.

The beast stands still, each breath a fresh agony. The slashes on its skin howl with every movement.

No more…

No more…

Boom

Boom

Boom

Boom

Darkness.

Boom

Boom

Boom

Boom

Darkness.

BOOM

BOOM

BOOM

BOOM

Light.

The sabre-tooth opens its eyes again. The sun and grassland are welcome sights, if unexpected.

Some distance away, it sees something else. The animal that had been hunting it. It is not familiar, but rumors tell of something like it. A hunter with no natural weapons. No claw, feather, or fang. Yet one that wields a dangerous weapon all the same.

This new opponent takes a step closer.

BOOM

And another.

BOOM

Such is the nature of this animal, this “Man,” and its true weapon.

BOOM

You can outrun it…for a while. But once it starts hunting, it will catch you…no matter how long it takes.

BOOM

Its pursuit is unending. Unyielding. Undying.

BOOM

The beast regards this animal, this “Man.” It does not understand the creature’s motives. It knows not why the Persistence Predator waited. Why it chose to face the Smilodon not as hunter and quarry, but as equals.

You should have killed me when you had the chance.

BOOM

BOOM

BOOM

BOOM

The Hunter lifts its spear and rears back, ready to make its attack.

This is my chance.

BOOM

BOOM

BOOM

BOOM

Cat charges.

BOOM

BOOM

BOOM

BOOM

Man throws.

BOOM

BOOM

BOOM

BOOM

Cut.

Silence.

And then…

“Tryin’.”

RRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!

The PRIME*View lights up again, this time with a field of white. Three words appear in blue:

THE

NEW

DIAMOND

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

NATE

COLTON

The fans give out a raucous cheer as Nate Colton emerges from the curtain. He holds his arms up high, showing off his blue satin jacket–his family name emblazoned on the back; his first name stitched on the front.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

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

Vince Howard: Hailing from Evansville, Indiana…weighing in at two hundred and forty pounds…he is the New Diamond! He is…NAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATE! COOOOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLLLTOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON!

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

The delighted look on his face, so pronounced when he walked down the ramp and slapped hands with the audience, disappears.

boom

He stretches his limbs.

boom

Sets his jaw.

boom

And waits.

boom…

The atmosphere of the Columbia crowd rapidly becomes thick with tension as Nate Colton stands in the ring awaiting the arrival of the Universal Champion. The lights begin to dim for the final time of the evening as a single spotlight shines down from on high and the centre of the entrance way.

The guitar swell that follows acts as if it was a summoning spell to put the crowd to the very edge of their seats. The “ahs” and “ohs” follow that let everyone know it is time for ReVival 77’s big time.

Stop.

Drop.

And drag me into place.

And lock the fire escapes.

I’ll break your pretty face.

The crowd join in on the “yeah yeah” that follows because it is sometimes fun to be able to sing along to songs at a wrestling show. In fact some may say it’s one of the purest joys you can have as a human, particularly when the song is a banging jam like “Choke” by I Don’t Know How But They Found Me.

Nick Stuart: The Universal Champion’s silence this show certainly invites the question of his frame of mind after suffering his defeat to Tchu on the last ReVival. I’ve had many people comment backstage that he’s been hard to get a hold of.

Richard Parker: The man has been carrying the company and its reputation on his back for almost an entire calendar year and I get it. He seemed like the only one pissed off enough to take action and got a belt in the face for his troubles. I’d be disgusted at the rest of the roster too.

Nick Stuart: I’m not sure if disgust is the emotion I’d go with here.

The crowd erupts in a wide variety of noises on this mixed emotions main event as Cecilworth Farthington emerges from backstage and stands basking in the single spotlight, the Universal Championship looking as shiny as ever. Farthington plants himself firmly at the entrance way, surveying both the Colton inside of the ring and the packed crowd that surrounds it. He takes one look down to the Universal Championship and gives it a gentle and tender pat before he starts his slow and methodical walk down to the ring, not a single wasted action.

Nick Stuart: Farthington being very careful on his approach to the ring here, you can tell from his demeanour alone that he’s settling in for a battle.

Richard Parker: Nate Colton has been letting anyone who cares know about his weeks-long training routine for this match. Cecilworth Farthington is absolutely the kind of man to know what sort of fight he’s walking into and he isn’t going to be wasting any precious energy on confetti and ballyhoo.

Nick Stuart: A very different story from his match against Daytona Diamonds.

Richard Parker: A very different opponent.

Step by step, Farthington slowly approaches the ring, his eyes never breaking from Colton, he knows who is standing before him and he knows what he’s capable of. Farthington stops one last time on his journey to the ring just in front of the ring apron. He runs his finger across the mat, as if he was inspecting it for dust, as Vince Howard does his Vince Howard thing.

Vince Howard: And introducing his opponent, he is the current reigning and defending PRIME Universal Champion. Hailing from Buckinghamshire, England, he stands tonight at even six foot and weighs in at two hundred and one pounds… CECILWORTH! FARTHINGTONNNNNN!

Farthington’s eyes quickly dart to referee Elvis Nixon with an expression of “don’t fuck me on this one” as he walks up the steps and into the ring. He reluctantly relinquishes his Universal Championship into the hands of Nixon as he takes his place in his corner.

After a long, agonizing moment… Elvis Nixon calls for the bell.

DING DING

It’d been two years since Cecilworth Farthington and Nate Colton stood across from each other one-on-one. Much had changed. Farthington had reached greater heights since that 5-Star championship reign. Nate Colton, as solid as ever and never far from the top of the rankings, has had big victories and soul-crushing losses since then. Tonight, in front of God and South Carolina and an extremely conspicuous (well, more than usual) Chandler Tsonda sitting in the front row… these two men were going to tear the house down trying to tear each other down.

Colton and Farthington circle one another, sizing each up other cautiously. After half of a revolution around, the two men lock up and jockey for position.

It’s a position that Farthington should thrive in. The man is lethal in close quarters, like an anaconda constricting its prey. But perhaps this anaconda don’t want none, because Nate Colton’s just done, hun. Colton quickly drops to the canvas and whips Farthington to the mat with an arm drag. Farthington slides up to his feet, and moves to reengage. He is met with Nate Colton and his strong fundamentals, as he meets Farthington low and throws him up and over with a fireman’s carry, before locking in a top wristlock.

Nick Stuart: Cecilworth Farthington has had some very nasty opponents on his road to the Universal championship, but this is the first opponent he’s had since TAL who’s willing to mix it up fairly.

Richard Parker: I mean, Jiles is a crumb. Was a crumb. Daytona was more like a runaway train that jumped off the tracks. Tchu, uh… cheated. So yeah, not much of a pool of wrestling-types to work with.

Farthington would never be deterred by a mere top wristlock. The Submission Politician has more than enough of the vote to overturn this hold. He seamlessly turns and grabs Colton into a side headlock. It’s only for a moment, before Farthington spins into a drop toe hold to send Colton to the mat. Farthington then jumps back to the headlock, only Colton slips out and Farthington’s momentum carries him such that Colton is able to grab the arm into the hammerlock.

Nick Stuart: Great wrestling from Colton, slipping out like that.

Richard Parker: He’s not supposed to do that.

Nick Stuart: Do what?

Richard Parker: Outwrestle Cecilworth. It’s against the rules.

Nick Stuart: Since when?

Richard Parker: I mean, top shelf member of the Cecilworth Farthington Cool Friends Fanclub for Friends over here. I get to look at the only official PRIME rule book for exactly fifteen seconds once every other October. I saw that rule that says you’re not supposed to outwrestle Cecilworth Farthington.

Nick Stuart: You made that up.

Richard Parker: Which part?

Nick Stuart: Yes.

Farthington manages to get to his feet, and tries a snap mare to get out of the hammerlock. All this does is cause Colton to hang on and flip Farthington to the ground with him. Colton takes a risk to grab Farthington’s other wrist while he’s still confused from what just happened and lock in the Colton Clutch from this position, but the Financier is wary of the Colton family’s vaunted hold. He manages to use his very windy, spindly body to turn the arms around so that both men face each other, with Colton holding his arms. Cecilworth deftly and suddenly adjusts things so that he’s gripping one wrist while Colton’s got the other.

That’s when Farthington takes his own risk.

He jumps and plants both boots in Colton’s breadbasket before flipping him over with a monkey flip. With both men on their backs and holding their wrists, this technically constitutes enough of a pin for Elvis Nixon to take a two count.

Both men bridge up at the same time.

OOOOOHHH!!

Nick Stuart: These two men are trying to show each other up here early on.

Richard Parker: Also illegal!

Nick Stuart: I get the impression you know as much about wrestling law as Chet Fleetwood does.

Nate Colton can’t help but smile.

After a short while of staring each other down upside-down in the throes of a mutual wristlock, both Colton and Farthington roll to their feet, still maintaining hold on each other. There’s a jockeying for position, but Colton is bigger and stronger, and he manages to turn Farthington towards the corner.

Farthington has no particular desire to be cornered. Like a cat (albeit one that tends to hiss if you shout numbers at him unexpectedly), Farthington jumps onto the bottom rope, then the middle rope on the perpendicular, and then he turns the situation into a lucha libre-style armdrag that sends Nate Colton sprawling to the canvas.

Nick Stuart: A bit of a page taken out of Farthington’s first challenger!

Richard Parker: Yeah!

Farthington charges, intent on capitalizing on the situation. Instead, Colton shifts to the side and trips up Farthington’s leg as he’s running in, causing the champion to land on his back. Instantly, Colton seizes upon the change and makes the cover. It gets two when Farthington kicks out. They scramble to their feet, and this time Farthington does Colton’s trick against him. He drops down on top of Colton for his own cover, only for Nate Colton to bridge up and out of the pin before even the count of one, a feat of agility that makes even Cecilworth Farthington – who’s seen just about everything wrestling has to offer – go bug-eyed.

Colton runs towards Farthington, who drops down onto his belly. Colton hops over him and into the opposing ropes. Farthington stands and leapfrogs over Colton. Colton runs into the other ropes and comes back to find Cecilworth coming at him. He ducks a clothesline from Farthington and then turns to find Farthington bouncing back towards him.

Farthington jumps and turns in midair into a body scissors, rolling through into a pinning predicament. At two, though, Farthington attempts to transition straight into Article 51. Colton is on to him, though. The moment he feels Cecilworth going for the wrist, he gets up and turns Farthington’s attempt at the cross armbreaker into a pinning predicament of his own. At two, Farthington kicks out, but Colton is up first. He immediately grabs the champion and attempts to lock him into the standing Colton Clutch, looking for the suplex that would follow.

Farthington grabs the ropes and refuses to let go until the referee flings numbers at Colton’s head to force him to break.

Nick Stuart: Both men looking for their finishing moves here, but they’ve each been thwarted. They’re truly evenly matched here, Richard.

Richard Parker: I have Cecilworth ahead on points.

Nick Stuart: Points?

Richard Parker: Yeah. Fours all day.

Nick Stuart: …Ugh.

Nixon makes Colton back off, and the New Diamond complies.

Farthington looks like a man who swallowed a cat and had no idea why he would’ve ever done such a thing. He’s not happy about Colton forcing him to go to the ropes to escape something. He’s not usually on the back foot like this, wrestling an opponent that could match him hold for hold. He’s used to dealing with men who took every shortcut imaginable to defeat a man who could probably tie them in knots that would horrify any Boy Scout of America.

Meanwhile, Nate Colton is practically giddy. He’s having the time of his life right now.

Colton and Farthington circle one another and start tentatively going for knuckle locks. When both knuckles are locked, Colton goes to jockey for position. It’s a fight he would surely win if Farthington thought to do the same. He doesn’t. Farthington rolls backwards, and instantly the pressure of the knuckle locks are on Colton’s wrists. One hand gets released when Farthington uses his leg to break that lock by stepping over the links hands. Then he casually, as though leading a dance, wrings Colton’s arm and brings him into a side headlock.

Colton once again backs Farthington into the ropes, but instead of allowing for the rope break, he shoves Farthington forward into the opposing ropes. Farthington hits the ropes on the far side, where Colton goes to meet him with a clothesline. However, Cecilworth grabs the arm and flips over Colton, landing in a standing headscissors position. It looks like it’s going to be Phil Atken’s Shotgun, but Colton slips out with a back body drop.

Cecilworth lands on his feet behind him.

Nick Stuart: These men are playing chess right now.

And when Colton turns, he gets caught in a side headlock and brought down with a takeover.

Richard Parker: Cecilworth knows how to play fourth dimensional chess, though! He’s on that Z-axis, baby!

After Colton hits the canvas, there’s a pause before Colton’s legs suddenly wrap around Cecilworth’s head.

Richard Parker: No! The Z-Axis!

Cecilworth is visibly angry if you couldn’t tell from his body language, but he gathers himself and positions himself in such a way that he’s able to stand on his feet while Colton still lies on the canvas with the headscissors applied. Cecilworth then performs a handstand, with a somewhat bemused Colton puts a hand against Cecilworth’s back to prevent him from flipping over on top of him and into a pin. Instead of doing that, Cecilworth pushes himself up to pry his head out from Colton’s legs, landing on his feet in front of the New Diamond.

And then he tries to murder him.

The kick is a sledgehammer, Nate Colton’s head is like a watermelon, and Cecilworth Farthington is the would-be Gallagher ready to smash with the penalty kick.

Colton lies back suddenly, and the kick passes dangerously over his head.

Farthington put everything into that kick, as though he has rocket boosters attached to the back of his boot. He might have, for all we know, since Farthington science is something else.

Point is, he missed.

Nate Colton capitalizes and rolls him up in a schoolboy pin. It only gets two, though, and it’s for a very good reason.

It’s a little old thing, you might never have heard of it, called ARTICLE 51.

It’s a game of four-dimensional chess, and Nate Colton’s forgotten about the Z-axis, and that’s how the Tyranid horde outflanks the Imperium of Man and how the Financier almost entrapped the New Diamonds.

Nick Stuart: Farthington’s trying to take the arm for the Article 51!

Colton recognizes the danger, and almost immediately manages to lunge for the ropes.

Nick Stuart: No, into the ropes!

Farthington tries to keep the hold locked in, but it’s an awkward positioning after the lunge and that pesky referee keeps yelling numbers at him, and he doesn’t appreciate that. He breaks at four.

Colton holds his arm in pain, but with the referee admonishing Cecilworth for not breaking the hold immediately, Colton’s able to return to his feet before Cecilworth can return to dealing with him. A hard European uppercut from Cecilworth brings all of this wrestling to a swift conclusion, and Colton is rocked into the corner.

Nick Stuart: I think playtime is over for the champ, Richard.

Richard Parker: It was fun while it lasted!

Farthington hits Colton with a second European uppercut, and then pulls him slightly into the ring and gets him with the snap mare. Farthington applies a top wristlock, stepping over Colton’s shoulder as he does so. It’s a deep submission, the kind that’s not helped with Farthington’s positioning upon the seated Colton adding additional pressure on the New Diamond’s back.

Nick Stuart: We know Nate Colton might have come out of UltraViolence with a shoulder injury, so it’s not a surprise that Cecilworth is zeroing in on that.

Colton is not going to go quietly into that night, though.

He manages to bypass Cecilworth’s stepover by turning his weight to slip out, and then manages to get to his feet. It’s here that Cecilworth recognizes that Colton can’t be brought down with this submission, but before he’s able to adjust things, Colton suddenly shifts behind Cecilworth and lifts him into the air before dropping him with a back suplex.

Nick Stuart: Suplex from Colton!

Richard Parker: Dang it!

Colton flexes his right arm once or twice to make sure it’s still functioning, and then he goes on the offense against Farthington. He pulls the Financier up to his feet and drops him down with a quick pendulum backbreaker, causing Farthington to yelp in pain. A quick cover only gets two as Farthington gets his shoulder up.

Nick Stuart: Colton’s taking control of this one! He’s targeting Farthington’s back right now.

Richard Parker: Hard to do much when your back’s hurting. I’ve sat on my ass for hours and hours on some of those early ReVival-era PRIME shows, and boy howdy, going to bed after those shows? Woof.

Nick Stuart: You should maybe exercise more.

Richard Parker: Heck that.

Colton pulls Farthington up and grabs the waistlock, seeking a German suplex. Farthington blocks it by wrapping his leg around Colton’s, and then uses this to execute a go-behind into an attempt at an octopus hold. Steve Harrison would be proud. Colton grabs the leg before it could wrap fully around his head, leaving Farthington unable to complete the hold.

Nick Stuart: An octopus hold is one of the most dangerous submissions around, but Nate Colton knows what’s going on and he’s blocking it!

Richard Parker: He’s so out of his depth that we’re going to need Samuel L. Jackson to drag him out of that deep blue sea.

Nick Stuart: Sam Jackson’s character died in that movie, though.

Richard Parker: That’s how out of depth he is!

Nate Colton is not out of his debt. With a degree of strength that Farthington isn’t exactly expecting, Colton pushes Farthington’s leg away and grabs him in another side slam position before dropping him with another backbreaker. Farthington lets out an anguished yelp, but Colton’s not done yet. He pulls Farthington up and gets him with a second one, and gets a second yelp.

Nick Stuart: More backbreakers from Colton! He’s really focusing on Farthington’s back here!

Richard Parker: Stop that, it’s illegal!

Nick Stuart: It is NOT.

When Colton goes for the third one, Farthington goes with the momentum of Colton lifting him up and manages to land on his feet. However, doing so sends a shock through his body that feeds into a growing bad back on the champion, and he staggers back into the ropes. Colton immediately charges in on him and throws a motherfucker of a clothesline that sends Farthington flipping over the top rope and to the floor.

OHHHHH!!!

Nick Stuart: COLTON WITH A CLOTHESLINE! Farthington is right out here in front of us, Richard!

Richard Parker: Thankfully, not as much danger of Nate Colton of ruining our entire ringside setup as with literally all of Cecilworth’s opponents before tonight.

Nick Stuart: Other than TAL.

Richard Parker: Okay, besides him.

Farthington is dazed as he uses the ring apron to get to his feet. Colton steps out onto the apron. He’s not a man known for taking risks. He’s not a man who goes to the air very often. But this is for the Universal championship. This is for everything.

He takes two steps and flies, barreling over the Financier with a hard clothesline that once again sends the champion sprawling on the ground.

OHHHHHHHH!!!

Nick Stuart: Nate Colton is on fire!

Richard Parker: Put him out!

Colton turns to look at Chandler Tsonda in the crowd. They share a nod. It’s a nod that says, without saying it: “See you at Colossus.”

Colton then pounces on Farthington and throws him back into the ring, quickly sliding back in to capitalize. He pulls Farthington to his feet and grabs him in a waistlock, and this time, there is no blocking it.

Nick Stuart: GERMAN SUPLEX! WITH A BRIDGE!

It’s a beautiful bridge, standing on the tips of his toes. Elvis Nixon makes the count.

ONE.

TWO.

Kickout, but Colton holds on. Farthington and Colton roll to the right, and Colton follows through and delivers a second German suplex, nearly dumping the Financier on his head. Colton delivers this with another perfect bridge, and Nixon makes the count.

ONE.

TWO.

Yet again, Farthington rolls out. Colton pulls him up… and then tries to go for the Colton Clutch. It’s early. He knows it. It’s also his best shot. A Colton Clutch suplex at this stage in the game, even if Farthington were to survive it, might be the equivalent of going up four touchdowns in the first half of the game. Farthington knows this. The moment the challenger grabs the arm for the Colton Clutch, Farthington slips out. He rotates into an arm wringer, and with the casual drunken swagger of a man two German suplexes deep, he falls backwards and brings his boot right into the arm with a Pele kick.

OOOOH!!!

Richard Parker: YEAH!

Nick Stuart: A vicious kick to the arm from Farthington!

Nate Colton feels that one. He staggers into the ropes, holding his arm in pain. His only salvation, however brief, is that Farthington still has to recover from the two brutal German suplexes that happened earlier. Farthington does recover and he grabs Colton by the arm, taking him down with a hip toss. Colton is able to sit up, but he only does so just in time for Farthington to run into the ropes before him and turn up the jet engines.

He missed once.

He isn’t missing this one.

SMACK!

OHHHHHHH!!!

Nick Stuart: PENALTY KICK FROM FARTHINGTON!

There might be a valley in the shape of Farthington’s boot in the chest of Nate Colton. Farthington drops down into a cover.

ONE.

TWO.

Colton kicks out, but Farthington is upon him. He entraps the bad shoulder of Colton, still holding him back since the chaos at UltraViolence with Hayes Hanlon and Jason Snow, and rather than go for a submission, he starts beating Colton in the head and face with hammer-and-anvil elbows.

Nick Stuart: ELBOWS!

There’s a brutality to it like nothing else. Cecilworth is frothing at the mouth, he is screaming loudly, and he is not going to stop hitting this man in the head until Elvis Nixon makes him.

Richard Parker: Wow, uh… That’s a concussion waiting to happen if Nixon doesn’t call this.

So it’s perhaps a testament to the resilience of Evansville’s own Nate Colton that he still manages to stand up, and take Cecilworth with him in a fireman’s carry. Cecilworth continues to ram his elbow into Colton’s head, but he doesn’t have as much leverage as he did when he started. Colton walks Farthington into the corner, whereupon he places the Financier onto the top rope. Farthington is still ramming elbows into Colton’s head, but Colton answers.

SMACK!

“WOOOOOO!!!”

A hard, blistering knife-edged chop smashes in the chest of Farthington. It hits Farthington so hard that he falls off the top rope and to the apron, before flopping to the floor like a fish out of water.

Nick Stuart: GOOD GOD! What a chop from Nate Colton!

Richard Parker: That sound. It’s like he hit Cecilworth in the chest with fucking artillery fire.

Cecilworth has a bewildered look on his face as he tries to recover from the fall and the fact that breathing is a function of his body that’s betraying him right now. Farthington has been hit hard plenty of times in his long reign as Universal champion on the cusp of surpassing records set by his predecessor Avalon, but that chop and the fall that followed it had messed him up something fierce.

Nate Colton, in the ring, is still dazed. He did, after all, get beaten over the head quite a bit. A trickle of blood can be seen from a cut on the side of his head. He only realizes that Farthington fell to the outside when he has to look around for his opponent and finds him out there.

He pursues.

He cannot win the Universal championship if Farthington gets counted out.

Richard Parker: Oh god, he’s coming with more artillery.

Nick Stuart: Nate Colton’s stalking Cecilworth from behind, and… COLTON CLUTCH!

The vaunted Colton Clutch, the hallmark of the entire Colton family, was now applied on Cecilworth. But it’s on the outside of the ring, where a submission didn’t count.

He knows this.

He knows that he cannot defeat Cecilworth Farthington for the Universal championship outside of the ring.

Nate Colton knows this as he ragdolls the champion on the outside like he’s a Muppet. He’s a student of the game, and he has the champion on the ropes so much that they’ve escaped the very confines of the ring, a world without ropes.

He also knows how much damage he can fucking do right now.

He bodily lifts Cecilworth Farthington, still trapped in the confines of the Colton Clutch, and slams him onto the ring apron with such violent authority that it makes a terrible sound.

THUD.

OHHHHHHHHH!!!

Nick Stuart: GOOD GOD!

Richard Parker: Oh, fuck.

Cecilworth rolls off of the apron clutching his back in excruciating, exquisite pain. Colton rolls into the ring to break the count, and then rolls right back outside to collect Farthington before throwing him into the ring.

Colton slides in after him and goes right for the pin.

ONE.

TWO.

THR—KICKOUT!

Farthington manages to just barely eke his shoulder out. His back is a mess. His opponent’s shoulder is a mess, too. Messes all around, getting messier. Colton sits on his knees, looking up at referee Elvis Nixon. He hoped that’d been a three. In his heart, he knew it wouldn’t have been that easy. Cecilworth Farthington had survived much worse for the Universal championship that he holds. The New Diamond was going to need to do more than that. He has to.

He pulls Cecilworth to his feet again. Another waistlock. Another attempt at a German suplex. It’s second nature to him, like riding a bicycle. He lifts Cecilworth and flings him mightily behind him.

There’s just one problem.

Cecilworth lands on his feet.

The Financier stumbles backwards thanks to momentum, with the ropes doing the yeoman’s work in keeping him on his feet. But he’s on his feet. Which is important because Nate Colton isn’t quite on his feet yet. Which means that he doesn’t see the big boot coming until it’s inches from his face.

Boom.

Nick Stuart: BOOT FROM FARTHINGTON! NATE COLTON’S BEEN ROCKED!

Richard Parker: LIKE A HURRICANE!

Colton falls backwards into the ropes. Farthington had just enough time to recover from the running boot, perhaps thinking that Avalon made that look so much easier than it actually was. Well, okay, he got as far as thinking of Avalon’s name right before Nate Colton bounces back and – with a last gasp – ruins Farthington’s day with a lariat.

Nick Stuart: COLTON WITH A LARIAT!

Richard Parker: NO!

Farthington takes this lariat, a move that had ruined his night once before from a huge sad cowboy, and flips head over heels. This move took a lot out of Nate Colton, though, and he’s down on his belly.

Nick Stuart: Both men are down!

Richard Parker: Look, I know my bias has been showing and everything, but… come on, Cecilworth!

At the count of three, Colton stirs. Farthington still sees stars.

Four.

Five.

Six. Colton crawls to the ropes, and starts using them to get to his feet.

Seven. Colton is up, and the count stops. Farthington is still down, rattled by the jaw-jacking lariat that put him on the mat. Colton is able to find his footing and move towards Farthington, and…

…is rolled up into a small package.

ONE.

TWO.

THRE-NO!

Colton kicks out, and immediately looks to Elvis Nixon to make sure it’s not a three count. He’s relieved to see it’s only two, and he stands to meet a recovering Farthington. Farthington blasts him with a Euorpean uppercut the moment Colton goes to stop him, and then hits him with a second one that sends him into the corner. Farthington goes to whip Colton into the opposite side, but Colton easily reverses.

Farthington stops himself from hitting the turnbuckles by jumping, landing with one foot on the middle turnbuckle, and hopping off while turning to face Colton. He meets the New Diamond with a third European uppercut, and this rocks the challenger enough that Farthington moves in with a boot to the gut and a front facelock.

Nick Stuart: WORTHLE—NO!

It might be a fisherman buster, buster, but not yet. Colton blocks the move by using his weight advantage, and then slips out of the front facelock with an arm wringer. He maneuvers for the Colton Clutch again, but Farthington is on to him. He slips out of the attempt and grabs the choke.

You know the one.

Nick Stuart: THE TARP!

It’s the submission that won UltraViolence, won him the 5-Star championship, and won his mentor the Universal championship. The rear naked choke is locked in, and Farthington leaps onto Colton’s back to try and bring him down.

It’s the hold that ended Nate Colton’s bid at regaining the 5-Star Championship just two years ago. He knows the dangers. He’s experienced the dangers.

He manages to an arm through Farthington’s grip, relieving the pressure. With a heave, he throws Farthington over his shoulder with something like a judo throw. He maintains wrist control, because he has something devious in mind.

OHHHHHH!!!

Richard Parker: YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!

Cecilworth Farthington is infamous for breaking arms, most significantly that of Clay Byrd. The list of victims

Rare is it, then, that he experiences his own submission hold.

Nick Stuart: ARTICLE 51 FROM COLTON!?!?

The confusion is palpable, but the danger is real. Farthington is out of position to counter the hold right away, and as a result, his arm gets stretched to nearly the breaking point. He can’t grab hold of his own wrist to alleviate the pressure. Farthington flails, almost in a panic. It’s rare to see the Submission Musician play a bad note like this. It’s rare to see him get put into check.

It almost looks as though Farthington might have to tap out.

And indeed, Elvis Nixon makes Nate Colton break the hold.

…

…

…

But not for the reason you might think.

Because Cecilworth Farthington’s foot is on the bottom rope.

Nate Colton can’t believe it. He had it. He looks up with the official with disappointment in his eyes, a man who’d thought he’d finally achieved a goal that’s spanned nearly four years.

Richard Parker: ……I think that just took a year off my life, man.

Farthington holds his arm in pain. He’s in a lot of pain in general between his back and now this. Colton gets over his shock and gets his head back into the game, pulling Farthington to his feet. A front facelock leads into a snap suplex. A floatover leads to a second attempt at using the Article 51 against its own master. Unfortunately, the element of surprise has been lost on this one, and Cecilworth quickly links his hands together and rolls his weight on top of Colton to pin his shoulders to the mat.

ONE.

TWO.

KICKOUT.

It’s a thunderous enough kickout that the champion is thrown backwards. Colton rises, and throws a clothesline at Cecilworth, but Cecilworth ducks it and runs into the ropes. Colton tries again on Farthington’s rebound, only to take a big boot right to the arm.

It hits hard enough that Colton turns… only to turn back and go for another big lariat with the other arm. Farthington boots him in that arm, too, but Colton is undaunted. When Farthington moves in for the kill with both of Colton’s arms having been damaged, Colton does something the Financier never expects.

CRACK.

OHHHHHH!!!

It’s a fucking headbutt.

Richard Parker: WHAT THE FUCK.

Farthington goes down like a sack of bricks that have been cursed by witches to fall at double terminal velocity. Colton falls forward and on top of Farthington as though he’s knocked himself out.

It’s a pin.

ONE.

TWO.

THRE-NO!

Nick Stuart: HOW!? HOW did Farthington kick out of THAT!?

It’s a riddle for the ages. It’s like Farthington’s body is on autopilot. He rolled his shoulder as though muscle memory took over, the subtle vibrations of the mat when a referee starts counting. Nate Colton manages to get up, looking bewildered. It’s almost as if he’d woken up from a dream.

He promptly found himself in a nightmare.

Cecilworth’s legs suddenly come up and wrap themselves around Colton’s head and neck.

Nick Stuart: TRIANGLE CHOKE!

It’s the submission hold that Joe Fontaine sometimes used, the “Chocolate Fontaine.” Nobody likes that name. Joe never cared. At the moment, though, it seems like the most appropriate move to fend off Nate Colton. Which was good for the Submission Beautician, because the least beautiful thing that’s happening to Cecilworth is the gash of blood that came as a result of that fucking headbutt.

Nate Colton is not having it, though. Fuck this. Fuck that. Fuck Joe Fontaine in particular.

He plants his feet.

And with a level of power that shouldn’t be possible in a man who might have concussed himself just moments ago, he lifts Farthington up. Farthington’s eyes grow wide in panic as he realizes that this isn’t just a last gasp – Colton means to powerbomb him. So instead, Farthington abandons ship. He flips over Colton and into a sunset flip and traps the arms for a pin.

ONE.

TWO.

Colton rolls backwards and grabs Farthington’s legs, flipping over into a pin.

ONE.

TWO.

Farthington bridges up. They twist around, and they fight over a backslide. Colton is bigger. He doesn’t move easily for the maneuver. Farthington ends up flipping over Colton’s back, landing on his feet in front of him, and goes right into…

Nick Stuart: MARIE ANTOINETTE!

I’m pretty sure Nate Colton has but one thought in his head as Farthington leaps into Colton’s body and grabs the guillotine choke.

You motherfucker.

There is no one in PRIME, outside of possibly Ivan Stanislav, that Nate Colton has more disdain for. The fact that Cecilworth is more than willing to borrow his Gluemate’s vaunted submission hold, the claimer of necks that it is, sends the New Diamond on tilt. Farthington can’t get a good grip on the Marie Antoinette. FLAMBERGE never could claim that neck, either.

Colton grabs Farthington by the head. With that mighty cornfed boy strength, he lifts Farthington into the air in a vertical suplex.

And then he drops straight down.

Nick Stuart: BRAINBUSTER!

Richard Parker: NO!

Colton falls into the cover.

ONE.

TWO.

THREE–

Nick Stuart: NO! CECILWORTH KICKS OUT!

It was as close you can get to it being three without actually being three. That .9 is a repeating number, forever waiting for that speck of dust to take it to a whole-ass three. But there is no rounding up in wrestling. There’s barely any math.

Richard Parker: My life flashed before my eyes!

Nate Colton is bewildered. He can’t believe it.

But he wastes little time pulling Cecilworth up and locking in the Colton Clutch. Cecilworth fights it with everything he’s got, but he’s bloodied and brainbusted and on the cusp of being brain-shitted. Colton lets it fly.

Nick Stuart: COLTON CLUTCH SUPLEX!

He bridges.

He hopes.

It’s over.

It has to be.

Elvis Nixon makes the count.

ONE.

TWO.

THREE.

AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

For a brief, wonderful moment, Nate Colton believed he’d done it. He believed he’d finally broken through the glass ceiling and achieved everything he wanted. But when he released the suplex, he saw Elvis Nixon holding up only two fingers. He’s confused. He thought it was three.

But then he saw the replay on the PRIMEview, and he knew.

CECILWORTH FARTHINGTON GOT HIS FOOT ON THE ROPE.

There’s getting lucky, and then there’s deux ex machina.

Nick Stuart: I DON’T BELIEVE IT! Colton HAD it! He truly did! But Cecilworth Farthington had the awareness to get his foot on the rope!

Richard Parker: BRILLIANT!

Colton couldn’t believe it. How could he have been that careless in how he placed the suplex? He goes to pick up Cecilworth to do it again, but Cecilworth has disappeared. He’s disappeared because he’s rolled to the floor, right in view of Chandler Tsonda and the half of the animal kingdom that adorns him. Colton realizes he needs to collect the champion and bring him back into the ring.

He steps outside and pulls Cecilworth up.

He casts a glance at Chandler Tsonda, their eyes meeting. He’s just moments away from being able to say that Tsonda is next on his agenda. Whatever happens in Atlanta, happens.

Colton throws Cecilworth back into the ring, hops up onto the apron, and…

SMACK!

…gets kicked in the bad shoulder.

Colton falls through the ropes, his face etched in agony. Cecilworth had almost nothing left, but that boot hit Colton where it hurt him the most.

Both men are down.

Nick Stuart: Farthington, with what might be his last gasp, has stunned the challenger!

Richard Parker: Come on, Cecilworth, get it together and stop getting suplexed!

Elvis Nixon counts both of them down, but Colton is back up first. Only, he’s now favoring his shoulder. He’s keeping his right arm close, and holding the shoulder with his left. He’s not able to peel Cecilworth off of the canvas before Cecilworth manages to get up as well.

Both men are dazed.

Cecilworth staggers into a European uppercut.

Colton, with his left arm, throws a punch.

There isn’t a lot of power behind either of these strikes, but Colton follows up with a second left-handed punch, and then a third, backing Cecilworth into the ropes. Colton goes for the Irish whip, but Cecilworth reverses and reels Colton into an elbow. Colton is rocked, but when Cecilworth throws an outright forearm shot that doesn’t look anything like the European uppercuts he’d been throwing around for most of the match, Colton ducks it.

Nick Stuart: COLTON CLUTCH!

But it’s not applied well enough.

The shot to his shoulder had done more damage to his arm than he expected. Farthington slips out and hits him with the Pele kick to the arm again.

Colton staggers and falls to his knees.

Cecilworth grabs the right arm. Top wristlock. He steps over and traps Colton’s good arm behind his leg, but it’s when Cecilworth puts a boot into the crook of Colton’s knee that the true horrors of what the champion has in mind set in.

He falls back, and the hold is locked in.

Richard Parker: What the fuck!?

It’s a horror show of a submission. Nate Colton’s right arm trapped in the top wristlock, his left arm trapped in the crook of Cecilworth’s knee, and his back is being stretched by the simple fact that Cecilworth’s kept at least one of his knees touching the canvas.

Nick Stuart: I don’t know what this submission is!

Colton is flailing. He’s in exquisite amounts of pain and Cecilworth Farthington is screaming with every effort he has to keep the pressure on. His arm feels like it’s going to get torn off. He’s miles from the ropes. He tries to reach them. He looks to Chandler Tsonda, sitting in the front row, and it’s like he’s getting further away. He thinks about his family, he thinks about Kohime, and he makes the hardest decision he’s ever made in his life.

He taps.

DING DING DING

Nick Stuart: IT’S OVER!

Richard Parker: YES! YESSS!!!

Cecilworth releases the hold, and lies on the canvas unblinking and shaking. No doubt, he can’t believe he survived this.

Nate Colton’s relief at the end of his pain comes with the realization that he’s fallen short once more. He finds himself in the corner, holding his arm, watching as Cecilworth slowly stands on his feet and is handed the Universal title belt by Elvis Nixon.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this match as a result of a submission, and STIIIIIIIIIIILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL PRIME UNIVERSAL CHAMPION! CECILWOOOOOOOOOOOORTH FARTHINGTOOOOOOOOOOOON!!!!!

Colton slumps in disappointment.

Cecilworth staggers over to him, looking down. A time ago, the Financier might have gloated over the victory. He might have rubbed it in. He might have treated Nate Colton as a lesser.

But he extends a hand out of respect, and Colton can’t help but take his hand and give it a shake.

RAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!

With respect shown, Cecilworth steps out onto the apron and holds the Universal championship high over his head. He is not doing this for the crowd, even as they showered him in adulation. He is doing this for one man in the front row in particular.

Chandler Tsonda.

The Model Citizen watches Cecilworth Farthington carefully, like a hawk observing its prey.

December 6th looms for both men.

The Almasy champion.

The Universal champion.

Only one man will stand on top of PRIME at the end of the year, at the biggest show of the year.

Who will it be?

FADE.

TO.

COLOSSUS.