ReVival 79

Earlier today…

So says the chyron in the corner of the screen, which is peculiarly colored purple and black instead of the standard PRIME blue and white.

A fade-in precedes a view of the parking lot outside of the WVU Coliseum beneath an evening sky. In the foreground, a makeshift sign reading “ReserVVed” stands before a partitioned row of spaces near the building. Further in the distance, a jet black Dodge Charger glides into the lot, engine thrumming with a low, bestial purr.

With the camera getting a good view of the “5STAR” printed on the customized license plate hanging on the front bumper, the Charger rolls into the furthest parking space and comes to a complete stop. Kerry Kuroyama steps out from the driver’s side, looking crisp and confident in his favorite emerald brillo Sebastian Cruz three-piece.

Ami Troy: Anyone ever tell you that you drive like an old granny?

The Merry Mischief Maker rises out from the passenger side and comes around the car to join Kerry. His Five Star Championship resting on her shoulder greatly complements her black and purple “HANK DID NOTHING WRONG” tank.

The Emerald Apex (some would say unwisely) raises his finger and opens his mouth in retort, but is quickly cut off by the full-throated GROWL of a diesel engine…

A black Ford F250 appears and rumbles slowly into the parking spot beside the charger, a small rev of the engine sends a whistle from the turbo-diesel before the engine is cut off and the Cowboy Colossus slides out of the truck.

Clay approaches Kerry and Ami.

Kerry Kuroyama: (nodding) Clay.

Kerry raises his fist. After looking at it for a moment, Clay raises his own and gives it a bump.

Clay Byrd: Must be Scott’s turn to be late…

Just then, a third vehicle pulls into the reserved section of the parking lot — a heavily rusted-over PT Cruiser, with an engine that putters and sputters in a way that would make anyone think it was on its last legs.

So it comes as no surprise to see a certain junior reporter behind the wheel. He glances over and sees the trio of Kuroyama, Byrd, and Troy glaring at him.

Simon Tillier: What? WHAT?? Oh, wait, am I parked in your very special and super important reserVVVVVVed section?! Well, that’s just too bad! For one, I refuse to acknowledge your petty bureaucratic systems of control! Especially over things as insignificant and minor as PARKING SPOTS! ‘Oh, please, don’t park in these specific spaces! They’re reserved for Vae Victis, everyone!’

In the distance, another engine revs. This one is as LOUD as it is MASSIVE.

Simon Tillier: And for another thing, I’m actual staff! My work for this company is just as important as any of yours! And if you ask me, preferential treatment being given to certain employees over others is a systemic result of a lopsided workplace power balance! It decreases worker dynamics, impedes overall productivity, promotes toxic conditions, and… and… hey, are you even listening right now?

They are not. Kerry, Clay, and Ami look further up the parking lot as the distant engine roars again.

Simon’s car is suddenly overwhelmed by the beams of powerful floodlights. He looks into the rearview mirror, barely hanging onto the windshield, and gasps in surprise.

Simon Tillier: Oh… my… GAWD…

Clay Byrd: This is gonna be awesome…

The camera whips over, spotting a faraway metal megalodon! The blue-and-yellow striped MONSTER TRUCK — with “HUNTERMANIA” emblazoned down the side — revs its engine again, shuddering against the brake and spewing black smoke in its wake.

Smash zoom to the cab, where we see Scott Hunter drop his Pit Vipers over his eyes and slam on the gas!

VVVRRRRRRMMMMMMMMM!!!

Tillier turns white as a sheet as the monster truck barrels down on his comically small-in-comparison compact car. In a panic, he scrambles out of it.

Simon Tillier: OH DEAR JESUS LORD GOD NOT LIKE THIS!!

Clay Byrd: GET ‘EM SCOTTY!

The junior interviewer rolls aside while the Behemoth throws his arms into the air just as…

CRRRRRRRRRUUUNNNNNCCCCHHH!!

…Scott’s monster truck COMPLETELY FLATTENS IT into a twisted mess of metal and glass! Byrd shoves Kerry and is shouting something about how awesome the monster truck smashing the car is.

Clay Byrd: VROOM! FUCK YEAH!

Horrified, Simon stands off to one side, hands pulling at his blonde hair as he watches the destruction unfold. The sixty-six-inch wheels powerfully roll over the rearside, crushing the frame like it were a paper cup and completely flattening the interior. The tires blow as the axle shatters, and the terminally ill engine is finally put out of its misery as the front end implodes beneath the truck’s weight.

Simon Tillier: OH NO!! I LEFT MY BAND’S NEW DEMO IN THE TAPE DECK!! IT WAS OUR ONLY COPY!!

Clay Byrd: Sucks to suck.

The monster truck rolls the rest of the way over Simon’s destroyed PT Cruiser and pulls to a stop. The door swings open, and Scott Hunter drops to the pavement.

The Maven of Miami is rocking his acid-washed jeans and a freshly printed “HUNTERMANIA” shirt. Completely livid, Simon stares at him, as though expecting some sort of explanation for his parking job.

Scott simply stares back, silently daring him to do something about it.

Eventually, Tillier thinks better of it, shrugs, and wanders off in defeat.

Simon Tillier: Eh, it was shit anyway…

Scott ambles over to join his Vae Victis comrades. Now, together, the four round up before the camera, looking uncannily like the player-select screen of some forgotten early ’90s arcade beat-em-up.

Fuck, I’d play it.

Kerry Kuroyama: Sup, Scott?

Hunter nods, running a hand down the side of his golden brown mullet.

Scott Hunter: Hey…

An awkward silence follows. Kerry bites his lip, struggling to think of something to say. Scott taps a foot and impatiently eyes the door. Clay grunts in exasperation, annoyed by the lingering tension. Ami blinks in astonishment, as her gummy is starting to kick in.

Finally, Kuroyama looks over to the Five Star Championship on Troy’s shoulder and remembers his role. Retrieving his belt from Ami, he clears his throat to address the group.

Kerry Kuroyama: Who are we?

Clay squints. Scott’s face scrunches in confusion.

Scott Hunter: I’m Scott.

Kerry Kuroyama: Yeah, I know, but I mean… Vae Victis. Who are we? What do we represent? What’s the common ground that binds us together? The Whoresmen share the quality of wanting to be disruptors. The Red Army has its annoying subservience to Ivan. The Glues have that weird, irreverent inside joke humor of theirs. Nobody’s Heroes has–wait, are they still a thing? Well, the point is that all these other groups in PRIME have something that brings them together. Shared ideals. A mission that requires solidarity. So… what’s ours?

Byrd and Hunter exchange a look. Nobody told either of them that there was going to be a quiz.

Kerry Kuroyama: Stanislav and others want to paint us as “the Elite.” Like the thing that brings us together is a shared love for sitting on thrones and looking down on everyone else in contempt. But is that what we really are?

Clay and Scott stare at Kerry in quietude. Kerry glances over to Ami, who answers the question with a wide grin and an insistent nod.

Kerry Kuroyama: Okay, maybe that’s part of what we are. But I also think there’s more than that. I think Vae Victis represents excellence in this sport. I think we carry within ourselves everything that makes wrestling great.

He nods to Scott.

Kerry Kuroyama: Determination…

He nods to Clay.

Kerry Kuroyama: Resolve…

He thumbs his own chest.

Kerry Kuroyama: And ambition. Everything that pushes us to constantly better ourselves. To be better than our opposition. We aren’t the “elite” because we set out to be. Vae Victis is the pantheon of wrestling gods we are today because we keep this shit serious…

He glances over his shoulder back at the smoldering, twisted mess that was Simon Tillier’s PT Cruiser.

Kerry Kuroyama: …between the ropes, I mean. Anyway, that’s what I think of us. But before we go out there tonight and face off with a two-time former Universal Champion and the current Tag Team Champions, I need to know what this means to you guys. If we’re going to have each other’s backs, then I need to know where we all stand on this.

Scott Hunter: (quizzically) I wonder if the Red Army trains together. I bet they train together.

Kuroyama groans, experiencing a cocktail of frustration, vexation, and shame.

Right then, “The Eucalyptic Apex” Kerry Koalayama flops out of the open door to Scott’s monster truck, harmlessly falls face-first onto the pavement, and rolls over at the feet of the other four. He’s dressed in a red headband and fatigues, looking ready to wage a one-koala war against those commie scumbags to save some P.O.W.s or defend some brave Mujahedin soldiers.

Kerry Kuroyama: Well, no mystery where he stands…

The Behemoth gives the little rascal a rub behind the ears before lunging towards the cameraman. Clay ignores Simon’s existence because fuck Simon.

Clay Byrd: YOU TELL THAT SUM BITCH IVAN I’M COMIN! I’M LOOKIN’ FER BLOOD! WE’RE LOOKIN’ TA SEND THAT RUSSIAN FUCK BACK TO MOSCOW IN A BAG! I AIN’T SCARED OF NO METAMUCIL LOVIN’ COMMIE! I’M GONNA KILL ‘EM!

Byrd turns towards Hunter and pushes him in the chest – trying to fire him up.

Clay Byrd: WE’RE GONNA KILL HIM AIN’T WE SCOTTY! BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! ALL THAT YOUNGBLOOD SHIT! RUAAAHHHH!

The big man is frothing at the mouth, white spittle forming and caking the corners and the edges of his beard around his mouth. The two chest bump.

Clay Byrd: You like hurtin’ people, big fella? It’s time ta pick on a grown ass man. I ain’t never liked a bully Ivan, I ain’t never liked some big man who just hurts people because he can, and I ain’t never liked nobody from Moscow. Fuck Peter the Great, fuck Tsars, and most of all, FUCK LENIN! FUCK TROTSKY! FUCK STALIN! FUCK ‘EM ALL!

The cameraman is shocked by the sudden jarring that comes from a Behemoth-sized shove, which finally snaps Clay back towards his teammates.

Clay Byrd: Who the fuck are we?

He smirks at Scott, Kerry, and Ami.

Clay Byrd: We’re fucking dangerous.

Scott smiles a warm, genuine smile at Clay, and nods happily, fully embracing the big Texan’s pep talk despite what he would call ‘potty words.’

Scott Hunter: YEAH!! We’re freaking dangerous!! They think they can be all weird and Russian?? You can’t just be weird and Russian!! This is America, there are laws and statutes and various guidelines against being big, stupid, and Russian! And it’s the worst salad dressing, too, when I think about it! And I don’t know what the word subservient means just yet, but I’m gonna look that up, and when I find out the definition, I bet it will make me just absolutely LIVID!!! Also, Clay, you sounded like Kurt Russell in Tombstone just then, AND I FRIGGIN’ LOVE THAT MOVIE!! YOU TELL EM WE’RE COMIN’!! AND HELL’S COMIN’ WITH US, YOU HEAR?! HELL’S COMIN’ WITH US!!!!!!!!!!!! WHERE’S WYATT??? RIGHT BEHIND YOU STILLWELL!!! BLLLLLLAAAAAAMMMMMMMO!!!!!!!!!

Scott gets overexcited and leaps into another chest bump with Clay, which Clay is only too happy to return. Scott flies back about four feet, but he is PUMPED!

Nodding in approval, Kerry raises his hand for what presumably is meant to be a high five… just as Scott and Clay turn and charge toward the entrance. He instead awkwardly runs the hand through his hair. “Hmph”-ing the gesture, Ami scoops Kerry Koalayama off the pavement and thumbs to the monster truck as she follows after the other two.

Ami Troy: Next time, I’m riding with Scott.

And with that, ReVival begins.

Nick Stuart: WELCOME EVERYONE TO REVIVAL 79 IN MORGANTOWN, WEST VIRGINIA!!!!

Richard Parker: And we have one HELL of an opener tonight. The long awaited return of the Generalissimo, taking on a representative from one of his least favorite groups of people: sexy hippies!

Nick Stuart: I don’t think the sexy part is the problem, Richard.

Richard Parker: Ok. Fine. Show us some signs then. Those are sexy.

I DYED MY HAIR NOT-BLONDE FOR LASAGNA BOY SOLIDARITY
[LASAGNA_BOYS_PICTURE.JPG]
GAMBLE AND HESSIAN ARE GREATEST AMERICAN HEROES
OF COURSE THE RUSSIANS ARE USING HESSIAN MERCENARIES
WHERE LASAGNA BOYS BECOME LASAGNA DADDIES.
HANK LONGS FOR THE POOL

That’s all of them. Do better at Colossus.

Vince Howard stands in the ring, ready to kick things off. Jimmy Turnbull is beside him.

SUDDENLY!

Two big masked idiots jump into the ring and grab the official.

INTRUDER #1: YOU’RE COMING WITH US, TRUNCHBULL!

INTRUDER #2: IF YOU EVER WANT TO CALL A MATCH AGAIN YOU’LL TELL YOUR MOM TO STOP BEING MEAN TO THOSE KIDS AT CRUNCHEM HALL!

The Intruders scoop Turnbull up like he’s a rug that really held the room together, carrying him out of the ring and up the entrance ramp.

INTRUDER #1: JUSTICE FOR MATILDA!

INTRUDER #2: JUSTICE FOR MISS HONEY!

INTRUDER #1: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!

INTRUDER #2: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!

As they carry Turnbull through Argyle, we cut back to ringside where Nick and Richard are clearly unbothered.

Nick Stuart: Welp. Today we learn some important Intruders lore. Namely, they can’t discern the difference between reality and fiction.

Richard Parker: Yep, their grasp on reality is tenuous at best, Nick. Big Matilda fans as well, apparently.

Nick Stuart: So the Intruders believe in magic children.

Richard Parker: Well, to a degree. They certainly believe in telekinesis.

Nick Stuart: Christ.

Richard Parker: I suspect it will take… oh, five minutes or so for Turnbull to either escape their confused clutches, or for the Enemigos to rescue him. Either way… probably gonna have to push this match.

Nick Stuart: Let’s uh… let’s cut to somewhere else.

Let’s do that.

…Previously On…

…THE NEWS…

Wait, wait…fuck that, we’re not doing that this week.

Nothing presented by that asshole Snark Darkly.

No MAXKAEL JR.

No Sutler Reynold-Kael.

No Max Kael.

And no, absolutely no Kirk the fucking Sports Head. Yeah, yeah…boo hoo, no sports.

Instead, we find ourselves looking at the dilapidated shell of what used to be a beautiful retro NEWS van. That is, until our dear Bruh of the Red Army got ahold of it. Now, it sits, smoldering in a parking spot outside the WVU Coliseum.

Did you know a vehicle could smolder for months without actually breaking down? Now you do!

This sight would be alarming if we weren’t in Morgantown right now. Hell, these people set furniture ablaze when their team wins. So this shitbox of a van fits right in with the scenery!

Anyway…nearby the van stands Bryan Dawkins, already in his ring gear for the night in anticipation of his upcoming match against Danny Christie. Dawkins, looking at the watch that definitely isn’t on his wrist, is flanked by Angelica Brooks.

Angelica Brooks: I’m here with the Red Army’s Bryan Dawkins.

A quick nod from Bruh.

Angelica Brooks: Bryan, I’m assuming that since you’ve got the WON Action NEWS van here and I’m here, we’re just waiting for Max so we can make this match official?

A moment passes. One can only assume that Dawkins is carefully formulating his response.

Or maybe he realizes that this was a huge mistake.

Bryan Dawkins: Angie…it’s been a long year, yeah? A bit of a mixed bag, really. Some highs, some low…low…lows. And all along, one man’s been pulling the strings.

Dawkins pinches his nose in an attempt to relieve the pressure in his brain that’s been building for over eleven months.

Bryan Dawkins: And he hasn’t been shy about it, has he? No, no, no…Max Kael, the esteemed Mayor of Arkham. The estranged Commissar of The Red Army. The mastermind behind…

He holds his arms out wide, gesturing at the world around him.

Bryan Dawkins: …everything. The Alias Title win at last year’s Colossus. Losing the Alias in my first defense. Turning my back on the Heroes and joining The Red Army. Oh…and abducting the mother of my child. Max Kael must pay for what he’s done.

He seethes as Angelica pulls the microphone away.

Angelica Brooks: I’ve…I’ve been told that Max hasn’t been seen in the building, Bryan.

Bryan Dawkins: Another mind game, I’m sure. Max doesn’t have an honorable bone in his body. Probably why he’s been killed so many times. Heh, I don’t blame those who’ve done it.

He shrugs halfheartedly.

Bryan Dawkins: But you know, nothing surprises me with Max anymore. I’m not even sure why he wants that piece of shit back.

The camera pans to the NEWS van, surrounded by wisps of smoke. Dawkins gazes, almost in a trance-like state, at the trashed vehicle.

Angelica Brooks: …can we address the elephant in the room?

Dawkins snaps out of it, remembering where he is (and why).

Bryan Dawkins: Oh! Yeah…about that.

He gestures off-camera in the other direction.

Bryan Dawkins: Isn’t she beautiful, Angie?

Angelica is caught slack-jawed, staring at the subject of Dawkins’ question. The camera swings past Dawkins and onto her.

Zarya.

The T-72A tank sits on the other side of the lot, her engine purring as efficiently as it did when she served in the Soviet-Afghan war in the 1980’s. Her exterior is worn, the olive green paint faded and chalked, giving the tank almost a matte finish.

Atop her frame sit the PRIME Tag Team Champions. Hessian and Gamble both give a nod to their comrade in unison as the camera pulls back to the interview.

Angelica Brooks: …

Bryan Dawkins: You see, Angie…I had this big, grand plan. Max wanted the NEWS van back and I fully intended on delivering it to him! See? I played by Max’s rules.

Angelica finally manages to stammer out her first words in what feels like hours.

Angelica Brooks: And that (gesturing at Zarya) was for…?

Bryan Dawkins: Oh!

Dawkins breaks into a fit of laughter.

Bryan Dawkins: Yeah, well…I guess I can still show you. Sit tight, Angie!

Dawkins darts from the scene, headed toward Zarya. He climbs aboard the tank and pops the hatch open before diving inside. He emerges a moment later with a helmet, which he tosses in Angelica’s direction.

Bryan Dawkins: (shouting) YOU MIGHT NEED THAT!

Angelica Brooks: Wait…what?!

Dawkins disappears back inside the tank, with Gamble and Hessian following. Zarya’s growl fills the air as her engine roars to life and Dawkins shifts her into gear. Angelica, who has since covered her fiery locks with the aforementioned helmet, ducks behind a nearby SUV.

Zarya lurches forward, picking up speed slowly at first before shifting into a higher gear. Her tracked treads tear up the asphalt as she speeds toward the van – I think we all know where this is headed.

Soon, the sound of an arranged car crash fills the air. The tank makes relatively quick work of the van, smashing and crushing and flattening any segment of the vehicle that comes across her path.

As it turns out, 1980’s era NEWS vans were not rated for tank combat. Who knew?

Finally, Zarya comes to rest, surrounded by shrapnel of all varieties. Part of fiberglass Max’s disfigured nose is wedged beneath her. The main hatch pops open and the three members of The Red Army emerge. They all exchange fist bumps before Dawkins climbs down to the ground level. He wipes sweat from his brow and peers around the lot.

Bryan Dawkins: …Angie?

Brooks slinks out from behind a nearby vehicle, ill-fitting helmet still perched upon her head and microphone still in hand. Always the professional.

Angelica Brooks: A little heads up would’ve been nice!

He shrugs.

Bryan Dawkins: Sorry ‘bout that…you asked, so I showed!

He flashes a sarcastic thumbs up toward the camera.

Bryan Dawkins: So anyway…the plan was to give Max the NEWS van back. It really was – I promise!

Angelica raises a suspicious eyebrow toward the Hawaiian turned Communist.

Bryan Dawkins: I mean…he would’ve found out that he was locked in the van upon entry. Alexei helped me with some…err…modifications to ensure that he wouldn’t be able to escape me any further! And then…well…

Dawkins gestures behind them to the tank and van wreckage.

Bryan Dawkins: That would’ve happened. But you know what they say about ‘best laid plans’ and all that.

He shrugs. Angie has now removed the Soviet-era brain bucket from her head, revealing a mess of ginger hair. She painstakingly attempts to fix it before continuing the interview.

Angelica Brooks: So…your plan was to murder Max Kael on live television?

Confusion covers Bryan’s face.

Bryan Dawkins: I mean…yeah?

Angelica Brooks: And then you’d be left without a match for Colossus?

Bryan Dawkins: Come on, Angie. You’ve been here long enough to know we’d just have a new Max to deal with at Colossus. And I’m fine with that. As a matter of fact, I’d welcome it! I’ll be happy to take out whatever version of Max Kael that decides to show up in Atlanta in three weeks!

This time, it’s Angelica’s turn to be confused.

Angelica Brooks: So…you accept Max’s challenge and will put your son Nico on the line in the match?

Dawkins sighs before staring directly into the camera.

Bryan Dawkins: Yes, Angie. I’m making what might be the worst mistake of my entire life and agreeing to his terms. But he’s also agreeing to mine, because at Colossus, Max will be stepping into another of the Red Army’s creations…

He takes the microphone from Angelica, stepping in front of her to take up the entire frame.

Bryan Dawkins: At Colossus, we’ll meet in a Siberian Steel Cage. A rather traditional steel cage match – no chain link in sight, only cold, steel bars. And Max, if you think you’re going to escape this encounter, I’ve got bad news…this cage has a roof.

He pauses.

Bryan Dawkins: Barbed wire lines the top and bottom of the cage.

Another pause.

Bryan Dawkins: And the ropes are bound to the corners with cold steel chains. No turnbuckles in sight.

One more, for dramatic effect.

Bryan Dawkins: I told you months ago that this was gonna end with just you and I, Max. The way it should be. Only one of us is gonna walk out of Atlanta, Max. You’re gonna pay for everything you’ve put me…no, everything you’ve put my family through this year. See you at Colossus, Max.

Dawkins tosses the microphone to the side and exits off screen, leaving the image of a disheveled Angelica Brooks, Zarya and the dismembered remains of the WON Action NEWS van as the last thing we see before ReVival moves elsewhere…

Let’s be real for a minute. A few weeks ago when Steve Lemieux was stuck in a chastity belt for fear of having his buns mowed by a violent lawn man – sorry, Lawn Man 3 – Matt Mills was probably rooting for the lock to stay closed. If anything it would have given him another two weeks’ reprieve from having to deal with the Sausage Sandwich King Person of Chicago Peoria.

But, as is the way of things, the fates only ever afford one so much grace. Which is why once again Mr. Mills is stuck standing in front of the same PRIME backdrop with the same two idiots just like he has pretty much every show since the spring.

Matt Mills: Hello guys, gals, and nonbinary pals.

If you think he sounds chipper, you’re wrong. It’s just that he stumbled upon some J. Kenji Lopez-Alt videos on Youtube one night and decided to try out that greeting for himself.

Matt Mills: I’m Matt Mills, and here with me tonight are…

There’s a sigh. It’s a small one, but it’s there nonetheless. And it bleeds any excitement he might have once had out into the backstage air.

Matt Mills: St-

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Hello, yes! I am Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq., and I am professional wrestling’s first lawyer-doctor, and the only one that I am aware of who is licensed in lawyering, doctoring, and lawyer-doctoring. This is Stefon Lummox. Say hello, Stefon.

Steve mumbles something that is unintelligible because it’s muffled by the astronaut helmet he’s wearing. Have we mentioned that Steve is wearing an astronaut helmet? Because Steve is wearing an astronaut helmet.

Look, there are only so many weird-ass microphones you can use before the once-fertil ground of talky boxes gets sparse.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Stefon, it is very rude to ignore people.

He gently bonks Steve’s helmet with his cane. It’s very “Seagulls Stop It Now” coded.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Did you remember to turn it on? You have to turn it on. The space hats do not have the Alexas built into them, Stefon.

Steve Lemieux: (Sad astronaut noises)

There’s a click and a hiss and oh hey now suddenly Steve’s voice can be heard.

Steve Lemieux: Hello, Matt. Let’s talk about some topics.

Hearing the sound of his own voice, Steve’s face lights up. In case you’re wondering, it’s because this is the closest he will ever get to being George Clooney.

Because George Clooney was in Gravity, which is a movie about space.

Look, it all makes perfect sense to Steve. You’re just going to have to trust me on this.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Yes, Stefon! There are many topics to discuss! The first of which is why that terrible, horrible Flamberge will not apologize to dear, sweet Stefon.

Matt furrows his brow. Then he decides he should probably correct the Bad Doctor.

Matt Mills: That was-

It does not end well for him.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: A travesty, yes! It was the big sad, as the youth say. Deadmaus. No hats. On god. Eff arr eff arr. Stefon spent many minutes sadmaxxing that day. All while covered from head to toe in a veritable pool of his own tinkles. Tinklemaxxing.

Steve Lemieux: (softly… or softmaxxing your call) My Old Navy Pique Polo.

Dr. Zeke Dr. Badguy, Esq.: This is why we demand an apology from Flamberge. And if he will not give us an apology, then Stefon will beat it out of him.

Matt looks at Steve. Then Matt looks at Zeke. Steve looks at Zeke. Everyone looks at Steve.

Matt Mills: Riiiiiiight. But, you know that was-

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: An outrage! It certainly was. And do not get me wrong. To a certain degree I understand where young Flamberge was coming from. Stefon’s tiny baby bladder was too busy floodmaxxing the hallway, and really who would want to spend any time in that particular wading pool? Not I, General. Not I.

Matt Mills: Okay, sure. But you have to realize that was-

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: A scandal! Scandalmaxxing!

Steve presses a button on the side of his helmet, and there’s a faint beep and then a click to signal his comms are live.

Steve Lemieux: I sure am sorry, Mister Mills, but Mister Doctor Zeke is a little confused.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Impossible, Stefon! I am never wrong, despite what the Bar organizations of New York, New Jersey, New Hampshire, Newbraska, New Mexico, Newvada, or Idaho have to say about it. Besides, we have been over this.

Steve Lemieux: I know, Mister Doctor Zeke, but…

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: The man’s name is a sword?

Steve Lemieux: Yes.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: And the sword is on fire?

Steve sighs. Contrary to what he probably thinks, it does not make him sound like Darth Vader. My man isn’t even cool enough to be Dark Helmet.

Steve Lemieux: Yes.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Ah-ha! Flamberge! See? My logic is totally sound. Irrefutable. Impregnable. Zero pregnations. Suck on that, Newsachusetts!

Their attention shifts off-camera. Zeke first, then Steve, then finally Mills.

It might be a Beetlejuice thing if it was thrice, but they said his name four times, so it’s unclear if this was a summoning spell, or coincidence, or bad luck.

Whatever it may have been, FLAMBERGE enters the frame. His face is expressionless, his eyes hidden by yellow plastic sunglasses.

FLAMBO sees that Zeke is about to say something; before a word comes out, the Lizard King presses an index finger squarely into his sternum and gets reeeeeal close.

FLAMBERGE: …you. When you refer to me, you will use the proper inflection. C’est ne “Flamberge” pas- c’est FLAMBERGE.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Hold on, let me try it, Bla-zay cLayMO-

Before he can finish, FLAMBERGE palms Zeke’s face like a basketball.

FLAMBERGE: …in this case, you will leave my name out of your mouth, or face consequences you are not prepared to receive.

The Frenchman releases face.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Drats! Did I misplace my accents? I knew I should have kept my subscription to the Duolipas.

FLAMBO raises a finger as if to go on a diatribe, but stops himself, exhales, and instead just leaves.

Steve, wide-eyed and sweating behind his astronaut mask, is the first one to say anything.

Steve Lemieux: Buns and beans, Mister Doctor Zeke, that was-

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Hello, yes! I know who that was, Stefon. It was Blaze Claymore. Blazy Claymes, as the youths say.

Steve Lemieux: No, sir. That was-

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: That man… His name is a sword?

Steve Lemieux: Yes.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: And the sword is on fire?

Steve sighs, because he knows exactly where this is going.

Steve Lemieux: Yes.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Blaze Claymore! The Blazzard King, as the youths say. To tell the truth, Stefon, I don’t think that man has ever recovered from the time his Toyota Claymorolla had its car mitzvah. Every car must come of age, Stefon, but not all of those parties are filled with festive machine guns.

Matt Mills sighs, because misnaming the FLAMBORGHINI a “Chevy Blaze-r” was right there. I mean, he sighs for a lot of reasons, but that’s why he’s sighing right now.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: But this is not important right now. What is important is that Flamberge knows that if he will not apologize to you, then you will take his World Heavyweight Championship of Many Jennifer Garners away from him. Garnermaxxing! Then he will celebrate the only way that a world champion of spies knows how to celebrate, and that is by making fajitas in his hotel room!

Zeke now turns directly towards the camera.

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: Do you hear that, Flamberge? Stefon Lummox will fight you for your belt, and then he will take your belt, and then you will have nothing to hold up your pants when you pine over that Brigitte Nielsen!

Matt Mills: Okay, sorry, but what the hell?

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: He is obsessed with the Red Sonja from the many Conans!

Matt Mills: Oh for f-

Dr. Zeke D. Badguy, Esq.: No cursing, General! Stefon does not like the curse words! But he will like taking that Jennifer Garner belt from Flamberge, and then he will need to be his own Foofy-foofy!

And I guess this is how I out myself for having watched Flavor of Love twenty years ago. Cool. Cool cool cool.

Also, this is where Matt Mills decides that he has Had Enough Of This Shit for the year, and just walks off camera. A moment later, as Zeke is about to speak again, the scene just goes dark. The last thing anyone watching at home will see is Matt’s hand covering the camera lens.

Nick Stuart: It’s been a heck of a start to Rev 79 and things show no sign of slowing down.

Richard Parker: Agree, but only because I’m dying to see Sykes try and wrestle this match on crutches after what the brave infantry of the Red Army did to him.

Vince Howard: This match is scheduled for ONE FALL. Coming first to the ring, from New Orleans, Louisiana,

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

Richard Parker: Now here’s a likable young man.

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

Richard Parker: Where’s that lawyer of his? I like the cut of that fellow’s jib.

Nick Stuart: Chet Fleetwood, the most loathsome person in this or any other wrestling federation since the birth of time itself?

Richard Parker: Yeah, him. Hip cat.

The arena lights fade and a synth melody begins its slow swell. And then, all at once, an eruption of blast beats and heavy guitars unleash a barrage on the senses. With it comes the rapid flashing of white and blue lights along the stage.

Nick Stuart: I believe the proverbial business is about to pick up!

As Lorna Shore’s “Unbreakable” thunders through the arena, now complete with the demonic roar of Will Ramos, Vince Howard tries to get a word in edgewise.

Vince Howard: And his opponent… he hails from Boston, Massachusetts and weighs in tonight at two-hundred pounds…

From whence we came a tremor

The quake that never ceased

The earth was turning too quickly beneath

Gra-vi-ty

I feel you weigh me down

Deeper into the ground

The PRIMEview depicts a darkened sky. Swirling clouds dance over a field of rapid lightning strikes. The blade of a golden sword, broken no more than a foot above the pommel, strikes down into the center of the screen revealing two words.

IMPERIUM AETERNI

Those letters reform and reshape, taking on their English translation, this time with a slight modification.

EMPIRE OF THE ETERNAL 

And after it all

Our hearts are invincible

Like diamonds, we glow

All of the arena lights quickly fade to nothing, and on the PRIMEview a single lightning bolt strikes down towards the center of the entryway.

WE

ARE

UN

BREAK

ABLE!!

At once the entire building is bathed in bright white light. A single figure stands in the middle of the stage.

Vince Howard: He is theeeeeeee Dragonslayer… JAREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED SYKES!!!!

Just as he did two weeks ago, my man is taking this whole “slayer” thing to its logical extreme.  A frayed hood of deep crimson hangs low over his eyes, but reveals enough to show that underneath he’s wearing a half mask that looks like a stylized version of the bottom of a skull. A single pauldron of midnight blue sits on his right shoulder, emblazoned with a red-winged dragon skull. An additional length of tattered red cloth hangs just behind it, dancing in the air as Jared moves to the ring at a brisk pace.

The remainder of his arm is covered in armor of a similar color, and in the gauntlet of his right hand is held the same blade that only moments ago was on the big screen.

Through ice and cold

Fire and brimstone

And now we know

We are unbreakable

He sheaths the broken blade across his back before reaching the ring. As soon as he does, he ascends the ringpost and perches hunched over like a gargoyle with one foot on the top buckle.

We grow, from the depths we will ascend

We know

We are unbreakable

At the culmination of the chorus, Jared pulls the mask free from his face, throws his hood back, closes his eyes, and holds both arms out to the side. Despite everything that being here is costing him, there is a genuine smile of joy on his face.

Richard Parker: Here’s hoping that we get an early Colossus gift of Jared Sykes’ demise!

And on that cheery note, we are off.

DING DING DING!

Jared Sykes goes straight at Fleetwood’s legs, and Quinn unsurprisingly isn’t ready for the speed with which Sykes strikes. Sykes goes to capture the right leg, and shows why the man’s name isn’t Chet Fleetoffoot. The Dragonslayer ends up sweeping out the leg entirely, and dumping Chet on his butt.

Nick Stuart: Sykes showed last week, but he hasn’t lost a step.

Fleetwood narrows his eyes at his opponent, irate. He dusts himself off and gets back to his feet, and both men now circle each other in more of a traditional match kickoff. Fleetwood quicksteps in on Sykes, and the two lock up, but the former Universal Champion continues to use his speed advantage and low center of gravity to execute a standing switch. Now behind Fleetwood, Sykes cinches the arms around Fleetwood’s neck and rips off a killer sleeper suplex, to the crowd’s delight.

Richard Parker: Quinn, you gotta do…not that.

Nick Stuart: For how many years have we seen Jared Sykes hit that sleeper suplex in big spots? That’s a fine vintage!

Fleetwood, though slower this time, sets his jaw and gets back up. He jaws at Sykes, who just smiles back. For a second time, the two men circle each other, and once again, they lock up. Fleetwood leans in and is able to get a headlock.

Nick Stuart: Quinn does have the size advantage, and he’s finally figured out a way to leverage it.

Right on cue, Jared Sykes uses both hands to get low and drive Fleetwood towards the ropes. Fleetwood bounces off, and Sykes drops to the mat, forcing Fleetwood to hurdle his foe. On the rebound, Fleetwood comes back, and Sykes fakes high and goes low, baseball sliding between Fleetwood’s legs, only to pop up behind the goober, grab the head, and…

Nick Stuart: Sykes is looking for Omega 13!

Fleetwood, though, has exactly one thing scouted, and it’s this. Quinn drops to the mat in true dead fish mode, wriggling out of Sykes’ grasp. Sykes looks down at the Louisiana native with some puzzlement in his eyes.

Richard Parker: Activate evasive maneuvers! Throw out chaff grenades!

Now the problem with “countering” by dropping to your back is that you’re now on your back in a wrestling ring. Where the other guy can just, like, stomp a mudhole in your ass and whatnot.

Sykes shrugs and takes the boots to Quinn multiple times, leaving the latter clutching his ribs in pain. The tag team legend retreats towards the corner, making space for Quinn to get up.

Nick Stuart: Fleetwood looking a bit dazed now.

And then space for Quinn to get down.

Richard Parker: Slingblade clothesline! Which I believe was recently banned by several international bodies of wrestling, so: disqualification?

After the slingblade, Fleetwood shakes off the cobwebs. Sykes  is cooking with gas, and there’s a feeling of blood in the water. The Huntington crowd senses it.

Nick Stuart: We may be looking at another decisive victory for Jared Sykes in the final stop on the way to Colossus.

The sound begins in the crowd closest to the top of the ramp. Heads start turning that direction. And the sound gets louder. An elemental sound that spreads like the common cold through every person who sees what’s happening on the ramp.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: That is simply no way to welcome a man who successfully completed law school in eleven short years!

Enter Chet By Gawd Fleetwood.

Nick Stuart: I suppose it was only a matter of time before this loudmouth got involved.

Jared Sykes shakes his head at the sight of the lawyer, but stays on task. However, this has given Quinn a quick blow, and a chance to regain his wind which: congrats to him on the cardio.

With both men back on their feet, Fleetwood throws a left hand that Sykes feints to dodge and then drives with his shoulder to get Fleetwood backed into the corner. Sykes approaches Fleetwood, who’s leaned back against the turnbuckle, as Chet Fleetwood strolls down and arrives at ringside.

Nick Stuart: Nothing good happens with Chet Fletwood now close at hand.

Richard Parker: Shameful. This is why the rule of law is failing in this country.

As Nick bites his tongue so hard he’s drawing blood, Sykes advances on Quinn and climbs to the middle rope for some good ol’ fashioned counting to ten violence. He rears back for a strike.

Nick Stuart: Oh come on!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

That’s the sound of an arena full of people who don’t care for eye rakes. Sykes grabs at his eyes, while Quinn Fleetwood escapes from the corner and slides to the side of his opponent. Quinn grabs the back of his head, and drives Sykes down with a Russian leg sweep. It’s a bit sloppy, so maybe more of a Belarussian or Kazakh leg sweep, with all due respect to those countries and their probably-not-as-bad-as-Putin situations. Chet Fleetwood applauds on the outside loudly, taunting like a jackal in Sykes’ direction.

Richard Parker: When God closes a window, he opens a door. And when he closes Jared Sykes’ eyes, he opens up…an opportunity for Quinn Fleetwood to…Nick, you wanna take the rest of this metaphor?

Nick Stuart: On your own there, partner. Quinn Fleetwood doing a bit too much preening for my liking here.

Having scored one (1) piece of offense, Quinn is doing Rocky poses. Chet hops up on the apron to give an extremely lame high five, and the crowd thinks this is just great.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

I am being told the crowd thinks this actually sucks.

All the while that The Fleetwoods In Duplicate are celebrating, Jared Sykes is up on his feet, and now a little more pissed. Quinn turns back to Jarry, just in time to catch a faceful of right hand, followed by Sykes transitioning smoothly into a spinning neckbreaker that impacts hard on the mat.

Nick Stuart: Oh how we have missed the assemblage of neckbreakers in Jared Sykes’ repertoire!

Richard Parker: Who is “we?”

Both men are up. Fleetwood swings wildly at Sykes, and the man who has never been seen at the same place and time as King Blueberry waits for Fleetwood to turn back towards him and…

Nick Stuart: Poison rana! If I didn’t know better, I’d say Sykes is taking out his frustration with Ivan, Arina, Alexei, and their lot in the ring.

Richard Parker: Where’s the nearest flagpole and how do I commandeer it?

Sykes is all offense now, and he pulls Fleetwood up by the hair. He stares right at Chet Fleetwood, who is now watching intently from the floor, and drops Chet Fleetwood with a gnarly spike Flatliner.

Nick Stuart: Third Degree! That’s gotta be it.

ONE!

Richard Parker: I object, Your Honor! Rebuttal! Order in the court!

TWO!

THREE!

No ding.

Why no ding?

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Boo? No ding? Why boo?

Nick Stuart: Oh for Pete’s sake.

There on the bottom rope is Quinn Fleetwood’s foot. He didn’t put it there himself. Nearby is a very, very innocent-looking Chet Fleetwood.

Richard Parker: More like Quinn Feetwood. Because his feet would be the saving grace if he wins this match.

Sykes refuses to take the bait. He pulls Quinn Fleetwood back to, well, Quinn is technically upright, though he looks as he often does: punch-drunk, and ready to either pass out or hurl.

Seeing Quinn wobble, Chet senses that his specific set of talents is needed. He hops once again on the ring apron and starts jawing at Jarry. Not a wise move, but this is Chet Fleetwood. They don’t call him Chet Thinkgood.

Nick Stuart: The legal expert is playing with fire here.

Sykes hits a double axe handle that knocks Quinn to all fours. He grasps at Quinn, and he’s once again got the reverse DDT setup that signals the end.

Richard Parker: Thank you Chet!

And now Chet has entered the lion’s den, finally stepping through the ropes. Sykes drops Quinn and you can actually see the moment in Chet’s eyes when he realizes how Fucked Platinum he is. But it’s too late, and Sykes is on him like a demon, because who among us wouldn’t spring at the chance to teach Chet Fleetwood a lesson.

The lesson: how to take another Flatliner right on your face.

Nick Stuart: A second Third Degree!

Richard Parker: So a sixth degree?

Nick Stuart: It’s safe to say that Chet Fleetwood won’t be making his poisonous impact felt on the rest of this match.

Chet, corpse-like, rolls to the outside. Inside, however, there is more violence to dispense. A little more.

Picking up where he left off, Sykes pulls Fleetwood to his feet. Quinn throws two more right hands, wobbling as he does. Sykes uses his left hand to block each time, and on the second attempt, he grabs the wrist, and spins Fleetwood into his clutches for a reverse DDT setup. No posing, no preening, just the drop.

Richard Parker: Omega 13!

Nick Stuart: Third. Time’s. The. CHARM!

Richard Parker: Good night, sweet prince.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING!

An eruption in West Virginia as tonight’s better man takes the W home. Somewhere rolling around on the outside, Chet Fleetwood dreams of better days, or maybe a chance to sue some unsuspecting innocent person.

Vince Howard: Your winner, JAAAAAAAAAAARED SYYYYYYYYYYYYYYKES!

In the ring, Sykes is focused but appreciative. He nods at the crowd’s raucous approval, and while his hand is held high by Ashely Barlow, he points out with the other hand to the crowd. They’ve gotten a rare chance to see a legend while he’s back in PRIME and they’re not likely to forget that.

Nick Stuart: Quinn was game for a moment there, but as soon as he resorted to that underhanded nonsense, Jared Sykes lost patience and found a quality win.

Richard Parker: And Quinn Fleetwood wins an important mortal victory.

Nick Stuart: How’s that?

Richard Parker: (ignoring Nick) ReVival is ready to move on!

ReVival stays… put.

His match now concluded, Jared Sykes exits the ring and moves to the timekeeper’s table. After a brief exchange he picks up two nearby folding chairs and walks back to the ring.

Nick Stuart: Fans, I know that we’re supposed to be going to commercial right now, but I’m getting word from the back that we’re going to stay with this a little longer.

He slides the first one under the bottom rope.

Richard Parker: I will give everyone in the production truck some amount of American dollars to save me from whatever’s about to happen and throw to commercial.

The second one he tries to throw over the ropes, but it catches against the top and rebounds into his hands. Jared laughs it off and then settles for sliding that one under the bottom rope as well.

Nick Stuart: As bribes go this one’s pretty vague, Richard.

Richard Parker: You’re pretty vague, Nick.

Nick Stuart: That doesn’t even make sense.

Richard Parker: Okay, how about five?

Nick Stuart: Five…?

Richard Parker: Dollars.

Nick Stuart: You’re not very good at this whole bribery thing, are you?

Richard Parker: The details of my plea agreement require me to not answer that.

Jared moves back to the timekeeper’s area and picks up a microphone from the nearby table. He taps on it to test that it’s picking up audio and then heads back towards the ring, talking the entire way.

Jared Sykes: I figure since everything ends up on camera anyway, then why not just do this here in front of everyone instead of having it out in a hallway somewhere. And hey, should probably be a little harder to get stuffed in a trunk in the middle of the ring, yeah?

Richard Parker: Someone come get my keys and drive my rental to ringside!

Nick Stuart: How about we not do that.

Jared Sykes: And while we’re at it, let’s change things up a little bit. I admit this is a pretty violent business we’re in, what with getting paid to fight and all…

He slides under the bottom rope, apparently having learned his lesson from the chairs a minute ago.

Jared Sykes: But let’s see if we do this without anyone getting hit in the head with anything heavy tonight.

Richard Parker: Says the man who just brought weapons into the ring.

Speaking of the chairs, Jared picks the first one up and unfolds it. He then does the same with the second, making sure that they’re both in the center of the ring and positioned so that they face each other.

Jared Sykes: Let’s see how long we can keep this a civil conversation between civilized adults.

He moves to one chair, the one facing the entryway, and takes a seat.

Jared Sykes: Now I know my good friend Ivan is here in the building tonight, because he’s got a match later on and we all just know that he’s not going to go and do anything to get on the boss’ bad side, right? Not with all of the office politics he’s had to deal with because of rumors, and fines, and all that.

From his demeanor, you would never know that he spent a night trapped in the trunk of a car, drifting in and out of consciousness for minutes on end. You’d never know that upon fully waking there was a long moment of panic where he was convinced he was about to die, the cramped, confined space triggering memories of the last time his air was cut off thanks to Vickie Hall and her rags soaked with liquid chocolate. You wouldn’t even begin to fathom that there was a moment, just before reason and rationale reminded him that all sedans are equipped with an emergency release inside the trunk, that he deserved his fate.

Here and now he is calm, collected, and the only thing that seems to be troubling him is the length of his new ring gear, given how frequently he seems to tug the hem of his trunks towards his knees.

Jared Sykes: So let’s try something new, Ivan, and see how far we get. Two chairs. Two people. Just a simple conversation. I told you right from the rip that I was here to be your truth, and that means I won’t lie to you. There are no games. No hidden tricks. Just you and me. How ‘bout it?

Richard Parker: As if The Russian Bear is gonn—

BOOM!!

It’s just one loud, ear shattering report from some pyro that echoes through the arena, and a form marches out from backstage.

But it’s not Ivan.

Shorter. With a hat. And overcoat. A baton in his hand. Alexei Ruslan power walk/marches out from the back. Lumbering behind him, however, is Ivan Stanislav. The Bear is dressed in his wrestling gear for his upcoming match. But, surprisingly, before Ruslan can hit the ramp, Stanislav grabs him by the back of his coat and pulls him backwards.

Ruslan and Stanislav converse for a moment near the entryway in Russian, with Alexei gesticulating angrily while Ivan holds his shoulder firm and stares him in the eyes. After Alexei gets his frustration out of his system, he huffs and turns on his heel and somberly walks backstage, leaving just Ivan near the ramp.

The crowd lets their hatred for The Soviet Giant be known.

BOOOO!!!!

Nick Stuart: I don’t think The Bear is going to find any allies here tonight!

Richard Parker: He’s got me!!

Regardless of the reception, Ivan is undeterred as he slowly walks down the entryway, eyeing Sykes and the two chairs a bit warily. He doesn’t rush himself, plodding heavily while his military boots thunk loudly on the grating beneath. He stops at the ring and places his hands on his hips for a moment, considering his entry, before gripping the top rope and stepping up onto the apron. He glides over the top rope with another easy step, but remains with his back against the ropes and his hands on his hips, not taking his eyes from Sykes. Not for a moment.

For his part, Jared offers a reserved smile and a nod, then gestures towards the timekeeper’s table for a second mic. The ring attendant hurries to fetch it and bring it over, then slams on the brakes before entering the ring. It’s the kind of survival instinct that at least one of the people in the ring should have. The attendant’s eyes dart between the two men, but he doesn’t get any closer.

Jared Sykes: It’s cool, my guy. Just toss it.

Jared holds out his left hand. Nothing happens.

Jared Sykes: Seriously, dude. Everyone here just watched me eat shit trying to get a chair over the ropes, and you can’t really do worse than that.

He wiggles the fingers of his left hand and makes a rapid open-and-close claw motion which is the universal sign for, “throw me the thing and I promise I’ll catch it.” After a moment, the attendant relents and a microphone sails effortlessly over the top rope. Jared doesn’t even need to stretch in order to catch it. A small cheer goes up from the crowd.

Jared Sykes: Well shit, now I feel worse about this whole thing.

He gestures to both chairs, then finally turns his attention back to the Russian Bear.

Jared Sykes: I’ve gotta say, I wasn’t sure you’d come out here by yourself. Figured you’d have at least Alexei and one other. Honestly, I was kinda hoping it’d be Dawk, since I know he doesn’t really understand the whole “I was a teenage blueberry” thing, and it’d be good for a laugh to watch his brain explode in real time.

He wiggles the second microphone, and then sets it down softly on the chair opposite him.

Jared Sykes: You’re probably gonna want that, unless you plan on standing there and bellowing the entire time. Which… I mean that’d just be weird for everyone, y’know?

Stanislav sneers throughout the entire spectacle before him, and then moves to the chair and snatches up the microphone. It’s comically small in his huge paw. He places his other hand on the back of the chair and grips it.

Ivan Stanislav: You had better make this worth my time, soon, Jared. Or else I will do it myself.

Jared Sykes: I’ll do what I can.

Despite the implied threat, Jared’s demeanor hasn’t changed. Given the circumstances he appears incredibly relaxed.

Jared Sykes: Right now I’ve just got the one question. Well, maybe it’s more of a two-parter.

He leans back in the chair, sweat still beading on his brow in the aftermath of the match with Quinn Fleetwood.

Jared Sykes: On Halloween with the whole thing with Arina, and the flag, and the car… Did you get what you wanted outta that? Did it go the way you thought it would?

Boo’s ring out again as the crowd relive the moment Jared refers to. Ivan looks to the left, and then to the right, before looking back down at Jared. He allows his mouth to curl into a deeper sneer.

Ivan Stanislav: Da. It shut you up, did it not?

Jared Sykes: I mean if that’s your measure of success, then considering where we are and what we’re doing right now… I’m gonna go ahead and call bullshit on your very clumsy attempt to sidestep the questions. C’mon, bud. Did you get what you wanted?

Ivan narrows his eyes, and his right eyelid twitches. His broad shoulders rise and he huffs.

Ivan Stanislav: I got everything I wanted and more.

Jared Sykes: Really?

There is a look of genuine amused curiosity plastered all over Jared’s face. He stretches his legs out before him, one ankle crossed over the other in a gesture of absolute ease.

Jared Sykes: Well don’t hold back on us now, man. You’ve got a worldwide audience and a great big spotlight shining down right on you, so let’s hear all the gory details.

Ivan narrows his eyes and once more glances around for a moment. He grinds his teeth and the  hinge of his jaw pops and flexes beneath his beard.

Ivan Stanislav: Since I came back to PRIME years ago, one might say I have made career of beating your body senseless. How many times have I thrown you into audience? Through walls? Into ceilings? Truth is, Jared, what was done to you last ReVival was, in some way, more of same. But it never gets old, does it? And you just keep coming back for more. No, not just coming back, you ask for more. Let no one say Ivan Stanislav is not giving!

Jared Sykes: Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm. Okay. And what did Arina get that night? What would you say you gave her?

The words hang in the air like static.

And for the first time since entering the ring, Ivan’s face actually changes. The sneer falters. His eyes shift to the mat, then to the rafters, and his huge shoulders rise in a deep, slow breath that almost sounds like a growl.

Ivan Stanislav: You think you are clever, Jared Sykes. You come out here with your chairs and microphones and think this is what? Some courtroom? You think you can make me answer for everything that happens in world you do not understand.

The crowd begins to swell as Ivan takes one steady step closer, brushing the chair to the side.

Ivan Stanislav: I gave her purpose. A chance to serve something greater than herself. To be something unlike you. Weak. Pathetic. Clamboring for attention and self-pity.

Jared Sykes: “A chance to serve something greater than herself.” Wow. And what is that, exactly? I’m genuinely curious.

He cocks his head to the side and folds his arms across his chest.

Jared Sykes: I’ve been in this game a loooong time, Ivan. I know how it works. I’ve seen what it does to people. Hell, I have been one of those people. I know what broken looks like, and it takes a special kind of broken to decide that you’re going to take the only person in your circle with an honest-to-god soul and warp her view of the world. To make her into something that she does not have to be. You and I saw things very differently in Raleigh, my guy. And somehow, despite me being the one who had blood in his eyes, I was the only one who saw clearly. And for what? For what? And please don’t say it’s some Red Army nonsense, man. I would be legit disappointed if this grand purpose is about a bunch of people who put on stretchy pants to beat each other up. Is this some nationalistic thing? Doing it all for the motherland as if that means…? What? Anything? You can call this a courtroom. You can call it a spectacle. I really don’t care. But I don’t think you have a single goddamn clue who or what you even are anymore, so when you tell me that it was so she can serve something greater than herself? Well buddy, I don’t think you know what that is, either.

Ivan erupts in response.

Ivan Stanislav: You know nothing, Jared Sykes. Nothing!

He slams his fist into his chest, the sound thudding through the microphone.

Ivan Stanislav: You sit there, flapping your tongue like some philosopher of broken men, but you have never carried nation on your back! You have never had people look to you for hope and meaning! Souls? Honesty? You could not survive one day in the life of Ivan Sergeiovich Stanislav. Not one day!!

He paces now, the mat flexing beneath his bulk, his arms bulging as his voice climbs into fury.

Ivan Stanislav: You think she was pure? That she did not want to matter? You think she follows me because I force her? She believes. And you, you twist that into poison because you cannot stand that someone might still have faith in something greater than your own pitiful little heart!

He jabs his finger towards Jared like he drives the accusation through him.

Ivan Stanislav: You use words like broken. You think I am hollow? Am I a monster? Fine. Maybe monster is all world leaves for men like me. But do not pretend you are better. You crawl back every time because you have nothing else left, Jared Sykes. You have a wife, and a baby at home, everything a man could ever need, and here you are, fighting a fight you’ve lost over, and over again. And for what?!

Jared plants his feet and slowly rises from his seat. He lets Ivan’s last words linger between them for a moment. Then, he lets slip a soft sigh and offers a wan smile.

Jared Sykes: That’s what you don’t seem to understand, Ivan.

The tone in his voice is quiet, almost pitiful.

Jared Sykes: Because it needs to happen.

He does not speak another word as he passes by the Russian Bear. He steps through the ropes, hops down to the arena floor, and leaves his microphone on the ring apron. The entryway isn’t that far off, and yet despite the hostility lingering in the air he makes no effort to hurry. Instead, he keeps his eyes focused forward, casually removing the tape from around his wrist as he walks. Stanislav watches him and leans over the top rope, pointing and jawing at him angrily. And through it all he never turns to look behind him.

ReVival cuts to commercial.

We return from the commercial break to see Angelica Brooks in all her glory, standing in the center of the ring. To her side is a table with a leather folio and a pen next to it. Needless to say, the fans’ interest is piqued.

Angelica Brooks: Ladies and Gentlemen, since UltraViolence, these two competitors have been trading blows back and forth to the point that PRIME management has decided a match is to be held between them at Colossus. We have a contract for both competitors to sign and both are under strict orders to keep their hands off one another.

A buzz rises from the crowd.

Nick Stuart: A contract signing?

Richard Parker: Going into Colossus, everything is on the table. Literally, in this case.

Back in the ring, Angelica moves to the PRIME*TRON.

Angelica Brooks: Let me bring out our first competitor to sign this contract. She is the daughter of PRIME Hall of Famer Dusk… a member of the Red Army… she will be competing later tonight against Hayes Hanlon… ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSE!

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

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

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

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

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

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

The buzz from the fans grows louder.

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

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

BANG! BANG! BANG!

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

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

It feels so good to be bad

Nick Stuart: The crowd is rather split between Rose here, some cheers, some jeers.

Richard Parker: That’s been the case for her for a matter of months. I’m trying to figure out who thought it was a good idea to put these two in the ring together. There is no way they’re going to keep their hands off one another!

Nick Stuart: Never say never.

Rose nods at Angelica as she moves to the table, leaning against the turnbuckle next to it.

Angelica Brooks: And her opponent at Colossus… the former Universal Champion… a Grand Slam Champion… representing the Glueminati… The Neck Collector… FLAMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMBERGE!

We pause a dramatic pause.

…

…

A familiar keyboard.

♫…

ROOOOOAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

♫, ♫

♫…♫, ♫

♫…♫, ♫

♫…oh, shit.

OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI

OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI

OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI

OOH LA LA, AH OUI OUI

Pockets of fans cheer.

AHH OUI OUI! AHH OUI OUI!

AHH OUI OUI! AHH OUI OUI!

Pockets of fans do not.

BOOOOOOOOO!

Such is the life of a Lizard King. Long may he reign.

The accolades reel off:

HALL OF FAMER

WRESTLER OF THE YEAR 2023

LE GRAND CHELEM

THE BEARDED DRAGON

THE LIZARD KING

THE ACE

LE PROTAGONISTE

THE YOUNGEST LEGEND ALIVE

THE NECK COLLECTOR

F   L   A   M   B   E   R   G   E

FLAMBO emerges onto the stage, his eyes still concealed by yellow plastic sunglasses. We get a closer look at his “street threads,” which tonight include a copper tank top and teal lizard-scale pants. The rest of his face would be blank, except we keep seeing a little flash of a snarl curl on the edge of his lips. He begins making his way down the ring in preparation for a lap around the outside.

Nick Stuart: Split crowd for FLAMBERGE, too.

Richard Parker: FLAMBERGE will always have diehards, myself included, who know the truth, which is that he has never and CAN never do wrong; but let’s not forget, partner, that this bitter rivalry started from what looked like a real friendship. You gotta figure that neither of these two prima donnas are known for having large circles of friends.

Nick Stuart: Indeed, going all the way back to PRIME’s European tour in early 2024, these two iconoclasts seemed almost like alternate universe versions of each other – but lately, tensions have come to a head, and it circles around Dusk and the Glue Factory.

Richard Parker: I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again – I watch the clip of Hank dunking Dusk like a basketball at least once a month – that being said, “tensions coming to a head” is putting it lightly. This is a powder keg, and sparks are everywhere.

FLAMBERGE enters the ring and doesn’t acknowledge anyone else’s presence as he takes a seat, crossing his feet atop the contract signing table. Rose leans into the turnbuckles, eyes locked upon FLAMBERGE and senses heightened, knowing Hanlon or Fontaine could strike at any moment.

Angelica Brooks: Now, you two have been going back and forth with one an–

FLAMBERGE holds his hand up, cutting Angelica off. Angelica looks at FLAMBERGE quizzically. FLAMBERGE leans ever so slightly forward and gives Rose the briefest of looks before glancing down at the table and at the leather folio. He flips it open, slips his left hand into his pocket, and looks at it with a bemused expression on his face.

Richard Parker: What is going through the mind of FLAMBERGE at this moment?

Nick Stuart: I don’t think any of us will ever truly know.

FLAMBERGE holds the pen and flips to the last page of the contract before he scribbles his Julien Hancock (Hancoque?). He places the pen down, closes the folio, rises to his feet, and brushes past Angelica on his way to the ring exit. As he steps through the ropes, he is interrupted.

Rose: Hey, dickhead.

FLAMBERGE pauses, though doesn’t look over at his foe.

Rose: We’ve gone back and forth for months now. All because you didn’t like that my sights have been set on Farthington. You didn’t have to do anything. Still, you decided laying me out backstage at UltraViolence was the right move. So, I want to know one thing and one thing only. What has Farthington done for you that warrants everything you’ve done over the last five months?

FLAMBERGE is frozen in place for a moment – almost unnaturally so. A microphone is manifested in front of him by a helpful ringside attendant…he takes it and turns slowly. His head is tilted a bit down, lower than Rose’s gaze.

FLAMBERGE: …espèce de bel idiot, you chose not to listen to me before, or before, or BEFORE, and this is what you ask?

Rose frowns and brushes this off. The Frenchman continues.

FLAMBERGE: …when you first made the crusade of the Cecilworth so very public and loud, you must understand something. You were out of the depth, Rose. You were howling from the tops of hills that you would kill the sun itself as the fires encircled you, and had this fight come to pass, you would have lost more than a match – you would have lost the arm, you would have lost the career, you would have lost the shred of the dignity you cling to so closely as the daughter of the Dusk. And so, ouais – I intervened, to save you from yourself. As for what Cecilworth has done for me – he is my friend. For people like me, this alone is enough. I thought this was the value you and I shared.

He turns his gaze upward and locks eyes with his rival.

FLAMBERGE: And fine, you declined to heed the warning that was presented to you. Maybe I would not have been able to heed it myself, had I been you. But the longer you clung to this farce, the more you rallied against this truth, the more furious I grew with you…because how fucking dare you, Rose. How dare you tell me you “tolerate” the fact that I make Glue friends that stick together when I had done nothing but favors for you? But worse than that – and this took me so much time to understand – how fucking dare you make Cecilworth Farthington your proxy for your hatred of the Glueminati over me?

Any stoicism in FLAMBERGE’s face has left, replaced by wild-eyed rage.

FLAMBERGE: I was the one who first answered Phil Atken’s call in PRIME, I was the one who waved the Glue flag alone for a year, I am the Grand Slam Champion, and HOW DARE YOU hold Cecilworth more responsible for the Glue Factory than me??

The two lock eyes as a heaviness falls over the crowd. This FLAMBERGE was one that was highly dangerous, able to change the direction of PRIME in a second. Rose looks at him with caution, before a smile slowly spreads across her face.

Rose: Is that what this is about, Julien? You took it personally that I aimed my fury at Cecilworth instead of you? Let’s dissect it. Because yes, I could hold you accountable for standing beside Phil Atken—the same bastard who had Hank use my father’s skull as a punching bag. I could beat the goddamn audacity out of you for how you disrespected my father three years ago.

It’s almost as if Rose can see FLAMBERGE replaying that evening in his irises.

Rose: All he did was offer you some counsel, to help you sidestep the same pitfalls he’d done in his career. Nevermind the fact that you were aligned with the very person who sought to end his career. He looked past that and gave you your due. Made it clear that you were the one everyone should be watching while everyone fawned all over Nate Colton.

That name? It ratchets up the intensity.

Rose: So yeah, I could unleash every ounce of rage and fury I’ve got for Cecilworth Farthington straight into you. With that comes the wrath of a woman who stands atop burning hills, screaming threats at the sun itself as the inferno devours everything around her. So I’m asking you point-blank—is that what you actually want? Do you want to carry that burden? Do you want to bear the full force of my fury meant for someone else? Because let’s be honest here—I know exactly what’s waiting for me at Colossus. I know the Rose stepping into that ring in Atlanta in early December won’t be the same Rose walking out. Won’t even be close. I’ve made my peace with that. Because I know precisely who I’m facing. I’m facing a Hall of Famer. A former Wrestler of the Year. The Bearded Dragon. THE LIZARD KING!

Her chest heaves as her cadence intensifies.

Rose: I know what you’re capable of, and I know what you’re going to do in that ring. I will not be the same woman, and I’ve made my peace with that. One simply does not step foot into the ring with a future legend and not think that moment won’t change their entire future. The decision you need to make Julien is who you want to come out of Atlanta as. Because I can become that bitch, I can bring the force of a thousand suns behind me, and ensure neither of us walk out of Atlanta the same. You just have to decide if you are willing to carry that burden, to accept the consequences for something you weren’t even part of. Because Julien – Cecilworth is the person I blame, because he set the whole thing in motion. He may not have pulled the trigger, but he loaded the fucking gun.

She inches closer.

Rose: If this is truly about me slighting you, then take my apology and I will do what must be done at Colossus.. But understand what comes with that—I will strip away every pretense you hide behind. Drop the mask. Stop playing safe. Step into the light where everyone can see the real you. Be who you want to be, step to the front line. Just realize, I’m going to cut both of us open, and we’re both going to find out what each other is made of. That choice is yours.

FLAMBERGE removes the sunglasses from his face entirely and rests one of the hinges over the front collar of his tank top. His left eye slowly closes, then his right; then his left eye slowly opens, then his right. He glances back over at the leather-bound contract and pulls the pen back out.

He flips open the cover and writes something in huge, angry letters with so much force that there might be a concern of the pen ripping the paper itself (fortunately, PRIME’s office can afford that high-pound quality stuff). He slams the pen down and turns to Rose.

FLAMBERGE: …si tu as tellement envie de revoir ton père…SO BE IT.

He drops the mic on the ring canvas and storms out. A nearby cameraman gets a clear shot of what’s been written into the contract, in large, all-caps, scratchy letters:

“NO HOLDS BARRED”

Rose moves to the folio and picks the pen up. There is no hesitancy on her part. She signs her name and drops the pen on top of the contract, making it official. She then looks at Angelica and shrugs her shoulders.

Rose: I guess you’ve made your decision, Julien. I want to leave you with one other thing to chew on, on your road to December 5th.

FLAMBERGE pauses on his way up the ramp.

Rose: So many people have voiced, including yourself, to just move on. To just leave things alone. Except, how do you move on when it is your father who was the one unjustly attacked and harmed? I ask you, Julien, if it was Julia who was attacked in such a manner… what would you do?

She then places the microphone on the table and makes her way up the turnbuckles, sitting on the top one, eyes firmly planted upon the Lizard King.

At the mention of his mother – a woman Rose has met multiple times, and from whom she has asked for help and advice – FLAMBERGE turns and sprints back towards the ring, leaps to the apron, and SHOVES Rose hard off the top turnbuckle, sending her crashing onto the table, which does not break. He leaps upon her and starts throwing lefts and rights and lefts and rights. Rose throws hands into his ribs and side, pulling at his hair and beard until she can get free. They launch themselves at each other again, and it’s a full-on hockey fight.

Angelica Brooks gets out of there for her own safety, and soon, Enemigos pour into the ring to get these two apart.

Nick Stuart: Rose just lit the powder keg!

Richard Parker: And FLAMBERGE is bringing both of them into the fire!

With the power of Many Muscled Security Boys, the pair are separated into respective corners.

FLAMBERGE: JUST LIKE YOUR FATHER, YOU THINK YOU UNDERSTAND ME – AND JUST LIKE YOUR FATHER, YOU WILL DIE IGNORANT OF THE TRUTH!

Rose struggles against the guards, wanting nothing more than to get her hands on the Hall of Famer.

Rose: GRAB A FUCKING TICKET AND GET IN LINE! I WILL GLADLY TAKE YOU WITH ME TO HELL!

The sheer mass of bodies though succeed in their job in keeping both competitors separate from them. FLAMBERGE looks like he could murder every single one of them. Rose’s glare at him matches that intensity.

Richard Parker: Shit, I think we should cut away before we watch a snuff film play out before our very eyes.

Nick Stuart: That’s a good idea, Richard. Folks, we’ll have this cleared up — hopefully — before our next match!

We are left with the final image of Rose and FLAMBERGE, fighting against those would keep them separated. Though there will be nothing to separate them come 21 days time.

Nick Stuart: Oh, and I’m hearing we have a camera in the back. The Anglo Luchador has something he wants to say!

Richard Parker: Oh my Hoyt, and I was having such a good night until now.

The camera cuts to backstage, where The Anglo Luchador stands in a golf shirt, khakis, and boat shoes to go along with his lucha mask. Business casual luchador. How fun. He is standing in a locker room in front of a green screen with the PRIME logo displaying currently.

TAL: Hello everyone, and welcome to a special chit-chat with The Anglo Luchador, your favorite Italian-American second generation wrestler who has adopted lucha libre but also has had extensive history in Japan.

He flashes a cheap smile.

TAL: Now, most of you viewers of PRIME know that I have a match upcoming at Colossus this year against Kenny “Kenneth” Freeman of the Red Army, in which the stakes are a whole 20 dollars. Now, I know what you’re all thinking. “Luch! Isn’t it fiscally irresponsible to bet such a huge sum of money on the outcome of a single match?” And I would say yes, it would be if I weren’t so confident that I am going to walk out of Mercedes-Benz Stadium, or as the locals affectionately call it, “Megatron’s Butthole,” 20 dollars richer.

The sound of Richard Parker’s groan can be heard not only over his microphone, but throughout the entire state of West Virginia and even in parts of Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia as well.

TAL: But I know that with great sums of money come great fiscal responsibility. You need to know that The Anglo Luchador will be spending this money wisely, and just to represent how far a crisp Andrew Jackson goes these days, I’m going to pull up prices behind me of the kinds of goods I plan on purchasing with this hefty sum. First off, let’s go to the liquor store, shall we? We’ll get a fine bottle of Don Julio Reposado! Guys in the truck, show me tequila!

The Luchador turns around to see a bottle of the liquor displayed with the price tag.

$32.99 + Tax

His jaw drops.

TAL: Oh, okay then. My winnings can buy me a little over a half, yeah, a half of a small bottle of Don. Don Julio. Yeah. I can get like 200 milliliters. Okay, maybe imported alcohol isn’t the best example, huh? I mean what with the vice taxes and the tariffs, but surely, my crisp legal tender winnings at Colossus can buy me something leisurely. I mean, my pay here more than covers life expenses. What about something to soothe my weary bones after the match. A nice weighted blanket!

The Luchador turns around to see the price tag for a Bare Home brand weighted blanket.

$53.99 + Tax. On sale from $78!

TAL: Okay guys, c’mon, don’t show the friggin’ best option. They gotta cost less at Wal-Ma…

And the screen changes instantly to the Wal-Mart brand…

$25.

TAL: I GOTTA PUT OUT AN EXTRA FIVE BUCKS EVEN AT FUCKIN’ WAL…

The Luchador catches himself, tugs at the collar of his golf shirt, sighs, and smiles belaboredly.

TAL: Okay then! I didn’t want to shop at Wal-Mart anyway! Did you know they’re famous scabs? Yep! But you know what ABSOLUTELY CAN’T cost more than 20 bucks? Maybe dinner at a fast casual burger joint for me and my family. That surely can’t cost more than…

The screen flashes again, four double cheeseburgers, four fries, and four small drinks at Shake Shack.

$85.20 + Tax

TAL: ALMOST A HUNDRED FUCKIN DOLLARS FOR BURGERS!?!?! YOU’VE GOTTA BE KIDDING ME!

The Luchador starts laughing disconcertingly. Lindsay Troy is scrolling through her contacts for the psych ward in her cell phone as we speak.

TAL: Okay, okay, Taco Bell. Taco Bell. I can surely maybe just eat by myself at Taco Bell after the match for 20 bucks or fewer, right?

The Luchador looks off camera with wide, wild eyes.

TAL: YES Stagehand I know Taco Bell and I have a checkered history in this promotion, but I reclaimed it. I RECLAIMED IT. AND I AM GOING TO SPEND MY HARD-EARNED WINNINGS LIVING MAS. SHOW ME MY GO-TO POST MATCH ORDER.

Mexican Pizza meal with a Baja Blast Zero Sugar. Two Cheesy Bean and Rice Burritos. A Cheesy Gordita Crunch. And Cinnamon Twists.

$20.85

The Luchador develops a tic visible through his mask over his right eye.

Then the “+ Tax” hits.

TAL: I. Thought. Taco. Bell. Was. Supposed. To. Be.

He starts to hyperventilate before he takes one last gasp and shouts.

TAL: CHEAP!

He raises his hands to the air, shaking violently as he falls to his knees sobbing. His fiduciarily induced breakdown is interrupted by a tap on the shoulder.

Voice: Excuse me, Mister Luchador.

The Luchador turns his head to find a courier with a thick moustache and thicker Russian accent.

Courier: I am the courier hired by Red Army to deliver you package.

The Luchador slowly rises to his feet, hyperventilating again.

TAL: If this is a bomb or one of those punchy fists in a box or anything else meant to do violence to me, I’m going to…

Courier: No, is just package from Kenny Freeman. He wants you to have first look.

The courier hands over the package and stands there like a statue.

TAL: Okay, I have the package. Now what.

Courier: In America, is it not customary to give courier a tip?

TAL: Tip? TIP? I just got done finding out four cheeseburgers is going to run me a hundred fucking dollars. The only tip you’re getting is “don’t smoke in bed.”

The courier shakes his head.

Courier: Cheap capitalist pig…

He mutters as he walks away. The Luchador feels through the outer packaging and a quizzical look forms on his face. He opens it.

It’s a VHS tape.

TAL: The hell? Who has a VCR these days?!!?!

We head back to the ring.

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

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

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

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.

Richard Parker: You know, Nick, he has taken on a much more serious demeanor since joining with The Red Army.

Nick Stuart: Yes, I’ve noticed that, too.

The living legend that is Neil Diamond, with his iconic song “Sweet Caroline”, begins. The fans pop simultaneously with loud cheers. This is preceded by equally rapturous singing of the lyrics. Once the song plays to its chorus, out steps the custodian of Neil’s classic song, “Fair Game” Danny Christie. Danny is closely followed by his father, “Big” John Christie, in a trainer/cornerman capacity. Danny remains loose and comfortable, demonstrated by shadowboxing. John remains steely focused. The fans increase the volume as they belt out the chorus, and Danny laps it up. The bare-knuckle king sings with the audience as he makes his way to the ring. With his arms outstretched, Danny touches the fingertips of every enthused fan on his journey to the squared circle. Once both men get to the first ring post, John begins to take over—first by supplying Danny with a sip of water and then applying Vaseline to specific areas of Danny’s face. John takes up a position outside the ring, while Danny lightly bounces on the canvas, basking in the moment.

Richard Parker: I wonder if he struggles with dry skin. It happens to the best of us this time of year, you know?

Nick Stuart: Christie is pandering to the crowd now, trying to get them riled up and behind him while Dawkins just stares.

Richard Parker: Bound by the thread of Max Kael, a notorious family man.

Nick Stuart: Yes, Max Kael the renowned Family Man.

Elvis Nixon checks both men for weapons and makes a passing comment about why the fuck is Christie lubed up with vaseline before calling for the bell.

DING DING

Christie comes out of the gate red hot with a Thesz Press, intimately explaining to Dawkins the difference between mixed martial arts and bare-knuckle boxing, but like with his fists. The fans eat it up, counting each shot.

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

Christie pauses, looking around and shaking his arms. The crowd erupts.

TEN

Richard Parker: Dawkins off to a bullet train start here.

The fans chant “FAIR GAME”!

Nick Stuart: The fans have definitely taken to the newcomer and he’s reveling in it as he pulls Dawkins to his feet and tosses him into the ropes. Oof! A stiff spinning back-fist quickly plants Dawkins back on the mat.

Richard Parker: A place he’s very familiar with.

Nick Stuart: Do you forget that we’re live here, Dick? My god, man. Back to the action Danny Christie is once again engaging with the crowd, walking from one side of the ring to the other. He’s certainly enjoying this new found fame in the mainstream.

Richard Parker: Looks like a bit too much.

Whilst getting his steps in, Christie neglected to keep his eye on the downed Hawaiian in the ring. Rookie mistake. On one of Christie’s clydestale-esque trips from rope to rope, Dawkins hits him with a perfectly executed drop toe hold. Dawkins springboards up and drops an elbow to the right ankle of the King of Bare-Knuckle Boxing – teaching him that this is a much different game he’s playing. The Former Flying Hawaiian immediately goes to follow it up with another, but meets nothing but mat.

Richard Parker: For someone who comes from a somewhat stationary sport, Christie can move.

Nick Stuart: Yeah we- wait, did you just say something nice about him?

Richard Parker: In the words of the great Marshawn Lynch,” I’m just here so I don’t get fined.”

Nick Stuart: That makes no sense. Christie locks up with Dawkins and uses his raw strength to lock him up in a headlock. After a few shots to the noggin, he gets a running start and delivers a bulldog that has the entire ring shaking. Capitalizing on his momentum he immediately begins a ground and pound offensive, raining big haymakers down on Dawkins.

Richard Parker: He’d better be careful, that’s getting into Dawkins’ territory of expertise.

And he is going to learn.

Dawkins eats the first few, getting a sense of Christie’s rhythm. Once comfortable with the pace, he waits for the perfect moment, locking onto Danny’s arm on a withdrawal. Like a goddamn cat on crystal meth he manages to slip out and wrap a leg around Christie’s head.

Like a mouse caught in a trap, Christie is quickly in panic mode. He thought he was in control of the match – thought he understood the game and Dawkins throws him a wild curveball. The harder Fair Game tries to get out, the tighter Dawkins locks in.

“Big John” yells from the corner for Danny to calm down. Use the Vaseline he says, maybe, who knows? Either way it seems to work as Danny slows down and begins to think through his situation. He begins to move with Dawkins instead of wiggling and fighting against Dawkins. Once he’s gotten into the position he wants, Christie lifts Dawkins up off the ground in a grotesque modified powerbomb.

Richard Parker: Yikes, if Dawkins didn’t have CTE before, he certainly does now.

Nick Stuart: Christie doesn’t waste any time following up whatever that was with a big belly to belly suplex. He bounces back quick, which is what you’d expect for a man who gets punched in the face for a living. He does look a little red in the face, though, meanwhile Dawkins just rolls himself to the corner to pull up.

Richard Parker: Say what you will about Dawkins, ok? Say he’s a dirty communist, a turn cloak, that he suffers from CTE, you know – whatever you want.

Nick Stuart: But?

Richard Parker: No but, I’m just saying you can say whatever you want about him.

Nick Stuart: Ok. Well, let me say that he has had a tough run, but he’s a tough guy and well experienced.

Richard Parker: Sure, you can say that, too.

Dawkins footstomps what Nick Stuart is saying by hitting a hip toss at the charging Danny Christie. He lands a number of stiff kicks to the right leg of Christie, probably like three. Maybe four, the fans didn’t count those. Enough to leave Christie grabbing his leg and howling in pain.

The crowd begins chanting Fair Game after each kick. Each kick begins having the adverse effect of what Dawkins wants.

Richard Parker: This guy is a few fries loose of a happy meal. He’s getting more fired up each time Dawkins kicks him. Like one of those crazy people slapping themselves on the instagram videos.

Nick Stuart: Most of those are AI, Dick. Dawkins throws one last kick, but Christie catches it. The two man stand in the center of the ring: Dawkins jumping on one foot wide-eyed with Christie, smiling wildly, holding onto his right leg.

Richard Parker: I’m telling you, that man is a menace. A thug. He doesn’t belong in the ring. Bare knuckle boxer? Did anyone call his references?

Nick Stuart: His… bare knuckle boxing references?

Richard Parker: Sure.

Christie is blissfully unaware of Richard Parker’s mean comments about him. He’s got Dawkins right where he wants him. Christie pulls Dawkins in hard, looking to lay him out with a stiff elbow, but Dawkins ain’t having any of that shit. When the bare knuckle boxer leans in for the left hook, Dawkins wraps him under the armpits and locks his other leg. They both fall. Dawkins shows his technical prowess by falling backwards, though, as Danny inadvertently falls into a straight ankle lock. Pain paints the boxer’s face as the Pineapple guy twists the shit out of his ankle.

Elvis Nixon slides in to check on Christie, but Fair Game is steel and resolve despite the pain. Dawkins wrenches harder with each inch Danny tries to get towards the ropes. The fans chant Fair Game again, trying to infuse some strength that isn’t normally there into Christie. Apparently that voodoo energy shit is real because it works – Christie grabs the rope.

But Dawkins being Dawkins, ain’t letting go of shit. With a blank stare on his face, he completely ignores Nixon’s commands to release. Dawkins has gone full goblin mode.

It takes a lot of elbow grease for Elvis Nixon to break up ankle lock.

Nick Stuart: Dawkins finally releases the hold. What a callous man he has become since joining The Red Army.

Richard Parker: He was probably thinking about Max Kael. Hopefully Christie likes Pineapple, because he’s getting a healthy dose here.

Nick Stuart: Indeed. The Former Flying Hawaiian is on the warpath. After a few good stomps to Christie’s ankle, he pulls Danny up and lifts him high above for a vicious brainbuster. Christie shows his iron by trying to get up but he’s met with a quick succession of open fist strikes – which the ref warns him about. Dawkins raises his hands and then delivers a stiff kick to Christie’s right leg.

While Nixon reads Dawkins the riot act, Danny manages to hobble himself up to a stand. All of the focus on the right leg is beginning to show. He limps toward the middle of the ring and eases Nixon out of the way, raising his fists and challenging Dawkins to stand and go shot for shot. A dark smile crosses the Hawaiian’s face.

It’s Normandy in the middle of the PRIME ring. Big rights, big lefts, all kinds of shit. Dawkins looks strong with a flurry of open palm strikes, but ultimately it’s Fair Game who gets the upper edge. Despite the aching leg and back and forth, Christie is in his element. He settles in with something close to a smirk but a bit more humble as he grabs the back of Dawkins’ head and lands consecutive solid right. Dawkins folds like a squidbilly playing poker.

Richard Parker: Disgusting Nixon allowing those strikes.

Nick Stuart: You’re something. Christie locks up Dawkins’ arms and cracks his head open wide with three quick headbutts.

Richard Parker: That can’t be legal. Come on, Nixon. Get it together.

Nick Stuart: Whatever. Dawkins gets tossed into the ropes and met in mid air with a leaping bionic elbow. A kick to the stomach and Christie nails a snap suplex. Dawkins is reeling, trying to get up but he’s not fast enough as he’s introduced to the business end of Danny’s knee with what some might call a Basaiku Knee.

Richard Parker: Like watching an elephant do ballet.

Fair Game is on fire now.

The fans are screaming.

Nick Stuart: Here it comes – Danny Christie lifts Hawkins up. The fans are going insane. He’s setting him up for the pump-handle. Christie lifts – NO! Dawkins hits a knee pick to sweep the right leg out from under Christie at the last moment.

Richard Parker: YES! C’mon Bruh!

Danny Christie would surely feel massive disappointment at having victory snatched from his grips – that is, if he wasn’t feeling a world of pain. Dawkins doesn’t let go of the leg. In fact, he rolls Christie over directly into an ankle lock. The same ankle he’s been working the entire night.

Nick Stuart: Dawkins has that ankle strung up and he’s not letting go.

Elvis Nixon slides down, but the tap comes before he can even get there. He signals for the bell.

DING, DING, DING

The boos are raining down and the bells are ringing, but Dawkins refuses to let go. “Big John” doesn’t wait long to get in and clear Dawkins out. The Pineapple Bruh doesn’t acknowledge the fans, “Big John”, or even Danny Christie as he writhes in pain holding his ankle. “The Soviet National Anthem” by the Russian Red Army Choir blasts through the PA system as Dawkins leaves unceremoniously.

Nick Stuart: Great fight between these two and a tough loss for the newcomer Danny Christie, but Dawkins looked in top form tonight.

We move on.

Earlier This Week
Just outside PRIME HQ

It’s midday and just outside the PRIME HQ building, a camera catches two men in the fanciest of suits approaching. The first is very familiar to PRIME fans, both new and old. PRIME Hall of Famer, Sonny Silver, albeit fans of more vintage PRIME may recognize the man doing a power walk towards the entrance of the building like he has a broomstick lodged up where the sun don’t shine.

This is the Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME variant.

In a dark charcoal suit along with a dress suit and tie, Father PRIME awkwardly walks up the steps and when he sees two staffers exit the building, Mr. Silver gives them both a cross look.

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: GET OUTTA MY WAY! I’M WALKING HERE! YOU STAY OUT OF THE CHAIRMAN’S BUBBLE!

They stare at him blankly until he starts power-stepping towards them.

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: YOU THINK I’M PLAYING?! GAMES ARE FOR KIDS! THIS IS A BUSINESS AND I HELPED MAKE THIS SHIT!

The unnamed staffers flee even faster as Mr. Silver shakes a fist in their general direction.

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: TELL THE REST OF YOUR LOW-WAGE KIND! IF YOU CROSS FATHER PRIME, YOUR ASS IS MINE!

After they clear, Mr. Silver addresses the associate stepping into view in the white designer eyeglasses, dark olive suit and loafers cause if they ain’t wrestling boots, he ain’t lacing up.

OSCAR BURNS.

AKA DEFIANCE.

And as of ReVival 78… AKA PRIME.

OSCAR BURNS: Some GCs just don’t respect the chain of command, Mister Silver. We sure they ain’t munted?

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: That’s drunk in Kiwi-speak, right?

OSCAR nods. Then Mr. Silver reaches into his jacket and pulls out an incredibly expensive flask.

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: Gimme a few minutes to have a munt break, okay?

OSCAR sighs.

OSCAR BURNS: Not quite how I use the term, GC, but I get you… but you know what I don’t get?

He finally addresses the camera that the two brought with them.

OSCAR BURNS: You guys. The collective “you.” The PRIME/OSCAR BURNS locker room. Just over a week ago, I, OSCAR BURNS aka DEFIANCE also proclaimed himself PRIME! I issued a challenge to ANYONE in MY DEFIANCE locker room or my PRIME locker room to meet me in the ring for the PRIME/DEFIANCE aka OSCAR BURNS/OSCAR BURNS joint show in January. I paid for ads on YOUR promotion. Insulted your promotion. Came into YOUR/MY house, put my bloody boots up on the table, and called ANYONE out. The FINEST technical wrestler that DEFIANCE has ever produced. The FINEST And you know what I hear back in return?

He looks offended.

OSCAR BURNS: Nothing. Nada. Bloody radio silence. Imagine the disrespect! Imagine the Sonny, you believe this?

Almost all the way through his flask, Mr. Silver grins.

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: BACK IN MY DAY, IF SOME OUTSIDE CALLED HIMSELF PRIME, I’D HAVE HAD THEM STRUNG UP BY THEIR BALLS! BUT APPARENTLY YOU CAN’T DO THAT NO MORE! TOO MANY HR ISSUES!

OSCAR BURNS: Sounds like golden years… but we digress, GCs. Nobody answered, so that’s why we came down here in living color. I came here in person to PRIME’s Headquarters itself to see if anyone would take me up on my challenge. Let’s wait and see, shall we?

OSCAR waits, arms folded. Mr. Silver waits, nursing flask.

A few moments pass.

…

Nothing.

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: BUNCHA COWARDS/BITCHES! AFWAID TO STEP UP TO THE MAN THAT HAS FATHER PRIME’S BLESSING TO CALL HIMSELF PRIME!

OSCAR BURNS almost tries to fight back a laugh now, then addresses the people.

OSCAR BURNS: Well, that’s okay. That’s fine. I get it. I’d be afraid of stepping up to me, too. I wouldn’t want to let my promotions down, either! Nobody wants that on their conscience. There’s going to be a lot of people fighting for the respect of both locker rooms next January… but because I AM both locker rooms and because I am BOTH DEFIANCE and PRIME, I know that’s a lot of pressure! That’s a lot of lofty expectations to live up to. One might turn their white wrestling tights yellow at the thought of failure. I mean, if I was anyone other than me, I’d get it. So… we’re gonna give you guys one more chance to respond and I’m gonna march into MY house one more time. Say… oh…

He turns to Mr. Silver.

OSCAR BURNS: Colossus?

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: Colossus.

Back to the people.

OSCAR BURNS: If nobody is going to accept my challenge, then I’ll walk into MY house! OSCAR BURNS AKA DEFIANCE AKA PRIME! BACK FOR THE FIRST TIME! COLOSSUS!

The designer eyeglasses come off.

OSCAR BURNS: Because I AM OSCAR BURNS. I am ALL CAPS AND ALL GRAPS!

Finally done with the flask, Father PRIME throws in.

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: Your PRIME is up. His PRIME is n…

Static.

There’s a sound like ice hitting the sides of a wineglass. The PRIMEview fades to a shot of said wineglass. Two rocks were within it, and also… orange juice. Just bog standard, healthy-ass, Vitamin C-laden orange juice. The shot lingers on this wineglass for a moment, a shadow in the background suggesting a man is sitting next to it.

Voice: You know, I’ve been a busy man lately.

A hand reaches out to take the wineglass.

The camera turns to follow the wineglass as it travels from the table it’s on to the lips of a man. Slowly, the camera pans back, and the fans watching this video from the comforts of the WVU Coliseum in Morgantown, West Virginia start to go crazy.

Because that is one very familiar forehead.

The camera pans back more. The man seated had dyed his hair back to its natural black some time ago, and he wore a blue waistcoat. His legs crossed imperiously upon his throne, this man  held the wineglass up between his fingers and stared directly at the camera.

The King of Conquerors has graced us with his presence.

Shit is being lost right now in West Virginia. It’s a full-blown exodus of fecal matter.

It’s the first time we’ve seen Coral Avalon since… Well, we would’ve said ReVival 63, but then there was that whole “using a questionable lawyer as a proxy to win a baffroom fight with Fred Dick” thing a month or two ago. That’s a sentence we just have to live with.

Coral Avalon: So, apologies. I’m not able to be there in person.

He rolls the wrist holding the wineglass so that the orange juice in it sloshes a bit.

Coral Avalon: In any case… If you’ve forgotten, my name is Coral Avalon.

He smiles.

Coral Avalon: King. Of. Conquerors.

He emphasizes every word with a little wag of his finger on his free hand.

Coral Avalon: And I’d usually trust that I’d need no introduction given what I’ve done in this sport, but… When people say the words “PRIME Universal Champion” in the year of our lord 2025, mine is going to be one of the first names you think of. Honestly, I’d be here all day if I went through everything.

With a quiet confidence as he speaks, Avalon sets down his wineglass. He tents his fingers and leans forward at the camera. His expression never changes.

Coral Avalon: So when I see a guy walk around claiming that he is PRIME, acting like he owns the place despite doing nothing to earn that, it raises the hairs on the back of my neck. I fought through bitter disappointments and bled for scant triumphs and I let Cancer Jiles have my phone number and I quite literally spent more time in PRIME as champion than I wasn’t.

Without any preamble or buildup, Avalon suddenly picks up the wineglass and flings it into the wall behind him. Glass and orange juice go flying. A man off-camera that should otherwise be in a locker if only Clay Byrd were in Japan instead of West Virginia yelps in surprise. All Coral would’ve needed to do is ask what a man was, and he’d have gone full Dracula.

Avalon does this without every breaking eye contact with the camera or even changing from his calm, smiling expression.

After a moment to let the glass settle, Coral speaks.

Coral Avalon: Oscar Burns, what have you done to call yourself “PRIME?”

An “ooh” from the crowd over the regular caps. 

Avalon’s smile drains from his face as his expression turns grim.

Coral Avalon: I’m a busy man, as I said. But as it so happens, there’s a little weekend in December where my schedule is open. It’s called Colossus. Seeing as though you’re going to be there, I say we see each other face-to-face.

There’s something in Coral Avalon’s eyes. That something might just be being on the tail end of a grueling month-long tournament with the end in sight. It’s something dangerous, indeed.

Coral Avalon: Maybe then you’ll find out that it takes more than words to call yourself “PRIME” when you stand before the King.

He relaxes back on his throne, head resting against his hand.

Coral Avalon: See you there.

Static.

We open in the bathroom.

A Sketti Bucket in a sink.

Fred Dick, in a dapper, bright yellow suit.

He river dances as he sings.

Fred Dick: We don’t have a jingle yet, but this is my fuggin’ shooooow! I had some shit come up last ReV, so there weren’t no fuggin’ shooooow! It’s Baffroom Fights and you better be ready, it’s mothafuggin Freddy and a Bucket of Skettiiiiiiii… which ya win if yew kick my ace!

Grumpus: Nyak! Nyak! Nyak!

Fred Dick: Well said, Grumpus. And folks at home, I’d like to apologize for not havin’ no show last week. Lawd KNOWS I didn’t know the streets would be upset about it! These extended Sketti Bucket adverts where I fight fellers in the Baffroom for a sketti prize, well, ‘pparently some folks say it orta win an Emmy for “Best Show Within a Show.” Now, I ain’t said that. The streets have. And my ear? You best bet its tuned to the street whispers. And believe you me, I been hearin’ some thangs! Lawd yes. I been hearin’ some thaaaaangs~

Fred river dances some more.

Fred Dick: But enough about the whisperins and the gossips and the various whathaveyous of discussionary conversationatory hot goss I been hearin’. It’s time to sell y’all some delicious pasta via fightin’ yet another man in dis here Baffroom. LET’S SEE WHO WANTS SOME!!! LET’S SEE WHO WANTS TO FIGHT OL’ FRED IN DIS HYUNH BAFFROOM, NEOW!!!

Suddenly, we do something we have never done.

We cut, to outside of the bathroom.

Ayyyyyy, THERE’S the Old Man!

A rise from the Morgantown crowd lifts in the background as “The Bad Dog,” Wade Elliott fades into view, strolling down the hall as part-time ass-kickers and full-time Boss’s-Husbands are apt to do.

Time to take a piss.

Oh.

OH.

Wait!

WAIT WADE!

DON’T DO IT-

He did.

Wade. You fool.

Fred Dick: Well, well, well. If it ain’t Wade “Little Pussy Dawg” Everett. I just KNOW you walked in here on accident. I just KNOW that Lindsay Troy’s purdy princess didn’t step into my domain and try to assert dominance via his height and aura! Because guess what? That’s a GOT damn mistake!

Fred, irrationally pissed for basically no reasons, starts barking like a damn dog.

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

The ‘Bama Bruiser, processing the living fever-dream in front of him, can only pinch his eyes shut and release a long, heavy, gravelly old-man-sigh through his grayed beard.

Wade Elliott: ‘Fer fuck’s sake…

Perhaps hoping that ignoring Fred will make him magically disappear, Wade steps up to a urinal; equal parts unbothered and ENTIRELY bothered as he heeds Nature’s Call.

Fred Dick: Oh hell yeah brother, that’s a real nice piss you’re takin’.

The Son of a Bitch lets loose another heavy, growly sigh, giving himself a shake (just twice, he ain’t playin’ with it,) before zipping up and buckling his belt.

Fred Dick: And you didn’t even play with it. Now that’s called bein’ responsible, right there! Lawd yes, that’s wiener accountabiliteh! Which — speakin of wiener accountabiliteh, you Wade Everett ain’t ya? The man what convinced my bawse he was worth a damn when he AIN’T worth a damn, and now she married to him? Dats you, ain’t it, hoss?

Wade steps away from the urinal, and begrudgingly squares up to Fred.

Wade Elliott: Yessir. Don’t know how I fooled ‘er into it, but you’ve got the right guy.

Fred sneers.

Fred Dick: Well, I see you got a big smart ace to go with your big, fuggin, shiddy ace attitude. How bout you ‘n me go toe to toe, ya big sum bitchin’ bastard??? Winner gets a sketti prize, sittin’ over yunder in that sink. Tell ya what acehoe, I’ll even give you the first punch.

Fred sticks his chin out.

Jesus Christ. This is gonna suck for him.

The Bad Dog lifts an eyebrow, and cocks his head to the side.

Wade Elliott: You really don’t know who th’fuck I am, do ya?

Fred throws his head back and laughs maniacally, before suddenly making the most serious fucking face he’s ever made in his life.

Like he’s straining hard. Real hard.

Oh, he farts.

A sigh of relief.

Fred Dick: Nope.

He farts again.

Fred Dick: Got DAYUM! Why did you do that Wade Everett? You fartin’ up my set!

The Southern Sparkplug is rarely given the opportunity to roll his eyes, but his sharp blues nearly stare into the back of his brain. He sighs heavily once more.

Wade Elliott: Yup, that’s me alright. Keep yer chin tucked, son. Ain’t in yer best interest to stick it out in th’air like that.

The ‘Bama Bruiser moves to turn away, but not before Fred keeps his mouth moving.

Fred Dick: Yeah, I’ll keep my chin tucked. Tucked between yo mama’s TIG OL BIDDIE—

Oh, Fred. You sweet, sweet idiot.

In a surprising flash of movement from a big, old sonnuva bitch like Wade, he spins around and absolutely buries his fist into Fred’s nose.

Fred Dick: SUMUMAH BITCH!!!

Wade Elliott: (nearly seething) You don’t fuckin’ break rule number one, son.

Blood. Fountain. The whole thing. Fred falls on his back, his nose severely broken.

Fred Dick: AW FUCK, MY NOSE IS SEVERELY BROKEN.

Fred writhes on the ground.

Fred Dick: YOU WIN ACEHOE, YOU WIN!!

He spits blood from his mouth as it pours down his lips, colors his teeth.

Fred Dick: Go over dere and put dat sketti over for me, man. If you don’t mind. Just — puh! Take a bite and say it tastes good.

Wade, wildly confused and uninformed about sketti-related-things, looks at the bucket with a curious, cautious southern eye.

He lifts the bucket, looks to Fred, and tosses it to the floor, causing an absolute mess of sketti.

Fred gasps.

Wade Elliott: My stomach ain’t that strong. Keep it fer yerself, son.

Fred is in no position to argue. His nose is basically hanging onto his face for dear life.

But he’s GONNA.

Fred Dick: Man fug you dawg. You won’t even pay off the segment? Well, how bout dis den? I’m gonna — puh, puh, puh, — I’ma get my SHID FIXED AT URGENT CURR, and then, I’m puttin my GOT DAMN INTENSE TITLE ON THE LINE GAINST YA AT COLOSSUS. My last ever match. You done took my nose. You done took my womern, Lindsay Troy. You may as well try and take my GOT DAMN belt and my career.

Wade snorts before stepping to the sink, washing his hands calmly.

Wade Elliott: Son, if ya ever read yer history, you woulda known-

He pulls a couple paper towels, and dries his old bear paws.

Wade Elliott: -that’s always been MY goddamn belt.

Fred Dick: Well, I’m never gonna read muh history, cuz I ain’t no nerd.

Fully aware of such things, The Bad Dog tosses his paper towels into the trash, and walks out.

We cut after a lingering closeup of Fred’s dangling, bloody nose cartilage.

Backstage’s back, all right.

We’re not too far from Argyle, where the assorted behind-the-scenes business of a PRIME show takes place. PAs running back and forth, techs making last-second adjustments, and the occasional wrestler going through late-stage preparations for their big important fights.

In fact, there’s one such occasional wrestler here right now. It’s Nate Colton, all decked out in his fancy wrestling underpants and jacket. He’s joined by a fresh face that’s become quite familiar to PRIME audiences in the last year; his youngest brother, Blake. The young lad is looking fresh-ish in his Colton Academy jackets and a t-shirt featuring characters from Smiling Friends or Hazbin Hotel or whatever the fuck show kids are watching these days, honestly, who can even keep track anymore.

He’s also got a set of blocking pads on his hands, which helps Nate work on his punches a little bit before what is sure to be the fight of his life against Lasagna Boy Miguel.

Blake Colton: Looking pretty good, big bro!

Nate Colton: Pretty good…isn’t good enough…little bro! Needs to be…perfect!

He finishes with a flourish of punches, all of which hit their target. Nodding in satisfaction, he fistbumps–or rather, fist-to-blocker-bumps–his brother.

Nate Colton: There we go. Thanks for the tune-up, buddy. Now, you know what to do once we get out there?

Blake Colton: Watch the match, take notes, and use what I learn to dominate the Belmont Classic.

Nate Colton: Damn right, kiddo. Let’s roll.

They go on their way, with Blake undoing the velcro straps on his blocking pads as he goes. They’re the picture of a wholesome family interaction, or at least as close as it gets in professional wrestling. Doesn’t it just make you sick?

Well, it certainly does for this guy.

As they round a corner, there stands Hayes Hanlon, standing wide in the hallway. Black dress shirt and khakis on, per usual, and sipping the straw of what we can only assume is a gin and tonic from a very large plastic cup. His dark eyes, meanwhile, casually glance between each of the Colton boys.

Nate Colton: Oh. Great. You.

Hayes Hanlon: (pulling the cup away) Well look at these handsome boys.

His eyes dart between them.

Hayes Hanlon: These bright, blue, golden, even diamond…

Another sip, and another beat.

Hayes Hanlon: …boys.

Blake Colton: (puffing his chest) Hey man, if you’ve got a problem-

Nate Colton: (interrupting) -Blake, we talked about this on the drive over. What’s he trying to do right now?

Blake’s reply has a sing-song quality, like a bored elementary student giving an answer that the teacher taught him weeks ago.

Blake Colton: He’s trying to get in your head.

Nate Colton: And why is he trying to get in my head?

Blake Colton: Because he’s…

Uh-oh, someone must have spaced out when they covered this lesson.

Nate Colton: Check your notes if you have to.

The youngest Colton reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his notebook, which is both handy and dandy. He leafs through the pages and looks for the answer he needs.

Blake Colton: He’s…ah. “A little bitty baby bitch.”

Nate Colton: That’s right. And what are his words?

Blake checks his notes again.

Blake Colton: They… “ain’t shit.”

Nate Colton: Because he…

Blake Colton: … “ain’t shit.”

Nate Colton: Great job, kiddo. Now c’mon, we got work to do.

Nate and Blake head toward Argyle, though they only make it a few steps past Hanlon before the Comeback Kid opens his mouth again

Hayes Hanlon: I’m curious, Nate. Has your brother been tested yet? Has he squared up with anyone worth a damn?

Hanlon pivots, keeping himself squared to the Coltons as they walked by.

Hayes Hanlon: Does he, y’know, need a little experience?

It’s important to note here that Nate Colton cannot turn his head a full 180 degrees like an owl. Nor can he smile so wide that the edge of his mouth reach out past the sides of his head.

That doesn’t stop him from trying.

Nate Colton: Blake? Why don’t you head down to ringside?

Blake Colton: Are you sure? ‘Cause I can–

Nate Colton: It’ll be fine.

Blake Colton: Okay…

Away he goes, leaving the New Diamond and Event Horizon standing face-to-face. Nate, for his part, is still smiling…but don’t think for a second that he looks happy.

Nate Colton: Hayes.

Hayes Hanlon: Nathan.

Nate Colton: If you come anywhere near my brother tonight…or ever…I will nail your dick to the wall.

Hayes Hanlon: Damn, buddy! I didn’t know you got freaky like that-

Nate Colton: -It won’t be a quick job with a brad nailer, either. The Bob Vila treatment’s too good for you. No, I’ll do it the way my uncle Roy would. Claw hammer. The first nail I find, doesn’t matter what size it is or if I grab a wood screw by mistake. A couple taps to get it into place, and then I will swing that goddamn hammer as many times as it takes…and I’m probably gonna miss a lot. You’re gonna feel every single goddamn one of those swings, over and over until I finally drive that nail so deep into your dick and the wall that whoever pulls it out will be the next King of England.

It sounds like the kind of inventive threat that gets thrown around all the time on wrestling shows, usually shouted at full volume into the top of his lungs. But that’s not how Nate Colton presents the scenario. No, he says it as if it’s simple physics, an inviolable law of the universe. A straightforward if/then statement.

And he says it all through gritted teeth, so you can tell…

Hanlon, meanwhile, is fighting a grin underneath his ‘stache.

Nate Colton: Just so we’re clear.

Hayes grins, and walks forward.

Hayes Hanlon: Y’know, buddy, my dad was a carpenter. Swung a lot of hammers. Buried a lot of nails.

The Event Horizon claps a hand to Colton’s shoulder, and smirks.

Hayes Hanlon: And to be honest, Nathan? I don’t think you can swing hard enough…

And then, he leans in, and whispers in the New Diamond’s ear.

Hayes Hanlon: …and neither can your brother.

With a small clap to his shoulder while Nate’s face turns red, Hayes walks away, strolling off screen.

Now, once more alone in the hallway, Nate Colton’s only companion is his fury. His clenched fists, his gritted teeth, his tense muscles. He stands stock-still, the only movement caused by his breathing.

Inhale, hold, and exhale, in four second increments.

Breathe in.

Hold.

Breathe out…

The scene opens to a picture of the University of West Virginia logo on top of an outline of the state to a cheap pop from the PRIMEates. Pictures of NBA legends like Jerry West and Bob Huggins bring great memories to the local Mountaineers before suddenly a large banner is tossed overtop of it to a chorus of boos.

The banner reads: “A Feast for Blaze Claymore: Our Alias Champion” which appears to be a “67” short of being spray painted onto a bedsheet by a middle-schooler. As the scene pans out, it reveals The D admires his work, stroking his chin (get your mind out of the gutter, you heathens). He backs up and looks at two workers, one on each side, standing atop ladders for perfect placement.

The D: I think this could go a little farther to the left. And higher.

A further zoom out shows Elise Ares sitting criss-cross applesauce on top of a folding chair next to two folding tables decorated with what appear to be children’s snowflake style flames cut out of folded notebook paper and applied with scotch tape. Obviously, all expenses were off-limits for this timely celebration.

Elise Ares: Ew, yeah, I can still see some of that football guy. FIX IT, POORS~!

A grunt escapes the chest of the worker on the left as he lifts the banner up higher and moves it slightly towards himself.

The D: She said fix it, not make it worse. DO IT AGAIN.

The worker returns the banner to where it was, and the D and Elise nod in unison.

The D: There! That’s…

The D and Elise look at each other, narrow eyed.

The D: Adequate.

Elise Ares: The Zachary Quinto of decorators. It’s FINE, I guess.

The D: Like a Ryan Murphy show.

Elise Ares: Take five, poors! We’ll come up with something else for you to do shortly, I’m sure.

The Leading Lady of PRIME stands up on her chair and hops down, the D holding her hand to help her as she does. They survey the area. A small folding table with a plate of poorly baked cookies, a half drunk bottle of Fireball whiskey, two white plain folding chairs and a rapidly deteriorating pumpkin are all the accouterments. There’s a section for more food, with a note that just says “Klein is late. Or dead.” The two nod in amusement.

The D: Can you get one of the poors to do my duolingo today? And they better not mess it up this time.

Elise Ares: You can’t trust the poors to do duolingo, are you kidding me? Did you see the job they did on the flames? It looks like a 2nd grade classroom here. Blaze would think we’re incompetent if he didn’t already know better. Without us, he totes wouldn’t have that title.

The D: Speak of the devil!

The D shouts, pointing down the hallway as Blaze is making his way toward the pair, except he doesn’t seem to hear The D as he looks off in his own little world, pushing a shopping cart filled with a random assortment of food items nearly spilling out over the top toward the scene.

The D waves off screen, where a single file 12 piece marching band walks through the frame out of the arena, playing the wrong Ennio Morricone song. Instead of “Ecstasy of Gold” from The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, which isn’t even Blaze’s entrance music anymore, they play the theme from Bernardo Bertolucci’s Tragedy of a Ridiculous Man.

Blaze finally looks up as the marching band parades down the hallway in his direction and freezes. In the distance we can just barely make out his mouth forming the words “It’s just like the gypsy woman said” or maybe “Shit’s nuts. Gotta move or I’m dead.” Same difference.

The D: It’s the man of the hour! The Tower of Power, the blaze that never phases, he is, MISTER, CLAYMORD! Congratulations Alias Champion!

The D and Elise step aside revealing the spread and banner. Two of the band members rush into either side of the frame trumpetting.

Blaze slowly approaches the PCP members, rolling his shopping cart to a stop as he tries to take in the scene.

The D: Banner Blaze. Banner!

Blaze cringes slightly, but forces a smile.

Blaze Claymore: Oh. Hey! Is this… for… me? Please say it is….n’t.

Elise Ares: Of course it is, BBY! Obvs! Or should we call you champ?

The D: It’s the least we could do. Literally. The least we could do and still do a tax write off. Oh hey! There’s Klein!

In the background, Klein rushes to the foreground pushing a cart full of Aldi groceries. He happily waves to Blaze and even bows to the new champion. He reaches in and pulls out…

A cheese plate, with all the Gouda eaten.

And a veggie plate, missing an entire thing of ranch dressing.

Klein hurriedly places the plates onto the makeshift table as the D squawks silent orders for him to hurry up.

Elise Ares: Look, BBY, we knew with a little push and a lot of guidance that we could get you to gold.

The D: We totally made sure you were championship material. So…

Elise Ares: We’d like compensation.

The D and Elise stand there. Klein meanwhile, picks up a carrot and offers it to Blaze just off screen, which Blaze takes and then holds the flimsy orange vegetable awkwardly between his fingers.

Blaze Claymore: Wait… like a finder’s fee or something?

Elise Ares: HAH. No, what do you think we are, a management agency?

The D: Not quite… we were thinking…

Elise Ares: ….it’s only fair if you defend the title.

The D: And drop it.

Elise Ares: To me. It’s all here in the contract Sonja signed.

Klein hurriedly handles Blaze what looks to be memo paper in a loose stack. Klein tries to point to a subsection four pages in, but Blaze yanks the pages away and begins to flip them rapidly.

Elise Ares (pointing): Pffft, no one actually reads these things. Here, Klein will show you where you sign.

Blaze looks up from the paper, his eyes glaring at the members of PCP. As Klein goes to grab at the Alias Champion’s wrist, Blaze yanks his arm away and tears the sheets of paper in half and shoves one portion into the hands of Elise Ares and the other into the hands of the D.

Blaze Claymore: The only thing I’m dropping today is you. Your baggage, your bullshit, and your bullying. You want my title? Get to the back of the line with everyone else.

The playful banter and celebratory festivities suddenly stop. The D shakes his head in disappointment as Elise glares back at Blaze with a look of disrespect.

Elise Ares: So you won an Alias Championship match and now you’re the big star? Listen, BBY, I’ll let that one slide… I know what it’s like to get your first taste of gold. I won the PRIME Tag Team Championships and the 5*Star Title back when I was just a kid, so you’re already behind my curve. Now I don’t mind showing you the ropes, but you need to take a hard look into a mirror and realize that there’s a big difference between being Vanilla Ice and Taylor Swift.

The D: Elise is a star, Blaze. She lives the life of a showgirl. A proven commodity. With her talent and my vision, you can be a star one day too. That day is not today. Do the right thing. Let Elise cook.

The D holds forward his half of the document with the signature portion still intact. Klein shows up with a roll of scotch tape, ready to put the contract back together.

Blaze grabs the torn scraps from the D and as he walks back to his shopping cart and locks eyes with the D and then Elise before motioning down to his basket of groceries and then over to the haphazard Aldi spread underneath the “A Feast for Blaze Claymore” sign as it slips off its wall moorings.

Blaze Claymore: Can’t cook if you don’t have the right ingredients.

Blaze throws his hand upward, releasing the torn sheets of paper into the air as they fall to the ground like confetti.

Blaze Claymore: There. Now it’s a party.

Elise Ares: The nerve of this… ungrateful poor.

The Queen of Sports Entertainment Style looks over her shoulder.

Elise Ares: D! GET MY LAWYER!

The D looks over his shoulder at Klein.

The D: LAWYER!

The three of them stand there awkwardly for about 30-45 seconds as Klein leaves the scene and then comes back wearing a suit and a different box with a monocle on it. Ares points at the Alias Champion.

Elise Ares: Trespass him.

Klein takes out a button and sticks it into Blaze’s shirt that says “TRESPASSED.”

The D: Leave. Get out of our sight!

Blaze Claymore: Gladly.

Blaze shoves past PCP, pushing his cart down the hall toward the arena entrance.

Nick Stuart: Fans, before we kick off our next match, PRIME would once again like to extend a special welcome to Blake Colton, who is here watching from the timekeeper’s table.

Richard Parker: Honestly the kid’s here so often that we should just put him on the payroll and let him ring the little bell.

Nick Stuart: That’s… an oddly measured response coming from you.

Richard Parker: Well, my change-dot-org petition to have the whole family Bob Barker’ed didn’t go over well, so I’m cutting my losses.

Nick Stuart: Bob Barker’ed?

Richard Parker: Spayed or neutered.

Nick Stuart: (sighing) Of course.

Vince Howard: The following contest is scheduled for one fall. Introducing first… Already in the ring and accompanied tonight by Toddrick and Fred Dick…

Feels weird when you say it like that, Vince.

Vince Howard: He is the self-proclaimed “Nate Colton’s Olive Garden Daddy”… Representing the Lasagna Boys, he is… Lasagna Boy MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGUEL!

Lasagna Boy Miguel is already in the ring, sporting his homemade “Nate Colton’s Olive Garden Daddy” tee shirt. Outside the ring lurk Fred Dick and Toddrick, and I’m putting them in that order so it doesn’t look like Toddrick’s last night is also Dick.

Vince Howard: And his opponent…

Eagles. “Tryin’.”

RRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!

The PRIME*View lights up 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, then turns toward his brother at ringside. He makes some sort of gesture at Blake, either sending a message of brotherly love, or telling the young man to steal third base. Who can say.

Richard Parker: You know, Nick, I think Nate Colton just told his brother to steal third base.

Nick Stuart: …what?

Richard Parker: I know what I saw, Nick!

DING DING

Nick Stuart: If you’re Miguel, what would you be thinking right now.

Richard Parker: I’d be thinking about this sweet tee shirt that made with my own two hands. And then probably about unlimited soup, salad, and breadsticks.

Nick Stuart: Not quite what I meant, Richard. Two weeks ago both he and Toddrick were brutalized by Max Kael and his associate who – if the rumors are to be believed – has meat sauce coursing through his veins. And now Miguel is in the ring with a perennial Universal Championship contender.

Richard Parker: I’d still be thinking about breadsticks, probably. Those have garlic salt and butter, as opposed to Nate Colton who’s just white bread.

Nick Stuart: You proud of that one?

Richard Parker: Immensely!

It should be noted that ever since the bell rang, Miguel has been very spry on his feet. This is a fancy way of saying he’s been running away from every lock-up attempt made by the New Diamond. As Nate continues to try and pin down his quarry, every so often he looks to the timekeeper’s table and says something to Blake. Blake, for his part, seems to be taking whatever it is to heart, making notes after each interaction with his brother.

It goes on like this for a handful of minutes. Every time Nate attempts to get close, Miguel scurries away. After Miguel scoots outside of the ring to hide behind Toddrick like a real man, Nate turns to once again talk to his brother from inside the ring. But only for a moment. He then moves to slide under the ropes to give chase to Miguel, only the move is a feint and Nate stops himself just short of exiting the ring. But the trap is successful, and Miguel, thinking he was about to be chased down by a corn-fed bluechipper, dives back into the ring.

Richard Parker: No, Miguel! Slide away. Slide awaaaay!

And right to where Nate Colton is waiting. Miguel attempts an exaggerated karate chop, one preceded by an excessive amount of theatrics, but Colton moves in before the strike can land and takes his opponent over with a snapmare. He quickly transitions into a rear chinlock and adjusts his positioning so that his knee is braced against Miguel’s spine.

Nick Stuart: Colton trying to wear down Miguel early here.

Richard Parker: Yes, because rest holds in the early parts of matches are super exciting for everyone.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think Miguel is complaining. He looks like he’s trying to catch his breath after all that running.

Richard Parker: What are you talking about? The Lasagna Boys are premier athletes!

Nick Stuart: One of them can barely walk.

Richard Parker: Because of all the extreme parkour he was doing!

Nick Stuart: Ohhhhhhkay then.

From his position inside the ring, Nate continues communicating with his brother. This particular conversation is about ring positioning, and making sure that you’re in the right place at all times. Blake seems very interested in talking about sneak attacks, but based on his response Nate seems to be treating this like a hypothetical. He’s too distracted by the exchange with his brother to realize that Toddrick has log rolled into the ring and made it to his feet.

Nick Stuart: Toddrick now in the ring, and Nate Colton doesn’t see it.

Richard Parker: Maybe he should spend less time talking to his brother and more time forecasting on the match he’s in.

Nick Stuart: And now Fred Dick is up on the ring apron!

One man’s there to cheat, and the other’s there to provide the distraction.

Do you know what a dropkick looks like when it’s done by a man whose legs are rigid sticks due to the complex braces they’re in? Hideous. Fucking hideous. Nate doesn’t get kicked so much as his bad shoulder gets clipped by an errant brace, and he breaks the hold immediately.

Unable to get back to his feet in time, Toddrick is forced to simply log roll his way back out of the ring.

In a rare offensive burst, Miguel grabs Nate in a headlock, but it doesn’t last very long as the New Diamond immediately shoves him right off. Miguel steps forward to try a new plan of attack, but Nate Colton holds up a hand.

Nick Stuart: Well this is… unexpected.

Without taking his eyes off of Miguel, Nate begins miming the proper technique for a headlock, including how to spread your feet and establish your base to help maintain control. At one point, he even reaches out for Miguel’s hands, but Miguel slaps him away.

Richard Parker: Is… is he teaching Miguel how to wrestle?

To his credit, Colton doesn’t get frustrated. Instead, he offers himself to Miguel as a willing test subject. At first Miguel is skeptical, because really who wouldn’t be. But a little coaxing from his cornermen convince the Lasagna Boy to give it a shot. He steps up next to Colton, grabs a headlock, and lets Nate position his feet to give him Miguel more leverage.

Nick Stuart: Have you ever seen anything like this before, Richard?

Richard Parker: No, but at the same time I don’t think this cracks the top ten of weird stuff we’ve seen doing our jobs.

Miguel shifts his grip and starts trying to wrench on the hold. Instead of fighting back, Nate extends one arm forward and offers an enthusiastic thumbs up. Then he locks his arms around Miguel’s waist, plants his own feet, and drives the Lasagna Boy to the ground with a belly to back suplex.

Richard Parker can’t help himself, and he bursts into laughter.

Richard Parker: Okay, if he planned that, then I might have to change my opinion on at least one of the Colton family.

Nick Stuart: It sounded like Nate was telling Miguel that he still has to watch out for counters before that one, Richard.

Richard Parker: Well now it’s not as funny.

The impact of the moves is fierce enough that Miguel bounces hard off the canvas, and the momentum causes him to roll over onto his knees. He forces himself up to his feet, even though he’s a bit wobbly.

Richard Parker: You see that look, Nick? That’s the wild-eyed fury of a man who was just baited into learning an actual wrestling move, and now feels the deep betrayal of a man using that actual wrestling move against him.

Nick Stuart: Okay, but Nate Colton is a second-generation star from a family of professional wrestlers. Miguel… is… a janitor, I think?

Richard Parker: The world’s oldest profession!

Nick Stuart: No, that’s sex work. You’re thinking of sex workers.

Richard Parker: Ohhhhhhh, right right.

Miguel, now adopting the Human Windmill style of offense, lands a few stiff shots on his opponent. The problem is that they all connect with Nate Colton’s bad shoulder. A switch flips in Colton’s head. He swats Miguel’s strikes away, grabs him by the tee shirt, and tears it from his body.

Richard Parker: Typical Colton tryna get someone naked.

Nick Stuart: …

What follows isn’t so much a lesson in chain wrestling as it is an exercise in pain. Colton uses the momentum from the shirt rip to pull Miguel directly into an exploder suplex. But one isn’t enough. He hauls Miguel back to his feet and then throws him right back down to the mat with a second one. Somewhere, GD West is smiling.

Miguel bounces up to his feet, but it’s clear he’s on the wobbly legs. He swings wildly and hits only air.

Nick Stuart: Colton ducking under the punch and – OH! Reverse vertical suplex by Colton!

Colton rolls through and pulls Miguel up from behind by the waistband. From here, it’s academic.

Nick Stuart: Colton Clutch Suplex!!

Ashley Barlow, who is both very surprised and very relieved to not have had to deal with much of The Bullshit this match, slides into position for the count.

Richard Parker: Kick out, Miguel! Kick out for soup…

ONE!

Richard Parker: Kick out for salad…

TWO!

Richard Parker: Kick out for bread-

THREE!

DING DING DING

Richard Parker: -dammit.

Vince Howard: The winner of this match… NAAAAAAAAAAATE COL-TOONNNNNNNNNNNN!!

Nick Stuart: Maybe not the most impressive competition, but still a solid win for–

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nate’s mood shifts faster than Dale Earnhardt (RIP) heading into the straightaway. Sudden boos mean danger, and his first priority is his little brother.

He sees Blake Colton, still smiling and clapping from his position at the timekeeper’s table…and he upshifts again, because he also sees who’s standing right behind him.

Nick Stuart: HAYES HANLON IS HERE! And he’s got…what is that?

Richard Parker: Looks like a bottle! Maybe he’s here to toast Colton’s victory!

Nick Stuart: That doesn’t sound likely, Richard.

Likely or not, that seems to be the case, because he doesn’t immediately smash it over someone’s head like we’d expect from a wrestling show. Instead, Hayes opens the bottle and…offers it to Blake?

Hayes Hanlon: Had a drink yet bud? You old enough, or you a good little church boy like your brother?

However Blake might respond, we don’t hear it. Big Brother’s answer is way too loud.

Nate Colton: STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM HIM!

That cocky smirk we’ve grown so sick of over the past few years never leaves Hanlon’s face as he raises the bottle…

Nick Stuart: Colton’s leaving the ring!

Richard Parker: Whatever you’re gonna do, Hayes, you better do it quick!

…and dumps the contents all over Blake’s head.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: Oh God, what the hell is that?

Richard Parker: Gin, I think.

Whatever it is, it doesn’t agree with Blake at all. He starts by flailing at the unpleasant sensation of having liquid suddenly pouring on his head…but then the smell hits his nostrils and boy howdy, does it not agree with him. He folds over and starts retching, much to the delight of Hanlon.

Hanlon doesn’t get to delight for too long, because now Nate Colton is at ringside and it’s time to run.

Nick Stuart: Hayes is escaping through the crowd, and Colton’s after him like a shot! We’re going to need security as soon as possible!

Richard Parker: Forget security, we’re going to need an army to keep those two apart!

Nick Stuart: Fans, we’ll be right back after this commercial break!

Cut.

REWATCH ON THE ACE NETWORK

As we return to ReVival 79, we find ringside a bit… different.

Lining the rampway are massive shelves filled with canned goods, boxes of cereal, packages of bread, and even some fresh produce.

Nick Stuart: I am not sure what is happening here, Richard. Are you?

Richard Parker: Perhaps it’s the next iteration of Door Dash!? They don’t just bring you food anymore, they bring you the whole store!

Nick Stuart: You know we’re not sponsored by Door Dash, Richard. Talks broke down after one of their representatives mistook a Lasanga Boy’s dressing room for a green room.

Richard Parker: Of course… and we all hope he makes a quick, non-litigious recovery. We’re pulling for you, Sammy!

Suddenly, the lights in the arena begin to strobe in red and white rapidly as the rapid synth beats of “Change Your Heart or Die” by The Midnight begin to play.

Took a lot of money to look the part

Took a lot of pain to tame a heart

Took a lot of years to lose my fear of flying

A figure steps out from the back, shrouded in silhouette, as the song continues.

Took a long time to finally start then it

Took a good day to fall apart

Took a lot of tears to lose my fear of crying

Of crying…

The strobes stop on a dime as two words flash on every screen in the arena:

BLAZE. CLAYMORE.

Change your heart or die…

A spotlight lands on Blaze Claymore as he pushes emerges from the back and begins pushing a shopping card down the rampway. At first his head is down, but as he arrives and sees the shelving and food items, a huge grin appears on his face.

Fire! Ticking like a time bomb!

Fire! Burning like napalm!

Fire! Waiting at the crossroads!

The strobes return, erupting in time with the song as Blaze hops on the back of the cart and glides his way down the rampway, nearly crashing into the ring apron before using the cart to vault himself up and over the ring ropes.

How will you survive?

Change your heart or dieeeeeeeeeee!

Richard Parker: Someone is certainly proud of himself.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think that’s pride, Richard. I think… Blaze may actually be… happy?

Blaze paces the mat and runs a hand through his hair, letting out a nervous laugh before turning around and reaching back through the ropes to pull the Alias Title from the bed of the shopping cart. As he does, he uses a free hand to grab a mic from a nearby stagehand.

As he shifts the belt to his shoulder, Blaze pauses and looks around, unable to control himself from grinning from ear to ear. He takes a deep breath.

Blaze Claymore: Hey everyone. I promise I’ll keep this short because I know there is still a lot of show left to get through. But it just occurred to me this is the first time since I’ve been in PRIME that I’ve had a chance to address you all directly.

The crowd leans in, alert and attentive, as Blaze continues.

Blaze Claymore: I want to start by saying – to everyone here in PRIME – that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being such a colossal asshole to each of you. Well… except maybe Elise and the D.

The Alias Champion smirks as the fans begin a slow rumble of claps, but it isn’t long before as Blaze looks up and his smile drops.

Blaze Claymore: But I’m sorry to my mother, most of all.

Awwwwwwwww!

Blaze Claymore: For so long I was focused on just… getting away from my family, out of my small hometown, and out to Hollywood as soon as I could. I obsessed about it for so long that by the time I got there I forgot why I even fell in love with the idea in the first place. My mom.

Blaze lowers his head and smiles whistfully.

Blaze Claymore: My mother and the movies we would watch every weekend – some of her favorites: When Harry Met Sally, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Grease, The Breakfast Club, and… of course, Rocky.

A pop from the crowd.

Blaze Claymore (walking over to the ropes and nearby shopping cart): But we didn’t just watch movies… my mother’s favorite thing to do when I was home from school was to binge game shows. Barker Bob on The Price is Right. Monty Hall on Let’s Make a Deal. Richard Dawson on Family Feud… and of course…

Blaze reaches down to pull out a novelty black and white nametag with “BLAZE” written in big, bold letters with a sharpie.

Blaze Claymore: David Rupprecht on Supermarket Sweep.

The crowd roars as Blaze points toward the rampway lined with grocery goods.

Blaze Claymore: I spent the last two weeks racking my brain about what I want my legacy to be as Alias champion, for however long that lasts. And I’ve realized I don’t want to be someone who stacks the deck against an opponent by making them fight in my specialty, or put them at a disadvantage by using their allies’ moves against them, and definitely not abdicating my responsibility by leaving things up to a spin of the wheel… the truth is that I just want to have fun.

The crowd’s previously tepid response has escalated as Blaze places the name badge on his chest and points out toward the rows of shelving on the rampway.

Blaze Claymore (smiling): That’s why my stipulation for the Alias Championship will be a “Grocery Gauntlet” – a test not only of one’s ability to fight physically and mentally – but creatively.

Blaze smirks.

Blaze Claymore: For each defense, myself and my challenger will be taken to a local grocery store given a grocery cart each. We will then be tasked by the match’s referee, the match’s “host,” to collect a specific set of food items from the shelves. It is only after these five items have been collected that the competitor will be deemed legal and eligible to win the match.

The crowd roars at the prospect.

Blaze Claymore: Once a competitor is declared legal after collecting their food items, they will have one task and one task only – to incapacitate their opponent long enough to place them in their designated grocery cart and rush back to the front of the store in order to “Check Out” of the match. So you know what that means, right?

The Main Event pauses for dramatic effect.

Blaze Claymore: No pins. No submissions. No count outs. Just… winning the game. In other words… ANYTHING and any “thing” is legal.

Blaze pats the nametag on his chest  as he adjusts the Alias Title over his shoulder to a pop from the crowd.

Blaze Claymore: This title means more to me than I think any of you can ever know… and if there is one thing I want everyone here to understand, it is that Blaze Clay-… no… that NATHAN LAKE is going to be a champion that gives the people who may not have the confidence in themselves, like I once did, a chance to do something special.

Blaze leans back over the ropes to reach into the shopping cart once more as he pulls out another name tag and sharpie marker. He begins writing and then caps the pen before flipping the piece of paper around for the cameras.

STEVE.

RAAAAAAAWWWWW!

Blaze Claymore: Steve Lemieux! Mr. Beefst! You want to be Alias Champion? Well then COME ON DOWWWWWWWWWN at Colossus and show me you’ve got what it takes!

Blaze raises his title high above his head and smirks.

Blaze Claymore: Because I won’t go down without a food fight.
The crowd erupts as the Main Event lowers holds up the Alias, no the Grocery Gauntlet Championship, and sets the microphone down in the ring before stepping through the ropes. Blaze pulls the grocery cart behind him, up the rampway, before heading back down and beginning to grab items from the shelves and gently toss them to folks in the crowd with a huge grin on his face.

Richard Parker: Wait. Was any of this cleared by security?

Nick Stuart: Our lawyers will find out soon enough. Richard.

We head elsewhere.

The corridor is unusually quiet.

Normally she walks these halls beside someone. Typically Speedy Riggs, but he’s in the hospital. Sometimes, Ivan is thundering at her side, or Alexei is clipping at her heels. But tonight, she’s alone. There’s a lot going on and Arina Timofeyevna is in what one might call a “holding pattern.”

She clutches a folder to her chest, head down, tracing her path down the hallway. A bump from another hallway causes her to start and she jumps, before resuming her quick trek down the hallway towards the Red Army locker room. A lightbulb above her flashes once and she glances up and stops, and then the voice is heard.

“You remind me of a squirrel.”

She wheels around on her heel, her olive uniform tight around her waist, her tie cinched close to her neck. She backs up, tucking the folder under her arm. She bumps into the wall behind her, at a corner. Her eyes darting down the other hallway. There’s no one there. And she looks back at none other than the source of the voice.

Justine Calvin.

Justine Calvin: I see it all the time back home, especially this time of year. You’ll be out driving, and there’ll be one little squirrel trying to cross the street. It looks so nervous and skittish, like something’s going to jump out of the shadows and grab it any minute. But it steps out into the street, because it’s got somewhere to be, only it’s not really sure of itself. Then it hears the car coming, and it really starts to panic. You’ll see it start running one way, then second guess itself and turn around. You almost feel bad when the car hits it. After all, it was just a little squirrel. So nervous in such a big world.

Arina blinks once. The words hang in the air, heavier than she would prefer. She forces a nervous swallow, the sound louder than she intends. The folder slips out from under her arm and falls to the floor, thankfully there’s no documents in it.

Justine Calvin: How are you, Arina? You know, I can’t remember if we’ve officially met.

The Russian woman clears her throat and tries her best to straighten her shoulders. She glances down the hallway again, hoping to see any shade red coming her way.

She doesn’t.

Arina Timofeyevna: Ms… Calvin. No we… not meet, I not think. Um… hello. I am afraid I must get going.

Justine’s movements are fluid, serpentine. As Arina moves to leave, the once-Raspberry slides up beside her and oozes an arm over Arina’s shoulders.

Justine Calvin: Oh, I can’t let you do that yet.

Behind the grin of a predator the words escape her lips as a sibilant hiss.

Justine Calvin: Sorry, but I’m one of those moms.

The arm holding Arina in place locks rigid, while the other disappears into the pocket of Justine’s sweatshirt to retrieve a cell phone.

Justine Calvin: This is my daughter. We took this two weeks ago. On Halloween. She was just the cutest cupcake I’ve ever seen. I just wanted to gobble her right up.

Her last sentence is punctuated by a rapid shake of her arm, one that jostles Arina and breaks her composure. Keeping physical contact, that’s key.

Justine Calvin: Look at that little face, Arina.

Arina gasps, but her eyes are locked on Justine, not the phone.

Arina Timofeyevna: She is beautiful…

Justine Calvin: Look at her!

The words boom in the hallway like a thunderclap. Quaking, Arina glances down at the phone and winces. And quick as lightning, the forced saccharine sweetness seeps back into Justine’s voice.

Justine Calvin: When I put her to bed that night I told her that her father would be home when she woke up the next morning. But that didn’t happen, did it, Arina? Can you imagine how sad she was? I want you to look at that sweet, innocent little face, and I want you to imagine what it looked like when her Dad wasn’t home. And now?

She pulls Arina in closer, whispering in her ear from just a few inches away.

Justine Calvin: I want you to tell me why her father wasn’t home the next morning.

There’s no getting out. Whatever attempt, or training, that Arina has attempted to learn melts away not just because of fear, but because Justine Calvine is a championship-calibre athlete. Her eyes dart around to find no one to help her, and she whispers softly.

Arina Timofeyevna: W… work… k… kept him…

Justine Calvin: Oh, that’s all? Just a few extra hours at the office? Because that’s not what I saw on my television, Arina. So let’s try this one more time, hmmm? I want you to tell me, Arina. I want to hear you say it. Tell me what could have prevented her father from coming home that night.

Her breath shudders out of her. The tremble starts in Arina’s shoulders and travels down to her hands. She swallows again, loudly, and speaks softly.

Arina Timofeyevna: I… I hit him.

The words are barely sound. They quiver out of her lips, fragile and honest. Her lips press together, eyes watering. She shakes her head once, quickly, as if ashamed to say it aloud.

Arina Timofeyevna: I did it. No one else.

Justine Calvin: Honestly… I like that. I respect that.

Her grip loosens, but she doesn’t pull away. Not yet.

Justine Calvin: I came here tonight looking to get some answers, and so far you’re the only one to give me any. Maybe that will change when he realizes I’m in the building. Maybe it won’t. But here’s a little something in return. When my husband tells you he’s not upset about that, you can believe him. It might surprise you to hear this, but he doesn’t hate any of you. Even the ones who deserve it.

Justine lets her arm fall. She slips her phone back into her pocket, and then goes about trying to smooth out the creases she created in Arina’s uniform.

Justine Calvin: But there’s something you and everyone else needs to understand the next time any of you think about doing something that jeopardizes my family…

She lets one hand rest on either side of Arina’s collar.

Justine Calvin: I… am NOT… my husband.

She brushes one last crease away and then lets her hands fall back to her sides.

Justine Calvin: You make sure you keep that in mind the next time you decide to run across the street. You understand me?

Arina remains frozen for a moment, before she nods her head up and down in short, little motions.

Arina Timofeyevna: Yes. Yes, Miss Calvin. Mrs. Calvin.

Arina tentatively tries to sidle down the hallway, her back flat against the concrete wall behind her, leaving her empty folder in the corner. She doesn’t tear her eyes from Justin, nor does she attempt to hide her fear.

Justine strides off on her own path, never once looking behind her.

Amidst a touch of VHS-style grain, a title card reads “BEST OF ONE FALL MATCHES FOR DUMMIES” set to some jazzy background music, before we see the Masters of the Moscowverse decked out in red singlets, standing on a red wrestling mat. With a wave from both men we zoom in, focusing on Kenny Freeman.

Kenny Freeman: Hello! By procuring this VHS tape, you are embarking on a remarkable journey in the world of pro wrestling. I’m your host, Kenny Freeman…

Randall Schwartz: …and I’m Randall Schwartz! Together, we’re the Masters of the Moscowverse, and in this case we are also masters of the Best of One Fall Match!

We cut to an animation looking like it was built in Blender, showing two silhouettes looking like they’re about to lock up as Kenny speaks in a voiceover.

Kenny Freeman: You may be wondering, “What even IS a Best of One Fall Match?” Well, we’re happy to tell you everything you could hope to learn.

The two figures approach each other, beginning the process of a wrestling match simulation as Kenny continues.

Kenny Freeman: You see, wrestling is rich in history with match types of all, uh, types. Iron Man matches that can go for any length of time imaginable, hardcore stipulations that can see tables, ladders, and chairs–

Randall Schwartz: Oh my!?

Kenny Freeman: And of course, the most classic of matches, the Two Out of Three Falls match. The only thing about that is, it takes way too much time, and you know what they say…

Randall Schwartz: Tiiiiiiiiime is on my side. Yes it is!

Kenny Freeman: …Time is money. So, that’s why we invented a more efficient version of the stipulation. Why settle a match in three falls, when one will suffice?

Randall Schwartz: One fall!

You can hear Kenny stop himself, thinking carefully about what The Entertainer just said as we see one of the figures take the other to the mat. Eventually, Kenny presses on while the simulation moves on to a demonstration of the hip toss.

Kenny Freeman: Anyway, the Best of One Fall Match ensures that you sort out your business in a timely fashion.

Randall Schwartz: When that bell rings, you will need to do everything in your power to win the fall. Doesn’t matter if it’s a pin, submission, disqualification, or even count-out: any fall’s a goal, as the kids would say!

The animation highlights this point by showing one of the figures cover the other, and a video game announcer makes the count:

Announcer: ONE…TWO…THREE!

With that, we cut back to the Masters with smiles on their faces.

Kenny Freeman: So now you know the rules of a Best of One Fall Match!

Randall Schwartz: And if you don’t know, now you know, you know?

Kenny Freeman: Knowing is half the battle…

Randall Schwartz: …and the other half is in the battle itself!

The pair wave goodbye as we zoom out on the pair, before a title card reads “THE END” to play us out…

…only for the VHS grain to go away, bringing us smack dab in the PRIME locker room, as The Anglo Luchador watches on. The VCR clicks to stop the tape, leaving a blank screen on the TV for the Luchador to stare at.

TAL: I had to hunt down a VCR for THIS? I need a drink.

ReVival, mercifully, moves on.

From the Masters of the Moscowverse, we return to the ring.

Notice something?

That…is Jimmy Turnbull.

Yes…THAT Jimmy Turnbull.

The very same one that The Intruders managed to procure? That captured? Well…he’s here now. And NOT WORSE FOR WEAR! Strangely. Thankfully. The Calumet Kid looks to and fro for a moment, a look of horror etched across his face. Okay, maybe being Intrudeded is a waking nightmare.

Oh, anyways; his expression shifted almost immediately, and he’s now in ring referee mentality.

Weeeeeee!

Anyways…from craziness…to…

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: The following contest is scheduled for one fall and has a thirty minute time limit… introducing first…from Decatur, Georgia! He weighs in tonight at two hundred and forty pounds! Representing the Poor Whoresmen! A former 5 Star Champion…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.

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 West Virginia University Coliseum 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!

DING DING

Nick Stuart: Rob Williams…RIA Lockhart. This is the second time they’ve locked up in the ring. Just over a year. But over that time, things have changed.

Richard Parker: Alliances and the like. Sicknesses and…well…fake sicknesses.

Williams grabs at the top rope, yanking on it, loosening his shoulders. For a moment, his eyes leave RIA, herself tucked in her corner, hands clasping the top ropes, ready to launch. The former 5 Star Champion slowly lets go, beginning to draw close.

Or he would have.

No. This isn’t like the last time. How about an explosion of Berry Bomber? YUM YUM! Tasty! Now, at Carl’s Jr. Or maybe Wendy’s? Legend, THIS IS A WENDY’S! Heavy hip blast, and The Legend stumbles violently into the corner. A few steps back on the heels. Another rush. RIA absolutely SMASHES the ABSOLUTE PISS out of Rob William’s head with another Berry Bomber. Brainpan crushing against the turnbuckle. All that wonderful fun stuff. There’s a lot of people who would pay lots and lots of money to experience just this kind of thing.

In truth, Rob Williams probably has found himself in a great many holes where people would pay for RIA to do much more depraved things to them. Yeah, Legend, you probably hang with people who enjoy ball busting. Or want to do lines of cleaning supplies off elbows before they crush into the bridge of their nose. You know, buddy. You know.

If that daze is going to do anything for Rob, well, maybe it would help. It doesn’t. Berry Bomber. Rob Williams limbs splay out. The velocity, the strike, the blow. RIA yanks at the heels of Williams boots, and hooks the leg.

ONE

TWO

THR–NO!

The kickout prompts a scramble to get back to their feet. RIA in the lead. Legend following. As he slowly gets to his base, he receives a shoot kick to the chest. Another. The Psychoberry flicks off another kick, the blow hitting William’s chest with the force of a baseball bat. The Legend grit his teeth. Went to grab the follow up. Alas. The heavy blow reverberated and dropped him to his knees. Moving forward, she smothers him with a front facelock. Unfortunate, then, when she is caught by a wild open handed taped haymaker. RIA stumbles back, and in the process, Williams bullrushes, pushing the former Alias Champion into the ropes, now at a vertical base, before grabbing hold of her in a tie up.

All that muscle.

RIA, though, tries to wrench him, snap him in surprise, get a Fujiwara armbar.

The former 5 Star Champion, however, stops, twisting his hips, biel tossing Lockhart after, and as the Rainbow Riot scurried to her feet, he collapses her with a hellacious elbow forward clothesline right to her face. RIA, rust filling the inside of her mouth, is quick to get up, but still, can’t help but grab her face. In so doing, Williams caroms off the ropes, driving his knee into her with a running knee strike, all before yanking them up and planting her clean with a swinging neckbreaker. Quickly, he goes to grab the near leg.

ONE

TWO

KICKOUT!

After the near miss on the three count from Jimmy Turnbull, Rob Williams goes to pick himself up, grabbing at RIA as he rises. Go behind. Waistlock. German suplex. Another cover.

ONE

TWO

THR–KICKOUT!!

The Legend looks to maintain the advantage as best as he can, grabbing a chinlock on RIA. In so many cases, this move is there to help the aggressor get their wind back. And, perhaps it may be construed as that. But in reality, it’s an opportunity to use his body weight and size to exert control over the smaller Lockhart. The Psychoberry’s finger, are out for bare, gripping his forearm, using strength, heels digging into the canvas to try and break free.

RIA Lockhart tries to maneuver, but Williams maintains control, even as The Rainbow Riot is working to get back to a standing base, or to find some way to do so. A quick attempt at switching to a side headlock is met, though, with RIA pushing up just enough, locking up, and hitting a russian legsweep on Williams. Rob tries to get up…

BERRY BOMBER!

AGAIN!

Rob Williams head shoots back as if hit dead center with a slug. Nasty velocity. RIA goes for a quick cover.

ONE

TWO

THR–NO!

The kickout has RIA shooting back to her feet. Williams, grabbing his head, tries to sit up, and as he does?

Pink.

Pony.

Crush.

ONE

TWO

THREEE–FOOT ON THE ROPES

The Psychoberry is none too pleased to hear from Turnbull that the rope saved their opponent. Meanwhile, holding the back of his skull, The Legend rolls away, trying to get distance away from the Psychoberry, constantly shaking his noggin to see everything is still intact. A counterintuitive process if ever there was one. RIA charges forward, clinched the Risen Star, pumping his ribs with knees, all before finishing with a fujiwara armbar.

A heavy yank at the elbow.

Williams grabs onto the bottom rope.

Frustration. But the former 5 Star Champion is quick to pounce, working out and trying to smother RIA, but the moment he tries, another elbow rips at his face, causing him to stagger back on his heels. And as he does? RIA charges. Williams, though, side steps, catching RIA from behind; a rear naked choke. Guillotining around Lockhart, Rob works the choke, but The Psychoberry, trying to stay alive, fights with her hands. The pressure triggers survivor instinct. Chin under the head. Drop. Jawbreaker. There is no wobbling; Rob Williams falls, and as he does, RIA drops an elbow across his chest.

RIA charges forward to try and blast Rob William with another Berry Bomber, but as she does, The Legend grabs on and rolls her up.

ONE

TWO

THR–NO!

RIA back up. Rob Williams manages to hit a hip toss, but Lockhart does pop back up, only to get hit with a boot to the midsection. Standing headscissor. Yank back.

Piledriver!

ONE

TWO

THR—NO!

AGAIN!

Williams goes, yanking RIA back up, and lifts her up for a powerbomb. He takes off running.

RIA grabs hold of his head.

Sitout facebuster.

RIA is back up, ready to strike.

And would…

If Anna Daniels didn’t grab her by the ankle.

The boos are heavy. Lockhart isn’t shocked by this, but she is pissed. Turnbull sees this and violently pantomimes to throw her out.

Daniels backs up.

Rob Williams, however, gets ahold of RIA.

Old Time Rock And Roll.

Cover.

ONE

TWO

THREE

DING DING DING

Heavy boos. Anna Daniels can’t help but chuckle. Williams, looking up sees his team partner, and really, isn’t too thrilled to see her in this context, because he knows what happened. RIA grabs at her head and neck, and rolls from the ring, stumbling to try and take off for The Muse. Legs give way for a moment. Turnbull is out to help, to make sure she doesn’t do something in an injured state.

Vince Howard: Here is your winner…by pinfall…ROB! WIIIIIIIIILLIAMS!

The fans aren’t really thrilled.

And that’s what The Muse is cool with.

ReVival moves on.

Backstage! Just outside the designated Vae Victis locker room stands Scott Hunter, handsome boy that he is. What’s he doing? He’s speaking to RIA Lockhart, who’s equally as beautiful as Scott is handsome. Despite all the attractiveness in this area, Scott wears a small frown while RIA looks rather morose herself.

RIA Lockhart: And that’s why I did it. I know you’re probably sad, but I gotta take my own steps. Doesn’t mean you and I can’t be friends.

Scott Hunter: Personally, I am totally in favor of you taking your own steps. You should never take another person’s steps. That’s step theft, and my experience with you tells me that you have only the highest possible moral character. So I respect your decision. It makes me sad, but I respect it.

???: Oh, are we dispensing sage life wisdom?

The shot widens to reveal the source of the snarky interruption: Ned Reform flanked by his partner Levi “TA” Cole – both wearing familiar black and red DEFIANCE t-shirts.

Ned Reform: I may have some experience in that area!

Scott stares at Ned, then looks at Cole, then looks at Ned again, then looks at Cole, then looks at Ned, then looks at… RIA.

Scott Hunter: So yeah, of course we can still be friends. Why wouldn’t we still be friends? You have sparkly hair and glittery skin, which I still do not understand. But I like your eyes. They oddly shine like the light of a thousand stars. Also, I’m sorry but…

He looks at Ned, then Cole again.

Scott Hunter: Did you guys want something? Something about dispensing sage? I already picked up my grocery order this week, so I’m good. RIA, do you need any sage?

RIA shakes her head no.

RIA Lockhart: Had enough sage for one lifetime, thanks.

Scott Hunter: She doesn’t need any sage.

Ned Reform: Were I to join in this nauseating love-fest, I might be inclined to mention how foolish and disrespectful it would be to harass one at one’s own place of employment – wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Cole?

TA Cole: Indeedidly I would.

Ned Reform: As you saw fit to glare oh-so-ominously from the throngs of the masses on DEFtv, I thought it best to side-step such spineless methods and simply confront you directly. So, in that spirit, I ask…

Ned jerks his thumb to Cole, who spreads his arms wide in a threatening manner.

TA Cole: You got something to say!?

Ned Reform: As he said.

Scott throws both hands up in defense.

Scott Hunter: Now hold on just a gosh darn minute, alright? First of all, you two are hypocrites. Maybe she DID harass you at your place of employment, and maybe she didn’t.

RIA Lockhart: I absolutely did.

Scott Hunter: Okay, so she did. But you two are doing the exact same thing to us right now. And just for the record, I didn’t harass you at your place of employment. Only she did. So that makes what you’re doing right now twice as bad as what she did. Based on sound logic and common core math, I’m pretty sure that means if anything, I owe you guys a good, solid harassing at your place of employment just so we’re even. So whattayou have to say about that…?

Scott pokes a finger into the chest of both Ned and Cole in turn.

Scott Hunter: TOUGH GUYS?!?!

RIA Lockhart: Since we’re asking questions, I got one of my own.

Lockhart draws close to Ned, looking slightly up to lock eyes with him.

RIA Lockhart: You got a reason I shouldn’t grab the nearest blunt, heavy object and treat you the way TJ Watt treats quarterbacks? Cuz I’m pretty sure I owe you one hell of an ass whipping, and have for a long while.

The Psychoberry sends a dismissive glance Cole’s way before turning back to Reform.

RIA Lockhart: Yeah, I mighta mean-mugged you a bit at DEFtv. But you realize I could probably have half the locker room out here ready to stomp the hell outta both of you, yeah?

Scott bucks up. Chest out.

Scott Hunter: Yeah! So now what!?

Reform pauses. Eyes both Hunter and Ria for an uncomfortably long amount of time. Nudges Cole with his elbow.

Ned Reform: Mr. Cole: assessment. Professional wrestling tropes.

Cole rubs his chin.

TA Cole: Hmmmm. Seems like there’s…

He raises a finger at a time as he counts.

TA Cole: One, two of them. And then… one, two of us.

Scott holds up fingers also and counts along, then nods in agreement, satisfied with TA Cole’s math.

TA Cole: And we’re in conflict. They work for PRIME. We work for DEFIANCE. And there’s a joint PPV coming up… so….

Reform makes the “go on” motion. Cole thinks.

TA Cole: ….I got nothing, Doc. Sorry.

Ned taps him on the shoulder.

Ned Reform: No worries, Levi. We’ll get there. I propose a TAG TEAM MATCH! In one corner, proudly representing the DEFIANCE Faithful, the Honor Society! And in the other… uh, whatever you two call yourselves.

Scott Hunter: (hold up his hand) Oh, well, I’m in Vae Victis.

Cole begins to hum “Stranger Fruit” until Ned smacks him in the back of the head and makes a “cut it out” hand motion.

Scott Hunter: Maybe you’ve heard of us. She was in Vae Victis until recently. But I call myself Scott, and she calls herself RIA.

Ned stares at him, probably thinking no one could possibly be this dumb.

Scott Hunter: But I do think that if you two want a tag match, we could have a tag match, and that would be just fine with me. Would that be fine with you, RIA?

RIA Lockhart: (smiling) Yeah, screw it. Why not?

Scott Hunter: (turning back to Ned and TA Cole) We’ve talked it over, and we’ve decided that would be fine with us.

Ned’s eyes narrow as he looks back and forth between them. After a moment…

Ned Reform: I’m having some difficulty ascertaining whether or not this farce is genuine or if you’re mocking us, but… nevertheless. Mr. Cole! How do these confrontations usually conclude!?

Cole thinks hard. Snaps his fingers. He’s got this one.

TA Cole: A fight!

Ned Reform: Right you are, sir!

And then all hell breaks loose! Who throws the first shot is anyone’s guess, but all four wrestlers become a wild mass of flailing limbs and bunched fists. It doesn’t take long for the Enemigos to intervene to separate them, paying most attention to removing the DEFIANCE interlopers.

Ned Reform: (as he’s dragged away) I WILL NOT BE SILENCED!

Scott Hunter: (watching as they disappear around the corner) So as I was saying, of course, we can still be friends. Vae Victis or not, I’ll always have your back.

RIA gives Scott a slight slap on the back, a twinkle in her eye as they start to walk off.

RIA Lockhart: I know ya will, Scotty. I know ya will.

We move on.

Elsewhere.

Elsewhere’s got a pretty nice desk, actually. Did they steal that from Max Kael, or…oh, shit! They’re starting!

There’s two people at the desk. One is Simon Tillier, who’s looking far more professional than he has in months. Probably because he’s not interacting with Kerry Kuroyama or Scott Hunter tonight. The other is…okay, we know that non-binary people do not owe anyone androgyny, but this person clearly delivered anyway. Their somewhat feminine features are counterbalanced by their short red hair and three-piece suit, all in varying shades of brown. For the uninitiated, this is Tanner Quest, editor-in-chief of RingDispatch.com and the go-to source for large swaths of the independent wrestling world.

Simon Tillier: Hello, PRIME. I’m taking a brief hiatus from my kick-ass band’s kick-ass tour to introduce a very special video package. I’m joined on my left by Tanner Quest, of RingDispatch.com.

Tanner Quest: Thank you very much, Simon. I’m excited to be here.

They don’t sound excited; they speak with a perfectly flat tone.

Anyway.

Simon Tillier: We’re here to reveal the lineup for the 2025 Belmont Classic, a yearly tournament for rookie wrestlers that has been a staple of the business since its introduction in 1990.

Tanner Quest: That’s correct, Simon. This will be the 36th installment of the Classic, which has launched the careers of countless legends…including those of PRIME mainstays. Lindsay Troy, Brandon Youngblood, Clay Byrd, Nate Colton, FLAMBERGE…and two former Universal Champions, Jared Sykes and Coral Avalon, have all taken part in the event. Hundreds of stars–past, present, and future–can trace their legacies back to this event.

Simon Tillier: Sebastian Gold won last year’s Classic, and used that to launch himself into an Alias Title run. And of course, who can forget the 2022 event, where Jennifer Colton upset PRIME’s Paxton Ray…whose attempted at post-match revenge was thwarted by a mass uprising now known as “The Siege of St. Louis.” You yourself took part in that stand, did you not?

The almost-robotic delivery of Quest cracks a little, and a blush spreads across their face.

Tanner Quest: A lot of people took part in it, Simon. Regardless, we’re here to talk about the future, and the Belmont Classic will be our first glimpse at it.

Simon Tillier: Of course. Without any further ado, PRIME and the ACE Network are proud to present the lineup for the 2025 Belmont Classic!

The lights fade to dark, just in time for a new video to take over the screen.

We fade back into the studio, and the smiling faces of Simon and Tanner. Well, Simon’s smiling face, anyway. We’re not sure if Tanner knows how.

Simon Tillier: What a lineup! Two PRIME wrestlers in Luc Labelle and Steve Lemieux, plus several with ties to the past and present PRIME roster!

Tanner Quest: Indeed. Coral Avalon’s nephew, Nate Colton’s younger brother, and Matt Ward’s daughter were all on the list. Not to mention several other wrestlers whose training was shaped by PRIME performers.

Simon Tillier: That’s a good point. The future is looking very bright, and you can see it all on the ACE Network, one week after Colossus! Tanner, I trust you’ll be hosting the livestream as per usual?

Tanner Quest: Absolutely. Hopefully it’s not derailed by time loops again.

Wait, what?

Simon Tillier: Wait, what?

Tanner Quest: It’s best to just blame Charles Beckett and move on.

Oh. Charles.

Simon Tillier: Sound advice for any situation. Tanner, thank you for joining us tonight. We’ll see you–and all our viewers–a month from now for the Belmont Classic!Cut.

ReVival moves on.

Through the backstage halls, Lindsay Troy moves with purpose, heading for her office. Along the way, she tends to a text on her phone, while smiling and nodding to crew members as they do all that’s necessary to make a successful show come to life.

And all that life… gets sucked right out of the room when Lindsay Troy arrives at her office, pushing open the Steel Door O’Doom to find an uninvited guest.

Lindsay Troy: Who let you in?

The Anti-PRIME pushes himself up out of a comfortable looking chair and smiles.

Tchu: I was sneaky. And I asked nicely.

Lindsay Troy: (frowning) Where’s that been the last couple months? I…

The sarcasm quickly drops off Troy’s voice and she takes a slow breath. There’s clearly something that’s unsaid but very present in the room with the two long-time friends/enemies/friends/enemies/you get the idea.

Lindsay Troy: I’m sorry, Matt.

Tchu: Yeah, I know. Georgie said you’ve been real supportive, helped her out. I appreciate it.

Lindsay Troy: You two still talking?

Tchu: Texting. Here and there. I still don’t love what she’s doing. She still doesn’t love that I don’t love it.

Lindsay Troy: Maybe now would be a good time to be supportive.

The Inhuman Being looks away and scratches at his neck, shaking his head.

Tchu: I don’t think it just works like that and it’s not why I stopped by.

Lindsay Troy: Broke in.

Tchu: Fair.

Lindsay Troy: And you should probably be leaving. I’m sorry for what you’re going through right now, Matty, really. I can’t begin to imagine. But this isn’t a normal “family butting heads” type of fight. This is a “you crossed the line” type of fight, and I’m not ready to think about forgiveness yet. You’ve been a real piece of shit the last couple months.

Troy steps to the side, clearing the doorway.

Tchu: I can’t argue with any of that, and I’ll certainly get outta your hair. I just wanted to come here tonight in person to tell you I’m sorry. When I came back here three years ago, I probably expected that I’d step right in and pick up where I left off. That’d I’d steamroll everyone. That’d it’d feel like home. But it wasn’t that way. That’s not what it was, and that’s probably as much… more my fault than anyone… but when I came back a couple months ago, I just lashed out. It’s easy to be like the bull in the china shop. Bring everything down with ya. Doesn’t make it right, doesn’t make it fair to you, but it’s what it was. And I’m sorry.

The Queen of the Ring takes her second deep, slow breath of the last few minutes, chewing on what to say next.

Lindsay Troy: Are you wanting to call off the match?

Matt chuckles and shakes his head as he briefly looks down at the floor. When he turns his eyes back toward Troy, there’s a soft smile on his face. Probably the first genuine one in months.

Tchu: God no. Sounds like you wouldn’t mind smacking me around a little bit. And I made a promise to you many many years ago. I may have been an asshole here lately, but I’m an asshole of my word. Besides, this is the way ya go out. The biggest stage. The best to have ever done this, stepping into the ring against the 2nd best to ever do it.

Lindsay Troy: (eyebrow raised) Which one are you and which one am I?

Tchu: Let’s find out. How about 2 out-of-3 falls. Anyone can get lucky once. Leave no doubt?

Lindsay Troy: (chucking) It wasn’t luck the first time. Or the second. Or the third. I don’t think I’ll need luck the fourth time, but you’re on.

A roar of excitement goes up inside the WVU Coliseum.

Tchu: So it’s settled. I’ll see you in Atlanta. One last rodeo.

Lindsay Troy: For you. I’ve still got many more opponents left to conquer.

The Hall of Famer allows himself a chuckle and slips past PRIME’s Final Boss, making his exit through the doorway she’d cleared a moment earlier.

Lindsay Troy: Matthew…

Ward stops in his tracks, not more than a half-step outside the office.

Lindsay Troy: I meant it when I said now would be a good time to start supporting Georgie. She’s in the Belmont Classic this year. I’m very selective with who I send, and I don’t send someone every year. Only the exceptional get to go. You should be there.

Now it’s the Inhuman Being’s turn to let out a deep slow breath, and as he finishes his exhale, he reaches back and grabs the doorknob to Troy’s office, slamming shut the conversation.

The show cuts back down to the ring.

Nick Stuart: Up next starts the Red Army’s portion of action for the evening with Rose taking on Hayes Hanlon.

Richard Parker: Ya know, as much as I love Soviet Russia, and I do love me some Soviet Russia, but ever since Hayes beat that idiot at Colossus for the Universal Championship he’s had a special place in my heart. He can do no wrong. Ever.

Nick Stuart: Noted. Also worth noting is that both of these competitors have each appeared in over thirty matches here in PRIME’s ReVival era, so needless to say experience won’t offer an edge.

Richard Parker: Yeah, this match is going to come down to who can beat the shit out of the other person more. Should be a hoot.

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

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.

‘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, and Rose finds her corner of the ring.

Nick Stuart: Rose looks ready for the challenge tonight, Dick! Can she bring victory back to the Red Army tonight?

Richard Parker: No, not that I’m hating, but give me Hayes Hanlon. The guy is a two-time UNIVERSAL CHAMPION who allegedly ages in reverse, or not at all. That’s tough to beat in my book.

A distorted guitar heralds the black hole emerging on the Crumbotron(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 Comeback Kid sure does look confident! He is coming off a controversial loss to 5-Star Champion, Kerry Kuroyama.

Richard Parker: Controversial?

Nick Stuart: Well, yeah. What else would you call getting disqualified for trying to break the arm of your opponent and not listening to the referee?

Richard Parker: A Jiles?

Ha.

Ashley Barlow goes over the rules with both competitors before calling for the bell. She makes it a point to go over them twice with Hayes.

DING~!

Hayes and Rose waste no time getting to know each other and meet in the center of the ring. There, they start to exchange blo- attacks of a closed fist nature. One thing is obvious, while Rose might be tall for a woman and is holding her own, she is vastly undersized when compared to Hanlon. He has a good five inches on her, and is double her weight. If she is going to continue to exchange with him at this frantic, kinetic rate, well, she might like how the match ends.

Nick Stuart: Ferocious start to the match! These two are tearing into each other!

Richard Parker: You would think they each owed each other money the way they are going at it!

The fists open. Hanlon sends Rose down to the canvas with a double axehandle. She immediately pops right back up and responds in kind with a forearm smash… a knee to the gut, a kick to the shin, a Euro uppercut, a knife edge chop, another knife edge chop, some more closed fists, and then, a stiff elbow that knocks the spit out of Hanlon’s mouth!

Nick Stuart: Wow! That landed flush!

Instead of continuing to duke it out with the larger competitor who ages in both forward and reverse, Rose side steps his retaliatory punch and takes aim at Hayes’ throat.

Nick Stuart: Got him! Rose is hitting on all cylinders!

Nick is right. Rose doesn’t miss and the impact and precision of her attack causes Hayes’ eyes to wobble around to the back of his head.

Nick Stuat: Quick roll up by The Second Coming! Could it be!?!

Ashley Barlow drops down to the canvas to make the count.

1!

2!!

Richard Parker: Could it really be over already? Hayes wasn’t “late” getting to the arena again, was he?

KICKOUT!

Hanlon snaps out of it and clears the cobwebs just in time. He then powers his way upright, and swings wildly at Rose with an attempted clothesline.

Then…

Nick Stuart: OH MY! ROSE JUST HIT HANLON WITH A FLASH POINT OF HER OWN FROM OUT OF NO WHERE! AGAIN WITH A QUICK COVER THIS ONE COULD BE OVER!

1!

2!!

Richard Parker: And again, I ask, are we sure Hayes wasn’t “late” getting to the arena?

FOOT ON THE ROPE!

Nick Stuart: Hanlon lives! He got his foot on the rope just in time!

A quick picture in picture replay shows that Hayes did indeed get his foot on the rope in time.

Nick Stuart: What a start for Rose though! It seems like this match began 100 words ago and Hayes Hanlon is already in deep trouble.

Rose argues with Barlow about the count, and whether or not Hayes got his foot on the rope in time. While that is happening, Hayes rolls out of the ring to put some space and safety between him and his competition. Eventually Rose notices and also exits the ring with the sole intention of helping Hayes find his way back. Instead of engaging her however, Hayes starts to trot away in the opposite direction.

Nick Stuart: Well, first time for everything I suppose. I can’t remember if anyone has ever chased Hayes around the bases before.

Richard Parker: He just better hope he doesn’t get thrown out at home.

Hanlon slides into the ring, with Rose quickly following behind him. When she enters the ring though, she is greeted by Hayes’ big foot to the back of her head. Hanlon quickly follows that up with another boot, and then drops the back of that big ole’ leg of his across Rose’s neck. After that, he helps The Second Coming upright, scoops her up, and slams her down.

Then he does it again.

And again.

And again.

Richard Parker: That’s a lot of ice cream! I don’t know if there’s enough room for five scoops on Rose’s cone!

Nick Stuart: Say Dick, how about next time try talking about when Hayes debuted that move, okay?

The Comeback Kid drops a thunderous elbow and holds the finish for a very lazy, but flashy pin.

1!

2!!

Richard Parker: This could be it!

Nick Stuart: He’s not beating her like this.

KICK OUT!

Nick Stuart: See.

Before Hayes finds his feet he slaps the mat in frustration, still not happy with the outcome. Meanwhile, Rose writhes around on the canvas clutching at her back.

Then, suddenly, out from the back FLAMBO emerges. He heads straight down to the ring, and offers Hanlon some encouragement.

Nick Stuart: What’s he doing out here?

Richard Parker: Who cares!?! It’s Flamberge! He can do whatever he wants!

Nick Stuart: I certainly won’t stop him, though I think if he gets more involved in this match the rest of the Red Army might have something to say about it.

Whatever The Lizard King says, works. Hanlon regains his composure and prepares to walk off on Rose. He points out to the crowd as if to call his shot, and then moves in for the kill. Rose, however, is not going to go quietly into the night — she is a woman after all — and has different plans for The Time Traveler. Hanlon goes for a possible fifth scoop slam, but Rose counters with an inside cradle! Barlow is right to make the count. Hayes’ legs are kicking around something frantic! FLAMBO is out of position on the other side of the ring!

1!

2!!

KICK OUT at 2.9!!

Hanlon rages to his feet. Rose is already back up on hers. She swings at him with a closed fist, but Hayes catches it like a baseball in the palm of his hand. Rose panics, trying to pull away. She can not, so she swings again, this time with her other hand, and just like before, Hanlon catches it like a baseball. Rose, ever desperate, slams her forehead into the sternum of Hanlon in an attempt to free herself.

It works.

The Girl in the Black Dress is free.

There is just enough separation for her to plant her foot into Hayes’ potted face.

Nick Stuart: SUPERKICK!

Richard Parker: God I hate that move.

Hayes is stunned, and reeling, but is still on his feet. His back is up against the ropes, and Rose charges in and springs into action with a backhand spring flying elbow!! The only problem is Hayes catches her — while she is springing backwards — and then release German’s her over the top rope.

THUD.

The building goes instantly silent.

Barlow starts to admonish Hayes for his malicious actions. All the while, mind you, Hayes has a rosey glow about him. On the outside of the ring FLAMBO is counting his blessings since Rose didn’t land on him. And Rose, poor Rose, well she landed more on her side as opposed to getting totally folded up like a pretzel. Still, she’s not moving, and it doesn’t look very good for her.

Nick Stuart: That looked like it hurt. Somebody might need to come out here and check on Rose. This match could be over.

Hanlon ignores Barlow’s warning, claiming he’s only going to go and help Rose back into the ring. And, true to his word, after accidentally scoop slamming her for a fifth time, on the outside of the ring, he does indeed help her up and get her back to where she needs to be. There would have been a sixth, but FLAMBO of all people stepped in as if to say enough is enough.

Richard Parker: Good thing! We might have had to scrape her up if he scoop slammed her for a sixth time.

Both Hayes and Rose are now back in the ring. One of them is clinging to consciousness, and the other is Hayes Hanlon. Instead of pinning Rose, ending the match, and allowing her to go live at the chiropractor for the next six months, Hayes puts Rose down the hard way. He hits the most unsurprising FLASH POINT ever, and then looks at FLAMBO while covering Rose.

1.

2.

3.

Ding~! Ding~!

Hanlon quickly rolls off of Rose and gets his hand raised by Barlow.

Vince Howard: Here is your winner, HAYYYYYYYYYYESSSSSSSSSSSSS…….. HANNNNNNNNLONNNNNNNN!!!!

FLAMBO joins Hayes in the ring, but instead of joining in on the celebration, he offers Rose a helping hand!?!

Nick Stuart: WAIT!? WHAT IS THIS? A DEFECTION?

Rose, almost lifeless, reaches out to accept, and just as she is about to grab FLAMBO’s hand…

…he pulls back and flips her the bird instead.

Richard Parker: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!! Too good.

The parting shot is of Hayes and FLAMBO dapping it up in the name of GLUE.

ReVival moves on.

The lights begin to dim in the WVU Coliseum as the fans return from getting delicious snacks and drinks, perhaps an alcoholic lemonade, perhaps a pretzel. These are the finest foodstuffs for the watching of the Almasy Winner and the Universal Champion standing across the ring for each other for the first time since the match was locked in after Cecilworth Farthington’s victory over Nate Colton.

As everyone settles in for whatever the events that are just about to occur, the cameras cut directly to the announce table with Nick Stuart and Richard Parker.

Nick Stuart: And now we’ve got what promises to be a whopper of a conversation.

Richard Parker: I have a bad feeling about this one. I know both of these men well enough to believe that ring may be on fire by the end of this conversation. We’d have to cancel the main event and everything!

On opposing turnbuckles of the ring sit two microphones, prepped and ready for both challenger and champion to make their entrance. The wide shot shows everything in place for the arrival of the participants, including several of the meatier members of Dam’s security team.

Richard Parker: Those are some beefy boys at ringside, they better get ready to protect me.

Nick Stuart: Protect you?

“I said ‘kiss me, you’re beautiful’

These are truly the last days'”

WHOOOOOOOOOOO!

An immediate pulsewave of noise ripples across the WVU Coliseum at the twelve familiar words that signal the arrival of one half of the Colossus main event.

Nick Stuart: Listen to that ovation, Richard! It is tense in here, and there’s no doubt about the interest in this match.

Richard Parker: That’s just the warmup for this crowd so that they can appropriately show their reverence for the Universal Champion.

The short acoustic section of Coheed & Cambria’s “Welcome Home” tinkles along until, after twelve seconds, we enter nothing the rafter-shaking thunder guitar.

The PRIME*View reads out in simple white over a back background:

M O D E L

C I T I Z E N

Nick Stuart: Here we go. Our challenger has arrived in style!

There’s a not-unhealthy swagger to the step of Chandler Tsonda. Upon hearing the crowd’s roar, he gestures with both hands for more. Pyro at his back illuminates his silhouette as he holds both arms wide. The Colossus signage just at the edge of the stage is none too subtle.

Richard Parker: And to think, we’re a few short days away from Cecilworth putting this old nag out to pasture. Almost makes me sad.

Nick Stuart: Does it?

Richard Parker: I said almost.

Tsonda, decked out in a classic cut black jacket with wide, tailored black pants, has a debonair quality. But he clearly is ready for more than just words, as he cracks his neck and does some light shoulder circles on his way down to the ring. The #1 contender seems to expect things to get physical at some point.

He steps through the ropes and once inside, he takes just a moment to soak up the adulation. Like any good crowd, the WVU faithful do their best work as his music concludes.

TSON-DA! TSON-DA! TSON-DA!

The Model Citizen hasn’t even made it to his corner and his microphone, through the sea of security that line the middle of the ring, when the most formidable sound in PRIME hits the PA.

Richard Parker: Why am I feeling uncomfortable about the prospect of two men talking?

Nick Stuart: Well, given our security out here, I don’t think you were alone in being concerned at what is about to happen.

The warbling guitar lick of doom, also known as the introduction to “Choke” by I Don’t Know How But They Found Me brings the focus back to the top of the entrance way as the ring, and therefore Tsonda, is brought to darkness, something Tsonda very likely isn’t too pleased with. A single spotlight shines in the middle of the entrance and it isn’t long before the Universal Champion plunks himself down in the centre of it, the Universal Championship wrapped tightly around his waist, gleaming in the light and looking as shiny as ever.

The crowd, ever familiar with the parts of the song about dragging people into place and of course, breaking pretty faces, seems a bit more on the nose tonight than normal as they join in on the sweet “yeah, yeah” bits of the song, because it’s always fun to sing with things.

Nick Stuart: On the last ReVival, Cecilworth Farthington reminded us that in this era of PRIME, in the ReVival era of PRIME, he now holds the record for the most days as Universal Champion and yet, since his loss to Matt Ward, there’s been something almost haunted about him.

Richard Parker: Did we just get to Farthington Madness one year too late? He seems pretty mad right now, I don’t think he’s even blinked once, his eyes haven’t left Tsonda from the second he stepped into the light.

The camera pans around the Universal Champion in the spotlight, adorned as he is in a nice charcoal gray suit with matching vest. No tie though, that could be used as a weapon. Just to add a little bit of spice, a small gold chain dangles from Farthington’s lapel into a picket, where the man definitely owns a pocket watch. He begins a slow walk to the ring where as Richard Parker identified, Farthington seems very unlikely to spot looking at Tsonda in the eye, his eye contact paying little mind to fans, the noises they make, or any other ballyhoo that could be occurring.

The noise matters little, the only thing that matters is the Almasy winner standing in the ring. Farthington’s concentration is broken for a brief moment as he realises how many large beefy gentlemen appear to be at ringside, but his focus immediately returns to Tsonda as he steps up the ring steps into the ring, grabbing his respective microphone.

With both men present, a hushed air breaks across the crowd, no one really sure what a face to face meeting in the ring between Farthington and Tsonda could possibly lead to, but for them, the assumption is all roads lead to chaos.

Nick Stuart: The tension is so thick in that ring right now, I doubt even a chainsaw would put a dent in it.

Richard Parker: My poor heart can’t take these moments, Nick, the doctor says I need medication for them now.

Both men seem unwilling to make the first move, neither one breaking eye contact with the other. 30 seconds pass, perhaps a minute, and there’s still no progress in the game of atmospheric chicken. The crowd’s nervous energy is translated in an escalating series of cheers, louder and louder despite the silence in the ring.

Just before there are concerns that this might be a mute stand-off, Farthington is the first to shoot his proverbial microphone bullet, which is a good analogy actually and you are rude for thinking otherwise.

Cecilworth Farthington: Well, Chandler, my friend, you asked for this. You wanted this. So why don’t you go ahead…

Farthington gestures with an open palm towards the Almasy winner. The Viet Viper returns the gesture with a Warren-Buffett’s-net-worth smile in the direction of the champ.

Richard Parker: Magnanimous as ever. Tsonda could never.

The Model Citizen maintains direct eye contact with his Colossus foe. The sustained shared gaze between the two men is doing nothing to throw water on the heat and tension that crackles between them. What can a crowd do with that atmosphere, but note it with the subtlety and grace that wrestling crowds are wont to possess?

HO-LY SHIT! HO-LY SHIT! HO-LY SHIT!

For the first time ever, the Financier and the Model Citizen are face to face in the ring (or as face to face as they can be, given the many security guards between them).

Chandler Tsonda: Congrats.

Nick Stuart: Not what I expected as the first words out of Chandler’s mouth.

Chandler Tsonda: Congrats, Ceece. It’s all worth celebrating: you’ve got the record-breaking title reign, you’ve fended off yet another of PRIME’s best, and you’ve got a claim to being the greatest Universal Champion of this era.

While Farthington isn’t the fan favorite, there is a sizable “you do gotta hand it to ‘em”-sized pop for the accolades. Farthington for his part rolls his eyes at Tsonda, circulating his hand in a “get to the point” gesture, that quite a few of the fans do not appreciate in the same way.

Chandler Tsonda: So if I was you, a dominant champion and herald of a bright new era, I might ask myself: why was the oh-so-easy-on-the-eyes Number One Contender so eager to give all this up for a match against Nate Colton?

At this point, Cecilworth has decided to take his perch against the top of the ring rope, doing a comedic and pantomimic level of “I’m listening” that would do shame to even the greatest of Dame.

Richard Parker: I’ll take “what is because he’s a pompous dick?” now let’s go to potent potables for 600.

Chandler Tsonda: Maybe I underestimated you, Ceece. Maybe I thought it would be neat to face off against a guy who’s had my back, and who does things the right way. Maybe I didn’t want to wrestle a whole ass Colossus main event with having to keep the threat of the Glue cavalry in the back of my mind. Maybe you just ain’t my cuppa earl grey.

The Model Citizen takes a moment, takes a breath. This is not his typical off-the-cuff fire-from-the-hip wordplay. Clearly, he has been thinking through what to tell the indomitable champion for quite some time.

Nick Stuart: One possibility here that Chandler hasn’t mentioned: in 2008, he won the Jewel in the Crown tournament, only to fall short against a similarly long-running champion to Cecilworth. That champion, of course, is the woman who now runs the ship in PRIME, Lindsay Troy.

Richard Parker: One can only hope that history repeats itself.

Chandler Tsonda: I thought, despite the incredible list of challengers you’ve put down during your reign, that you didn’t have another dogfight in you. Shit, man, I’ll be straight about it: I just thought he was better than you.

In most people, you would assume there would be a standard level of offense at this comment, but as a man who has spent his career having this very statement lobbed in his direction, Farthington seems very non-plussed, and as if to exaggerate the levels of nonplussed he wishes to portray, he has now wrapped his arms around the top rope and bounced against them, like creating some form of in-ring swing.

Chandler Tsonda: Nate’s a hell of a talent. But on that night (gestures to the Universal Title) with that belt on the line, you were better. And I wanted to tell you, eye to eye, three words that I’m loathe to ever say: I was wrong.

A collective “ooooh” from the crowd is the response. It must be a big moment if we’re getting any bit of self-reflection from the world’s vainest hero(ish).

Chandler Tsonda: I was wrong, and it’s never been clearer: you’re the man around here. You’re the best that PRIME has to offer. And I am the best shot there’s ever been to take that strap off you. You’re the biggest, baddest wolf, and I’m stepping into the forest in my cutest little red riding hood.

All present are now, just for a second, imagining that image. Tsonda keeps rolling, and he takes a step towards Farthington. Not a violent or threatening step, but all of the security contingent tenses up as Tsonda moves from his corner. He continues addressing the Financier. Farthington remains stoically lounging longingly against the long ropes.

Chandler Tsonda: I respect excellence, Ceece. Hypercompetence like yours, that alone is enough to make me hold my nose and admit: I respect you. It would be better theater for me to come out here and do the bit everyone loves and degrade every one of your accomplishments in an oh-so-charming monologue. I’d be all “I already beat the ace of the Glue Factory to win the Almasy, so what’s their second banana gonna do when I come for the Universal Title?”

The “OOOOOOOH” is louder and even more of a schoolyard feel this time. Them’s fightin’ words. For Cecilworth’s part, he just looks down at the Universal Championship and smiles.

Chandler Tsonda: But I won’t front. You’re the real deal. You’re a worthy Colossus main eventer. I saw it in your eyes from the front row in South Carolina that night against Colton, that rare and staggering thing: the greatness of a champion. The Michael Jordan in-winning-time feeling of inevitability. You have it.

Tsonda pauses, and looks out at the crowd. He’s impregnating the pause.

Nick Stuart: I have to say, this is much more complimentary of Farthington than I would’ve expected.

Richard Parker: First decent thing Tsonda’s ever done is speak highly of our champion. Now, for him to do the second decent thing, and give away his title shot to someone who wasn’t born during the Gerald Ford presidency.

Tsonda has acknowledged the truly superlative reign of Farthington, and resisted (ok almost resisted) taking pot shots. He knows the stakes, and has shown it with a rare and serious air.

Chandler Tsonda: You got it, Ceece. But you ain’t got it like me.

WHOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker could swear Cecilworth just muttered “thank christ” under his breath.

Chandler Tsonda: Your list of title challengers is a who’s who of PRIME’s best. Just like the list of who I went through in the Almasy to get here.

The Model Citizen is now gesticulating wildly, emphasizing each point with a pointed index finger in the general direction of the champion.

Chandler Tsonda: You said last week that we’ve both trying to outrun ghosts from Colossus 2023, and how right you were. That’s a hell of a path for you and I to both take, only to end up on opposite sides of December 6th’s grand finale. Shit, I might even get romantic for a second and say that you and me, Farthington, we were destined to meet up here and now, in West Virginia.

Just because it’s serious doesn’t mean we can’t get a quick cheap pop in. We can have it all.

Chandler Tsonda: And me? I was destined (moves his gaze to the Universal Title) to be the one to relieve you of THAT. Because for as spiffy as you are, you’ve never walked into Colossus and gotten it done with the Uni on the line. Only one of us has, and it’s the one who’s got the microphone.

Farthington, now fully resting his head against the turnbuckle in a wondrous gaze towards Tsonda, gently points at the microphone in his own hand.

TSON-DA! TSON-DA! TSON-DA!

Nick Stuart: The crowd is putting their energy behind Tsonda tonight.

Richard Parker: And being West Virginia, that energy is coal. Which is fitting.

Chandler Tsonda: I’m not making my case tonight for why I’m gonna win the big belt. I’m making it in the ring in two weeks. But I’m telling you: you’ve yet to meet the motherfucker who’s ready to lay it all on the line for that strap like me. And you’re not going to like what happens when you’re alone in there, under the bright lights, with Big Match Chan.

Tsonda, having become incredibly animated, calms himself with a breath. It’s all calm, cool, collected, and with tension that’s thicker than bricks once again.

Chandler Tsonda: You were a real mensch to let me say my piece first. So I’ll just leave it with one question: what the hell are you gonna do to stop me from walking out of Colossus with the Universal Title?

There is a large air of support for Tsonda, the crowd is clearly buzzing in many directions but most of those find their home with the Almasy winner. Farthington for his part slowly pulls himself out of his respectful listening perch atop the turnbuckle and lifts up his own microphone.

Richard Parker: This is going to get real bad, real quick, I can tell. I just know it.

Nick Stuart: Remember we have the nice beefy men to protect us if it comes to it. You’ll be fine, I’ll be fine.

Farthington takes a moment to survey the battlefield of the ring, he can see the energy it has taken Tsonda to speak with passion, and he can sense how much it meant to Tsonda to share this. He knows the momentum in this head to head meeting alone is with Tsonda.

Cecilworth Farthington: You know, I really don’t blame this crowd for supporting you Chandler. You’re a glazer, you’re a gaslighter, you’ve got them believing you are the hero of this story.

The crowd reacts in a manner which implies that they concur, that yes, they do believe Chandler Tsonda is a hero and they only want good things for the man.

Cecilworth Farthington: I am concerned though. For the last however many minutes we’ve been in this ring, I’ve looked you in the eyes and what worries me is that you think you’re the hero of this story. A man high on his own supply.

A little bit of Cecilworth’s lip curls up and scientists will argue whether it is a sneer or a smug smile.

Cecilworth Farthington: I’m a kind man though, so, in my greatest display of respect to you, I’ll let you live in that world for just a bit longer. I’ve never been one to drop spoilers.

There’s a crunchy noise coming from the crowd, it’s jeering but in a confused and uncomfortable manner. Just as the crunch lands into the ring, Cecilworth looks towards Tsonda, opens his fist and lets his own microphone drop to the ground.

Thud

Hissss

Nick Stuart: He’ll probably get fined for that. It sounds like he broke that microphone.

The security that has stayed in place for the entire exchange so far gets a bit antsy at the gesture of Farthington dropping the microphone and they start to hop up onto the apron one by one. As they are about to pivot into the ring, Farthington smiles and gestures them off as he slides under the bottom rope and out of the ring, waving a quick goodbye to the Almasy winner as he does so. Tsonda tries to keep a poker face, but the furrow of his eyebrows suggests that he, too, can’t quite figure out Cecilworth’s game.

Nick Stuart: What is the Universal Champion’s game here? We just heard a passionate testimony from Chandler Tsonda and he’s just going to walk out in response?

Richard Parker: Did Tsonda get into his head? Surely not. That doesn’t seem scientifically possible for a multitude of reasons. First…

Nick Stuart: Maybe later, Richard.

The crowd seems stunned in their initial reaction to Farthington’s gesture, and it isn’t until he fully turns his back on the ring and walks off on the left side of the entrance way that it truly dawns on everyone that Farthington has walked out of the exchange, leaving Chandler Tsonda watching on and wondering what kind of game the champion is running on him. By the time the crowd can start to make sense of it, Farthington is already out of sight.

ReVival moves on.

The New World Trash. That’s what we see upon being thrown elsewhere. Well, their logo anyway. As the camera zooms out, it becomes obvious the branding is contained on a T-shirt. The clothing is worn by RIA Lockhart, damp hair and a wardrobe change a sign of being freshly showered. Where’s she headed? What’s she doing? What’s the capital of Vermont?

We get the answer to at least one of those questions… Montpelier. But also, the Psychoberry stops by the catering table and snatches a bottle of water. As she unscrews the cap and takes a sip, a figure begins creeping up behind her. Closer and closer the individual draws… Before they finally pounce!

???: BOO!

RIA’s body jolts, nearly losing her grip on the beverage in her hand. She whips around and finds herself face to face with who else but Anna Daniels…dressed up as the anime personification of a former racehorse. She proceeds to dance like an Egyptian and twirl around.

AnnGol DanShi: Dumbass alert, dumbass alert. We would think that after this long you’d learn to watch your six.

Shrug.

Anna Daniels: Ah, well. Let’s get this over with so the geriatric humans can go back to sleep with these lame ass matches.

The shrug of the Muse’s shoulders is followed up by the flick of a hand. A bit of paper suddenly warps in from nowhere and is stuffed in between Ria’s tits. In disbelief, Lockhart takes the note from said tits. The message is scrawled in precise calligraphy.

Annaperennaepsilonomnicrex Daniels-vol-Xianthellipse

casually invites

Ria Whoeverthefuckyouactuallyare

to a battle of fisticuffs at

Mercedes Benz Stadium

on Danielscember 5 or 6ish

(timezones pending)Fite us! Y/N

There are two checkboxes. One box makes you larger and one box makes you small. The ones that mother gives you don’t do anything at all. The Psychoberry could question what the hell is going on here. She could just rip the paper up and walk away (in theory, at least.) Instead…

RIA Lockhart: You got a pen?

Another flick of Anna’s hand, and RIA has a quill, fresh with ink on the tip. Without hesitation, the Y checkbox has an X inscribed into it. Lockhart holds the paper out towards Daniels.

RIA Lockhart: You’re gonna get what you want… But I’m gonna give you a fair warning; it ain’t gonna be on your terms. You can try to turn my skull into a flesh football if ya want. But me? I’m gonna have fun with this. Cuz fuck it, why worry?

Anna Daniels: Suuuuure you are.

Yeah. I don’t think Anna’s convinced of that. Whatever though. She looks at the paper.

Anna Daniels: Let’s see… battle of fisticuffs, around Cucklossus time, you checked yes.

Just as quickly as the invite appeared, it has disappeared. A look to RIA.

Anna Daniels: How is this not on our terms again? We did the writing and everything.

RIA smirks after the question. She draws in close, just out of personal bubble distance. Her arms go behind her back, one hand clutching another while looking the Muse up and down.

RIA Lockhart: Oh sure. If you wanna go no deeper than the paper, you’re right. But you know it’s more complicated than that. So I’ll expand on what I mean.

Lockhart bounces back a few steps, her arms flinging from behind her and out to her sides.

RIA Lockhart: I am not gonna fight you with hate. With anger. I’m gonna fight you cuz that’s what you want. I’m gonna fight you cuz this is what I love. And while I won’t get into it now, I kinda owe you this.

Anna Daniels: Uh-huh. Honestly, girl, half the stuff you’ve said to us has been a crock of shit so far. And given that we’ve teamed up with a man that faked cancer, that’s saying something. So if you don’t mind, we’ll just default to not believing that and continue to train against the inevitable fuckery.

DanShi’s getting boredshi. It’s evident by the tired yawn and the stretching. Yet the stretch bounces back into a pose with a confident smile attached.

Anna Daniels: If you have any last words, we encourage you to say them now. You’ll forget them by next arc anyway. Best to get them out the way.

Lockhart nods, hopping onto an equipment box. She crosses one leg over the other, her gaze staying on Anna.

RIA Lockhart: You want last words? Sure. You can say we aren’t sisters. You can serve that bond verbally if you want. But the fact is that I’m gonna remain a stain on your very essence. No matter how you try to cleanse yourself, no matter what steps you take to rid yourself of me, I’ll never be truly gone. I am your twin flame, babe.

The Steel Hart uncrosses her legs and leans back, her arms keeping her propped up. She swings her legs back and forth, her eyes now on the wall in front of her.

RIA Lockhart: And what about you? Anything else before you trot off like none of this matters?

Raking her fingers through the faux-mane, the Time Lord thinks.

Anna Daniels: Sure.

Suddenly, Anna’s running toward RIAAAAAAA waving her hands around before performing a picture perfect running dropkick right onto her chest. Lockhart topples over…but her head is protected by a nice velvet pillow.

Anna Daniels: We don’t need to get rid of you. You’ll do that to yourself. Everybody does. If you think that’s what this is about? You’re barking up the wrong walrus.

With ease, Anna pops to her feet and walks away. Perhaps this child of Perdition is on the hunt for Eden. Either way.

ReVival moves on.

Cameras catch up with Cecilworth Farthington as he exits the WVU Coliseum. A vibrant Morgantown crowd can be heard roaring in the background as the Universal Champion seems to mostly be muttering to himself, most things along the lines of “he doesn’t get what he wants” and “what a rude man, so many of them are so rude”.

Farthington had clearly planned to walk right out of his Universal Championship face off with Chandler Tsonda and if there was no clearer message of that intention, it was Farthington storming up and down the loading docks, clearly awaiting something.

Suddenly, a fancy luxury vehicle careens up to the curb, leaving little to no doubt it was there to pick up The Conga Crusher. Paying no mind to his surroundings, the champion helps himself to the back door of the car. Once inside, he seems to settle down by taking a deep breath. A moment goes by as Farthington notices they aren’t moving.

Cecilworth Farthington: Oh, right, we’re not moving. This is how the world works these days, am I right? I know I’m two minutes ahead of the pick up time but I don’t think you have to drive off at the exact time. It’s very hard to perfectly anticipate EXACTLY when you’d storm out of an in-ring face off, you just know it’s going to happen. It’s very vibe driven and speaking of driven, why are you still not driving?

The driver remains perfectly still, as if it were a dummy. Then, slowly, the driver’s head turns. It keeps turning and turning until it’s almost completely facing the wrong way.

Cecilworth Farthington: I don’t think I requested a haunted child as a driver, that was very much a two weeks ago sort of thing.

Cecilworth reaches out and quickly notices the face of the driver is nothing more than a cheap, plastic Halloween skull.

Cecilworth Farthington: What the, this is already two weeks too late–!

Just then, the car starts to shake uncontrollably when a group of men decked out in all black everything, including ski masks, surround the car. The adjacent car door to Farthington is not only opened, but completely ripped off its hinges by a huge, hulking man. This man gives way to a much more average sized individual who plunges into the vehicle like a torpedo shot out from a cannon. There’s lots of screaming and howling as Cecilworth unknowingly finds himself under attack.

Man in Black: CECILWORTH! YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN! IT’S TIME YOU GET MAULED–WITH MALWARE!

The struggle ensues until parts of the crowd break away from the car and ambush the lone camera shooting the action like wolves to prey. Cut to static.

Nick Stuart: And now, partner – it’s main event time! Trios action between the Red Army and Vae Victis!

Richard Parker: Two of PRIME’s most powerful factions, this could sway a good deal of momentum heading into Colossus!

“The Soviet National Anthem” by the Russian Red Army Choir erupts to a chorus of boos from the West Virginia crowd. We pan over and see an older gentleman holding up a “BETTER DEAD THAN RED” sign, and an older woman next to him holding up a “THE BANDITS ARE SCRAMBLED” sign of his own. Ivan Stanislav, Tony Gamble, and Hessian all raise their arms in unison as they stride towards the ring.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, tonight’s main event is a TRIOS MATCH scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, at a combined weight of 957 pounds…the RED! ARMYYYYY!

Hessian and Stanislav completely tower over Gamble, who looks supremely confident to be backed by two seven footers. They make their way to the far corner.

“Stranger Fruit” by Zeal & Ardor blasts through the speakers to big cheers as big pink beacons swirl throughout the arena. Green, blue, and white fireworks spark up as Kerry Kuroyama, Scott Hunter, and Clay Byrd respectively step out onto the stage. Clay looks supremely focused and pumped up, ready to kick some ass with his big dumb cowboy hat. Kerry and Scott look like they’re ready for a fight, too, though they’re less exuberant about it.

Vince Howard: And their opponents! At a combined weight of 784 pounds…VAEEEE VICTIIIIIIIIS!

The chattering between opponents has already begun; Byrd, the loudest out of the VV corner, while Ivan and Tony seem to be chirping in equal measure. Referee Elvis Nixon makes sure they stay separated.

In the VV corner, there’s a little bit of bickering about who should start the match. As soon as Kerry and Scott start pointing fingers at each other, Clay makes the executive decision and enters the ring himself. In the Red Army corner, Stanislav motions for Hessian to start things off, and he obliges with a nod.

Richard Parker: It looks like we’re wasting no time with the heavies!

Nick Stuart: Though in fairness, for the Red Army, that’s most of their team!

Nixon signals for the bell!

DING DING

Nick Stuart: An absolutely titanic clash here tonight, partner!

It’s rare for Clay Byrd to be the smaller man in a wrestling ring – but that doesn’t mean he intends to fight from underneath. He charges forward and initiates the lockup with the 370 pound Murdershow; it’s a tight test of strength, with Hessian maybe getting a bit of leverage advantage and finding an angle to shove Byrd into the ropes. Byrd rebounds and throws a BIG ol’ forearm smash that connects flush with Hessian’s sternum! He barely takes a half step back!

Byrd shouts up at Hessian to “bring it on you bullshit communist gestapo-” and before he can complete the thought, Hessian runs back into the opposite ropes, rebounds, and clubs Byrd with a big smash of his own! Byrd sells it even less than Hessian, dusting off his left pec!

They lock eyes. In a simultaneous flash, they charge at opposite ropes, rebound, and throw simultaneous forearm strikes! It’s a colossal crash, but both men are standing! They rebound again – another pair of elbows! Rebound – another pair! This one seems to catch Byrd a little harshly, and we can see a deep red forearm-shaped line forming across his chest. He winces and half-doubles over. Tony Gamble sees this and slaps his partner’s back for the blind tag, shouting “One more!”

Hessian and Byrd rebound off the ropes one more time – Hessian goes for the big lariat this time, but Byrd ducks it! Byrd charges forward and goes for the spear! He connects, and Hessian is planted to the mat!

Just as Byrd gets to his feet to celebrate, Gamble has perched himself upon the top ropes behind him! Scott shouts a warning to Clay, which causes him to turn – he sees Gamble flying right for him with a top rope leg drop! Clay catches him in powerbomb position! Gamble throws rights and lefts into Clay’s skull, fighting to get out of his predicament. Byrd stumbles a bit, annoyed that the can’t get this hornet’s nest off his head – but he powers the hell up, sets his feet, and PLANTS Gamble with a big powerbomb!

Nick Stuart: Clay Byrd running rampant out there!

Richard Parker: He’s signalling for the Texas Lariat – already??

Clay’s already working up a bit of a sweat and he’s breathing a bit heavy as he gets to the VV corner. He reaches his left arm back, almost as if to wind up his finishing maneuver – Scott Hunter, always a helpful teammate, sees something different from his point of view. He sees a teammate who’s done a good job, looks a little gassed, and is ready for fresh legs to come in. Hunter reaches over the top rope and tags Byrd’s hand.

Byrd is visibly confused and is about to make a ruckus out of it, but decides to let it go. Kerry clocks this, but doesn’t erupt either.

Hunter enthusiastically stomps his way into the ring, ready to twist Tony Gamble into a pretzel, when he’s tripped up…Hessian hasn’t quite exited the ring yet, and his outstretched bear paw of a hand caught Hunter’s boot, causing the stumble. This gives Gamble just enough of an opening to drop Hunter with a DDT! He hooks the near leg!ONE!Hunter kicks out with ease, but Gamble’s able to get a rear chinlock set! Hunter uses his size to get to a knee, then a foot, and reverses the hold – now he’s got him in side suplex position! He locks his hips, then unlocks his hands as he chucks Tony in the air! Gamble lands on his feet! He scrambles to his corner and tags Hessian back in!

Hessian barely has one foot over the top rope before Hunter’s all over him, throwing big right hands to the dome; Hessian swipes blindly until he’s able to lock in a goozle on Hunter! The big man’s eyes grow wide, and Hunter’s grow even wider! Hessian lifts for the chokeslam, but Hunter’s able to escape! He gets the rear waistlock, he’s going for a German Suplex!

Hessian blocks it! He slams Hunter’s wrists with a clubbing fist, then smashes Hunter in the nose with a back elbow! He turns and follows up with an open-handed chop!

SMACK!

Hessian locks in another goozle! With his free hand, he tags Tony back in, then sends Hunter crashing to the mat with a huge chokeslam! Gamble’s back on the top rope! He flies – moonsault connects!

He shoots the half!ONE!TWO!TH-NOOOOO! Hunter gets the shoulder up!

Nick Stuart: Hard to deny the efficiency of our new tag team champions, partner!

Richard Parker: No doubt, and look at Ivan – is he smiling?

He’s not smiling, but he does seem to approve of the Red Bandits’ tactics to this point.

Kerry Kuroyama is growing more and more concerned as Scott Hunter takes more punishment, and he’s reaching as far as he can into the ring to will a tag into existence. Clay Byrd is getting sick of this shit, and looks like he’s eyeing a window to get the advantage back to his team’s side.

Gamble, always looking for the opportunistic path of attack, keeps himself positioned behind his downed opponent. Hunter, mullet gloriously flowing behind him, spots Ivan Stanislav and starts giving him a piece of his mind!

A chant starts to percolate – in small pockets at first, then throughout the entire arena.

IVAN FEARS YOU! CLAP! CLAP! CLAPCLAPCLAP!

IVAN FEARS YOU! CLAP! CLAP! CLAPCLAPCLAP!

IVAN FEARS YOU! CLAP! CLAP! CLAPCLAPCLAP!

Stanislav is NOT amused at this and begins shouting Russian obscenities towards the crowd. Hunter is loving every minute of it and cups a hand to his ear…just in time for Gamble to spring into action!

Russian leg sweep plants Hunter!

Ivan barks at Gamble to get back to the Red Army corner so he can “finish off this thorn in my ass once and for all”. Kerry frantically reaches towards his teammate, who’s slowly, slowly trying to make it to the VV zone. Gamble scurries across the ring towards Stanislav, making the tag. Kerry and Scott are fingertips away – but Ivan gets a hold of Hunter’s trunks before the tag is made. He gets Scott up and palms his face, marches over to the side, and goes to slam Hunter across the top rope.

Nick Stuart: He’s going for Stalin’s Sickle! Sickening!

Richard Parker: No! Scott’s out of it!

Hunter finds a way to slip out of the Russian Bear’s grasp! He charges the Red Army corner and sends both Red Bandits tumbling to the floor with double clotheslines! He turns his attention back to Ivan and goes for huge babyface RIGHT hand, RIGHT hand, RIGHT – Ivan catches his fist with his palm! He’s trying to crush Hunter’s hand like a grape! Hunter’s furiously shaking his head, but he refuses to give up! He’s able to force the pair close to the VV corner! He sees both Kerry and Clay reaching over the rope for the tag – and it looks like he’s trying to tag in Clay.

He would’ve succeeded too, until…

CRASH!

Hessian pulls Byrd’s feet out from beneath him! He crashes into the apron! The Red Bandits have sprung a two-on-one assault of the Cowboy Colossus!

Byrd power-tosses Gamble off of him and squares back up with Hessian, and the pair begin trading ugly clubbing shots. Kerry hops over to where Clay is standing and forces the tag, finally relieving Scott of active service; he shoots into the ring and goes for Ivan’s knee with a charging chop block. This forces Ivan to release his iron grip on Scott’s hand; on the outside, Byrd has found himself with a goozle on Gamble! But then, Hessian gets a goozle on Byrd!

Nick Stuart: A lot of extracurricular action on the outside, referee Elvis Nixon seems to be struggling keeping everything contained!

Richard Parker: They outnumber him six to one, it’s inevitable!

On the outside, Hessian lifts Byrd as Byrd lifts Gamble! BYRD AND GAMBLE GET PLANTED WITH CHOKESLAMS!

Nick Stuart: How in the world??

Richard Parker: Here comes Scott!

Hunter launches himself from the apron – double knees to Hessian’s face! They goes crashing to the floor! Hunter throws a few stomps to Hessian’s guts for good measure before checking in on Byrd!

Nixon would be doing more to try to break up this brawl outside the ring, but he’s too focused on the action inside – Ivan’s powerful dominance and Kerry’s technical genius are in the middle of a high stakes game of cat and mouse.

In the ring, Ivan keeps getting close to cinching his grip for a suplex, or a body slam, or any other flavor of power offense, but it seems like every time they physically lock up in some way, Kerry can find a way to counter out.

Nick Stuart: This kind of technique is what makes Kuroyama such an outstanding 5 Star Champion.

Richard Parker: That may be, but Stanislav knows as well as anyone – all it takes is one big move!

Stanislav throws a big right hand – Kuroyama grabs it like a koala grabs a tree branch! He uses the momentum to pull himself up Ivan’s torso, wrapping his arms around one elbow and his legs around the other! It’s enough to force Stanislav’s momentum to his back!

Crucifix pin!ONE!TWO!IVAN KICKS OUT! Kuroyama scrambles to his feet, spins, and CRUSHES Ivan’s head with a Squall Line Lariat! Stanislav’s back is down again! Kerry presses both shoulders!ONE!Ivan LAUNCHES Kerry off of him, and they both get to their feet quickly! Kerry looks ready for more action, and Ivan looks like one pissed off bear.

On the outside, Byrd has found a steel chair. Sure, it’s not squarely legal, but the person he’s planning to use the chair on isn’t the legal man, and Cowboy Math says there’s no problems there. He cracks the chair across Gamble’s back!

SMACK!

Hunter makes his way back onto the apron, his attention split inside and outside the ring.

The referee’s attention is split, too – especially after the sound of metal and bone colliding – but he’s snapped back into the ring as Kerry and Ivan collide again. Kuroyama looks like he’s slipped through the big paws of the Russian once again, but not this time…Stanislav is in control of a wristlock. Kerry tries to dislodge himself, but to no avail, and Ivan pulls Kerry forward, sending him ass-over-teakettle with a HUGE Iron Curtain!

BOOOOOOM!

Nick Stuart: This could be it!

Richard Parker: Red Scare is coming, and Kerry looks out on his feet! I told you, one big move, and that can swing everything!

On the outside, Clay slams the chair one more time into the back of Tony Gamble. He looks mentally prepped to go after the bigger Bandit next, but before he can, Hessian’s grabbed the chair. A tug of war ensues, and after a massive HEAVE, Hessian wrests control of the steel and swings for the fences! Byrd is fortunate to get his hands up, or else he would have taken the flat of the seat squarely in the nose.

SMACK!

Byrd staggers and sways and stumbles, but he stays on his feet. Hessian looks to remain on the prowl.

Hunter’s attention keeps getting split back and forth and back and forth – and with unlucky timing, to boot. Kerry’s almost close enough to be tagged out of his terrible predicament, and he even gets his arm outstretched for a moment – but before Hunter can return his attention to the ring and tag in, Stanislav has him in his grasp. The Russian Bear drags the Emerald Apex towards the middle of the ring.

Outside the ring, Hessian has caught his prey with a second and third chair shot.

SMACK! SMACK!

The referee goes to resolve the situation on the outside just as Stanislav positions Kuroyama for the Red Scare. The suplex position is set, his feet are braced – HUNTER RUNS INTO THE RING! He smashes into both men, breaking up the hold – an unfortunate side effect was that he and his partner Kerry knocked noggins, and Kuroyama is unsteady and just above a sack of potatoes at the moment. In a frantic rush, Hunter drags Kuroyama to the VV corner while the referee’s attention is focused elsewhere.

Scott gets Kerry to the corner and Elvis Nixon is screaming at Hessian, threatening a DQ; Hessian raises his hands and emphasizes that Clay’s the one who swung first, pointing at the still-out-cold Tony Gamble; but he sets the chair down to appease the referee. In the commotion, Hunter steps back outside the ring, forcibly lifts Kerry’s arm, and slaps palms. Nixon does see this, and he acknowledges the new legal man. Kerry shakes the cobwebs out and sees that he’s been set to the outside, and he’s got immediate concerns – Stanislav thought he was done with Scott Hunter for good, but the guy just lingers.

Kerry’s actually recovering fairly well, and he’s back on his feet. Hunter is losing a fistfight with a pissed off bear, who towers over the Mullet Train. Stanislav grabs Hunter bodily and HEAVES him across the ring with a Biel Throw.

KERSPLAT!

Kerry shouts towards the ring, either encouragement or warning – it’s less clear these days which is which when it comes to these two – and Ivan catches it. He locks eyes with Hessian outside the ring, nods towards the Emerald Apex, and gives a slow nod. Hessian nods in return.

Nick Stuart: What’s that all about?

Richard Parker: I don’t know, but I don’t trust it.

Hessian stalks over to the VV corner. Kerry senses it, and he turns in time to catch the approaching threat.

In turning, his back is now to the “fallen” Tony Gamble, who bursts to his feet with new life. He swiftly finds his way behind Kerry and uppercuts him square in the little Emeralds, doubling him over, as Gamble scurries back to the floor. Byrd sees this and absolutely cuts Gamble in half with a crushing spear.

In the ring, Ivan has Scott measured up for the Red Scare, but Scott’s fighting as best as he can to stay grounded. Kerry seems like he would be shouting something if he could, but his below-the-belt problems have not yet left him, as Hessian keeps himself as low and out of the picture as he can; and just as excitedly for the Red Bandits, Elvis Nixon isn’t paying them any mind.

Stanislav goes for the Red Scare! HUNTER BLOCKS IT! He gets his feet back down to the ground, and he bull rushes Stanislav into a corner!

He sees Kerry in the VV corner, hunched, likely unaware that he’s still recuperating from the Joe Fontaine-esque dick punch. He approaches the corner looking for a tag that Kerry is not looking to give. Kerry sees Scott approaching and shakes his head “no”, which causes visible confusion to Scott.

Clay Byrd has ended Tony Gamble’s night with a Texas Lariat brought to you by Whataburger, Dr. Pepper, and Six Flags itself. Hessian lurks on the outside, and he’s picked up the steel chair once again.

Scott insists upon the tag and steps towards his corner. As he reaches over to Kerry to make the tag, Kerry literally ducks down to avoid contact…

…not knowing that Hessian was swinging a chair with Kerry’s name all over it…

…that now crashes squarely into the legal man, Scott Hunter.

SMACK!

Nick Stuart: Uh oh!

Elvis Nixon has had enough of this. He signals for the bell.DING DING DINGBOOOOOOOO!Ivan is visibly confused and demands answers immediately from Elvis Nixon, who explains that not only had he issued a warning, Hessian just hit the legal wrestler with a foreign object. Ivan takes offense to the term “foreign” and barks at Elvis some more.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, your winners as a result of a DISQUALIFICATION…VAE VICTIS!

The crowd isn’t satisfied with this result, and in a lot of ways, neither are any of the competitors in the ring. For the Red Army, Ivan is pissed, Hessian is annoyed with himself and full of rage, and Tony is in la la land. Clay is happy to have a win but doesn’t feel completely satisfied; and Kerry and Scott. Oh boy, Kerry and Scott.

It’s a complicated mess.

They’re both in varying degrees of pain from legal and illegal action in the match. A steel chair with Kerry’s name on it was just taken by Scott as a result of Kerry refusing Scott’s tag; but as Kerry explains, he was in no position to tag in at that moment because of the low blow. Scott calls the whole situation bullshit, saying something along the lines of “always taking the bullet for Kerry” as Kerry also calls the whole situation bullshit, because of something along the lines of Scott “always being like this, especially when he’s wrong.” Bickering turns to yelling as both men get to their feet.

Ivan determines that he’s not getting through to this “bullshit American referee with capitalist bias” and sees a chance to get some frustration out in the form of smashing into two squabbling Vae Victis teammates. He measures, and –

SMACK!!

gets interrupted by a Texas Lariat from Clay Byrd!!

Gamble and Hessian hustle into the ring to help out their new leader as Byrd does what he can to snap Hunter and Kuroyama out of their fight; but before long, he’s shouting at his teammates, too. Ivan, dazed, yells at Hessian and Tony in Russian; they try and fail to understand. It’s a lot of angry yelling from both corners as they come together. The Red Army leaves the ring, generally on the same page, with Hessian and Tony supporting Ivan as he rubs his jaw. Vae Victis, in the middle of the ring, has their arms raised by Elvis Nixon, but none of them are smiling.

Nick Stuart: Tensions are reaching a boiling point and aggression is running high as we approach Colossus. Vae Victis gets the victory tonight, but there are a lot of questions looming.

Richard Parker: Will Scott Hunter and Kerry Kuroyama get back on the same page? How will the Red Army deal with one of their newest additions being the one to cause their DQ loss tonight? Who can say!

Nick Stuart: And with that, thank you for watching ReVival 79, live from West Virginia! Be sure to tune in on December 5 and 6 as PRIME presents the biggest event of the wrestling year – COLOSSUS! Championships will be on the line! Intense grudges and fierce rivalries will be settled! The stakes have never been higher! We’ll see you in Atlanta!

FADE.

TO.

MERCEDES BENZ STADIUM.