COLOSSUS 2025 NIGHT TWO

Linkin Park.

“Heavy is the Crown.”

Black background.

Spotlight.

A throne. That will take many shapes.

“It’s pourin’ in, you’re laid on the floor again,

One knock at the door and then.”

A throne of dark oak, skulls carved and shaped into the branches. The Murder Show sitting heavily, looming. A collection of old, forgotten belts laying across his lap.

“We both know how the story ends, you can’t win,

 if your white flag’s out when the war begins.”

RIA sits at the edge of a stunning construction. One half blue, the other pink. Her eyes staring through her colorful hair.

“Aimin’ so high, but swingin’ so low.

Tryna catch fire, but feelin’ so cold.”

A throne carved from a massive pineapple, the Former Flyin’ Hawaiian sitting back, arms crossed.

“Hold it inside, and hope it won’t show.

I’m sayin’ it’s not, but inside I know.”

A throne of roses, black and red. The Second Coming leering in her black dress.

“Today’s gonna be the day you notice

‘Cause I’m tired of explainin’ what the joke is…”

An chair chipped from Emerald, home to the Emerald Apex, cigarette dangling from his lips as he ponders.

“THIS IS WHAT YOU ASKED FOR, HEAVY IS THE CROWN!

FIRE IN THE SUNRISE, ASHES RAININ’ DOWN!

The Anglo Luchador, sitting atop a seat molded by dozens and dozens of masks, tequila bottle hanging from his fingertips.

“TRY TO HOLD IT IN, BUT, IT KEEPS BLEEDIN’ OUT!

THIS IS WHAT YOU ASKED FOR, HEAVY IS THE-“

A hard shift. The throne, a small actor’s chair, where Blaze Claymore takes his seat.

“HEAVY IS THE CROWN!”

The throne now a massive comedy and tragedy mask. Tony Gamble sits sideways, his perma-grin on display

“Turn to run, now look what it’s become.

Outnumbered, ten to one.”

The shape of a throne, but the cosmos themselves shifting and burning inside it. Hayes Hanlon’s arms hang heavy.

“Back then, should’ve bit your tongue,

’cause there’s no turnin’ back this path once it’s begun.”

A chair of dazzling diamond, holding Daytona’s hulking frame.

“You’re already on that list,

say you don’t want what you can’t resist.”

A nike sneaker. Piles of toupees. Lasagna. Sketti. Fred Dick’s throne is a horrifying amalgamation. Best not look too long.

“Wavin’ that sword when the pen won’t miss,

watch it all fallin’ apart like this.”

A seat carved into an enormous wrecking ball, hanging from a massive chain. Matt Ward glowers from his seat.

“THIS IS WHAT YOU ASKED FOR, HEAVY IS THE CROWN!

FIRE IN THE SUNRISE, ASHES RAININ’ DOWN!”

A beautiful carving of french design, hosting the Beard Dragon. Eyes hidden behind his shades. Two giant lizards hiss on either side.

“TRY TO HOLD IT IN, BUT, IT KEEPS BLEEDIN’ OUT!”

“THIS IS WHAT YOU ASKED FOR, HEAVY IS THE-”

Another diamond, fit for the new. Nate Colton holds back his rage against the shimmer

“HEAVY IS THE CROWWNN!”

Wade Elliott’s bourbon-throne is a sight to behold. He sips from a glass, but the glass construction isn’t very comfortable.

“Today’s gonna be the day you notice,

’cause I’m tired of explainin’ what the joke is…”

Hammer and Sickle are prominent as Ivan’s lurking, monstrous body stares out a thousand miles.

“THIS IS WHAT YOU ASKED FOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

The Dragonslayer sits against heart-shaped piece. Blueberry bushes at the sides, a hood over his head as he leans forward at the edge.

“THIS IS WHAT YOU ASKED FOR, HEAVY IS THE CROWN!

FIRE IN THE SUNRISE, ASHES RAININ’ DOWN!”

A seat built from chains props up Rob Williams, scowling into the dark.

“TRY TO HOLD IT IN, BUT ,IT KEEPS BLEEDIN’ OUT!

THIS IS WHAT YOU ASKED FOR, HEAVY IS THE-”

Clocks tick and turn, creating a throne of clocks to suit the Time Lord, Anna Daniels.

“HEAVY IS THE CROWWWNN!!”

The throne takes a more traditional shape, as it began. Lindsay Troy smirks from her seat. Many may attempt to take the throne, but all know who it truly seats.

“HEAVY IS THE CROWWWNNN!!”

Brandon Youngblood stands in front of the same throne. Across him, from the other side, peering out of the darkness, a pair of T-Shades glint.

“HEAVY IS THE!”

Cecilworth Farthington sits, legs crossed on the throne that is HIS. He smirks as he looks up, Chandler Tsonda walking into view, looking down at the Universal Champion.

“HEAVY IS THE CROWN!”

Pulling away from the seat, the spotlight vanishes, leaving black.

COLOSSUS flashes and fades across the screen.

https://prime-wrestling.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/12/Col25-N2-Video.mp4

Signs.

Signs.

Signs.

SIGNS!

HELP! I GOT YOLK ALL OVER MY WHORESAW PACT
TCHU OUT OF THREE FALLS
BLESS TCHU
I WANT TO THANK TCHU FOR GIVING US THE BEST DAYS OF HIS LIFE
BABY SHARK TCHU TCHU T’TCHU T’TCHU
I CAME TO ATLANTA TO GET A COLOSSUSTOMY BAG
WHORES WAY UP
THIS BAFFROOM AIN’T BIG ENOUGH FOR BOTH OF US AND A BUCKET OF SKETTI, PARDNER
DAYTONA DIAMONDS TAKES THE PINNACLE OF ALL SNORTS
JUSTICE FOR NATE COLTON’S OLIVE GARDEN DADDY
NATE CAN’T GROW A MUSTACHE AND THAT’S WHY HE’S SO MAD
THREE WORDS, ONE BAFFROOM: GUT AND BLUDS!
GIVE HESSIAN AN ITTY BITTY TOP HAT
I DID NOT REALIZE THAT TSONDA IS OLD AS FUCK
I TSAW TSONDA ORDER LEMON PEPPER WINGS AT THE GOLD CLUB
THATS THE WRONG TSTRIP CLUB TO GET LEMON PEPPER WINGS. YOU GO TO MAGIC TSITY FOR THE LEMON PEPPER WINGS AND TSTRIPPERS.
NATE’S THE FAVORITE CHILD BECAUSE HE ISN’T “NENNY”
I AM STILL OWED $20 COMPENSATION BY BOTH KENNY FREEMAN AND THE ANGLO LUCHADOR
COLT V HANL: THE BATTLE FOR THE -ON
DEEP BREATH I SAW BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD SELLING USED CARS OFF I-75, BUT HE WAS WEARING A REALLY BAD TOUPEE AND HIS NAMETAG SAID ‘HOOTIE’. I WALKED UP AND SAID, “I KNOW ITS YOU, BRANDON. YOU’RE NOT TRICKING ME.” AND I STG I THINK HE ALMOST CRIED.
BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD IS NOT ONLY A SPOKESMAN FOR FRED DICK’S TOUPEE’S, HE’S ALSO A CLIENT
YOU CAN’T JUST CALL YOURSELF THE BLOOD GOD BECAUSE YOUR NAME IS YOUNGBLOOD, BUT ALSO FARTHINGS FOR THE FARTHING GOD
BYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Nick Stuart: Folks, we’ve made it to night two of Colossus, and it’s time to kick off the in-ring action with the PRIME Tag Team Championship on the line!

Richard Parker: Much as I’m pleased to see Gamble and Hessian finally free of that damned Cancer Jiles, this match makes me wonder what the status of the Whoresaw Pact is looking like when they take on Rob Williams and Daytona Diamonds!

With that, we head to ringside as Vince Howard is standing by with referee Jimmy Turnbull.

Vince Howard: The following contest is scheduled for one fall, and it is for the PRIME Tag Team Championship! Introducing first, the challengers…

The lights in the Mercedes-Benz Stadium don’t simply go out.

They drop dead like they just saw the bar tab for hosting a Whoresmen party.

A single strip of purple light snaps on across the ramp… and then?

♫ PUSSY CONTROOOOOOOL!!!!! ♫

The opening scream of the Prince classic detonates through Atlanta and pyro explodes along with it, a burst of pink and purple loud enough to piss off the fire marshal. Rob Williams steps out first, black shirt and taped wrists, a snarl on his face like he’s hunting something. Focused. Dangerous. He cracks his neck and starts walking down the ramp with a killer’s stride just as the boos start to grow…

…and then Daytona Diamonds storms out like a raging bull on twelve bennies and a blood feud with the universe. He’s snorting, shaking, fists clenched, eyes blown wide and glittering like headlights on a runaway truck. He smashes the curtain aside, nearly ripping it off the rig as he screams out loud.

Daytona Diamonds: HOTLANTA! I’M COMIN’ IN HOTTER’N HELLFIRE! A MOTHERFUCKIN’ RHINESTONE STAMPEDE, BABY! HYRAAAAAAAGGGGGHHH!!!!

He stomps onto the stage so hard the ramp rattles. He’s veering, pacing, flexing, slapping his own chest all while Prince sings about pussy. Really, this shouldn’t be unexpected by now.

Rob never looks back.

Daytona charges to catch up.

As they hit stride, Vince Howard booms over the PA.

Vince Howard: Making their way to the ring… at a combined weight of five hundred and thirty pounds… representing THE POOOOOOOR WHOOOOOOREEEESMEN… THE LEGEND, ROOOOOOOB WILLLIAMS… AND THE RHINESTONE COWBOY, DAYYYYTONNNNNA DIAAAAAMONDS!

Pyro erupts again. Daytona bucks his head like he’s trying to throw off a devil riding on his shoulder. Rob marches straight, eyes never leaving the ring.

Rob hits the apron first, sliding under the ropes with the precision of a man who didn’t come here for theatrics; he came here to hurt somebody. Daytona, meanwhile, launches himself up onto the apron like a man whose nervous system has never once known the meaning of restraint. He grips the top rope and shakes it wildly before vaulting over top, only stumbling just a little bit when his feet hit the mat.

He lands beside Rob and immediately starts hammering open-handed slaps on his partner’s chest, screaming once again.

Daytona Diamonds: LET’S FUCKIN’ KILL ‘EM, ROBBY! YOU AND ME! CHAMPIONS, BABY! CHAMP-YUNS! HYAHAHAHAHAHA!

Rob barely flinches.

Daytona Diamonds: THEY AIN’T READY, ROBBY! THEY AIN’T NEVER BEEN READY! WE GON’ RUN ‘EM OVER! WE GON’ TEAR ‘EM UP! WE GON’

Rob finally turns his head. Just slightly. Just enough to make Daytona freeze mid-rant.

Rob Williams: You done…?

Daytona stops.

Thinks.

Then slaps Rob’s chest one more time.

Daytona Diamonds: I’M SO GODDANG READY I CAN SEE SOUND, ROBBY! SHITFIRE!

As the boos rain down and the music fades and Rob just sighs, The Whoresmen take their corner.

Nick Stuart: This is an interesting situation, Richard. This is the first time we’ve seen this specific pairing of the Whoresmen, and I can’t help but wonder just how ready they are here at Colossus!

Richard Parker: They’re gonna HAVE to be ready, Nick! It’s the biggest show of the year, and these guys have just one chance to end the year on a high of championship glory!

Vince Howard: And their opponents…

“Born Over This” by Divide Music hits the PA. Without delay, Tony Gamble bursts forth from the curtain, one half of the PRIME Tag Team Championship slung over his shoulder while the towering Hessian soon emerges next with the other title belt around his waist. As they come down the aisle, Gamble berates and jaw-jacks with the jeering fans on the other side of the barricade. Stone-faced and focused on the ring, Big Hess quietly marches after him.

Vince Howard: At a combined weight of 557 pounds, they are the reigning and defending PRIME Tag Team Champions… The Grin and the Murder Show… TONY GAMBLE AND HESSIAN… THE REEEEED BAAAAAANDIIIIIIITS!

Nick Stuart: Speaking of being ready, it looks like Gamble and Hessian are as focused as ever as they make their first defense after winning the belts back in October.

Richard Parker: These two have shown a LOT of cohesion since teaming together, and that’s exactly what makes them champs in the first place!

The pair enter the ring, discussing strategy as Turnbull retrieves the titles from the champs. The ref shows the belts to the challengers, raises them up high for the crowd in the Mercedes-Benz Stadium who give a roar of approval, and takes the titles to an attendant at ringside as the bell rings to get this match underway!

DING DING

We kick things off with Gamble and Diamonds, the latter trying to goad the big man Hessian into the match instead. After just a short hesitation, Gamble obliges with a tag.

Daytona tries to blindside the Murder Show, only for Gamble to catch him with a thrust kick instead! This takes the Rhinestone Cowboy to a knee as the (Red?) Bandits double-team Diamonds with strikes.

Gamble heads to the apron as Hessian lays down some clubbing forearms to the back of Daytona, hoisting him into the corner for some stomps to the midsection before tagging Gamble back in.

The Grin takes this opportunity to lay in a barrage of strikes before sending Daytona to the ropes for a dropkick, sending him to the mat hard before following up with a leg drop. He brings Diamonds back to his feet for an Irish whip, but the King of the Rodeo reverses to send Gamble into Whoresmen territory instead!

Tag to Williams, and the pair gang up on Tony until Turnbull intervenes. The ref admonishes Diamonds as Gamble starts to fight back with some punches… but Daytona keeps Jimmy preoccupied, allowing Rob to catch Gamble with a thumb to the eye to halt the momentum!

Nick Stuart: Looks like the antics are starting early from the Whoresmen!

Richard Parker: Absolutely Nick, I wouldn’t expect anything less from these guys.

The crowd boos, but Williams pays no mind as he sends Tony to the ropes for a clothesline… but The Grin ducks it, hitting the ropes for speed as he lands a flying forearm that sends The Legend reeling back!

Gamble charges toward him again, but gets sent to the canvas with a drop toe hold. Williams stomps him in the back for good measure, mocking Hessian as he brings The Grin to the ropes for added damage, raking Tony’s face against the top rope as Turnbull tries to intervene.

Rob finally relents, mouthing off with the ref… which allows Diamonds to get a cheap shot in, hanging Gamble up on the top rope to force him crashing back onto the mat!

Hessian has seen enough, storming into the ring to stop the attack… but this only forces the ref to hold the Murder Show back, in turn allowing the Whoresmen to double-team Gamble with some stomps to keep him down.

They turn their attention to Hessian, mocking him as he ends up backing off to the apron. What they don’t notice, however, is Gamble getting to his feet… and he sends Daytona through the ropes to the outside!

Nick Stuart: Daytona taking a bit of a nosedive thanks to Tony Gamble.

Richard Parker: Damn, Nick, I’m gonna jot that one down for later.

Nick Stuart: …huh?

Williams turns around, only to endure a flurry of offense by Happy Heelmore who connects with some punches and kicks before taking The Legend down hard with a DDT. The impact causes Gamble to take a moment to recover, inching toward the corner… where he makes the tag to Hessian!

Just before the Murder Show can get his hands on Rob, however, The Legend manages to roll out of the ring for a breather. It doesn’t take long for Hessian to pursue Williams, who backs off into a jog around the ring.

The chase ends when Rob slides back into the ring, distracting the ref just long enough for Daytona to intercept Hessian with a knife edge chop to the chest.

This doesn’t quite have the effect Diamonds wants, as Hessian is barely fazed when he grabs the Rhinestone Cowboy by the neck. He ends up shoving Daytona away before stepping onto the apron… but here comes Williams, charging at Hessian with a shoulder tackle that sends him crashing onto the guardrail!

Rob leaves the ring once more, ignoring Turnbull as he brings the Murder Show to his feet. He lands some right hands… only for Hessian to fight back with a chop, leveling The Legend after an open hand right across the chest.

Nick Stuart: Hessian making Rob pay with a nasty chop!

Richard Parker: Not so sure he’s gonna enjoy the mark that’s gonna leave, holy hell.

Hessian brings Williams back up, looking to send him into the ring post… but Rob reverses, sending the big man crashing with a thud into the post instead! At this stage we can hear the ref’s count:

ONE…

TWO…

Williams is far too focused on inflicting more damage to the Murder Show, stomping at the head and shoulder of Hessian.

THREE…

FOUR…

Rob targets the legs now, laying in a few more stomps for good measure before bringing the mountain of a man to a vertical base.

FIVE…

And finally, he sends Hessian back into the ring, following close behind to stop the count. He turns the big man onto his back for a cover, as Turnbull drops to count the pin.

ONE!

T–NO!

Hessian powers out as he gets the shoulder up! Rob is having none of it, quickly tagging in Diamonds as the two start beating down on Hessian.

Williams returns to the apron as Daytona brings the Murder Show back up… but he gets launched into the corner with a choke toss by Hessian!

He grabs the Rhinestone Cowboy once more, hoisting him up into the air.

Nick Stuart: The champ’s looking to hit the Hessplex!

Richard Parker: That earlier beatdown on the big man is about to bite ol’ Daytona right in the ass, ain’t it Nick?

Hessian has his challenger up in the air for a solid fifteen or so seconds before connecting with the stalling brainbuster, sending Diamonds crashing down to the mat with a thud! Hessian drops for the cover as Turnbull counts.

ONE!

TWO!

NO!

Williams runs in to break the pin, forcing Gamble to rush in and fend him off. That spills to the outside as Turnbull tries to restore order, all while Hessian gets back to his feet… goading the Rhinestone Cowboy to do the same.

Diamonds finally does, only for the big man to turn him around for an elevated swinging sleeper hold! HALLELUJAH MOUNTAINS!

Outside the ring, we see Williams pulling Gamble toward the ring steps with an Irish whip, only for The Grin to reverse and send him crashing into the steps instead.

Jimmy turns his attention to the fracas, as Hessian’s sleeper brings the cowboy to the ropes… which Daytona uses for leverage, using the momentum to take himself and the Murder Show to the canvas!

But it’s Hessian who is first to his feet, as Gamble gets to the apron and reaches out for the tag… to which Hessian obliges!

Nick Stuart: Tony Gamble ready to get right back into this, with the champs firmly in control of the match here!

Hessian steps through the ropes as Gamble comes running in, keeping Diamonds from getting to a vertical base with a hard kick to the head.

The big man doesn’t notice Williams still laying on the floor below, however… or the fact he’s now pulled a chair out from underneath the ring!

As Gamble lands a leg drop on the fallen Daytona, Rob lifts the chair up to attack Hessian… but the Murder Show narrowly dodges the blindside assault!

Hessian grabs the chair from Williams, cracking the chair over his head… which goes through the seat, leaving the chair hanging around the neck of The Legend!

Rob drops to the floor as Turnbull’s attention is pulled in the direction of Hessian… who backs away from the fallen Williams, insisting he somehow had no part in his troubles.

Diamonds sees his partner down, and with the big man’s back turned he leaves the ring… jumping onto the back of Hessian for a rear naked choke, shouting at the Murder Show with just a hint of the usual hip thrusts.

Nick Stuart: Daytona’s got that Bolo Tie Stretch in tight!

Richard Parker: That’s just gonna make Hessian Mad, Diamonds!

A riled-up Hessian turns to send Daytona into the ring post… but the Rhinestone Cowboy breaks his own hold, forcing the big man to crash into the post instead!

Diamonds turns his attention away from Hessian, just in time for Gamble to connect with a double ax handle from the apron.

He brings Daytona back in the ring as Williams finally comes to, pulling the chair off to get back onto the apron while Gamble sets up for a front Russian leg sweep.

STOP LAUGHING AT–NO! Diamonds breaks free, hoisting Gamble up for a Saito suplex to take The Grin on the Dusty Trail!

Daytona crawls to the corner for the tag to Williams as Hessian finally gets back to the apron himself, reaching out for a tag from Gamble.

The Grin tries to reach out for the tag… but Diamonds pulls Hessian’s leg out from under him, sending the Murder Show crashing onto the hardest part of the ring!

Williams pulls Gamble back to the middle of the ring while the ref is admonishing Daytona. The Legend uses the distraction to land a low blow, nailing Tony right in his little grinners as he drops to the mat.

Nick Stuart: What a turning point for the challengers!

Richard Parker: Down goes Gamble! Somebody get that man an ice pack, damn.

Diamonds backs away from Hessian while Rob brings Gamble back to a standing position. He kicks Tony in the gut, just as Diamonds goes after the right leg of Hessian with a chop block.

He does it over and over again, eventually propping the big man against the ring steps… and then takes a few steps back, giving himself enough distance for a running basement dropkick!

THUD!

SNAP!

He drives the leg of the Murder Show into the steps, and the resulting sounds are more than just the impact itself as Hessian falls to the floor, yelling as he reaches for his leg.

We get a glimpse of it, and… oh no. That leg is in bad shape, visibly broken as we quickly cut away to focus on what’s happening in the ring instead.

Diamonds has backed away from what he’s done, heading back to his corner as Rob pulls The Grin that direction as well.

He makes the tag to Diamonds before setting Gamble up for what looks like a DDT… only to swing it into a diamond cutter, which sees Daytona join in! Twice the Old Time Rock and Roll, and Diamonds makes the cover with Hessian still down on the outside.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING

With the match over, Turnbull presents the titles to the Whoresmen… who yank the belts from the ref, raising their arms in victory as Vince Howard makes the official call.

Vince Howard: Here are your winners… and NEW PRIME TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS…THE POOOOOOR WHOOOOORRRRRESMEEEEN!

Jimmy turns his attention to ringside, calling for medical staff to assist Hessian as he is still down. Gamble finally begins to stir as the Whoresmen make their exit from the ring, simply staring down Hessian as EMTs come down with a gurney.

Nick Stuart: Folks, we have new tag champs in Rob Williams and Daytona Diamonds… but as you can see, we have a rough situation here with Hessian.

Richard Parker: It’s not something you’d want anyone to have to suffer through, Nick. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy, not even…

Nick Stuart: Don’t say it.

That rather sharp statement from Stuart nearly takes Parker aback as we see the EMTs get Hessian onto a stretcher, eventually setting him up on the gurney. Gamble walks alongside as they bring the big man up the ramp, the crowd in stunned silence as we head to commercial.

WATCH THE REPLAY! [NIGHT 1 | NIGHT 2]

Georgie Ward walks through one of the vast backstage corridors of Mercedes Benz Stadium, carrying in her hand some folded papers. She stops in front of the Steel Door O’Doom, its “DO NOT DISTURB” sign still present; however, unlike the night before, the door is cracked open, just a bit. The youngster knocks gently, then peeks her head through the opening.

Georgie Ward: Aunt Lindz? You have a second?

The Queen of the Ring is seated on the floor, dressed in a PRIME Blue and Besties Pink track suit, and stretching out before her match. She looks up and smiles softly before beckoning Georgie inside.

Lindsay Troy: Hey kiddo. What’s up?

Georgie Ward: Sorry, I know you’ve got like… a LOT going on tonight, but uhhh… my dad asked me to give you this.

She holds out the folded papers and Troy takes them, somewhat reluctantly.

Georgie Ward: I told him to do it himself, but he said you might try to wad them up and shove ‘em down his throat, and that could negatively impact his performance tonight.

Lindsay Troy: (chuckling) He might be right about that.

She looks at the papers and waves them slightly.

Lindsay Troy: So what is this?

Georgie Ward: It’s a letter. He wrote it a couple days ago. Like an apology or somethin’.

Lindsay Troy: Is he trying to tug at my heartstrings so I take it easy on him?

Matt Ward’s eldest daughter chuckles and shakes her head.

Georgie Ward: He said you’d think he was trying to soften you up. Actually though, he said it was totally up to you… read it now or wait ‘til after the match. Your call. I think he hopes you’ll read it now though.

Lindsay Troy: What if I don’t read them at all?

Georgie shrugs, but there’s a sadness in her eyes.

Georgie Ward: Like he said, it’s your call.

PRIME’s Final Boss turns the papers over in her hand.

Lindsay Troy: Thanks, Georgie. I promise I’ll think about it.

Georgie Ward: Good luck tonight.

Having accomplished her mission, Georgie turns and heads for the door. She doesn’t get far, though, before she turns back to look at her mentor and surrogate aunt.

Georgie: Hey, Aunt Lindz… I know the type of competitor you are, and I know he kinda deserves it but… maybe don’t hit my dad too hard tonight?

Lindsay Troy: (slight smile) I’ll think about that, too.

Georgie returns the small smile and takes her leave. Lindsay looks at the papers again and, with a sigh, places them next to her to continue her warm-ups.

Colossus moves on.

Richard Parker: You ready for a snuff film, Nick?

Nick Stuart: You can go ahead and put me as a permanent ‘no’ for questions like that, but I can tell from the framing that you like Hayes Hanlon to get an all-important spiritual victory over Nate Colton tonight.

Richard Parker: Alright, well I was going to share what’s on this USB drive with you but if you’re gonna be that way, then let’s sit back and watch a Glue-rious decimation of the coward Nate Colton.

The PRIME*View wakes up to a lone starship, a single-man fighter, floats in the void.

Deep in the background, the ever-present black hole, looming.

The pilot fidgets with buttons and switches. Its wings expand.

“You want it?
You fucking got it.”
“BLAST ‘EM.”

The pilot dive-bombs, the camera following close behind, revealing a space battle of wild and epic proportions. Squadrons of fighters makes runs along giant warships. Battle cruisers break and explode. Action flying in literally every direction as “Make it Make Sense” by A Day to Remember assaults the speakers throughout the arena.

It looks very much like the intro to Revenge of the Sith, yes.

But The Event Horizon himself is soon out on the top of the ramp, arms wide in his signature black trunks. However the crowd feels about Hammerin’ Hanlon, he’ll soak it up regardless.

“I CAN’T LIE, I’M A LITTLE BIT OFF TODAY!!
‘CAUSE THAT BLACK CLOUD HANGIN’ AROUND COULD BE HERE TO STAYY!

Nick Stuart: We are off with a BANG as Hayes Hanlon arrives to face Nate Colton!

Richard Parker: It’s a big chance for the Home Run Kid, Nick! A chance to shut Nate’s ass up!

Hayes hangs out on the ramp as the chorus hits, and shortly after Vince Howard is there to introduce him.

Vince Howard: Our next match is scheduled for one fall!! Introducing FIRST! From West Linn, Oregon! Standing six feet, three inches tall, weighing at 271 pounds. Your former Intense Champion!!!

Hayes hits the steps. The flash bulbs are bright, the music hammers.

Vince Howard: Your former FIVE STAR Champion!

He climbs the turnbuckle, and opens his broad chest wide to the world.

Vince Howard: Your former TWO TIME UNIVERSAL CHAMPION! Hammerin’ Hanlon! The Comeback KID!

“MAKE IT MAKE SENSE! MAKE IT MAKE SENSE!
I DON’T WANNA!

Vince Howard: HAAAAAYYEESSSSS! HAAAANNNLOOOONNNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The music breaks down, and Hayes gets ready. Bounding off the ropes, pushing his hair back, and smoothing his ‘stache, ready for Colton to emerge.

Nick Stuart: That’s a confident man right there.

Richard Parker: He’s won damn near every piece of hardware we’ve got around here, why shouldn’t he be?

Nick Stuart: Hayes is an ace, but I think the answer to your question is that he’s standing across the ring from another ace, who’s arriving right on cue.

Vince Howard: And his opponent…

The lights go out.

RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!

Nick Stuart: Arriving right on cue, and to the full and total adulation of the Atlanta faithful, I must say!

The fans know how this goes by now. Cellphones light up patches of the crowd, something to hold the camera’s attention until the grandiose video package signaling the New Diamond’s arrival.

Imagine their surprise when we go right to the music.

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

And here he is.

RRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!

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!

The New Diamond wastes little time in making the long walk down the very long entrance ramp. There’s a little more fanfare at this stage; blue laser lights fill the stadium, and his name in a faceted pattern lights up the surface of the ramp. He strides with purpose across its surface, but pauses long enough to kneel down and brush his hand against the “C” in his last name.

Vince Howard: Hailing from Evansville, Indiana…weighing in at two hundred and forty pounds…he is the New Diamond! He is…NAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATE! COOOOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLLLTOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON!

Colton finally reaches the end of the ramp; rather than head right for the ring, he circles around the outside, shaking the outstretched hands of the Atlanta faithful. He’s scanning the crowd for a certain group of fans in particular. An island of familiar jackets in an ocean of strangers.

Ah, there they are. Four men, all sitting at ringside, all holding signs. If you’ve watched a Nate Colton match this year, you know who they are.

There’s Jake…

MY MUSTACHE IS BETTER THAN HANLON’S

…and Benjamin…

MY ASS IS BETTER THAN HANLON’S

…and Blake…

GIN SUCKS AND SO DOES HAYES HANLON

…and Dennis.

HAYES IS A LITTLE BITTY BABY BITCH

They lower their signs as the New Diamond approaches, leading to hugs all around. Nate turns around to face the camera, screaming in exuberance as his father, brothers, and cousin throw their arms around him.

Richard Parker: I’ve asked my paralegals to file four separate libel suits against this disgusting family. I’m hoping our broadcast shows some civility and doesn’t put those signs within the camera shot again. I apologize to our fans across the world for that.

Nick Stuart: (deadpan) Truly a voice for the voiceless.

At last Nate peels himself away, ready to face the task at hand. From the way his hands linger with those of his father and baby brother, you might think he’s hesitant to face this challenge without them.

“Without them.” Heh. You must be new here.

At last ready to face his final challenge of the year, Nate Colton 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–

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!

–before focusing on the matter at hand.

And that matter is a em effin’ hoss fight.

YOU get a flashbulb, and YOU get a flashbulb, and YOU get a flashbulb.

Nick Stuart: Listen to that crowd, Richard! That tag title match was a doozy, and last night was a half-dozen doozies, but that’s darn sure as loud a roar as we’ve heard this weekend!

Richard Parker: They’re savoring the last chance to see Nate Colton in one piece.

DING DING!

Now, it’s important in a big money match, a true psychological duel, to take one’s time and study the opponent like you’re writing a dissertation on them.

Psyche.

We brawlin’, y’all.

Hanlon throwing hands.

Colton dealing out shots.

Slobberknocker mode: engage.

Nick Stuart: Fists! Forearms! These two men didn’t waste a millisecond before they started hammering one another like they owe one another money!

Richard Parker: We might have more than a handful of ‘someone bleeds within the first minute’ prop bets paying out big.

A Hanlon right forces Colton back a step, only for a Colton elbow strike to force Hanlon back a step, and on

and on

and on

for thirty seconds, neither man giving an inch in the sum of it.

All the while the crowd engages in just a little bloodlust, as a treat.

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!Richard Parker: These people paid for violence, and Nick, they’re getting nice return on investment tonight.

The two men disengage, chests heaving, and share a look. It betrays absolutely no respect, though maybe a scintilla of acknowledgement that both knew this would be war, and war it is.

Hayes breaks the moment, and charges Colton with a shoulder block. Colton is forced back, though he holds strong, but the momentary shift in his center of gravity opens up a spot for Hanlon to rush in with a headlock.

Nick Stuart: That thirty-pound weight advantage of Hanlon didn’t take long to show up.

Richard Parker: Mouse in the house!

Nick Stuart: Colton is 6’4 and 240.

Richard Parker: He just a wittle guy!

From headlock position, Hanlon presses the advantage, dropping low and engaging in a “whose glutes are stronger” contest with Colton. The scion of one of pro wrestling’s blue blood families knows the playbook for this, getting his weight lower than Hanlon and two-hand shoving at his opponent’s lower back, shooting Hayes towards the ropes. Hanlon bounces off, and Colton charges with a clothesline. Hanlon ducks, bounces off the opposite ropes, and…

Richard Parker: Whammy!

Hayes is on Colton at furious speed, with a Thesz press that puts both men on the mat, with Hayes straddling and laying in right hands on Colton.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: Impressive crowd, they know their wrestling history. You see, they’re saying “Looooou” as a reference to the late great Lou Thesz.

Nick Stuart: Uh huh. You got it.

Call him Hayes HAND-lin’ because he’s got these hands for Colton and they don’t stop until Hanlon, red and wheezing, gets up and pulls Colton with him.

Richard Parker: This is what happens when you get Hayes Hanlon’s full, undivided attention. He busts your ass from post to post.

With a handful of Colton’s hair, Hayes cocks back and lay a closed fist into the back of Nate’s unguarded skull, but the Evansville native comes alive with a kick to Hanlon’s gut. His expert tactical sense is on display as he seamlessly transitions both men down into a pinning pretzel of an inside cradle.

Nick Stuart: Pinfall attempt!

ONE!

TWO! NO!

Hanlon rolls back from the encounter to a knee, snarling smile on his face as if to say: ok, you get one of those surprises per match, and you’re not catching me again.

Colton, rising, lets his face betray nothing.

Richard Parker: Colton looks big mad.

Nick Stuart: Focused, the word you’re looking for is ‘focused’, Richard.

For the first time, the two men lock up. A standing switch by Colton gives him an advantage. Hanlon swings an elbow backwards, but Colton knows to expect this and keeps his head low. He levers up an arm around Hanlon’s head, and all of a sudden has the bigger man in a reverse DDT position.

Nick Stuart: Colton loves that inverted suplex, and he wants a killshot here early!

Hanlon, though, shows impressive strength, wrapping both burly arms around Colton and, from underneath, powering up and dropping Colton on the mat with one of his patented scoop slams.

Richard Parker: You know what time it is, Nick.

Hanlon picks up his opponent again, and scoop slams him again.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Again, Hanlon goes to the well. But there will be no parade of scoop slams on the watch of Nate Colton, who slides out of Hanlon’s grasp down the man’s back, with an immediate cinch on a standing rear chinlock. He wrenches hard, threatening Hanlon’s airway.

Nick Stuart: Colton put the kibosh on the Scoop Slam Party and now he’s taking back control of this match.

Colton keeps a hand around Hanlon’s neck, sidesteps out and in front of Hayes, and takes him down to the mat with a picture-perfect snapmare, depositing his foe on the mat. Without giving Hayes a moment’s peace, Colton collects him up on his feet, and tosses Hanlon at the nearest turnbuckle. He lays in body shots, and then climbs to the middle rope where he pays back the debt from Hanlon’s earlier mounted punches, and then some.

Atlanta knows how to count, especially when it’s in sync with shots that rock Hayes Hanlon’s cranium.

ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR! FIVE! SIX! SEVEN! EIGHT! NINE!

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOA

The crowd at full anticipation, Nate Colton puts extra mustard behind the last strike, an absolute blistering five-star open palm slap to the moustache region of Home Run Hayes.

TEN!

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!

Nick Stuart: Would you say that is the work of, and I’m referring to my notes here Richard, a ‘wittle guy?”

While the heel announcer silently stews, Nate Colton shows that hate is the world’s most powerful energy source, staying laser-focused on his enemy and rival. Colton props the woozy Hanlon up onto a seated position on the top rope.

Richard Parker: Surely, he won’t…

Nate sets his own position and steadies himself on the top rope.

Richard Parker: He can’t…

Nate wraps an arm around Hayes’ neck and the other around his shoulder.

Richard Parker: He better not!

It’s not the prettiest lift anyone’s ever seen, but by hook or by crook, Colton gets Hanlon up, up, up, up, and…

Nick Stuart: He just did!

Both men THUNDER to the mat as the superplex heard round the world (or at least all of Mercedes Benz Stadium) rings out.

The camera cuts to the exuberant faces of the Colton family, each of whom encourages Nate to summon up the will for a cover.

Nick Stuart: Spurred on by family, can Nate Colton seize this moment?

Hanlon groans in pain without stirring, while Colton winces and grabs at the shoulder he just used for the Herculean lift. Leaning on the other side, he crawls atop Hanlon for a cover.

ONE!

Richard Parker: By the power of Glue, I compel you!

TWO!

Nick Stuart: Could be it!

Expert camera work cuts to the Coltons, each holding their breath, for a split second.

THREEAAAAARGH!

You could fit a thin slice of onion in the space between Elvis Nixon’s hand and the mat. Hayes Hanlon still looks like he got hit by a Colton-sized truck, but there’s relief in his eyes at staving off defeat by powering a shoulder up.

Richard Parker: Two point nine ain’t three, Nick.

Nick Stuart: And you can see on Nate Colton’s face just a bit of frustration. I have to imagine that all of the underhanded business from Hanlon for these past months is making it a challenge to keep his composure.

Richard Parker: Are you saying that he might…lose himself, in the music, the moment, you own it, you better never let it go?

The New Diamond slaps the mat once, whether in frustration or to charge himself up. He is first to his feet, attempting to stay on the offensive. He reaches towards the now-rising Hanlon, who he grasps and whips towards the ropes. Colton’s face registers the feeling of something unpleasant as Hayes runs the ropes, and bounces off. Colton drops him with a clothesline, but immediately recoils back towards the corner.

Nick Stuart: It’s possible that superplex attempt has tweaked the bad shoulder of Nate Colton. I suspect he’ll be able to fight through it, but it’s clearly not a hundred percent.

And Hanlon knows it. Colton, taking the time to try and shake out what he hopes is a stinger, gives just enough breathing room for Hanlon to back into his own corner and collect himself.

Nate advances on his rival, driving the non-injured shoulder into Hanlon’s midsection against the turnbuckle. Hanlon recoils but recovers quickly, showing impressive footspeed in driving out of the corner with something that’s not quite Itspinebuster not quite spear. A spearbuster, if you will, but really more of a form tackle. It once again leaves both men on the mat.

Richard Parker: These guys really loathe each other. And that pure hatred is (audibly sniffling) well, it’s beautiful to me.

Colton knows to expect the straddle and mounted punches, and smartly rolls to the outside. He shakes his head, clearing cobwebs.

But he doesn’t clear them fast enough.

Out of the ring in the blink of an eye, Hayes Hanlon comes around the blind corner, Nate Colton only seeing him at the last minute and—

Richard Parker: OH BABY!

Nick Stuart: FLASH POINT!

The super stiff sit-out jawbreaker leaves Colton rocked, though still on the outside. Nearby, Jake and his brood look extremely concerned for the former 5-Star champion, who stirs not a whit.

Richard Parker: It’s all ov-er! (clap, clap, clapclapclap)

Hayes Hanlon certainly thinks so, a delighted grin just under his thunderstache. He rolls Colton back in the ring and pounces after him, hooking the leg.

ONE!

Nick Stuart: Are we looking at the end of this blood feud?

Hanlon’s got all his weight pressing down on Colton’s shoulder and the leg hooked, a credible winning pinfall attempt.

TWO!

Richard Parker: Donezo.

THREE!

…

NO!

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!

Nick Stuart: Kickout! Kickout! Match goes on!

Another two point nine keeps Colton alive.

A relieved, but still stressed shot of the Coltons emphasizes the point, but they can’t stop Hayes Hanlon from continuing violence towards their kin. Hanlon drops the boots to Nate’s shoulder, much to the crowd’s chagrin. He lays into Colton like the man owes him rent money.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: They’re saying Gluuuuuuuue. Very respectful, as well as correct.

Nate Colton isn’t going to take this lying down, literally. Hanlon offers one too many boots, and the New Diamond deftly catches the boot and gets himself up in one motion, elevating the leg and forcing Hanlon to drop to his hands, all the while securing a torqued up ankle lock.

Nick Stuart: An immediate turning of the tables, and now it’s Hanlon’s recent injury being worked by Colton!

No one can hear the exact words, but Colton is clearly shouting at Hanlon to tap, and Hanlon returns with some four-letter words that are allowed on PPV but still uncoutch. Colton tries to drag the bigger man towards center ring, but Hanlon drives his elbows into the mat as an anchor, and is just able to army crawl himself to the bottom rope. Elvis Nixon lets Colton know, and the latter is none too pleased, with some exasperated backtalk at the senior official.

Nick Stuart: That’s not like Colton to lose his head. Once again, we have to wonder if he’s so insistent on beating Hanlon that he’s getting close to losing his cool.

Richard Parker: Hanlon playing 11-D chess, as usual, and Colton’s playing tiddlywinks.

That moment of losing sight of Hanlon costs Colton dearly, as West Linn’s finest stalks Colton from behind and…

Nick Stuart: Oh that powerslam was SAVAGE.

The force generated from a quick switch of the hips allowed Hanlon to nail a slick powerslam. Both men get to their feet, Hanlon first. He comes in close and swings for a short-arm lariat, but Colton dodges to the side, creating distance between the two men. Colton now advances in a flash and a running forearm strike lands a glancing blow. Hanlon stumbles, and Colton’s on him from behind. He adjusts his grip, and Nate Colton turns to deliver…

Richard Parker: Exploder suplex! Last I checked, that move was made illegal in PRIME. You can’t just explode another man, disqualify him!

Another wince, and Colton grabs at his shoulder, but he’s able to shake it off and keep on his opponent. He pulls Hanlon up, stabilizes his position behind Hanlon, and holds tight as the dragon sleeper locks in on the helpless Oregon native.

Nick Stuart: This feels like we’ve had a dozen proverbial lead changes here, and now it’s Colton with the advantage.

Colton wrenches hard, once again demanding that Hanlon tap. Hanlon, his air supply cut off, has no answer other than issuing a middle finger right in front of Colton’s face. This only makes the New Diamond tighten the hold.

Richard Parker: Hayes needs a tag, bad.

Nick Stuart: It’s a singles match, Richard.

Richard Parker: It shouldn’t be!

Nate Colton’s face betrays that using the bad shoulder to keep this hold locked indefinitely will damage him just as much as it will Hayes. But he has to stay on the attack.

He makes a decision and lifts, straining visibly with the effort.

Nick Stuart: My gosh, he’s lifting the better part of three hundred pounds aloft!

Aloft indeed, but just for a single second, because what goes up must come crashing down.

Nick Stuart: Inverted suplex! You know what comes next…

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!

Do they ever. Colton raises his good arm in the air, channeling the energy of the Atlanta crowd.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

…and Hanlon this time is the one rolling to the outside. Dickish, but savvy, kind of his whole deal.

Colton pursues.

Richard Parker: As soon as Hanlon catches his breath, he’s going to embarrass this man in front of his loved ones. And that’s what the holiday spirit is all about.

Hanlon staggers backwards in full retreat around the side of the ring, though he sees Colton, T-1000-esque, stalking after him. Hanlon tosses several things in the path of Colton, including an extra set of rope sitting nearby the timekeeper, and then an empty steel chair.

None of it deters Colton.

It only slows him down.

Nick Stuart: I’d expect nothing less from Hanlon, now that it’s time to get his just desserts.

Hanlon stops backing up. He makes direct eye contact with Colton who, fed up with waiting to catch his quarry, charges.

Hayes Hanlon, though, is as slick as he is awful.

He wrongfoots Colton by feinting at him, forcing a sidestep. With Colton off-balance but still moving forward, Hanlon is able to capture the lower leg, and shoot his nemesis forward with a drop toe hold.

Typically, a drop toe hold is de rigeur, not much to write home about.

But this one is angled perfectly for one thing: sending Nate Colton’s injured shoulder DIRECTLY into the cold steel of the ring steps.

THUNNNNNNNNNNNNNG!

Nick Stuart: That is NOT a sight you want to see and, oh dear, you can hear Colton calling out in agony.

Richard Parker: He and his family can all have a good cry together as soon as Hayes takes care of the one two three.

Indeed, the most prominent sound at ringside is Colton groaning. His teeth are gritted. Hayes laughs and preens, though he’s mostly using it as a chance to catch his breath after a near escape.

Nick Stuart: Folks, I hate to do this, but I think we may need medical staff to look at Nate Colton’s shoulder after that vicious collision engineered by Hayes Hanlon.

Two of Dr. Fihlguud’s trainers advance on Colton, but he’s having absolutely none of it. Using his good arm, he waves them off, but it’s clear as day that he’s only waving them off with one hand because he can’t lift the other.

Richard Parker: He went and made himself a gimp. What a dummy.

Colton barks at the medical staff to keep them away. Nothing untoward, but as we’ve seen throughout the match, he has an edge that’s not usually there. Blake calls out something to Nate, though the feed doesn’t quite catch it. Nate takes a deep breath and nods, as if in agreement, before getting to his feet. He slides back in the ring at the same time as Hanlon, and once again.

Back to square one.

The two men look at one another, proverbial blood now drawn. No more surprises left, no more strategic advantages to be gained. Hanlon flares his nostrils with hate, but Colton seems steadied just slightly after seeing his family, despite the damage to his shoulder.

Colton is first to move. He engages for a wristlock, and Hanlon is able to fend him off with hand fighting. Hanlon shoots him at the ropes, and Colton attempts a running big boot. Hayes ducks, Colton turns. Hayes swings right, Colton ducks. Colton swings an elbow, Hanlon dodges.

Nick Stuart: Ironic that these two hate each other so much, because styles make fights and they are making beautiful music in the ring right now.

Colton advances, and Hanlon fakes like he’s going to thrust kick at the shoulder. Colton clutches (no not that one) the shoulder to protect himself, but this opens up a window for Hanlon. He grabs Colton, hoists, and then…

Richard Parker: Death Valley Driver! And he dropped him right on that shoulder!

Facts. Colton, with a shoulder that’s at best dislocated, has landed once again directly on the impact site. He shouts in pain, and slaps at the mat.

To make matters worse, Hayes Hanlon has both arms out to the side. He’s shaking with anticipation, the rhythm of a predator about to strike. He raises both arms as Nate Colton gets to his feet, shoving the New Diamond to the ropes and…

Nick Stuart: Brilliant by Colton! Flying cross body off the ropes to ward off the Epoch!

Colton hits Hanlon with full force, and somehow, perhaps through evil magic gained through alliance with Sauron, Hanlon has the strength to absorb this, roll through, and unbelievably get to his feet with Colton clutched (no not that one) to his chest, then depositing Colton HARD with a fallaway slam.

Richard Parker: That’s country strong right there.

Nick Stuart: Calm down, West Linn is basically Portland.

Hanlon goes back to the well, though he’s slightly less theatrical this time. But the same shaking and hyping up. The same shooting Colton to the ropes, but this time, the result is epic.

Or Epoch.

Nick Stuart: THE EPOCH!

Richard Parker: HANLON HIT IT!

Hook and cover.

ONE!

The Coltons, with their hearts in their guts, can do nothing but watch.

Richard Parker: Donezo. For real.

TWO!

Hanlon cradles the leg at what can only be a terribly painful angle, locking in his leverage.

Elvis Nixon’s arm goes up for the third time.

THREE?

Hayes Hanlon grins, and unhooks the leg, devilish glee across his face.

THREE!

Nick Stuart: (deflated) And that’s your three count.

Richard Parker: Two point nine ain’t three, Nick!

Truer words.

…

But sometimes, three ain’t three.

Not if you get a boot on the ropes like Nate bygawd Colton.

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!

Nick Stuart: He’s alive! Colton’s alive!

Richard Parker: The rope break is the refuge of cowards and ne’er-do-wells.

It’s now Hanlon’s turn for frustration and slapping the mat. He gets in Elvis Nixon’s face, arguing the merits of his near-win. He says some of those four-letter words again.

And as this is happening, Nate Colton stirs.

Just a little at first, because that was one hell of an Epoch.

And then a little more. He rolls back to the outside, where he balances himself against the ring barrier. He locates Jake, Benjamin, Blake, and Dennis. He winks at them, as if to say: no problemo, I got this.

This infuriates Hayes Hanlon, who follows his rival to the outside.

It’s one thing to survive Flash Point, another to survive The Epoch. But to endure both, and then act cool as a cucumber with your loving family at your side? Insult to injury for the former Universal Champion.

Home Run Hayes meets Colton on the outside. Colton kicks Hanlon in the gut, then drops his good elbow into the small of Hanlon’s back once, twice, thrice. He sidles up alongside Hanlon, and brings him SMACK down to the ground with a Russian leg sweep that gets a hearty ovation from all Coltons in attendance.

Richard Parker: This Nate Colton just won’t die. NOT a compliment, I’ll have you know.

Colton pulls Hanlon back up, the two men now dueling almost directly in front of Nate’s family. As he rises, Hanlon stomps RIGHT on Nate’s foot, and the Indiana boy recoils in pain, giving Hanlon an opening.

What he does with that opening, is to grab Nate Colton onto his shoulders and with blissful disdain in his eyes, Hayes Hanlon slowly and with great malice leans back, tilting until he SLAMS Colton to the unforgiving ground outside the ring.

Nick Stuart: That’s about as vicious as a Samoan drop can be, Richard.

Richard Parker: It’s not cultural appropriation. I believe Hayes is 1/64th Native Hawaiian.

Hanlon, huffing and puffing, gets to his feet, and begins to laugh confidently square in the faces of the Colton clan. He makes a throat-cutting gesture towards Nate so that they can all see just what he intends to do.

Nick Stuart: Classless, from Hayes. Really uncalled for.

Just to the left of the Coltons is a large sign which says simply: COLTON BETTER.

Hayes Hanlon: (points to the sign) You see this shit? Comedy.

Hanlon, being prototypical Hanlon, grabs the sign from a young woman and rips it in half.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: They’re saying “untruuuuuue” because Hayes is better.

What Hayes hasn’t accounted for is just how familiar the young woman looks. He does a double take and leans in closer, squinting as if it will jog his memory.

Nick Stuart: Wait a second…

It clicks for Nick before it does, for Hayes just a moment later.

Nick Stuart: That’s Phoebe Gaskins! The innocent civilian hit with a chair when Nate Colton, Jason Snow, and Hayes Hanlon nearly tore apart the PRIME backstage area!

Phoebe Gaskins smiles at Hayes Hanlon, returning the impish grin he wore just moments ago, and offers to him what he so recently offered to Nate Colton:

A big whopper of a middle finger.

People LOVE when Hayes Hanlon gets flicked off.

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!

Hayes leans in even closer, presumably to say something nasty, when Phoebe Gaskins points over his shoulder.

And yes, he’s right behind you.

Hanlon has no time to turn, because in a blink, that’s Nate Colton’s arm wrapped around his neck, and whoops there’s Hayes Hanlon flying, head over heels, towards the ringside floor.

Nick Stuart: COLTON CLUTCH SUPLEX! HAYES WAS DISTRACTED AND COLTON HIT IT!

Nate Colton, his arm now hanging limply by his side, has clearly fired off one of his last rounds. But he’s at least doing better than Hayes Hanlon.

Colton gets up and climbs under the bottom rope, leaving Hanlon on the outside.

Nixon counts.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Not a creature was stirring.

FOUR!

FIVE!

SIX!

Not even a mouse.

Richard Parker: Get up, Hayes!

SEVEN!

Hayes shakes his head, appearing to have no idea of where he is.

EIGHT!

Phoebe Gaskins now cheers her head off, next to a handful of rabid Coltons.

NINE!

Colton is collapsed against the turnbuckle. He watches.

He watches as Hanlon reaches two feet, unsteadily.

What Colton can do but watch?

TEN!

Watches as Hayes Hanlon beats the count by a hair’s breadth.

Nick Stuart: The fight goes on! Hanlon made it in!

There is nothing but fury on Hanlon’s face now. He looks beat to hell, the Colton Clutch Suplex having put him on his keester and embarrassed him, to boot. He advances until he’s mere feet away from Nate Colton. Both men’s chests are heaving.

Hayes Hanlon yells something. It’s not all audible, but the phrase “You should’ve killed me when you had the chance” can be heard.

And Nate Colton laughs in his face.

Richard Parker: End him, Hayes!

Nate Colton laughs.

And laughs.

And laughs.

Hayes Hanlon starts pounding away at him with vicious right hands.

Mounted on the turnbuckle, Hanlon swings until his arm gets tired.

He pulls away, and now there’s blood in Colton’s mouth from the beatdown. Hayes is fuming, furious, and Colton is holding his one shoulder in place with his other arm. He’s defenseless.

Colton, with blood pouring from his mouth, croaks out another laugh.

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!

Nick Stuart: Nate Colton can be bloodied and bruised, but he won’t let Hayes Hanlon drag him down into the mud! I’ve got goosebumps!

Hanlon, already the picture of rage, grits his teeth, face red with exhaustion and hate.

Colton, defiant if battered, swings his good arm at Hayes Hanlon.

But Glue’s finest catches it, and holds it there.

You’d have to be a lip reader to get it exactly right, but it sure does look like what follows is a conversation.

Nate Colton spits out blood and says: go to hell.

Hayes Hanlon, smirking but not amused, says: fine.

Hanlon ascends to the second rope. He reaches down and hoists a completely gassed Nate Colton up with him. Lifting Colton up into a fireman’s carry, Hanlon pivots to face the ring.

Nick Stuart: We are in the deepest of water now, Richard.

Richard Parker: We’re gonna need a bigger boat, Nick.

Colton throws an elbow to the side of Hanlon’s head.

Another.

Another.

LET’S GO NATE! 

LET’S GO NATE!

Another.

Another.

There will be no quit in Nate Colton.

Hayes Hanlon roars. He nearly loses his footing due to the constant elbows from Colton.

Nick Stuart: Colton fighting to the last, and Hanlon’s going to topple over and—

Richard Parker: GAHHHHHHH!

The utterance of Richard Parker is the sound of Hanlon wobbling and his ankle buckling underneath him.

The former champion feels his ankle threaten to give out.

The former champion on his shoulders throws one more elbow, and tries to slide behind Hanlon for just one more grab from behind. If he can only get behind Hayes, he can lock in the submission that will bring Glue to its knees.

Hanlon leans.

Colton wriggles.

THUDDDDDDDDDDD

Thunder.

The great quaking of the ring, and for a moment, pure chaos of limbs splayed everywhere.

The sound of one man righting his balance, collecting his prey, and as they fall, spiking his opponent on his head.

Nick Stuart: SUPER MASSIVE! SUPER MASSIVE! SUPER MASSIVE!

Richard Parker: COVER HIM YOU FOOL, DON’T LET HIM LIVE!

Hanlon has enough juice left to throw himself on top of Colton.

Elvis Nixon slides.

ONE!

Blood trickles down from the side of Nate Colton’s mouth where Hanlon delivered countless blows.

Richard Parker: If he doesn’t stay down after that…

TWO!

Hayes Hanlon’s eyes are closed. He’s barely hanging on, despite being in a pinning predicament.

Nick Stuart: Could it be another Colton miracle?!

An arena inhales sharply.

A drop of blood from Colton’s mouth hits the mat.

Just as Elvis Nixon’s hand does for the third time.

THREE!

There is no quit in Nate Colton. There is no mercy in Hayes Hanlon.

Richard Parker: My god.

But there is a bell ringing, to signal chapter’s end.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: My gosh.

Vince Howard: Your winner…HAAAAAAAAAAAYES HAAAAAAAAAANLON!

The Event Horizon staggers up to a knee, where Elvis Nixon raises his hand in victory. It appears that only Nixon’s hand is keeping Hanlon’s aloft.

The medical team hits the ring, immediately kneeling over Nate Colton and pointing to the injured shoulder.

At ringside, four Coltons and a Gaskins applaud the efforts of the New Diamond.

Hayes Hanlon looks down at Colton, and many things pass across his face, but for now, he simply retreats to the corner, where he leans on the turnbuckle and raises an arm in victory. He has no energy to celebrate any more forcefully, but he does have a Colossus win under his belt, and that for now seems worth the blood, sweat, and tears.

Nick Stuart: A classic grudge match, and one I’d like to see again in the future, but first we need to see about Nate Colton’s shoulder.

Richard Parker: Never in doubt!

Colossus rolls on.

Shoes. Gorgeous loafers. Real beauties. Tears in the eyes of so many, as they gaze upon the finest European cobblecraft.

There are zero nights left in the 2025 PRIME calendar, which means one thing: last chance to wear the outfit you’ve been dying to show the people.

So we get a classic camera shot that starts with the shoes (no Tarantino).

Hermes buckle loafers, the gaudy “H” in the middle, suggest just the type of person we might see as we pan up, and they walk towards the camera.

From there, a crisp charcoal pair of jodhpur pants in crushed velvet.

We head up the midsection (don’t be a pervert) and see cream cashmere under a black blazer.

And then we reach the Sistine Chapel, something that pulls it all together: the face of Chandler Tsonda.

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

At this moment, there’s no belt over his shoulder, just a duffel. Come night’s end, that could be changing.

The camera having panned all the way up at just the right time, Tsonda arrives outside locker room with his name on it, and enters. The man who only ever enters with quips and bits is silent and pensive, his face a flat mask.

He has no reaction to the relatively spartan environment inside. He has come oh-so-far from the “caviar in the rider just to see if we can get it, and make sure we’re putting some of the local escorts through beautician school” days of the A-List.

It’s just him in here, alone with his destiny.

As Tsonda puts his bag on the chair, a voice slices through the thoughts that are ping-ponging around in his mind.

Voice: You know, I figured they would always give you some kind of fancy locker room. You know, on account of you being a former Universal Champion, Hall of Famer, and of course, competing for the top belt in the industry in the main event of the biggest show in the industry. This feels a bit… pedestrian… for you.

Tsonda spins around, intrigued by the fact that someone had the same thought he’d had when he set foot into this room. Of course, that is now second as his eyes land upon a person he never expected to be in this room.

The daughter of another Hall of Famer.

Chandler Tsonda: When you’ve walked out of Colossus with a Universal Title before, they tend to let you ask for what you want. And I wanted…(gestures to the room) no distractions. And yet.

Tsonda looks directly at Rose, choosing the path of zero subtlety.

Chandler Tsonda: If I recall, you woulda been at that very Colossus, sitting at the kids table in catering. (puts a hand at his waist) About yay high, precocious, mouthy. That right?

Rose shrugs her shoulders, sitting on the counter in his vanity space. A space that was nearly re-named to the Tsonda area by Miriam-Webster. If not for internal politics at the hallowed halls at which they decide things like words, he’d literally be in the dictionary.

Once again, we digress.

Rose, wearing a pair of blue jeans and a blue hoodie, seems out of place in this room. The two had never once crossed paths in the ReVival era and yet, here she is, encroaching on the space and time of the Universal Champion.

Rose: I’ve grown a bit since then. Hoping for one more growth spurt, but the doctors think I’m stuck at this size.

Chandler Tsonda: (in monotone) What a heartwarming visit from the ghost of Christmas Past for both of us.

The Model Citizen folds his arms.

Chandler Tsonda: Memory lane aside, care to tell me why you Jason Bourne’d into my locker room? If I’d been through what you went through last night, neither God nor man would be able to get me out of the hot tub. And yet.

He points to Rose, and the fact that she, well, is here.

Rose: Trust me, I have the bruises and limp to remind me of the horrors of last night. Alas, I gave it my all, but I knew the chainsaw I was up against. At least the holiday break is upon us and that will give me time to heal. Well, that and other things.

She seems pensive for a moment, but then snaps back to it.

Rose: Sorry, I guess that ghost of Christmas Past lingered with me for a bit longer. The reason I’m here? Well, it’s simple, really. Tonight, I need you to do what I could not. I need you to do everything in your power to put Farthington down, to take that Universal Title off his waist, and to knock him down a peg or two.

She hops off the vanity counter and walks over to the Model Citizen, with that limp she mentioned earlier. On the face of the #1 contender, and Almasy winner, is a look that we’ll call: puzzled and pouty.

Rose: And I’m not asking as a fellow competitor so I can go and finish up the job after you do your job. I’m not asking as someone you knew as a little girl what feels like an eternity ago.

A flicker of recognition in Tsonda’s eyes.

Rose: I’m asking you as a favor to my father. To right this injustice in the world. And then, just maybe, I can sleep a little bit easier tonight knowing he’s without that he treasures most. Do you think you could do that for me.

Brow furrowed, The Model Citizen’s face runs a gauntlet of emotions.

Chandler Tsonda: I’m taking everything from Ceece. Not because I hate him or find him unworthy. The opposite. I find him…(gets lost in thought) Not because you want me to. Or because your dad…

He doesn’t finish the thought.

Chandler Tsonda: It doesn’t matter why. It never does with the Uni. It belongs to whoever can take it. I’m taking it because I can, not because I want Ceece to hurt, or I want you to feel…(gestures vaguely) whatever you choose to feel.

Rose: I get it. Just know, I’ve poured everything into this war with the Glueminati and have fallen short every step of the way. I’ve sacrificed things — people — I never should have. I’ve filled myself with hate and anger in that pursuit and… look where it’s got me. I need something to go right for once.

Tsonda looks into the eyes of the Second Coming, searching for… what that something could be and what it could mean.

Chandler Tsonda: Now if I was a dick, I’d say: why don’t you go make it right yourself? (shrugs) Ya know, if I was a dick, and not the kind-hearted beacon of warmth that millions of people have grown to love.

Rose takes a moment.

Rose: I can’t make this right by myself. I tried and I failed. I have to put this down. I can’t continue down this path any longer. It’s going to swallow me whole and I will — (her voice catches) — lose everything if I do.

There’s that puzzled look again from the Tsonda, as if he’s in the batter’s box, expected triple digit heat, and seeing nothing but offspeed pitches.

When he speaks next, Tsonda does so in a voice that is devoid of bluster, and very unlike the Chandler Tsonda of PRIME lore. The voice is not soft, but neither is it loud and demanding.

Chandler Tsonda: I don’t know your (gestures vaguely again) whole deal, junior, but I’m going to do what I said. I’m going to end the Age of Glue. And if that gives you, or anybody else, something like peace, then break out the ticker tape and let’s raise some bubbly to armistice.

The Viet Viper’s eyes stay fixed on his fellow San Diegan.

Chandler Tsonda: But for what it’s worth, I’ve got my own parachute. For the first time, I see a way out. Not everybody finds it. I should know, it took me three decades and a broken back before I saw the way. Now, I’m taking the scenic route, and collecting goldie from Ceece, but I won’t be thinkin’ twice about finding the exit. Sooner rather than later, parachute’s on my back, and I’m floating down to life on earth.

In tone and substance, Chandler sounds like a man who turned fifty not 48 hours ago.

Chandler Tsonda: Not everybody finds a way out. So if you’ve got one…

He substitutes a nod that says much for finishing the thought. She walks back to the vanity area and looks at herself in the mirror. The bruises, welts, scrapes, cuts, all of it stares back at her. The reminder of her war with FLAMBERGE the night before. Not that she needs one. She feels it. She wish she hadn’t come up short, but it was far from a surprise.

She picks up the duffle bag off the floor — hers, not Chandler’s — and slings it across her body, grimacing in the process. She turns back to the Sultan of Style and walks towards the door.

Rose: I do. (beat) I’m going home.

She pulls the door open and doesn’t look back.

Rose: Good luck tonight. It goes without saying, but I’ll be cheering you on.

She then exits, leaving Tsonda to himself as we cut elsewhere, the last image on the Model Citizen looking towards his main event match later in the evening.

PREVIOUSLY RECORDED…

We find ourselves in the wee hours of the morning outside of Mercedes-Benz Stadium in Atlanta, Georgia. A lone camera operator is just about to begin finishing tearing down his equipment, ensuring every cord, cable, and lens is ready for Colossus: Night Two, when suddenly, the door to the loading dock swings open.

The exhausted but intrepid videographer snags his very expensive Panasonic AK-UCX100 and places it on his shoulder before sliding in what he hopes is a battery back and presses record.

We see, stepping out from the door, a familiar face carrying a brown duffle bag – his long brown hair tied up in a bun as he slowly descends his way down the concrete steps and into the parking lot.

A tired-looking Blaze Claymore rubs at his eyes before adjusting his bag and nearly walking into a figure who steps out of the darkness and into the floodlight soaked path of the man now calling himself “The Lighthouse.”

“HALLELUJAH, LOARD GAWD, FOR I HATH SEEN THE LIGHT!!”

Claymore pauses and squints. As the figure comes into view, he’s revealed to be a certain devil in white that’s about as welcome in PRIME as a pimple on one’s ass.

And THRICE as hard to remove.

There’s no mistaking the white suit, the crazed eyes, the unnaturally wide grin, and the questionably mismatched toupee. The gold crucifix and leatherbound Bible appear to be new additions.

Rev. Erik Black: HIDEY-HO, and JAYZUS be WITH YOU, Clay Blazemore! The GOOD REVEREND ERIK BLACK at your humble service, and BOY HOWDY, TICKLE ME ROWDY am EYE EVER BLESSED to meet YOU!

Flashing his characteristically disingenuous cheshire grin, the recently anointed “reverend” extends his hand for a shake and Blaze tries to be at least cordial, but is also clearly already over whatever this is.

Blaze Claymore: Hey… uh… Reverend. No offense but I’ve got a flight to catch and unless you’ve got one of those private jets you fund with parishioner money that can get me back home faster, you can reach out to the PRIME PR team.

Blaze tries to push forward, but Black steps in to block his path.

Rev. Erik Black: Now is that ANY WAY to talk to a MAN OF GAWD!? NO, Claze, the only PEE-ARR that I’M interested in are PROPHETIC REVELATIONS! Specifically, the ones that indebt your MORTAL SOUL to the LOARD GAWD JAYZUS up HIGH! See, Blade, I’m here specifically for YOU! I was sent to YOU on behalf of SONJA! LOVELY lady, that one! Oooh, Heaven help me, what it would be like to get HER in a confessional for five minutes, eh? Ehh?? EEHHH??

Black winks lecherously while suggestively prodding his elbow into Claymore’s side. Blaze drops his duffle bag and immediately takes a defensive stance and steps more fully into the light of the parking lot’s street lamp.

Blaze Claymore: What did you just say?

Rev. Erik Black: I SAID I’M HERE FOR YOU, BLAKE! You have SINNED and LOST YOUR WAY, but I am here to help you SEE the LIGHT! I am here to introduce you to the WORD of JAYSUS! Just PICTURE IT, Blaine! VISUALIZE IT! YOU, the almighty ALIAS CHAMPION–hang on, are you still the Alias Champion? Oh well, nevermind–YOU, BLAKE LAZEMORE! Under the SPIRITUAL and INTELLECTUAL GUIDANCE of ME, a former UNIVERSAL and FIVE STAR CHAMPION! Let the GOOD REVEREND ERIK BLACK be your SHEPHERD, MAZE! HOW ABOUT IT! Are you FEELING the POWER of the LOARD?! Yeah? YEAH?? YEAH?!?

Claymore begins to roll up his sleeves.

Rev. Erik Black: YYYYYEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!

Blaze steps forward and points at Black.

Rev. Erik Black: HOW ABOUT IT, CLABE, CAN I GET AN AMEN?!

Blaze Claymore: I’m going to give you-

Rev. Erik Black: CAN I GET A HALLELUJAH!?

Blaze Claymore: -until the count of-

Rev. Erik Black: CAN I GET A WHOOOOHOOOOLEEYYYSHUCKS!!!

The camera swipes right as the arena door opens again and the Emerald Apex himself steps through the door dressed down in sweats. All it takes is one look at Kerry to put the actual fear of God in Erik Black as he stops and yeets himself into a nearby dumpster.

A confused Blaze Claymore stops mid-sentence and turns, his finger now pointed at an oblivious Kerry Kuroyama, headphones securely latched to his head, as he descends the dock steps with a styrofoam cup in his hand. The pair lock eyes as Kerry lowers his headphones and Blaze lowers his arm to his side.

Kerry Kuroyama: Claymore, right?

He offers his hand.

Kerry Kuroyama: Kerry Kuroyama. Don’t think we’ve properly met yet.

Blaze looks over to the dumpster and then back at Kerry before raising his arm once more, this time to complete the handshake.

Blaze Claymore: Yeah, we haven’t, but glad to meet you – formally.

Blaze pauses.

Blaze Claymore: And you can call me Nathan if you’d like.

Kerry Kuroyama: [nodding] Well met, Nathan.

A loud thump comes from inside the dumpster and muffled yelling. Kerry and Blaze turn toward the sound before Blaze gestures somewhat urgently toward the parking lot.

Blaze Claymore: You headed to the airport by chance?

Kerry takes a sip from the styrofoam cup. The steam rising off the top suggests coffee, or something equally hot.

Kerry Kuroyama: Not tonight, no. The honorary Vae Victis after party awaits. Whisky and hotwings and what have you. Anyway, I won’t keep you.

Kuroyama pitches his coffee over his shoulder and into the dumpster.

“Kee-YAAAAAHHHH!!”

Reverend Black bursts back out of the dumpster, aggressively pawing at his now coffee-soaked toupee.

Rev. Erik Black: AHH, MY HAIR!! I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO GET SCALDING HOT LIQUID IN IT!!

Kuroyama arches an eyebrow at the devil in white thrashing around in the dumpster beside them, then looks to Blaze.

Kerry Kuroyama: This dipshit with you?

Blaze Claymore: I was actually just about to force some answers out of him before you stepped outside.

Black pops to his feet in a heartbeat and brings his furious scowl within inches of Kerry’s face.

Rev. Erik Black: WELL!! WELL WELL!! WELL WELL WELL!! If it isn’t my supposed PARTNER in the KUROYAMA AND BLACK ATHLETIC LEGION!

Kerry Kuroyama: Could you please stop calling it that?

Rev. Erik Black: Then how about the KABAL!?

Kerry Kuroyama: That’s worse…

Rev. Erik Black: I WANT MY DEATH RAY BACK!!

Kerry Kuroyama: (shrugging) My hands are tied.

Rev. Erik Black: OOOOOOH, KURSE YOU, KURRY KURRAYURMA!!

The erstwhile “Goat Bastard” scampers around behind Blaze.

Rev. Erik Black: GLAZE!! Do you know who this IS?! He’s the GREATEST COWARD and TRAITOR that PRIME has EVER KNOWN! Absolutely GAWDLESS, I tell you! BLIND to the LIGHT of LOARD JAYSUS! But not YOU, Blast! Though you WANDER through the SHADOWS of IGNORANCE, there’s still HOPE that you can be SAVED! SONJA told me HERSELF!

Blaze Claymore: If that’s true, then you are going to take me to her – right now.

Rev. Erik Black: NEVERMIND THAT NOW! FOCUS, RAKE!! You must PURGE YOURSELF of your SINS! And I can’t think of ANY BETTER WAY to DO THAT other than HUMBLING this IGNORANT, OBSTINATE, YAKUZA-OBSESSED, TROYIST SIMP!! Now GO, Booze! GET AT IT! Bring him LOW and SHOW HIM WHAT FOR! His TATTOOS ARE OVERRATED!

Blaze reaches over and snatches the “Bible” from Black’s hands and does a double take. He weighs the item in his hand and then opens it up to find it is just a novelty cigar box with a bunch of rocks inside.

The Emerald Apex chuckles.

Kerry Kuroyama: I see you’ve become acquainted with PRIME’s worst ever Universal Champion…

Rev. Erik Black: “WORST EVER?!” I carried that belt a full TWO WEEKS over that Sykes nincompoop.

Kerry Kuroyama: …and I see he’s taken an interest in you. Just out of curiosity, do you approve of that?

Blaze turns the box over and lets all the rocks dump out into the ground as Black looks on in horror. The Lighthouse shoves the now-empty “Bible” back into the “Reverend’s” hands and flips him off.

Kerry Kuroyama: (nodding) Thought so. Lucky for you, there’s a surefire way to shake this particular turd loose.

A smile forms on his face.

Kerry Kuroyama: And I think I know the perfect time and place for that to go down. You familiar with the big PRIME/DEFIANCE crossover event?

Blaze Claymore: I’ve been a bit busy with some things back home as of late, but color me intrigued.

Kerry Kuroyama: Well, we could always use another reliable talent representing the blue and white.

Rev. Erik Black: Turning your back on DEFIANCE!? HA!! I was RIGHT about you!

Kerry’s nose curdles at Black’s comment, but he ignores it.

Kerry Kuroyama: In any case, if you kicked this guy’s ass at the event… you’d be doing me and a whole lot of other people a solid. What do you say?

Rev. Erik Black: WHAT!? Are you HEARING this, JAKE?! LIES!! DECEPTION!! DON’T FALL FOR IT!! REFUSE the DEVIL’S DEAL, BUZZ!! Join ME, and walking alongside the LOARD GAWD JAYZUS, and we can finally RID the world of wrestling of this ELITIST FILTH and his CRAPPY TATTOOS!! LET’S DO IT, Barf! Let’s make SONJA PROUD!! YEAH!! YYEEAAHH!! YYYYEEEEEEAAAAAAAHH–!!

Blaze reaches up and slams the top of the dumpster back down, hitting Black on the crown of his toupe’d skull.

Rev. Erik Black: BLEGHK!!

Blaze Claymore: If even a fraction of what he is saying is true? I can’t risk not participating. Count me in.

The Pacific Blitzkrieg nods in approval.

Kerry Kuroyama: Good meeting you, Nathan. Safe travels, and keep up the good work.

Blaze Claymore: Thanks… you too.

They shake once more and go their separate ways, leaving the Reverend Black trapped in the dumpster and pounding on the lid.

Rev. Erik Black: (muffled) BLOTCH!! BOOF!! WHATEVER YOUR NAME IS! So help me GAWD, the next time we meet, I will bring the HOLEY WRATH of JAYSUS DOWN UPON YOU! DO YOU HEAR ME!? I AM GOING TO GET OLLLD TESTAMENT ON YOUR TUSHY, BRUISE!! “VENGEANCE is MINE! I will REPAY! So sayeth THE LOARD!!” GREEKS 69:67!!!

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Rev. Erik Black: LEMME OUT OF HERE, GOSHDARN YOU! Ohhhh SHUCKS, there’s a DRUNK RACCOON IN HERE WITH ME!!

Colossus moves elsewhere…

Southern twang, and a steady drum. The crowd begins to rise as the music picks up The PRIME*View snaps to life with an aerial view, following a large, black pickup barreling down a dirt road, throwing up a cloud of dust in its wake.

The entrance strobes as “Step Up (I’m On It) by Maylene and the Sons of Disaster wails away, the camera panning to the front of the pickup, zooming in close on an Alabama license plate, and revealing just two words:

BAD DOG

“Too long, and too little,
Tell me when you gonna bring it on.
Small fights, and big stages,
Never terrified enough to run.”

Vince Howard: From Pine Ridge, Alabama!!

A big frame in a wide-brimmed drifter’s hat hides in the strobe lights, that hat tilted down a touch, the fans bellowing in the arena.

Vince Howard: Standing six feet! Four inches tall! Weighing in at two-hundred and fifty-four pounds!

The smoke starts settling, the lights start trailing.

Vince Howard: A former PRIME Intense Champion!!

The chorus hits, and the Son of a Bitch himself strolls out to the top of the ramp, one fist in the air.

Vince Howard: THE BAD DOG!!!!! WADE!!! ELLLIOTTTT!!!!!

RUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!

The Blue Collar Brawler takes it in for a moment before making his way to the ring, the arena going absolutely ape-shit for the Southern Sparkplug’s arrival. Meanhile, the music rises as Wade climbs the far turnbuckle. He removes his hat, holding it high in the air as the chorus hits heavy.

“ALLLL LIIIINED UP AND BUILT FOR PRESSURE!
(STEP UP! I’M ON IT!)
SAAYY YOOOUUUR PEACE LIKE IT’S THE END!!
(STAND BACK! WE’RE MOVIN’!!)”

He drops to the floor, tossing his hat ringside. Next to go is his gray t-shirt, revealing the tattoo of Angus the Bluetick Hound on his left pec. The music trails, and he takes place in his corner.

Vince Howard: And his opponent…

The Lasagna Boys (Toddrick, Miguel, Sebastian Gold) step onto the entrance ramp, a microphone in Miguel’s hand.

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

BOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

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

Vince Howard: From Chicken City, Georgia he weighs in tonight at three hundred and five pounds. He is the PRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIME Intense Champion… He is… FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED DICK!!!!

The drums and lame synthesizers of Starship’s “We Built this City” hit the speakers, and Fred Dick steps out from gorilla onto the entrance ramp, with Anna Daniels and a begrudging Daytona Diamonds behind him. He does some shadow slap-boxing, gets a tad out of breath, and strolls to the ring. He rolls under the ropes, stands in the middle of the ring and — you guessed it, shadow slap-boxes some more. Sweaty and gassed, he moves to his corner and awaits the bell, while his cohort of friends and brainwashed thralls back him up at ringside.

Referee Ashley Barlow points to Wade Elliot.

Ashley Barlow: You ready?

He rolls his shoulders and nods.

She gestures to Fred Dick.

Ashley Barlow: You ready?

Fred holds up one finger, the universal symbol for, “Just a second, toots.” Because Fred, you see, is chugging down a pre-match can of Four Loko. He tosses the can aside and belches an affirmative. Referee Barlow rolls her eyes.

DING DING

Both men start the slow circle towards the center of the ring, like sharks moving against a common enemy, only in this case that enemy is each other, so it’s really not like sharks at all. Unless this is a shark fight.

Before anyone gets a chance to figure out what the shark-based fursona of either of these dudes looks like, or to imagine any weirdo Rule 34 stuff about it (congrats, this is in your head now), Fred immediately throws it into gear. He’s no longer moving slowly, but rather charging at Wade with the ferocity of a raccoon on bath-salts, which is another thing that we’re all just going to have to imagine. I mean I’ve never seen that. Have you? Feel like we’d all know about it if you did.

Richard Parker: Some big stakes in this match tonight, Nick.

Nick Stuart: That’s for sure, Richard. Fred Dick is looking to retain his Intense Championship, and keep the gold within the Poor Whoresmen. And Wade Elliott has an opportunity to be a champion again for the first time in almost twenty years.

Richard Parker: And this title for title stipulation really adds to the drama, don’t you think?

Nick Stuart: I’m sorry, the what?

Our not-a-trash-panda-but-actually-a-lasagna-man’da opens up with a barrage of Four Loko-fueled offense. There are slaps. There are punches. There is even a lone shin kick. It’s the type of burst that you would get from a toddler who just ate All The Sugar and then was told no. It’s a supreme temper tantrum, only it’s thrown by a grown-ass man with grown-ass man strength.

Richard Parker: Title for title. Fred Dick is the Intense Champion. Wade Elliott has Lindsay Troy’s Love and Affection.

And Wade just… eats it. He absorbs all of it. Sure, he tries to cover up, because that’s the body’s natural reaction when you’re walking face-first into a punch hurricane, but he doesn’t look bothered. If anything, he looks as though his body is still processing this and getting up to speed. Like a 486 desktop that’s being turned on the first time in a hot minute. Soon, someone will press the “Turbo” button on the side of the case and then things will change, but for now he’s content to let the drivers load one by one.

Nick Stuart: That’s… not a thing anymore. You know that, right?

Richard Parker: Are you saying love is dead, Nick? Is that it? Cast aside and left to rot in a ditch with math and the Applebee’s guy?

Nick Stuart: You mean Buster Gloves?

Richard Parker: Who?

A backhanded shot to the crotch – a cup check, if you wheeeel – connects flush with Wade’s Bad Dogs, causing him to momentarily drop his guard. The Street Cat follows with a tactic that’s been tried and true since the first primordial human decided to throw hands with his fellow man: he goes for the eyes.

Nick Stuart: C’mon, we’ve had that conversation before. You know who he is because I’ve told you who he is.

Now, this is an Intense Title fight, which means the rules are somewhat relaxed, but Ashley Barlow is not one to tolerate The Bullshit, and thus she is bound by covenant to try and curb The Bullshit as early as possible lest The Bullshit snowball into a village-destroying avalanche of fuckeries.

Richard Parker: I dunno, Nick. That sounds like a lie. Unlike Lindsay Troy’s Love and Affection, which is very real, and very much on the line.

Wade, who has just had both sets of manly orbs accosted, is now fully powered-up and ready to throw some hands of his own. In this case, it’s not so much a hand as it is an entire arm. He lunches as soon as the referee is out of the way and lands a big lariat that sends Dick stumbling back. The big man loses his footing, falls onto his backside, and then scrambles up and into the corner just in time for the Blue Collar Brawler to meet him there.

He turns on the punching machine, which starts up the punch conveyor belts and the punch fabricators in the punch factory, and before Fred Dick can mount a defense he is suddenly overwhelmed by a warehouse full of punches fresh off the line. Ain’t no supply chain issues here, folks.

Nick Stuart: That is not a thing that people in this match are fighting for. I promise.

Richard Parker: Agree to disagree.

Before the referee can tell Wade to get Fred out of the corner, Daddy Woof-woof grabs Daddy Sagna by the collar of his Bulls jersey with two hands and pulls him right into a headbutt.

Fred stumbles around on wobbly legs. An elbow almost sends him down to the canvas. Instead, Wade again grabs him by the jersey and pulls him in, this time the momentum carries him up into a scoop slam. The Street Cat hits the canvas and immediately rolls out of the ring to get his bearings.

And also to huff some spray paint from a can that Miguel offers him. He does that, too.

All jacked up on fumes and looking like the answer to the question “What if Max Mad but in the Space Jam universe?” Fred slides back in under the bottom rope, leaps to his feet, and hits a bell clap that causes Wade’s ears to ring.

Fred, suddenly very light on his feet despite the fact that he is clearly gassed and sweating (chemicals are amazing, you guys), begins alternating between different fighting stances while making karate moves with his hands.

Richard Parker: Oh! I know this one. The slap boxing scene calls it “The Hungry Scorpion!”

A hard right hand slap connects with the side of Wade’s head. Fred changes stance again.

Richard Parker: This one is “A Bug’s Life!”

Nick Stuart: I feel like there’s a lot of insect themes here, Richard.

Another slap. Another stance change.

Richard Parker: And this one is “The Portuguese Space Program!”

Nick Stuart: You made that up.

Slap. Stance.

Richard Parker: They just call this one “Geoff,” but it’s with a G and that makes it exotic.

Nick Stuart: Now I know you’re just making this up.

Richard Parker: Not true! They take things like this very seriously on the slap boxing circuit. It is a very serious sport full of very serious people.

Slap. Stance. Again.

Nick Stuart: Okay then, what name does this one have?

Richard Parker: “Pfoooont.” It comes from the sound things make when you’ve been straining for a while, and things finally hit the water, and…

Nick Stuart: I hate you so much right now.

The last strike manages to knock Wade back and into the corner. Fred wastes no time in kicking the Bama Bruiser’s feet out from under him, forcing him down into the corner.

And then Fred does the Macarena.

Well, sort of.

When he gets to the part of the dance where it’s time to put his hands on his hips, he pivots, backs that thang aaaaall the way up, and then grinds it into Wade’s grill.

Nick Stuart: Kiss the Ring by the champion!

Richard Parker: You know, if Wade manages to win this match and gets to remain Lindsay Troy’s husband, he’s going to need to, like, boil his entire face before they get intimate again.

Nick Stuart: There are so many things wrong with what you just said that I would need a podcast to list them all.

Richard Parker: Name one thing!

Nick Stuart: Fred Dick does not get to be anybody’s husband if he wins, for one.

Richard Parker: Then why is Lindsay Troy’s Love and Affection on the line here tonight, Nick?

Nick Stuart: It’s not!

Fred pulls himself out of the corner and begins making ghost-like motions with his hands and spooky sounds with his mouth. Is this a threat? Yes. Yes, it is. This is a threat made by a man tweaking hard on Four Loko and inhalants, one who is determined to “haunt dem fuggin kids with shid and fard and penisfard jokes.”

But Wade? Wade does not want his children haunted. Wade does not want to hear the whispers of phantasmal fard jokes while he’s trying to sleep. Wade wants to stand up. He wants to stand up and smash the man who just put his entire ass in his face.

So he does exactly that, and he is not gentle about it.

It starts by grabbing Fred by the back of his jersey before the Intense Champion even gets to turn around. He pulls Fred towards the ropes and lets him go, so that Mister Dick hits them back-first. Not hard enough to go over or through them, though. Just enough that Fred’s balance is off.

The clothesline that follows? That’s what sends Fred over the top rope and to the arena floor. If you want to know what it sounds like, throw a stack of deli meat onto your kitchen counter hard enough that it slaps. Then you’ll understand.

This is where we get our next healthy dose of The Bullshit, for this such things are required when the Intense Title is on the line. But what flavor of The Bullshit are we dealing with, you might ask?

Nick Stuart: Wade Elliott’s got a chair!

That kind.

WHACK!

That’s the sound the chair makes when it connects with Fred’s back. I could have told you to try and hit that same deli meat from before with a chair, but that would just be awkward and you’d probably fuck up your kitchen in the process. Better (and safer) to just explain it.

WHACK!

The second chair shot sounds exactly like the first.

Miguel and Toddrick, ever the loyal Lasagna Boys, try to intervene. It does not go well for them. Miguel is hit with a right hand that sends him reeling. Toddrick is simply shoved over and because of his leg situation is unable to get back up in time.

Nick Stuart: Wade Elliott shouting at our colleagues at the Spanish announce table…

Richard Parker: We have one of those?

Nick Stuart: How do you not know that?!

Richard Parker: I told you last night, Nick. I don’t watch the product.

Nick Stuart: They’re sitting four feet away from you!

Richard Parker: Are they part of the product?

Nick Stuart: I… guess?

Richard Parker: Then I rest my case.

Wade tosses aside a series of monitors, then contemplates whether or not to shove the rest of the items off of the table. Ultimately he decides to leave them where they stand. If nothing else, it’ll make the impact more interesting. He pulls up Fred by the jersey and lifts him onto his shoulder in a back suplex position before casually tossing him onto the table.

It doesn’t break.

Damn, that’s a sturdy-ass table.

Fred bounces off of it. He lands on his feet, but the momentum of the move carries him into and then over the ringside barricade.

Nick Stuart: Fred Dick has been sent into the crowd!

Richard Parker: He’ll never win Lindsay Troy’s Love and Affection out there, Nick!

Nick Stuart: Again, that is not what this match is about.

Richard Parker: I know it’s not just for that. Title for title, baybeeeeee.

Nick Stuart: Nope. Not that, either.

Wade moves to retrieve Fred from his spot in the audience.

TSSSSSST!

That’s the sound that spray paint makes when it’s blasted into your eyes by a man who is being forced out of his Four Loko high.

Wade, temporarily blinded, flails his arms to try and prevent any further damage. Fred uses this opening to grab a nearby television cable and choke his Hall Of Fame opponent.

Ashley Barlow just kind of stands there in the ring, leaning over the ropes. For a brief, shining moment she had this one under control. Sure, it might have been a hopeless endeavor, the dream of the innocent, but she had managed to stave off The Bullshit for a few minutes at least. Now, resigned to her fate that this match has gone the way of so many other Intense Title fights before it, she doesn’t even bother to count. She just watches.

Fred picks up a chair, the same one that Wade had whacked him with only a moment before, and returns the favor. He puts the weapon down just long enough to roll Wade back into the ring, then tosses the chair in after him. He finds a second and tosses that as well. A third. A fourth.

It continues.

Nick Stuart: Fred Dick has just thrown nine chairs into the ring, Richard.

Richard Parker: Damn, he must be down bad trying to be Lindsay Troy’s new husband.

Nick Stuart: I just… I want it known that when the hammer comes down on you for this, and it will, that I had nothing to do with it. In fact, let the record show that I tried to correct you on this multiple times.

Richard Parker: Settle down, Nick. You sound like a man who’s jealous that he’s not also in there trying to compete for Lindsay Troy’s Love and Affection.

Nick Stuart: What?! I am not jealous!

Richard Parker: Why’s that, Nick? The boss not smart enough for you? Or attractive enough? Hrmmmmmmm?

Nick Stuart: Oh you are NOT turning this around on me, I swear to god.

Fred gives a nod to both of his Boys, and then rolls in under the bottom rope. Unfortunately, because he spent so much time tossing chairs into the ring, Wade Elliott has had time to wipe the sting of spray paint out of his eyes.

WHACK!

He also found time to pick up a chair.

WHACK!

Wade clobbers Fred a second time, and then tosses the chair to the mat so it can rejoin its steel brethren. It missed them, and was lonely, so the chair is happy to be back among its kind. Wade scoops Fred around the waist, looking to put this one away, but Fred starts kicking his feet wildly to try and break free. When that doesn’t work as fast as he intends, he rakes Wade’s eyes.

Nick Stuart: Fred Dick trying to blind Wade Elliott again!

Richard Parker: Isn’t that sort of thing illegal?

Nick Stuart: Are… are you serious?

Richard Parker: Sorry, this is all very confusing to me. I don’t watch the product, you see.

Nick Stuart: It is literally your job to watch!

Richard Parker: Oh. (pause) I didn’t read the job description, either.

Nick Stuart: Lord, give me strength.

As Wade tries to once again blink the world back into focus, Fred circles him and gets ready to pick his shot. Once he senses that Elliott is vulnerable, he makes his move.

Nick Stuart: A roll-up by the champion!

ONE!

Nick Stuart: He’s got both legs hooked.

TWO!

Richard Parker: Say goodbye to your wife, Wade!

NO!

And seriously, Richard, that’s not how this works. Jesus Christ I can’t believe I’m involved now.

Fred immediately shoves Wade’s back onto the canvas again and tries the cover a second time.

ONE!

Richard Parker: Do you think the Lasagna Boys will get to pet the horse?

TWO!

Nick Stuart: What horse?!

NO!

Richard Parker: Didn’t the Troy kids have a pet horse? Did I make that up?

Nick Stuart: As opposed to everything else you’ve made up tonight?

Frustrated, Fred gets back to his feet. Then he plants one of his Jordans squarely on Wade’s face and begins grinding the sole into tender, spraypainted face flesh. All while twerking.

And shouting about ghosts. That’s still happening.

When he finally picks up his foot to do something else, that something else involves grabbing one of the chairs on the ground.

WHACK!

Fred heads for the corner, looking to climb the turnbuckles and finally put this one to bed, but he’s barely through the ropes when he sees Wade start to get back to his feet. Knowing that he won’t make it up top in time, Fred steps back into the ring. With the chair still in hand he charges at the Bad Dog.

Nick Stuart: Death Valley Driver!

Only to be caught mid-charge and driven into the canvas. The impact of the move is punctuated by the sound of chairs clanging against each other on the mat. The force of the move causes Fred to almost bounce up to a seated position.

Wade is slow to his feet. Fred uses the ropes to pull himself up, albeit very gingerly. When the two meet again in the center of the ring it’s clear they’re both breathing heavily. The Drifter fires first with a heavy right hand. Fred Dick retaliates with an open-hand slap across the face. Elliott lands an elbow. Dick fires back with a theatrical karate chop. Punches. Chops. Slaps. Elbows. Every strike that one throws is answered in turn by the other.

The stand-off is only broken when Wade grabs Fred by the jersey hockey style, and pulls it over his head to take away his vision for a change. While Fred fights to get free of his grip, Wade snaps off a series of uppercuts that wouldn’t look out of place at a skating rink. By the time he’s finished, Fred’s eyes are glassy, but the Street Cat doesn’t go down.

Wade lets fly with an elbow that rocks Fred in the jaw. The champion takes a step back, shakes his head, and then roars in defiance. He charges at Wade who throws a clothesline in response, but Dick ducks under and hits the opposite side ropes.

Fred Dick: BLOOD MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOODE!!!

He doesn’t run into Wade, he runs through him. The charging slap lands hard enough that Fred can feel the shock in his shoulder.

But now it’s Wade’s turn to defy the odds. He doesn’t fall. Instead, he takes a half step backward and raises a hand to his face. He rubs his cheek for a moment, then tests his jaw. Finally, he turns to Fred and offers a small nod of respect.

Fred’s eyes are saucers as he stares in disbelief at what he’s seeing. He shakes his head, wondering if this is a trick of Reality, or if the chemicals coursing through his system are mixing together in a bad way. Everything in his reach becomes a weapon. Chairs are thrown one after another, each one landing true. The first catches Wade just above the knee, which causes him to stumble. The second glances off his shoulder.

Once again, Fred tries to King Kong his way up the turnbuckles. He looks down at his Lasagna Boys at ringside, and gives both a nod as he wipes a streak of spray paint away from his mouth.

Richard Parker: Here it comes! Fred Dick is about to become the new object of Lindsay Troy’s Love and Affection!

Nick Stuart: Still not how this works, but we both know you’re not listening to me.

Richard Parker: Christmas is about to be real weird at the Dick-Troy household. Wonder if Ami and Kaz will have enough time to get their new brothers presents.

Nick Stuart: Please see my previous statement.

Fred leaps from the turnbuckles, his arm raised high in an exaggerated karate pose.

Nick Stuart: WADE!!

CRASH

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!!

But also there’s a little bit of…

BOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

After all, this is Fred’s city.

Let’s rewind the last few seconds. Fred threw himself from the top rope, once again measuring Wade Elliott to try and put him away with the Slap Box With God. This time, instead of catching the move flush, The Bama Bruiser manages to get himself under Fred in such a way that he’s able to catch him over his shoulder in just the right position.

Nick Stuart: ROUGHNECK!! ROUGHNECK!! Wade Elliott has just pancaked Fred Dick with the Roughneck!! And right on top of that pile of chairs!

Ashley Barlow slides into position as Wade makes the cover.

ONE!

Toddrick fumbles with a can of Four Loko as Miguel demands he open it in a hurry. Daddy needs his juice if he’s going to kick out, and he needs it now!

TWO!

Richard Parker: Miguel and The Other One are about to get adopted by a hall of fame dad!

Nick Stuart: Good lord, STOP!

THREE!!

DING DING DING

The championship belt is fetched from the timekeeper’s table.

Vince Howard: The winner of this match… and NEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeew Intense Champion… WAAAAAAAAAADE ELLLLLLLIOTTTTTTTTT!!

Nick Stuart: Wade Elliott has done it! After eighteen years, Wade Elliott is once again your Intense Champion!

Both Toddrick and Miguel help Daddy ‘Sagna down from the ring. Together they begin the long, slow walk to the back.

Richard Parker: But more importantly, his marriage is safe!

Nick Stuart: (sighing) No.

Richard Parker: And he is the proud father of two Lasagna Boys!

Nick Stuart: Not that either.

As the new champion celebrates with the only title he’s ever held, we go to commercial.

We head backstage to find the Masters of the Moscowverse standing by. Well, “standing” is a loose term, as Kenny Freeman is pacing back and forth with a small envelope in his hand while Randall is in fact standing.

Kenny Freeman: Come on, where is…

Kenny doesn’t get to finish his question as the locker room door opens, revealing a PRIME stage assistant. The young man looks at Kenny and Randall.

Stagehand: You wanted some assistance?

Kenny smiles, handing the envelope over to the stagehand.

Kenny Freeman: Perfect! I need you to deliver this hard-earned prize over to The Anglo Luchador. I’m a man of my word, and my word is bond.

Stagehand: I’m not so sure he’s…

Kenny shakes his head, waving his finger.

Kenny Freeman: Uh uh, you’re here to be a helper. I’m sure you can find him somewhere, check his hotel record… or the parking lot!

Before the assistant can say another word, Randall nudges the young man back through the locker room door. While that’s going on, Kenny turns his attention to the camera.

Kenny Freeman: PRIME bidness has been taken care of this weekend, and with that the Masters of the Moscow tour rolls on! Randall and I are about to hop in our Chevy Camaro and make the longest drive imaginable. Matter of fact, you will believe that a Chevy can fly… ‘cause Randall and I are headed to France to ADDRESS OUR ENEMIES over in DEFIANCE. I hope the LDLC Arena can handle what I’ve got to say about the Atomic Punks, when I finally make my DEF return after over a decade.

The locker room door opens as a grinning Randall steps in.

Randall Schwartz: He ain’t lyin’… we’re headin’ to Lyon!

With that, both men head through the door as Colossus rolls on.

We’re somewhere in the Mercedes Benz Stadium.

Specifically, it’s a sky box. One of the many. A few modifications have been made to accommodate the men that now occupy this space.

There is a long table in the center of the sky box, nothing unusual about that. There’s two men seated on opposite ends of the room, nothing unusual about that. Those two men are seconded by one man each, nothing unusual about that. One of the men is sitting upon a throne, and that’s fairly unusual. The two men on the other side are giving him scowls, and that’s… not that unusual out of either of them at all.

Coral Avalon sits upon the throne wearing a blue waistcoat suit. The bald man standing next to him is his right hand, his best friend, and his long-time tag team partner, Franco Marchesi. Marchesi is similarly dressed, only his waistcoat is gray. Avalon is seated as casually as a man who willfully brings a throne with him for most meetings can possibly seat himself. Franco has the look of a man who can’t believe his friend would do exactly that.

Seated across from him is OSCAR BURNS, and by his side is Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME. Said Chairman wears a dark charcoal suit standing by the side of BURNSIE, wearing an olive green suit, dark tie, black loafers and wooden-framed dark green designer eyeglasses. Mr. Silver looks unamused at the throne on the other side of the table but he does make note to keep hold of OSCAR’s fabled and prized Golden Shovel.

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: The fuck’s up with the throne?

Franco Marchesi: King of Conquerors. What’s with the shovel?

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: Literal symbolism that OSCAR BURNS here and dig deeper and beat anyone in front of him… and occasional weapon.

OSCAR BURNS: Indeed.

Avalon looks up at Franco, who stands there stoically, in order to ask him an important question.

Coral Avalon: What are the odds that something dumb is going to happen while we discuss this like adults?

Franco Marchesi: We’re on a PRIME show. 100%. Fred Dick is going to burst in here in a speedo or something.

Coral Avalon: Well, that’s a horrifying thought. We might as well make it quick, then.

Avalon turns to BURNS and Silver, who are waiting impatiently for this nonsense to begin.

Coral Avalon: Well, Sonny. Oscar… I bid you welcome to the Throne Room

He’s not using the caps, and you could tell that OSCAR BURNS is ready to interrupt him at any moment.

Coral Avalon: Gotta be honest, it feels weird to be in here without my belt, but it is what it is. We’ve got catering, at least. Got a couple of funny looking cheeses with challenging pronunciations, if you’re into that sort of thing.

He shrugs.

Coral Avalon: Or I suppose we could drop all the pretenses and get on with the pro wrestling stuff.

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: As long as I’ve known you, Coral, that might be the smartest thing that’s ever come out of your mouth. I hate useless meandering as much as I hate Heidenreich.

OSCAR looks up.

OSCAR BURNS: Bloody who?

Coral Avalon: Whomst?

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: You don’t wanna know.

BURNS nods, then turns to Coral.

OSCAR BURNS: I’d like that very much, GC.

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: That means “Good chap.” Unless you’re an enemy. Than the “C” is gonna be something else.

OSCAR BURNS: Indeed. And it may change depending on how this meeting goes, so let’s indeed talk MY realm… the great, great graps.

OSCAR taps his chest.

OSCAR BURNS: At first, I was downright INSULTED — all caps — that my first open challenge was met with silence. Then I was downright INFURIATED — again, all caps — that my second message towards PRIME headquarters was cut off because SOMEONE cut the commercial I paid for! However…

The Technical Spectacle gestures towards Coral.

OSCAR BURNS: When I heard it was you, GC, I was pretty ELATED.

Coral Avalon: All caps?

OSCAR BURNS: Did I stutter or whisper, you bloody ponce? Keep up. I was pretty tickled to find out that a former PRIME Universal Champion answered. One of the best on this side of the wrestling pond to lace ‘em up. I can’t wait for this match. When I said I wanted PRIME versus PRIME, that’s exactly what I got! I don’t want it easy. I wanted one of the company’s very best to be humiliated on a grand stage! PRIME versus PRIME!

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: Fuck yeah.

OSCAR BURNS: Onto this match… I know you. I know your work. Been a big fan for a long time. But let me be clear… respect for your body of work is ALL I have for you. You interrupting ME? YOU WILL put some uppercase AND respect on my name, Coral. And on January 9th, I’ll do that. I’m walking into this joint show with every intent of twisting your bloody joints into funny balloon animal shapes. You’re a Conqueror of Kings?

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: Pfft, so he says.

OSCAR BURNS: GC, I’m no King. I’m not royalty. I’m not a bloody deity or deities of wrestling, depending what you believe in. I *AM* DEFIANCE. I *AM* PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING. And when you share a ring with me, I’m gonna rip you into as many pieces as I bloody want, I’m gonna take my Golden Shovel, then bury you in a hole while you’re on what’s left of the throne when I’m done with it. Then all of PRIME is gonna know that OSCAR BLOODY BURNS *IS* PRIME!

Coral Avalon: Cool.

Coral had been smiling in his throne as he watched OSCAR BURNS talk.

Coral Avalon: If I had a nickel for every time someone said they’re going to rip me into pieces, and found they couldn’t… Well, I’d be able to put my daughters through college.

Coral adjusts himself in his seat to lean forward, hands tented underneath his chin, eyes firmly directed as OSCAR BURNS.

Coral Avalon: I want you to keep this in mind, Mr. Burns. The crown I’ve earned? The throne I’m sitting on? I was never meant to have those. These are things I built from the blood and the tears of the pretenders who all thought their words alone were adequate enough to beat me. If you want to call yourself PRIME despite never once setting foot in that ring down there, then you do it with more than just words.

Franco Marchesi: It is a pain in the ass to move the throne everywhere, though.

Coral Avalon: That’s what Gavin is for.

He relaxes slightly and sits back on the throne.

Coral Avalon: Anyway, Oscar, I have very simple terms here. January 9th. One-on-one, you and me. No funny rules, no frills, no fuss, no muss. A simple, straight wrestling match, a full-on buffet of pro graps. That’s what you want, right? You want to be the PRIME and the DEFIANCE against the international wrestling world’s own personal boogeyman, then here I am.

He spreads his hands.

Coral Avalon: As the kids say, come at me bro.

Taking in everything that Coral has to say, DEFIANCE (and PRIME?) Himself, slides his chair out and then… holds out a hand.

OSCAR BURNS: Agreed. Let’s do this.

Coral takes a hand in return… but OSCAR doesn’t quite let go.

OSCAR BURNS: Boogeymen don’t exist… but I do, GC.

Mr. Silver chimes in.

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: Pretty sure THAT ONE was the other C word.

Coral Avalon: Well, better check under your bed, then.

Coral smiles, and raises his free hand into the air. Almost materializing out of nowhere, the bedazzled blue and pink school mic that once belonged to Mr. Silver himself lowers into his hand. Calmly, without breaking eye contact with OSCAR BURNS, Coral said into the mic…

Coral Avalon: Because this boogeyman’s coming to get you.

Mr. Silver looks up at the mic and frowns.

Mr. Silver, Chairman of PRIME: Next time, I’m bringing a mic, a stooge and a stool. Just not the same talking into the mic if it ain’t from the ceiling.

Silver starts to leave. OSCAR and Coral have one more staredown “Maggie and the Unibrow Baby” style, then departs along with his manager.

Coral turns to Franco, mic still in his hand.

Franco can only shake his head.

Franco Marchesi: …Really?

Coral Avalon: What? I just wanted to see if it worked.

Now Franco is face-palming, and that’s a good time to move on with the pay-per-view.

From the suite, the King’s Suite, all so familiar, we return to the ring. A moment of rising tension. Then silence. But not for long.

GODSMACK.

“I FUCKING HATE YOU.”

The ultra-heavy power chord strikes twice, blue flash bulbs to match drowning Mercedes Benz Stadium, who responds in kind with a bellow of pure primal animosity. They know what’s coming. A throwback to the olden times, Godsmack stirs the crowd into full-on frenzy as their guitar-line churns, white strobe lights illuminating the entrance.

The silhouette of the Anti-PRIME appears among the strobe lights, eliciting a rising response from the Atlanta faithful. Vince Howard takes hold of his mic in-ring, stalwart and prepared as ever to introduce this man one last time.

Vince Howard: THIS MATCH HAS NO TIME LIMIT AND IS A BEST TWO OUT OF THREE FALLS MATCH! INTRODUCING FIRST…FROM DAYTON, OHIO, STANDING SIX FEET, TWO INCHES TALL AND WEIGHING IN AT TWO-HUNDRED AND FOURTY-FOUR POUNDS, HE IS THE ONLY THREE. TIME. UNIVERSAL. CHAMPION IN THE HISTORY OF PRIME….THE INHUMAN BEING! THE WRECKING BALL! MAAAAAAAATT! WAAAAAAARD!

And in perfect fashion, Ward steps forward from the lights as the chorus hits, Atlanta rising even louder to greet The Inhuman Being. It’s definitely mixed, but it doesn’t make it any less audible.

As Godsmack returns to verse, Matt Ward walks forward steadily, eyes on the ring. The camera follows PRIME’s Wrecking Ball as he marches for the final time, clad in the classic Tchu ring-gear, fingers pumping with adrenaline.

He stops at the very end of the entrance stretch, as the song builds back to chorus. Head lowered, he holds his arms out to the sides, fists clenched, as Godsmack roars angrily.

He lifts one arm after finding and pointing his children in the crowd.

Blue lights continue to whirl as the music breaks down. Ward takes his time, striding toward the steps and taking calculated steps up to the apron, stepping through the ropes carefully. He draws to the fair corner, resting against it, readying himself for what is to come.

What is to come, however, is the stadium lights dimming, the PRIMEView coming to life. The castle is regal, opulent, yet still something one would find at home in either The Lord of the Rings or Game of Thrones. The throne chamber. The throne itself is massive, as though it could seat a giant. In truth, it does. Its entirety is a mixture of gold, silver, and platinum. Face plates of wrestling championship belts. Countless won over a career spanning decades. One of the most accomplished competitors to ever lace up a pair of boots.

The ever tasteful Henry Keyes opens a scroll, reading from it the charge.

Henry Keyes: Matthew Ward, he of which the sneeze sound is made, your crimes are many against your better. It matters not how you plea, as your sentence is already decided. This is mere formality.

Elegant nails sweep through Helen’s fur. She purrs at the foot of the throne. The regalia of the one seated upon the throne is unmistakable in its color choice.

Henry Keyes: Bestie Queen…your charge?

The camera pans upward, sweeping across the vivacious Queen Of The Ring. Her smirk is haunting. The blade of her sword is sharp, the hilt in hand utterly elegant.

Lindsay Troy: Off…

She rises and swings. We do not see the strike, but the spray of blood makes it evident what has occurred, as does the sound of a body hitting the floor.

Lindsay Troy: With his head.

So, who is the next to get it?

I’ll take the life of anybody trying to change what’s left.

“Put ‘Em in the Grave” by Jedi Mind Tricks gets into full swing as an absolute stream of pyro show envelopes the stage. Two golden spotlights shine down in the middle of the ramp,, a white light center to it all. Through it all, standing alone, is The Queen Of The Ring.

The Renaissance Woman.

The Final Boss.

The Colossus Boss.

The Payer of Checks.

The Baddest Bitch on The Block.

The Woman With Enough Title Belts To Make A Literal Throne From Them.

Owner.

Manager of Champions.

Winner of Championships.

One of the heads of Vae Victis.

No…you CAN’T sit with us.

Lindsay.

GODDAMN.

Troy.

Vince Howard: And his opponent….from Tampa, Florida…she is the owner of PRIME, undefeated at Colossus…UNDEFEATED AGAINST MATT WARD…

He scowls at that remark.

Vince Howard: weighing in at one hundred ninety-five pounds…she is The Benchmark! The Renaissance Woman! YOUR QUEEN OF THE RING…LINNNNDDDDSSSSAAAYYYYY TRRRRROOOOOYYYYYY!

The entire time, Lindsay has been making her way to the ring, ready to battle. Once at the ring steps, she sharply makes her way up, all before wiping her feet and flipping herself up and over the top rope. She rolls through to one knee and throws her head back while extending her arms, giving the PRIMEates their well-deserved photo-op. The Queen stands, focusing on Ward, stepping back as the pair lock eyes.

Jimmy Turnbull looks back and forth between the two, then calls for the bell

DING DING

A well of noise fills all that surrounds the ring, but inside it, for both Lindsay Troy and Matt Ward, it has not seeped within. It’s akin to a bubble not yet burst. A coating of varnish. Within is but a buzzing, a sharp tinny hiss in the ears, impeded only by the rhythm of an elevated heartbeat. That nervous tension as adrenaline begins coursing through the blood. A familiar feeling in an all too familiar place.

One last time.

For the final time.

There isn’t an eagerness in Matt Ward’s motion; his heavily tapped hands grasp the nearby top rope, a forceful yank checking to see the tightness. His tongue is bone dry, and along the back of it, near his throat, a choking foam of chalky saliva. Narrowed eyes reach their destination.

The Queen of the Ring. Head on a tilt. Michael Myers would eat his soulless heart. Her expression is infused with a malice, a quiet ferocity and anger that was summoned and must now be reckoned with. There is no more delaying this. Months upon months of tensions. Of trusts tread upon. The Inhuman Being rests his back in his corner, his countenance nowhere near severe. Stoic in appearance. The edges are where those with abilities of perception can see the nuance. A softness. Almost plaintive in manner.

One last time.

For the FINAL time.

Ward makes the first step forward, his stance easing at the shoulders, widening at the knees, boots firmly planted with each footfall. Engage from wrestling. Lindsay does not do the same; she charges, her stomps echoing from the canvas, and before Tchu can even fully process, she leaps toward him, feral, a launched elbow strike crushing into the meat and cartilage making up his face. The blow forces a backpedal into the corner, and The Queen of PRIME, The Lady of the Hour, throws another vicious forearm, this one lashing across the bone of his cheek. This isn’t glancing; her elbow is sharp, ripping a gash across, a ribbon of blood flowing from the cut opened up.

Ward goes to defend his face, and in the process, exposes his ribs. Muay thai knee strike dead center. The oxygen rushes from his lungs, his body contorting forward. Troy latches onto him in the clinch, thrusting her knee over and over and over into his head, all before propping herself and launching upward from her other foot for a hellacious final blow that releases not just the clinch, but rockets Tchu’s head backward. Red and swell and blood and outright pain; The Wrecking Ball’s face is looking all sorts of mangled, all sorts of torn apart, as though an era of battles has returned in a final mosaic for the masses. If he expects quarter, then his issues would’ve been much better suited than in a wrestling ring, started in Columbus, extending onward in a showcase of childish anger. Spinning backfist.

Jimmy Turnbull is being a little loose with the rules; after all, the magnitude of this contest, and those participating having been involved directly with past paychecks, earns the competitors a bit of understanding of where their bread is buttered. Troy surges again, driving her full weight and full strength into a massive knee to the body of Ward, in the process grabbing hold of a facelock. Oxygen taken. The Queen Of The Ring plants her feet, and with a dip, takes the former three time PRIME Universal Champion onto her shoulders, keeping a lock on his head at a slight tilt. A few steps from the corner taken.

By Royal Decree.

Matt Ward knows this move. He knows it VERY well.

It’s why his own elbow stops her before she can drive him into the canvas. It’s why, despite knowing he deserved some heavy fire, the artillery barrage The Renaissance Woman launched would sign the death warrant of his career in short order if he didn’t respond. And so, he does. Free for a moment. Standing behind Lindsay. A switch flips. She can hear his growl. She feels an instinctual need to protect herself, that her neck is unguarded. It’s for a brief moment.

As if rolling back the clock, that brief moment is all Tchu needs.

Sleeper hold.

The Downfall.

Troy’s head spikes into the canvas with concussive velocity.

He knows this isn’t enough. Three times around and it wasn’t enough then. Staggering, gasping for air, Ward rips her from the canvas, locking his arms around her neck once again. Sleeper hold. Yank.

Cruuuuuuuuuuuuush.

The Downfall. Again.

This match isn’t for the faint of heart. It isn’t an exhibition. Ward knows what he has inside himself, and knows what he is in there against. Lindsay seems inviting for a pin. Two Downfalls should be enough to grant him a fall.

He knows better.

Peeling the Queen of all that is PRIME, Ward lifts her onto his shoulders, plodding to the center of the ring. Everyone in attendance is on their feet. A cacophony of sound. The viciousness from the jump has had them enthralled. Ward looks towards his children in the crowd. Another smirk, ever so slight, to them. Out of everything he has done in his career, the Hall of Fame, more Universal Championship reigns than anyone, the Jewel in the Crown, the Dual Halo…this…is bigger.

Weight.

Of.

The.

World.

He hooks both her legs.

ONE.

TWO.

THREE.

DING DING DING

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

For the first time ever, Matt Ward has pinned Lindsay Troy.

For the first time ever, Matt Ward has bested Lindsay Troy at Colossus.

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

HOLY SHIT!

Vince Howard: THE WINNER OF THE FIRST FALL…MAAAAAAAAAAAATT. WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARD.

A few moments of ‘rest period’. And then, Jimmy Turnbull calls for the bell again.

DING DING

Lindsay Troy tries to pick herself up from the canvas, but face plants right back down. Her legs kick into the canvas, trying to force herself back to a stand. It’s in vain. She can’t. All that rage, anger, bile, it is gone now, replaced by a confusion and an instinct knowing that she is mortal danger. It doesn’t even matter the stage. Her eyes are wide open, her mouth agape. Her pupils dart too and fro as her limbs struggle to function in unison.

The Wrecking Ball looks upon the state of his long time friend. His confidant. His Revolution Sister. They closed an era together. They were always to be linked. And there she is, after all this time, after all they have been through, struggling, valiant.

Meek.

His fists tighten. He knows the expectation between the two in the ring.

No sympathy.

No remorse.

To the end.

One last time.

For the FINAL time.

The Inhuman Being rips her up from the canvas, drawing her in for a hug.

Overhead belly to belly suplex.

The Queen crashes into the canvas and skitters across it like a skipped stone. Ward rises up from the canvas, punching his knee as he does so, cringing at the feeling within. The popping he can feel. His tapped hands close around her head, bringing her back up.

Overhead belly to belly suplex.

Lindsay tries to sit up, tries to roll over, but she can’t. The reckless assault has left her unable. Her eyes are wide as the stars. All the battles she’s faced in the time after the Revolution, they didn’t feel like this. The sheer richness of agony filling her body. PRIME is a different beast, demanding pieces and parts of the self far greater than any other ring that has ever existed. She knows this. She is this. It doesn’t make this processed any easier. It doesn’t mean the toll, when it comes for you, is any less crushing.

If she is to find respite, it doesn’t come. Matt Ward launches her from the canvas with a release german suplex, and as he does so, lets out a primal roar. If this is truly the final time, then what better showcase is there? If this is the final time, and this is the impression left, what will be etched into the histories of the Pinnacle of All Sports? He had just done what nobody else could manage during the vaunted and historic Universal Championship reign of Cecilworth Farthington.

And now, his greatest adversary, on HER stage, the one in which she has never lost, is utterly destroyed. Utterly wrecked. Practically mewling in agony. Royalty eventually falls. Perhaps her crown will one day be taken up by someone else.

Perhaps his Georgie.

Nostrils flared. He lifts her from the canvas one more time, his arms locking around her waist, lifting her up with a delayed deadlift german suplex. He rises from the canvas, a few wobbly steps as he does so. Lindsay Troy’s arms crinkle and draw inward. Her body is slowly undulating into the feeble position.

After all this time.

This…

Is how it ends.

“I’m sorry, Lindsay.”

Another lift up. His arms wrap around her throat. Those words. So…feeble. So drenched in sympathy. Pitiful. Like she was worth such emotions. Such sorrow.

Here.

In a Colossus ring.

Here.

In HER PRIME.

Here.

In the ReVival of the greatest of all sports. In the world which she remade. In the world in which she gave new life to. The Queen Of The Ring. The Goddamn MOTHER of MODERN PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING. How. Fucking.

Down.

Dare.

Fall.

You.

Her legs wrapped around his, and with the imbalance, she trips him, and there is a scramble. The back of her head smashes into the front of his, against the bridge of his nose, against every bit and piece it can find purchase of. Blow after blow, until those massive hands finally release. And she struggles, mounting him, palm strike blows hitting their mark, the heel of her hands, evolution, he tries to push her off, but she merely climbs the ladder, landing closer blows, furious in expression, and then, letting off a roar of her own.

She gets up to her feet, stumbles for a moment, but hits the ropes and charges forward with a front dropkick to the head. Ward tries to avoid, but isn’t able. A race to the feet. Lindsay’s body, racked with pain from the Inhuman assault, beats Ward, but just barely. He surges forward, looking to hit her with a lariat, but instead, she stops his momentum, blistering him across the chest with a knife edge chop. Then another. And another. Each blow is akin to a flaying whip striking his chest.

The thrust kick she hits is like salt in the wound.

The Colossus Boss follows up with a spinning roundhouse heel kick, and while she doesn’t stick the landing, she is close enough to her feet to maintain balance. Ward flounders backward, his expression listless as pain and toll take root. Troy closes the distance, rushing in for a leaping roaring elbow.

Tchu catches her, even while eating the shot. He pushes forward, carrying himself and across the ring. He goes to launch her over the top rope and to the floor. She manages to grab hold of his head, garroting him across it. Feet on the apron. She runs with him in her lock, along the corner post.

Flying front flip neckbreaker.

Impressive. Very impressive.

Ward staggers from the canvas, and Lindsay refuses to give him respite. Her boot crushes into the back of his head, then again, and again. Soccer kicks to the ribs turn him over and onto his back. She throws back her curls, eyes like daggers toward the near corner. An arm draped around her ribs, she grabs onto the top corner turnbuckle, steadying herself, and then leaps up to the top rope, steadying herself.

She jumps.

Ward uses his elbows to protect his head for when she comes down.

Too bad that isn’t where she was aiming.

Her splash connects right across both his knees, hyperextending them. His upperbody lifts from the canvas and his eyes shoot out of his head as he lets out an agonized wail. Tears are quick to follow as his hands slap toward the damage down to his knees, the heels of his hands then scooching him away from the impact point, his legs laid outward. Lindsay Troy sees this. Sees her friend in utter agony.

Sympathy comes in.

But it’s brief.

Because they know the score. They know what this is all about.

The Queen Of The Ring rises from the canvas, and as she does, she grabs at the ankle of Ward, who begs her off. The mere movement of his legs causes his head to collapse to the canvas. Dragonscrew into the canvas.

He curls into a ball. His head rushes across the mat like sandpaper.

Troy grabs the leg and situates her boot on the underside, only to smash it into the canvas with a stomp.

The blows are growing more and more uncomfortable, as Lindsay works to do so again. Repeated trauma. A lesson not just for Ward, but the entire wrestling world for trying to sunder what she has built, what she has made, what she has given the world.

The Queen gives him a moment, backing off her volley, letting him rise to his feet. Some might see this as mercy. No. She is letting him work to have to pick himself off the canvas. Ward pushes himself toward the near ring ropes, fingers grabbing at them, struggling to pick himself up. Slowly, agonizingly, he makes his way up. Every movement peels away bits of his soul. The cost is grave. Troy, for her part, is there to make it all the worse; rolling koppu kick.

Ward is down.

Lindsay Troy is done with this.

Done with all the petulant bullshit.

Matthew Ward is just the latest. How many times has she had to deal with utter horseshit over the past four years? How many Jabber meltdowns? How many segments on her own show droned on and on about how shit she was, how terrible she was at running this promotion, that called into question her character, her morals, her family, her love? How many times did she have to be accused of favoritism before it became one too many? How many people whined that she didn’t protect them, that their issues and the problems they found themselves in were her fault? There’s only so much a person can take. There’s only so much a person can stomach when they want to be the one in the ring, taking care of the business. To face down the assholes and the injustices. Instead, they brandish her a coward. Think she state sponsors their actions. This is a battle that is unwinnable. Untenable.

Fuck them.

And FUCK Matt Ward.

All he had to do was call.

All he had to do was be a goddamn human and she’d have been there for him.

It wasn’t her fault he didn’t know how to deal with his own daughter and her wants and passions.

It wasn’t her fault he couldn’t reconcile his own emotions.

Instead, she used HER ring and HER platform as a weapon to HURT her!

Goddammit, Matthew!

GOD.

DAMMIT!

Why did you make me do this?

Why are you making me do this?

Do you think I am going to flinch? Do you think you can be the Inhuman Asshole and then say you’re sorry without true consequence? And people think she’s the goddamn Antoinette of professional wrestling.

A bunch of bimchs wanting their cake and to eat it too.

Ward was a stumble bumble. Dead on his feet. Dead to rights. Zoned in. Get out the eggs and flour, you Columbus dipshit; it’s time for All Hail The Queen.

She readies herself to jump.

He, instead, clips her ankles, taking her feet out from under her. Her pelvic floor crushes into the top turnbuckle. That…that hurts.

Ward strikes his knees. He can barely stand. He can barely move. That splash to his legs was the final check his body had left to cash. Everything else was in the red. Bankruptcy. He went to grab her across the head for a front face lock. She headbutt him in response.

As much as his body could barely give, he returned in kind, launching his own headbutt into her. His arms wrenched around her head, and with a jostle, he turned her around.

Wobbly feet. Spent knees. Each step up the ropes was fresh Hell. But he lifted. And he ascended. And she struggled to try and get herself free.

But it was all for naught.

Downfall.

From.

The.

Goddamn.

Middle rope.

The blow shot them both in a splay, at a comfortable distance from one another. This…was the ONLY comfortable thing about what had just occurred. Everyone on their feet. Clamoring. Crying out. The wall of sound. But for the two of them, it was just the rhythm of their own hearts. The tinny hiss cutting through it all.

The Queen wasn’t moving.

The Inhuman Being was.

His fingers dig into the canvas. Scrapping. Clawing. Dragging his useless legs behind him. Drawing him closer. Ever closer. Ever closer. Twice over, the two had faced off at Colossus. He never beat her; after all, she had never lost at PRIME’s seminal event. She’d taken the Intense Championship from him. She closed the Revolution by defeating him. And all these years later, here they were. Never, in all that time, was she so prone. So vulnerable from something he had done.

So close.

He draws ever near.

His arm collapses across her chest.

ONE.

So very close.

TWO.

So very close.

THREE

Done.

Finished.

Forever.

SHOULDER.

UP.

Ward saw it. He couldn’t do anything about it. He simply readied himself for what was to come. For the next burst. He still had the advantage, but he needed to press forward. Press forward before all was lost.

Lindsay Troy starts to move.

Lindsay Troy starts to stagger.

Lindsay Troy…is alive.

Worse for wear. Much worse for wear. The Queen tries her best, weak hands grabbing the ropes. She works to get herself to a stand. The whole time, her eyes are on Ward. Watching. Watching him do the same as her. She’s quicker. Faster. Her entire body screams, but she screams back. To her feet. She is to her feet. A surge with.

A fist pounds her chest.

Her own. Her own. Pumping with her heart. Fueling her. Slowly at first. But it picks up pace. A match striking her alive. Animating her. She roars. Her curls frame her face like the queen lioness that she is. Ward finally is to his feet, but the moment he lets go of the ropes, he nearly collapses.

Let me help you, Matthew.

She grabs hold of him. Lifts him up on her shoulders.

Spiking him into the canvas.

Matthew…By Royal Decree…

There is no cover.

Near lifeless. Lindsay Troy grabs hold of Ward with a double underhook.

It is The Queen’s Final Judgment…

Upon connecting, Lindsay grabs onto the ropes, and takes to the top. Tchu works to pick himself up, nearly flopping down dead, but somehow, someway, he is able to stand. Like before. He goes to try and clip her from the ropes.

It…doesn’t work.

Within this, The Crowning Glory…

Phoenix.

Flying.

Tornado.

DDT.

She hooks the leg.

ONE.

TWO.

THREE.

DING DING DING

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

Vince Howard: THE WINNER OF THE SECOND FALL…LINDSAY. TROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOY.

The Queen rises from the canvas, propping herself up against the ropes. Her hair falls from her face as her eyes remain trained upon Matt Ward, fallen, crumpled at her feet.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

A moment of rest. As per the rules. But she stands above him. He looks toward her. Glances exchanged. Glances locked. One on one. One to one. But they know the truth. They both know what this is.

DING DING

Ward grabs onto her ankle, steadying to pick himself up. The Queen does not waver. She stands firm into the ground. A castle. A tower. The foundation upon which the very sport rests.

Climbing up, her ring gear acting as steps. The Inhuman Being struggles with every last bit of his strength, of his will, just to get back to a stand. He’s defenseless. Everyone can see it. He knows it.

The Queen knows it.

But the price for forgiveness isn’t simple. No hand is offered to help him to his final resting place. He hovers, hands on her shoulders, looking up toward her.

There isn’t a look of anger, or vengeance, or sorrow. There is nothing.

Because they both understand.

That you…Matthew Ward…are to fall…to The Executioner’s Song.

The two fall to the canvas, dead center in the ring. Lindsay Troy expertly has Ward wrapped in the The Twister, the strain put on his spine, his knee. He’s never seen this before. His bones and ligaments are crumbling. Breaking. Snapping. She gives him not an inch. Not a quarter.

Not a stitch of relief.

No safe harbor.

Ward struggles for a moment, trying to figure out a way.

This…his body has nothing left to give.

One last time.

For the FINAL time.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

DING DING DING

Lindsay releases the hold, and in so doing, Matt Ward wrenches over, curling himself in pain. But it’s over. It’s finally over.

Vince Howard: THE WINNER OF THIS MATCH…BY A SCORE OF TWO FALLS TO ONE…THE QUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUEEN! OF THE RIIIIIIIIIIIIING! LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINDSAY! TROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOY!

Slowly, she rolls over, peeling herself up from the canvas, using the ropes to get to a full stand.

On the Colossus stage, once again, she stands victorious.

But there is no burst of celebration. Instead, she waits. And watches.

Matthew Ward struggles to his feet, using the ropes for assistance. And it takes many uncomfortable moments for him to finally come to. But eventually he doesn.

In the ring.

The two of them.

In the ring.

Ward.

Troy.

Alone.

The two competitors stand face-to-face, and the roar of the crowd drowns out “Put ‘Em In The Grave” blaring through the arena. On cue, employees in the sound truck cut the music, letting the moment speak for itself.

Nick Stuart: That was an incredible battle.

Ward’s chest heaves in the ring; LT has her hands on her hips, breathing heavily and glaring at the Inhuman Being.

Slowly, Ward extends a hand.

The Queen looks at it for a moment, and one can almost see the last three months of bullshit playing back in her mind. She hesitates, really thinking this over, as the crowd buzzes.

Nick Stuart: I’m not sure how this is going to be received, Richard.

Richard Parker: Well, I think…

Richard doesn’t get to finish his thought, Lindsay Troy reaches out and shakes the hand of her long-time friend. And the crowd erupts at the show of respect.

RAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

The handshake doesn’t last long. Troy quickly pulls Matt forward and the two embrace in a hug, as the roar of the crowd intensifies.

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Nick Stuart: A scene I think we were all hoping to see!

The icons continue the hug for a moment and Ward can be seen whispering something in Troy’s ear. Briefly, the two touch foreheads before the Queen pats his shoulder and exits the ring. As she hops off the apron, she gives a brief smile and a nod of her head.

And then, as she exits up the aisle, leaving the Inhuman Being alone in the ring… the adrenaline from a Colossus classic, the excitement of the reconciliation between two old friends, gives way to reality.

Nick Stuart: …that was it. Matt Ward’s final match.

The PRIME Hall of Famer looks out to the crowd. Around Mercedes Benz Stadium, fans begin to rise to their feet and applaud. As they stand, Ward does a slow spin, watching the wave of support spread through the stands. A chant begins to break out.

THANK YOU, TCHU! THANK YOU, THCU!

For his part, Ward barely even seems to register it. He grabs the end of the long elbow pad that has protected his once mangled left elbow since the beginning of his career. Sliding the sleeve down over the sweat of his forearm, Matt drops the pad in the middle of the ring.

Nick Stuart: Tchu first arrived in PRIME in 2005 at ReVolution 75, defeating Smitty T. Duluth in the first round of the Jewel in the Crown. He went on to win that tournament and never looked back. Now, here… 20 years and over 200 combined episodes of ReVolution & ReVival later… his historic career comes to an end at Colossus.

Richard Parker: I’d say he’s supposed to leave his boots in the middle of the ring, not an elbow sleeve, but nobody wants to see them feet.

Nick Stuart: Classy as always, Richard.

In the ring, Ward raises a hand in acknowledgement of the crowd, before looking ringside and hopping through the ropes. He makes his way over to the barricade and finds his three kids, wrapping his arm around them all and kissing his daughter, and Belmont Classic entrant, Georgie on the forehead. Reaching down, he grabs his seven year old, Hailey, and hoists her over the barricade. With a nod of his head, both his son, Hunter, and Georgie hop over the railing themselves and the Ward family enters the ring.

Nick Stuart: What a moment. For those that may not know, Matt’s wife passed away several weeks ago and tonight marks the first time his younger kids have ever been ringside for one of his matches. Clearly a very emotional time for the family in that ring.

A crew member at ringside grabs a microphone and bolts into, and out of, the ring, delivering the mic to the retiring Hall of Famer.

Ward takes several short, but deep breaths, as he gathers himself and tries to maul his way through the moment.

Tchu: I’m not usually a man of many words, and the last time I did have a lot to say, I almost lost my best friend in the business, so I’m gonna keep this short.

Ward pauses and adjusts the weight of the seven year old held steady by his left arm.

Tchu: When people call it quits, they always talk about how they hope they’ve left the place better than they found it. But… PRIME is so big, such an incredible place filled with so many awesome people, it’d be kinda silly for me to think that one busted up old man would have that kind of effect. What I can say, confidently, is that this place has left me a better man than it found me.

There’s a mix of cheers and applause from the crowd.

RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

Tchu: The last 20 years haven’t always been fun, but they’ve been somethin’. Now, I’m gonna go home and do the Dad thing and I’m gonna enjoy it. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

Ward lowers the mic, then smirks, quickly raising it back to his lips for one last poignant thought. Georgie, on cue, reaches over and covers her little sister’s ears.

Tchu: PRIME that shit.

RRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Matt Ward drops the mic in the middle of the ring, next to his discarded elbow sleeve. As the crowd roars, he sets his seven year old down. Hailey climbs under the middle and bottom ropes. Hunter follows between the middle and top rope. Then Georgie.

And then Matt.

As applause echoes throughout the stadium, on knees that feel as fresh as they have in nearly two decades, Matt makes his way up the long aisle, his children at either side and his battles behind him.

“Trust Me” by Brad Fiedel

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Richard Parker: Nick…

Nick Stuart: The mood…has officially changed.

Richard Parker: I’m here for it. I’m soooooo here for it. Brandon Youngblood killing Cancer Jiles? I’m here for it. I LIVE FOR IT. Inject it into my veins!

The first percussive beats power through the Mercedes Benz Stadium sound system, many in attendance getting to their feet in anticipation. A wide spanning shot of the stadium crowd slowly pans before we then cut to the locker room area, where a door explodes open with tremendous force, nearly coming off its hinges.

From inside, Brandon Youngblood steps on out. Adorning his upper body is a new variation of his signature branded white hoodie, the red gothic ‘Rise’ and the diamond logo across the chest is replaced with an embroidered golden winged fanged skull, the various logos of PRIME over its history subtly etched within the feathers,

Youngblood’s stride is resolute as the camera follows him, his expression focused and intense. He moves, undaunted, through the hallway as it transitions from locker room doors to the backstage, to the metal supports and the black drapery making up the lead to the entrance ramp. The returning Hall of Famer never wavers, always looking forward to the path he is on.

As he nears the steps leading to the Argyle Position, he and the camera stop. His head turns. His voice is clear.

Brandon Youngblood: Don’t you dare disappoint me

His hand throws back the curtain, with him stepping within. The cameraman lingerings, the soundtrack having reached its final beats. The fans are ready. And as the show goes back to the stadium, we can see the fever pitch is about to reach another level in a few short moments.

Another wide panning shot, this time from over the ring. The bright lights.

Suddenly, they die.

Black.

And then…The Battlecry.

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD

SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE

LET THE GALAXY BURN

Load blasts of pyro. The heat of flames. The stadium lights return as Bloodsport (World Domination) by HEALTH surges, and as it does, the ramp, the video wall, the video board comes alive. Billowing flame, deep with a blue infused reddish hue, envelopes the entire entrance, filtering outward to the darkened crowd. A spotlight focuses central at the height of the ramp. There, he stands, ready for battle.

RISE

Each step forward is powerful as he stalks his way down the ramp, his eyes forward and focused. His expression is stoic. Stone. Reaching the point before the descent, he unzips his hoodie, throwing back his hood.

As he does so, a volley of pyrotechnics explode from the entrance.

He paces forward, walking to the steps and making his way up them, his dominion whole on the ring apron. At the halfway point, he steps between the ropes, taking the center of the ring.

Vince Howard: This match is set for one fall and has NOOOOOOOOOOOO time time limit. Introducing first…hailing from Bandera, Texas by way of Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada… weighing in at 265 pounds… he is…THE DIIIIIIAMOND! THE TOWER OF BABEL! HE IS! BRAAAAAAAANDON! YOUNGBLOOOOOOOOOD!

Pacing about the ring, Youngblood pulls from his hoodie pocket a mouthpiece which he fits into his maw. He undoes the arms of his top, pulling it off before handing it to a ring attendant, working with his back against the ropes, testing how tight they are, all before focusing center, toward the ramp, ready to face off against the man he hates most in all of professional wrestling.

The first rivalry of The ReVival.

He waits for a moment, pacing to and fro, before stopping once again, center of the ring. When he does? He grabs at the left strap, yanking it down.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Then, he does the same to the right.

YOU DONE FUCKED UP!

YOU DONE FUCKED UP!

YOU DONE FUCKED UP!

Straps are down. Youngblood beckons in the ring. Readies himself to go. Those opening cords. Screaming Jay. The pomp and circumstance. eGGs and baby blues and T-Shades and that goddamn PERFECT platinum blonde head of hair. Salt shoes. Track suit. Oh, and if this doesn’t make it all the more perfect…

PRIME Hall of Famer.

It’s time.

It’s so time.

So come on, COOLYMPIAN.

Come on, King COOL.

It’s Colossus.

No.

IT’S COOLOSSUS!

COOLOSSUS 2025.

And it’s Brandon Goddamn Youngblood. The man who beat you in the first Almasy Final. The man who Randallplexed you three times to become Universal Champion. The man who cracked your eGG despite the sacrifice of Cocaine and The Golden Ticket. The man you ended Phil Atken’s career over because that Scottish bastard had the AUDACITY to be the one to take the Universal Champion from him.

IT’S RIGHT HERE.

He’s waiting.

WE’RE ALL WAITING.

Youngblood continues to beckon.

He continues to wait.

And as much as Jiles loves the camera, as much as he loves the limelight and center stage, there becomes a time when his thirst for such makes this wait seem fruitless.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Because…

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

He’s not coming.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Youngblood stops. He shakes his head. And The Diamond…

Puts the straps back up…

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

SUDDENLY!

Two big beefy masked men charge down the ramp, screaming all the while.

Intruder #1: AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!

Intruder #2: AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!

Oh, no.

No, fellas. This ain’t it.

Fun’s fun, but this is absolutely the LAST place you want to intrude.

So of course, that’s where these morons will be. Running down the elongated ramp toward their certain doom, screaming all the while.

Intruder #1: AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!

Intruder #2: AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!

Intruder #1: AAAAAAAAAAAhhhhh…aahhhh…

…but first they have to stop and catch their breath. It’s a long ramp, after all.

That’s right, deep slow breaths. Don’t want to be sucking wind when the Tower of Babel murders you.

OK, it looks like they’ve recovered, because they start running–or “running”–again.

Intruder #1: BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD MAN!

Intruder #2: YOUNGS FOR THE YUNG ALS!

Come back to us, Al. We need you.

Intruder #1: BRANS FOR THE HEALTHY BOWEL MOVEMENTS!

Intruder #2: DON FOR…NOBODY! NOBODY WANTS A DON!

Intruder #1: EXCEPT THE MAFIA!

Intruder #2: AND JUST LIKE THE MAFIA, WE’RE HERE TO MAKE YOU AN OFFER YOU CAN’T REFUSE!

Intruder #1: GET INTRUDED UPON AND THEN UTTERLY DESTROYED BY…

Intruder #2: BY…

Wait, did they forget?

The Intruders: THE INTRUDERS!

Oh good, they figured it out.

The Intruders: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Breathe in. Breathe out. The stoic Youngblood looks back and forth between the two of them. What are his thoughts? For a man who, once, was so easy to read, tonight, he is like braille to the unknowing.

Back and forth.

There they are. And they are ready. This…was not what he wanted. Not what he expected. After a year away from the sport, after a year away from PRIME, the grand return, the entrance, the desire to get in and fight. And out of all of that…not only is he stood up by a man he thought would be unable to avoid a challenge on such a grand scale…

Now…

His in ring return is being INTRUDED upon.

He grabs the left strap.

He grabs the right strap.

Slowly, they come down.

Uh.

Oh.

The Intruders slide into the ring, directly in front of Suplex Daddy, fully committed to their pursuit of the title “Dumbest Motherfuckers Alive.”

Good news, they won’t have that title for long.

The bad news…

Intruder #1: TIME TO GET HURT, BRANBLOOD YOUNGDON!

Intruder #2: YOU WILL NOT SURVIVE!

Intruder #1: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!

Intruder #2: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!

That is Intruder #2 being launched skyward with an overhead belly to belly suplex. Intruder #1 watches this and does nothing. Literally…nothing. It’s only when Youngblood is back to his feet that he thinks it’s time to move. And as he does? He lets out a primal Intruder scream.

This scream transitions into horror as he gets caught and thrown ontop of his head with a vicious german suplex.

The fans are going wild at the carnage as Intruder #2’s barely gets to his feet, only to get his leg caught and slung across the ring with another brutal suplex. Impromptu Suplex Family Reunion! Intruder #1 is barely on his knees before The Diamond’s arms around his waist, lifting him from the canvas, the Intruder’s arms and legs flailing as Brandon Karelin’s him from the canvas and swings him crunching into the canvas with the Diamondplex (once affectionately known as the Randallplex, so, you know, ouchies). Intruder #2 shouldn’t go alone.

Take this.

Take this Diamondplex and go to your people.

Tell them the tale.

If…you’re still alive.

The Intruders lie on the canvas, very much wrecked and destroyed. Youngblood looks them back and forth, grabs at the straps of his singlet and puts them back to his shoulders. Another look back and forth to them. He walks toward the puddle of urine that is Intruder #1 and gives him a pat on the chest.

Brandon Youngblood: Sorry, bud. Wrong place, wrong time.

He then makes his way over to the pile of feces that is Intruder #2, grabbing him by his hand and giving it a shake.

Brandon Youngblood: You’ll get them next time.

He lets go, the arm flopping to the canvas. Bloodsport hits the sound system, and within a few steps, Youngblood is out of the ring and onto the floor. The camera draws close to him, the fans going wild despite the fact that Jiles didn’t show up.

Or maybe their cheers are because he wasn’t here.

Either way, Youngblood looks directly in the camera, his words clear as day to the audience watching on the Ace Network.

Brandon Youngblood: That was your one chance. You aren’t getting another, Crumb.

He looks away, making his way up the ramp, the camera following.

And with that, Colossus goes elsewhere.

The lights in the Mercedes-Benz Stadium dim, and fifty thousand people rise to their feet in a rolling roar. A golden swirling hammer and sickle slam together on the PRIMEView while the background bleeds crimson.

Nick Stuart: Well folks, we’ve arrived! Months of violence and collateral damage have all led us to this very moment. Jared Sykes. Ivan Stanislav. One last run between these two titans of PRIME. There’s no title on the line, but make no mistake, this might be the most personal match on the entire Colossus card.

Richard Parker: Nick, tonight isn’t about belts or suspenders, it’s about punishment. Retribution. Jared has been a thorn in Ivan’s side for years, and for what? Ivan beat him in the Tropical Turmoil tournament in 2023. He destroyed him at ReVival 50 one on one. Ivan’s moved on, but Jared can’t seem to get beyond it. What idiot returns from retirement to go up against the biggest, most powerful wrestler in PRIME? This isn’t a match. It’s about a very large Russian man turning Jared Sykes into paste on the biggest stage of the year, and I’m here for it!

A low, mournful horn rumbles through the sound system, rolling under the crowd’s noise. Then, the familiar swell of the Soviet National Anthem hits, the arena lights bleeding into deep crimson as the hammer and sickle replay on the PRIMEView.

Vince Howard: Ladies and Gentlemen! Introducing first, from Arkhangelsk, Russia! He stands 7’1” tall and weighs in at 400 lbs. He is a former two-time PRIME Universal Champion and leader of The Red Army. He is The Russian Bear! IVAAAAANNNN STAAAAANNNNISLAVVVVV!!!

BOOOOOO!!!!!

Nick Stuart: Four hundred pounds on paper, but I think everyone in this building knows there is a lot more than that bearing down on you when you are across the ring from Ivan Stanislav.

Searchlights sweep over the crowd as red pyro cracks along the stage. The curtain parts.

Alexei Ruslan explodes out first, a furious storm of brown, red, and yellow. He has a Soviet flag over one shoulder, jabbing a finger into the middle distance, screaming out at the crowd that drowns him in hatred. He stomps to the edge of the stage and waves his arms, demanding more noise, demanding respect for the man behind him.

Starshy Praporshchik Ivan Stanislav steps through the curtain.

Over seven feet of legendary wrestler stands framed in red lights and falling pyro. His shoulders are as broad as ever, his frame terrifying, yet his eyes are not on the ring. For a moment, he just stands, staring through the stadium, somewhere far beyond Atlanta, Georgia.

Nick Stuart: There he is. The Russian Bear. Former Universal Champion. One of the most dominant, most destructive forces in PRIME history. You’d think Ivan was ready to breathe fire, with Jared Sykes so close to coming to the ring, but he’s almost… somber in this moment.

Richard Parker: That’s a man who has fought wars for sixty years and is about to win one more. He’s locked in, Nick. This is his war face. This is what focus looks like. Duh.

Alexei whirls back towards the entrance to bark at Ivan, gesturing with him to the ring. He claps Ivan on the arm. Not the casual encouragement it might appear, but harder, more insistent. He slaps the side of his chest, then turns to jab at the crowd with renewed intensity, as if trying to transfer his own fire into the man behind him. Ivan finally takes a first slow step forward, but there’s no answering thunder in his expression.

Each footfall on the ramp rings out. The camera tracks along his boots, up the sheer wall of his legs, up to that distant stare. Fans at the barricades lean over, hurling insults and patriotic slogans, waving signs of vitriol in his face. Ivan doesn’t react. His gaze never moves to them.

Alexei, however, is more than happy to pick up the slack. He screams into faces along the ramp, jabs at a fan’s sign and shakes the flag so hard the pole vibrates. Now and then he turns back, walking backward in front of Ivan not with the casual swagger of a hype man, but with an edge of concern masked by aggression, yelling up at him, pantomiming smashing someone’s head. It’s like he’s trying to light a fuse that, at the moment, only glows. Like he knows the fuse is there, but he can’t figure out why it won’t catch.

The music swells as they reach ringside. Ivan pauses at the ring and stares into it coldly.

Nick Stuart: You can feel it hanging in the air. After all the matches from last night and tonight, after everything we’ve seen between these two men, the ring isn’t just a ring tonight, it’s a reckoning. Perhaps not just for Ivan but also for Jared.

Richard Parker: No, just Jared. He’s been poking the bear for years and now, finally, he’ll put an end to him!

Alexei scrambles up the steps and vaults onto the apron. Ivan grabs the top rope and steps up onto the apron as if it’s an oversized step. He doesn’t enter the ring, but turns his back to the ring and looks out over the crowd, and then locks eyes with the hard cam, staring through it. For just a fraction of a second, barely perceptible, his gaze lingers on the lens, and something flickers across his face. Not anger. Not intensity. Something more like… searching. Like he’s looking for someone in the void.

Normally, this was a moment where one would expect him to roar, but he doesn’t.

After several moments, Ivan raises one enormous arm into the air in a slow, mechanical movement, almost labored, like a machine being powered on against resistance.

Pyro erupts from the ring posts in a staccato BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM, and the stadium shakes. The crowd reacts on instinct, booing, screaming, and chanting. The sound washes over the Russians in a living wave.

Only then does Ivan step over the top rope and into the ring. He lumbers to the center of the ring, plants his feet, and stares up the aisle.

Alexei circles him like a furious satellite, pointing to the stage, shouting at the hard camera, slapping Ivan’s back.

Nick Stuart: Looks like Alexei is working overtime to get Ivan to bellow and roar like he normally does. But what I don’t know is if this is Ivan being so focused on the upcoming match, or something else…

Richard Parker: This guy has killed people in combat, Nick. What you’re seeing here is laser focus.

Nick Stuart: He is a living monument. Veteran of wars in and out of the squared circle. Whether you love him or loathe everything he stands for, you can’t deny the gravity he brings when he steps through those ropes.

The music begins to fade, the red lights cooling back toward white. Ivan does not look to the crowd, or to Alexei. His eyes are locked on the entrance, on the spot where Jared Sykes will appear. His hands curl into fists at his sides.

Nick Stuart: The Bear is in the ring. Mercedes-Benz Stadium is on its feet. Jared Sykes is on his way. This is Colossus, ladies and gentlemen. This is what blood feuds are made of.

Richard Parker: Ring the bell already.

The camera cuts from Ivan’s impassive face, to Alexei’s seething one, to the vibrating curtain.

And for a moment, all of Atlanta holds its breath.

PrimeVIEW.

We begin with a view of the earth from a few hundred miles straight up. Slowly we move closer, until it’s clear from our trajectory that we’re moving towards Atlanta. We push past the Atlantic coast, moving inland towards Atlanta. From this distance everything is calm, peaceful. We have no idea of the violence unfolding on the ground below.

We push through the cloud cover.

The world around us is on fire. The sun has turned red. It hides behind a thick blanket of blackened smog. A heavy dust of pulverized concrete makes every breath taste of sand and paints the world in a gray haze. Every explosion, every crash of red lightning, shows massive, hulking shapes lurking on the horizon. Each metal horror is a walking war machine, an abomination of spirit and steel that stalks the landscape.

The biggest of these dwarfs the other of its kind. Trimmed in polished brass, the red armor plating looks worn in places, each one the scar of an injury earned in combat. At the end of its left arm a curved, wicked sickle reaves through one of the last remaining buildings, shearing clear through the upper levels. Affixed to its right arm is a colossal hammer, which the titan brings down through the rest of the structure.

We drift away, straight up. We move slowly at first, and it appears one of the smaller machines is tracking our path into the sky. In seconds we are once again looking at the sky above Atlanta from orbit.

Our view flickers once, twice. The color bleeds away until only shades of green remain. A targeting reticule blinks into life.

We recede further and reveal the whole of the monitor where this is all being displayed. It, and a message across the bottom of its screen.

IMPERATUM:

+ ENGINE KILL +

Further now. We see the bridge of a ship in Earth orbit. We hear orders being shouted over the sound of a screaming klaxon.

Back inside the arena, the music starts. Lorna Shore. “Unbreakable.”

The blast beats of the song are matched to the sight and sound of the thruster firing as the pod hurtles towards the ground.

From whence we came a tremor

The quake that never ceased

The earth was turning too quickly beneath

Gravity

I feel you weight me down

Deeper into the ground

On the planet below, the titans continue to lay waste to the city. One of them seems to constantly phase in and out of existence, but each new appearance seems to slightly alter the machine. A pair, one larger than the other, work together to cut through a swath of resistance. A fourth just looks mad. Like… mad, y’know? Like why is it so mad?

The pod collides with the ground and the PrimeVIEW flashes bright white.

And after it all

Our hearts are invincible

Like diamonds we glow

Inside the arena, a heap of steel and stone has risen from beneath the entryway. A single figure kneels atop the pile of ruin. He wears a tattered hood of deep crimson that hangs low over his eyes. Where previously he had only a few pieces of armor, tonight Jared sports the full panoply of war. Each piece is the color of midnight, only revealing itself as a dark blue when hit by the light. There is a long spear held low in his left hand, its tip shaped like a teardrop with a hollow center.

WE

ARE

UN

BREAK

ABLE!!

There is a loud roar of thunder and a flash of lightning before it starts raining over the entryway inside the building. This is the third time it’s rained at Colossus. It will probably be the last.

As this all unfolds, the point of his spear bursts into flames. Jared rises to his feet, holding the weapon high as the storm unfolds around him.

Through ice and cold

Fire and brimstone

He moves down from his perch atop the city rubble and begins making his way towards the ring.

And now we know

We are unbreakable

Vince Howard: On his way to the ring! From Boston, Massachusetts! Weighing 201 lbs!… HE IS THE DRAGONSLAYER! THE HEART OF PRIME! THIS. IS. JAAAAAREEEEEEEED SYYYYYYYYKES!

There is an interesting addition to his armor tonight in the form of what appears to be a trophy rack. A row of black iron spikes, like the top of a fence, stick up from the center of his back. Mounted on those spikes are trophies taken from battles won. The head of a crocodile. The cold steel web of a spider. The desiccated corpse of a large lizard.

There is also a severed head with stark white hair. The spike on which it has been impaled drives through one of the eye sockets and secures a pair of cheap sunglasses in place. The mouth is full of gold leaf.

There is one spike left empty.

We grow, from the depths

We will ascend

We know

We are unbreakable

Not for the first time, someone thinks, “It would probably be a bad idea if Jared Sykes had a giant spear and the spear was on fire and he brought the fire spear to the ring.” It is the first time that someone has needed to take action to prevent this from happening, which is why – around the time he’s halfway down the ramp – Jared finds himself hounded by someone who definitely didn’t expect their night to play out like this when they showed up to work.

For the time being, he keeps the spear.

He holds onto it until he makes it to the ring proper. Only after ascending the turnbuckles and thrusting it into the air does he finally relent and hand the weapon over.

Nick Stuart: What an entrance by Jared Sykes! It seems like he might be looking for a bear head to throw on that last spike!

Richard Parker: Oh har har! Look, Jared is talented. You don’t become a Universal champion without some shred of it. But Ivan is pretty much a colossus in and of himself! He wants that bear head? His might get bitten off pursuing it!

Finally, with the music now faded and his armor removed, he stands ready for the task at hand.

DING DING

Jared has barely gotten the armor off before blasting off across the ring, torpedoing himself against Ivan with a dropkick! The Russian Bear stays on his feet, though his balance falters ever so slightly. Sykes leaps up and throws another dropkick. Again, Ivan weebles and wobbles, but he doesn’t fall down. The Dragonslayer rolls away sideways after the dropkick, but pops to his feet quickly. Another full head of steam, but this time, Sykes jumps to the ropes. He leaps off while twisting, his foot catching the back of Ivan’s head for an enzuigiri! Stanislav looks like he’s going down… But he slips between the ropes, landing on his feet on the outside.

Jared, with a big smile on his face as he talks some trash, looks back towards the opposite ropes. Doing so draws a rumble from the crowd. He goes running, but pulls up as Alexei has stepped into the path between the active competitors. The crowd is, understandably, miffed. Ashley Barlow isn’t thrilled either, instructing Alexei to stay out of the path of action. Ruslan turns to attend to the crouched over Russian Bear. Ivan straightens up, dismissively waving his compatriot off. Jarry, hands on his thighs, looks ready, mouth still running. Stanislav grabs the top rope and steps onto the apron.

Nick Stuart: Slow start here from Ivan. Jared Sykes has to keep this momentum going because you know Stanislav can’t be kept at bay forever.

Richard Parker: The man is a force of nature! Yeah yeah, ‘Jarry’ has started hot. Great for him. I hope he’s ready for the coming tide, cuz he’ll need to be! And would he shut the hell up?!

As Ivan steps into the ring, Sykes meets him quickly with a leaping elbow. The Russian Bear shoves the Heart of PRIME away, steadying himself with the top rope. Jared doesn’t stay deterred long, sending some kicks with pepper into Ivan’s quad. Ivan growls in pain, another push to create some space for recovery. Sykes keeps on the quad. Ivan swings a mighty paw in desperation, but Jared ducks and keeps the assault going. Alexei takes a swipe at the Dragonslayer’s feet, causing Jared to take a step back.

BOOOOOOOOO!

Ivan, with the tiniest limp, stalks towards the backed off Sykes. Jared smirks, bouncing light on his feet while firing more verbal volleys the Russian Bear’s way. As they circle, Sykes steps forward and throws another dropkick. Unlike the earlier ones, Stanislav swats this one down with little bother. Jared hits the mat, but quickly tucks and rolls, hopping up to his feet. Their dance continues until Sykes backs up into a corner. Seeing opportunity present itself, Ivan charges forward. The shots to the leg from earlier prove worth it, as the Russian is a step slower than normal. That pace itself isn’t usually cheetah-like, so the deliberate rush sees Ivan clatter into the corner as Sykes easily slips between the ropes.

As the Soviet Giant of PRIME stumbles away from the turnbuckles, Jared scurries to the top rope. He leaps off with a yell, looking for a hurricanrana… but gets caught. He doesn’t just accept being in danger, however, starting to hammer at that big bear head. It’s at least mildly effective, as Ivan can’t seem to figure out what to do with Sykes. A few more blows and the pair end up close to the ropes. Jared hooks his arm around the top strand and throws himself back. The pair tumble over the ropes like the world’s slowest car crash. The Dragonslayer manages to land on the apron. Stanislav isn’t so lucky, clattering down to the floor once again. Ruslan rushes over to check on Ivan before berating Sykes in Russian. He just shrugs with a smile and rolls back into the ring.

Nick Stuart: What a move by Jared Sykes! You know Ivan has to be feeling that!

Richard Parker: This is all ridiculous! This man, this Jared Sykes, he’s fueled by hatred! Hatred for Ivan and the Russian people!

Nick Stuart: Oh come off it, Rich! If anything, it’s the other way around!

Richard Parker: There has never been a man more benevolent than Ivan Stanislav! Maybe someday, these idiots will see how wrong they were!

Ashley Barlow has already been counting.

THREE

Ivan isn’t moving, despite Alexei’s pleading.

FOUR

Still nothing. Is he out cold? It was quite a fall.

FIVE

Finally, Ivan starts to stir. He gingerly pushes himself up to his knees.

SIX

With more than a little effort, Stanislav is back to his feet. Ruslan shuffles around in a panic, pointing to the ring while shrieking.

SEVEN

The Russian Bear takes a moment to shake away the cobwebs. Noticing Alexei’s alarm, Ivan can only be bothered to roll his eyes.

EIGHT

Ivan slowly slides into the ring before again climbing to standing. Jared golf claps while throwing out mock praise, earning an icy scowl from his opponent. They circle again. This time, when near a corner, Ivan doesn’t charge. Sykes attempts to slip past the big Russian, but no dice, as he gets tossed into the corner. With one enormous hand holding the Dragonslayer in place, the other comes crashing down into his chest, almost buckling his knees! Ashley Barlow instructs Ivan to back up… which he does?!

Nick Stuart: That chop seemed to lack some of the vigor Ivan usually packs in.

Richard Parker: He’s still warming up, alright?! Everything is fine!

Nick Stuart: Well at the rate he’s going, Aoi Avalon will be an active in-ring competitor before he does.

Jared stays in the corner. Not from being stunlocked, but because Alexei has clamped himself around Sykes’ ankle on the outside of the ring! He tries to shake the mustachioed man off, but there’s no reprieve as Ivan comes back in to attack. Another overhead chop, again lacking the zeal the Russian Bear usually puts behind his blows. Sykes stumbles out of the corner, collapsing to a knee momentarily before continuing his retreat. Ivan slowly stalks closer. That proves to be a mistake, catching a low dropkick to the knee. The giant tries to shake it off, but he gets nary a second. Jared, with more than a little effort, lifts the large left leg he’s been targeting. He whips himself around with a dragon screw leg whip! Ivan loudly groans, dropping onto the bad knee.

Sykes hammers away, gums flapping before taking off for the ropes. Ruslan tries to grab an ankle, a leg, anything, but to no success. Sykes flips up and over, driving Ivan down with a flipping neckbreaker! With his opponent down, Sykes slips out to the apron. Alexei tries to hustle over to stop whatever might go down, but he’s too late; Jared leaps up and onto the top rope, springing off with Dead Aim (springboard 450 splash)! He reaches over, grabbing the left leg to hook it for the pinfall!

ONE!

TWO!

KICKOUT!

Nick Stuart: Woah! That was close! Things aren’t looking good for the Russian Bear. Sykes has been controlling the pace and taking a ton of offense. I don’t think we’ve ever seen Ivan this out of sorts!

Richard Parker: C’mon, Ivan! What the hell are you doing?! You’re really gonna lose to this doofus with his stupid hair and his stupid mouth and his stupid face?!

Nick Stuart: Rich, calm down! Jeez! Ivan’s back on the floor once more.

Indeed, Stanislav has slid out to ringside again. Alexei stomps over. The two start bickering in Russian, with Ruslan poking a finger into his incredibly large friend’s chest. Tempers seem to be flaring… Then Alexei slaps Ivan across the face! There’s a pause but Stanislav’s expression shifts. The sullen but serious look that plagued his mug is gone. His brow furrows, eye narrowing, jaw clenching. The Russian Bear has awakened. Ruslan points to the ring emphatically, earning a stiff nod from Ivan. Back into the ring the giant goes, over the top rope instead of under them.

Sykes springs forward, looking for a leaping elbow. He’s smashed down to the mat by a lariat! Ivan yanks the smaller man to his feet, scooping him up with ease for a slam. He doesn’t deposit him to the ground. Instead, Stanislav stomps over to the ropes and tosses Jared to the outside of the ring! There’s a horrified gasp among the PRIMEates as Sykes crashes down to the arena floor, ragdolling upon impact! Ashley Barlow should be counting… But instead, she’s ushering the creeping Alexei to back off. The Russian Bear storms over to the referee and demands her attention turn towards the laboring Jared Sykes. She barks at him to push his second back before finally starting the count.

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

Sykes finally starts making some progress in recovering.

SEVEN

He’s on his knees, struggling to steady his breathing.

EIGHT

Jared’s up to his feet, not steady in the slightest.

NINE

Jared dives into the ring! Ivan is on him, stomping away at the vulnerable Sykes. He places a foot on the small of Jarry’s back before slowly stepping over, drawing a scream of agony from the trapped wrestler. He’s not done yet. Stanislav reaches down, grabbing his prone enemy by the back of the waistband. He pulls Sykes up, which would be impressive in itself, but there’s more to come. With amazing strength, Ivan tosses Sykes up into the air and catches him in a bear hug!

Richard Parker: See?! I told you! Ivan just needed a bit of time, a bit of encouragement! Looking better than ever!

Nick Stuart: I have to say, there’s definitely been a big momentum swing in favor of the Soviet Giant of PRIME. But you know Alexei has had more than a small hand in Ivan gaining the advantage!

Richard Parker: He just did what he needed to do! He gave Ivan an amazing pep talk, like the friend he is, like the leader he is!

Nick Stuart: So we’re going to ignore the blatant cheating?

Richard Parker: Oh would you shut up about that?! You’re as bad as Sykes!

Ivan squeezes his arms tightly around Sykes’ ribcage, drawing a stifled yelp from the younger man. He thrashes, doing whatever he can to break out of the Russian’s grip. It’s not terribly effective. Adding to the pressure on the ribs, Stanislav whips Jared left and right, back and forth. Slowly but surely, the attempts at escape get more and more feeble. The Dragonslayer’s arms hang limp at his sides, drawing in Ashley Barlow to check. Arm up, arm down. A pause. Arm up again. Down it goes once more. She signals to the timekeeper to be ready. Arm up… and it stays up!

RAAAAAAAAAAH!

Sykes starts to wiggle again. He gets enough wits about him to start sending blows to the head of Ivan! The Russian clenches up on the hold! Jarry wails again, but goes back to throwing fists! That cycle continues twice over. Finally, the Heart of PRIME switches up strategy; though they’re not full of steam, kicks are sent to the left knee of Ivan. After a third blow, the Russian Bear’s grip starts to loosen! Jared tries to slide down between Ivan’s legs but he’s yanked back up! Thinking quickly, Sykes manages to catch his opposition off guard with a hurricanrana! Ivan doesn’t go ass over tea kettle, but he does stumble over towards the ropes. Jared jumps up and locks in a sleeper! Ivan swings his arms wildly, desperate to shake the Dragonslayer off! He turns his back towards the corner and rams Sykes into it! That breaks the hold, but only for moments, as Jarry slaps it back on! Again, into the corner. Again, the hold is reapplied! A third try finally allows Stanislav to get some space and relief.

Nick Stuart: Smart move by Ivan Stanislav there. There’s few wrestlers that could withstand that mass crashing into them once, let alone three times!

Richard Parker: A brilliant wrestling mind! Hey, I’ll give Sykes some credit… He’s giving all he can. But it won’t be enough!

After taking a few deep breaths, Ivan stalks to the corner. He grabs a hold of Sykes. The American knows he’s in trouble and his hands flail at everything and anything to keep the Russian Bear from having an easy time of offense. Ivan yanks, tugs and rips, finally getting Jared out of the corner… along with the top turnbuckle pad, broken zip ties exploding from the area! He hoists the smaller man up, holding him high before sending Jared crashing down on Ivan’s good knee with an atomic drop! If that wasn’t enough, Sykes flies forward and smashes into the exposed steel! Jared is loopy! The Russian snatches him up… IRON CURTAIN (one arm lift into a lariat)! He covers!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE! NO NO NO! BARLOW WAVES IT OFF! SYKES’ FOOT WAS ON THE ROPES!

Furious. Incredulous. Positively gobsmacked. All of these could be used to describe Ivan Stanislav in this moment. He shoots up as quickly as his hobbled leg will allow to argue with the referee. Ashley is emphatic in pointing to the bottom rope where Jared’s foot sits. Seeing the protest isn’t going anywhere, Ivan disgustedly waves Barlow away, grabbing at the prone Sykes. He drags the Boston native towards the middle of the ring, not wanting to leave anything to chance. Ivan hooks him in place for a suplex. There’s a worried buzz about in the crowd, knowing what’s coming next. Up Jared goes… RED SCAR-NO! The Heart of PRIME turns it into a cutter on the fall! Scramble for the pin!

ONE!

TWO!

THRE-KICKOUT!

Nick Stuart: Close calls for both men! They’re starting to really break out the heavy artillery! If this keeps up, someone’s going down in short order!

Richard Parker: I’m on the edge of my seat, Nick! These two are battling and it almost feels like it could go either way! But I know Ivan has this. He HAS to!

Both men lay on the canvas, gathering what energy and sense they can. Ivan sits up, frustrated but groggy. Sykes digs and claws his way towards the ropes. The Russian gingerly gets to his feet while Jarry uses the ropes to lethargically pull himself up. He trudges over to the corner. And immediately gets blasted by a corner lariat from Ivan. Sykes slumps down but he doesn’t get a chance to stay there long. Across the ring he’s whipped with force, hitting the turnbuckles sternum first! His hands shoot up and grab the top rope, but it’s the only thing holding him up, as the rest of his body pulls back.

Ivan stomps over and jerks Jared to his feet. A whip back to where he was. He hits back first this time, splatting onto his face, arching with a cry of pain. There’s no smile of triumph, no celebration from Ivan. All business. Alexei though? He’s absolutely declaring victory on the outside as obnoxiously as he can. Stanislav gets Sykes back to his feet. Time for another ride. But there is no collision this time. Jared fluidly flings himself up and over onto the apron! Ivan still barrels forward, though his foot speed continues to slow. The moment the Dragonslayer’s feet hit the ringside edge, he springs back up and to the top rope. A shocked Soviet Giant is floored with the Domino Effect (springboard Blockbuster)! The pin!

ONE!

TWO!

THR-KICKOUT!

Jared Sykes is running out of things to throw at his large Russian opponent. And what Ivan might lack in speed and youth, he makes up for with experience. The same trick won’t work twice on the wily vet. He waits for Stanislav to rise. Once the giant is up, Sykes runs to the corner, propelling off and back. He ends up sitting on Ivan’s shoulders in an electric chair position. Though the same trick might not work twice, what about a twist to it? Sykes hooks the top rope once again, his body weight shooting back. But Ivan is ready this time, planting his feet and keeping his base wide. Even with a wonky left leg, he’s not budging.

Time to make the best of a bad situation. Even while hanging upside-down, Jared has a plan; squeeze those legs together and squeeze tight. It’s not the most orthodox headscissors one might see, but it might just do the trick. Ivan clutches at the Bostonian’s knees, trying to pry the powerful lower appendages open. Even with as strong as the Russian Bear is, it’s a struggle with little progress. Ashley Barlow has her count going, but how long is he willing to wait? How much more damage was he committed to enduring? He makes a choice. Grabbing Jared’s knees, Ivan swings him forward with frightening velocity. No matter how strong the Dragonslayer’s thighs may be, they can’t keep a hold of Stanislav’s thick neck. He smashes down to the mat with a disgusting recoil!

Nick Stuart: My word! Jared Sykes might have cracked a rib or even worse there!

Richard Parker: Oh man! Maybe Ivan should go try out for the Atlanta Hawks with the way he dunked that idiot!

The Russian Bear smells blood. Literally, as it seems Jarry might have split his eyebrow open on that fall. The Russian moves, towering over his battered American counterpart. Using a boot to push Sykes to his back, Ivan reaches down and wraps his big mitts around his opponent’s neck. Jared is back on his feet, compliance not a factor. The giant squeezes, knowing he’s in control. Sykes tries to pry the paws from his throat, but that’s just not going to work. So back to the leg; kick, kick, kick. Ivan tries to block out the pain, but a fourth strike proves too much. Jarry, now free, staggers over to the corner.

Stanislav slaps the knee a few times before his stone cold gaze targets on Sykes. His breathing is labored. The ropes seem to be the only thing still holding him up. Time for a risk. Bad knee and all, Ivan barrels forward!… And Jared collapses, leading the Russian Bear to collide with the turnbuckles. There’s a problem, though. The corner the Thicc Boy stumbled to? It was the one with the exposed steel. That Ivan just smashed his head into. Like the biggest, most pissed off redwood, the giant falls to the mat! A debate can be had whether Jared dodged or if his body temporarily gave out. It doesn’t really matter as he pounces on his fallen foe. Lightning Helix (anaconda cross), locked in!

RAAAAAAAAAH!!!

Nick Stuart: Lightning Helix! Lightning Helix! This could be it!!!

Richard Parker: No!!! This was luck! C’mon, Ivan! Fight out!!!

Ivan tries to power out. Sykes has the move expertly applied, his weight distributed perfectly. Even with all the strength the Soviet Giant has, this match has drained him considerably. Even pushing to the ropes seems out of the question; having to shove both his own and Jared’s weight with one good leg just isn’t happening. Ashley Barlow crouches down to keep an open ear out for a verbal submission. Even with all of his might, has the Russian Bear been outlasted by a man he loathes? Just a bit longer… Ivan screams and nods. He’s given up! But there’s a problem.

Ashley Barlow is no longer next to the tied up duo.

Instead, she’s berating Alexei Ruslan, who had hopped up on the apron just in time. Irate, maybe at the admonishment or perhaps at the way the match has gone, the manager tears his coat off and tosses it in the ring in protest! His neck veins pulse against his skin as he bellows at the referee in Russian. He shuts up in quick order, courtesy of a Jared Sykes fist to the mouth! With the attention on the fracas, Ivan rolls over and crawls towards Alexei’s coat. He reaches into it for a moment before pulling back and pushing the garment to the floor.

Nick Stuart: Now wait just a darn minute! Ivan has something!

Richard Parker: Nick, why do you always gotta see the worst in people?! Clearly, the glorious Red Army leader wanted to make sure there was no damage to his friend’s coat!

Nick Stuart: That’s a load of bull crap and you know it! Jared needs to look out!

If only Nick were in his corner. As Barlow gives the injured Alexei one last warning to stay the hell out of the match, Sykes moves over to finish things with Ivan. What he gets is a pair of handcuffs to the jaw as makeshift knucks. Stanislav discards the evidence. With his rocked state, there’s little Jared can do to stop it. Red. Scare. (vertical release suplex)

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING

Alexei, holding his jaw with his hair an absolute mess, bounds into the ring. He rushes over to Ivan, who had just delicately climbed to his feet. He raises the giant arm of Stanislav in the air triumphantly as the Russian Bear roars. His mighty paw thuds down onto Ruslan’s shoulder, almost knocking the smaller man off balance, a smile of complete euphoria on his face. The friends candidly chat as they move to exit the ring.

Vince Howard: The winner of this match, by pinfall!… The Russian Bear! IVAAAAANNNN STAAAAANNNNISLAVVVVV!!!

Nick Stuart: You have to feel for Jared Sykes. He fought his heart out and it took consistent interference from Alexei and a weapon to take him out!

Richard Parker: Oh I’m sure the bozo will cry about it in some way. Seems to be his thing.

Jared Sykes still lays on the mat. There’s no tears, no cursing. Instead, there’s a chuckle… and a grin that could match Ivan’s plastered on his face.

Colossus moves on.

The aftermath of the Ivan Stanislav and Jared Sykes is in the rear view. The fourth year of the ReVival is about to come to close. But before it does, one last match stands in the way. For one and all. For everything. A wide shot filters on through of Mercedes Benz Stadium. The Atlanta fans are buzzing in anticipation, knowing what is next. However, before the pomp and pageantry, as the lens scans the crowd, we hear the voices of Nick Stuart and Richard Parker.

Standing in the center of the ring is Vince Howard. Beside him is Elvis Nixon, his arms held behind him, his eyes outward to the crowd.

DING DING DING DING DING DING

Vince Howard: The official for the following contest. Elvis. Nixon.

A reserved clapping from the reserved, respectful crowd. After displaying Nixon, with the chyron underneath, the camera again focuses on Howard.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen…the following contest is scheduled for one fall and has NOOOOOOO time limit! It is THE MAIN EVENT OF COLOSSUS and is FOR! THE PRIME! UNIVERSAL! CHAMPIONSHIIIIIIIIIIPPPPP!!!

Suddenly, the stadium lights dim, the clapping from the crowd growing. Out of the blackness, the PRIMEview comes alive, the PRIME logo displayed prominently. It fades, the opening tones of “Rivalry” by Colin O’Malley beginning to play. With a lashing strike of blue, words fill the screen.

THE PRIME UNIVERSAL CHAMPIONSHIP
THE PINNACLE OF ALL SPORTS

Descending, a lone spotlight shines upon a table of velvet. Stood up for prominence is the PRIME Universal Championship belt, polished and shined. As the music continues, its contours and plates are scanned with care. Every detail is magnificent. The tension of sound rises, and with it, the camera pulls away from the majestic championship. The scene abruptly cuts to black.

And with the rising dramatic percussion, the still shots. Subtle movements slowly focusing upon the figures as they appear for a few moments, their achievement marked in text in convenient spaces.

The inaugural Universal Champion and final Global Champion. The bridge between the eras, cemented at King of Kings 2. He stands an enigma, a seeming average man in build, but what he lacks in impressive physique he makes up for in mystery. One championship belt for each trench coated shoulder. His eyes are focused and evident through the white mask absconding his identity.

1st Champion
BLACK ANGEL

A titan of muscle, massive in stature not just physically, but for his time in the sport. A once hero, now, he is a betrayer, joining the Dark Age. There is no sense of shame with his smirking expression.

2nd Champion
BODA

A whirlwind of color, a form of taut muscle and artistic expression. She stands stoic, the championship belt over her shoulder. Does she care? Only she knows. Her moment has arrived, seemingly unstoppable, one of the greatest beginnings to a PRIME career of anyone. The Vanguard of the Golden Age. A trendsetter.

3rd Champion
KARINA WOLFENDEN

Behind crimson glasses protecting his eyes, a seminal figure. Chiseled from granite, his tattoos prominent, if ever a man stood as The Supreme Machine, it is he. The ender of the K-Wolf’s era before it even started. Later, the hand chosen by Tyler Nelson to put an end to a Universal charade. When one speaks of PRIME, his name is one of the first to come.

4th, 8th Champion
KILLEAN SIRRAJIN

The winds behind him sweep about, blowing his majestic hair with perfect photogenic bravado. The only true Son of God. His appearance has not changed, even today, proving his parentage. The Last Judgment features prominently on his tights. Chicago’s favored son, the roar his mere visage elicits is one of the loudest of the night. Under his hand, you shall be crucified and saved.

5th Champion
HOYT WILLIAMS

Before him were titans in stature, but in their place comes one in sheer brutality. His fists and forearms are taped for battle, his muscle built for performance and savagery. Inhuman. A wrecking ball in human form. From nowhere, he arrives at this pinnacle, only to be knocked from it in the greatest upset in the history of PRIME. He will regain it from one of his greatest rivals, The Supreme Machine on the biggest stage. Years later, he returns from the sidelines, managing to defy expectations to put a temporary halt to The Murder Show. Rushmore features him prominently. He stands as one of the truest of greats.

6th, 9th, 21st Champion
TCHU/MATT WARD

A goofy wire of man. The most unassuming of all. So long of a shot, his chance comes in the middle of Revolution, a clear expectation of how easy he shall be steamrolled. A Christmas Miracle. Perpetually silly, the joke is not only the Inhuman Being, but also, all those who thought so little of him.

7th Champion
CLYDE WALKINS

Born from the stars, beloved by all, charismatic, amongst the most skilled the sport has ever seen. He has returned from injury to claim his rightful place, but failure is all that meets him. In this moment, the drums of war sound, the very foundation of PRIME under threat from Machavallian forces. The star rises and turns his back on the fans and people who believed in him, joining the ranks of the devils who claim him to be their friend. Clean shaven, burned by the light. He fights off a record number of challengers. He is where the balance of PRIME rests.

10th Champion
NOVA

The balance of power shifts. Her face, her essence, are intrinsically linked with PRIME, but in this moment, she is an assumed outsider. This moment changes not only her place in the company, but in her life. Home. The ultimate trendsetter. The Queen of the Ring becomes The Final Boss twice over. Her spot amongst the very greats is without question. In this building, she was the one to close out the prior era. Without her, where we stand today isn’t possible.

11th, 13th Champion
LINDSAY TROY

The rival to the Queen. Scum looks down upon him. A betrayer of friendship, of allegiance, all for self service. So many times, he fell, unable to answer the challenge, and in doing so, all rejoiced. Driven mad, Ahab manages to rise in his final stand, capturing his illustrious white whale.

12th Champion
SONNY SILVER

Mismatched eyes, lacerating fingernails, and diminutive stature. In one night, she nearly conquers the Halo. In her next match, she manages to usurp the Queen. Scary and unknowable, a chameleon who can assume the identity of any she chooses. She lacks her own agency and identity, yet here, for a time, she can claim the Universal Championship as her own.

14th Champion
COZEN

The Man in Black hides his pieces and scars under a dress shirt and slacks. A mess of black hair falls along the sides of his face. Many claim him to be emo, but they will come to know him as the ruiner, death incarnate. His war against PRIME will eventually lead to its closure. Even here, with a painted black middle finger, his detestment of PRIME is evident.

15th Champion
DEVIN SHAKUR

Charisma personified. In truth, his arrival to this pinnacle has been foreseen for ages. His potential is limitless, yet in critical moments, he falters. Until here. Until now. Until he realizes the promise after years of toil made to look like a designer accessory. His presence is legendary. A hero to so many. Brash and arrogant to others. Regardless, he is can’t miss, must see, and unforgettable. His reign, to this point, lasts longer than all others before.

16th Champion
CHANDLER TSONDA

The Unbeatable. The Unconquerable. Awoken from dream, The Original Villain stops fighting with mere bits of his true skill and strength. The path he cuts lasts over a year, and in its wake, promising careers, legendary challenges, and destinies all fall under his heel. Gone, but never forgotten. Though some draw close, he walks away into the annals of history never having lost the most prestigious prize in the sport.

17th Champion
JASON SNOW

From the distance, from the ether, his face painted with black, the oddest of sorts, his skin pale, he returns. The Intense Championship is marked as his in all of lore, but after conquering the Halo, he soon after fulfills an impossible destiny, capping off a Hall of Fame career with the final piece it lacked.

18th Champion
VANGELUS OLSIG

Hollywood beckons. A silver screen savant, he brings with him pomp, circumstance, and a director’s vision. An outsider who rises.

19th Champion
CASTOR V. STRIFE

The monster incarnate. The Murder Show. Burly, powerful, a viking from a long forgotten age who has spent an age in PRIME without realizing the fullness of his potential. It is remembering what it is to be dominant that he ascends to his throne, leaving behind a wake of broken bodies and dreams. For a time, the lineage ends with brutality under his knuckles. The oppressive, uncompromising final champion of the Revolution.

20th, 22nd Champion
HESSIAN

The spear of the ReVival comes from the Revolution. Before this moment, he is considered the greatest to never win ‘the big one’. After over a decade away, the Tower of Babel rises, removing all doubt, finally taking his place amongst the true greats, perhaps marking himself as greater than all. For others in this era, this prize is transient. For him? They are one.

23rd, 29th Champion
BRANDON YOUNGBLOOD

A life’s work. Destroy the past and present and burn it all away so the future can rise. The Humble Proprietor has spent his life as an afterthought, cast aside, treated less than human despite his love of the sport he has dedicated his life to. Their cackles and machinations forge an intensity fitting for a monster. The threat. The killer. Robbed of the result of it all. Even in the distance, his name brings chills to the air.

24th Champion
PHIL ATKEN

Lights, camera, pucker and kiss. The Anti-Christ. Under t-shades and salt shoes, he brings with him an apocalypse in tracksuit and baby blue. Despised and thought little of, the ultimate cockroach doesn’t just survive but thrive. His threats carry weight because he makes good on his promise. Nobody on this list has a hope of ever being this COOL.

25th Champion
CANCER JILES

The Event Horizon, the future, all of the ReVival’s promise and dreams comes in his chiseled form. His reverence to PRIME’s past is known, but he makes his own history, taking the Universal Championship for his own and under the most dire of circumstances. He stumbles, but in Hell, he overcomes not only the yang to his ying, but the oppressive boot of the Soviet state.

26th, 28th Champion
HAYES HANLON

Punk rock in all forms, a fighter through and through. He doesn’t care about the championship, just what it brings to him in the ring. The greater fights. The ability to test his penchant for destruction. He snuffed out the promise of the horizon in his void. A goat kick to the head. A free spirit for rebellion against the norms.

27th Champion
REZIN 

Some would call him a relic of a begotten age, a frozen monstrosity thawed and set upon the world to maul and reign under a banner, an ethos that demands both domination and subjugation. An ageless goliath, The Russian Bear returns to the field of professional wrestling battle after over a decade in seclusion. And in his wake? Utter carnage. A warrior from the old age set upon the present and future, not only striding, but surmounting all.

30th Champion
IVAN STANISLAV

Few can claim to be worthy of being phenoms in the new era of PRIME, yet the pillars of such are rarefied. But for the French Super Athlete, The Neck Collector, the Lizard King, he stands not only above, but perhaps beyond all. His arrival to this place is the culmination of an undefeated year. A winning streak unmatched by ALL before him. He is the weapon promised, the embodiment of The Humble Proprietor’s vision. A puzzle perhaps unsolvable.

31st Champion
FLAMBERGE

From oblivion he rises, as if from a waking coma. Drenched with guilt, self made, self perpetuated. Look upon the clown who makes those laugh, yet do not notice his weight, his tears. Ascend from the murk and stand ready, violently so, in the face of so many oppressors. Black Sheep never again.

32nd Champion
JARED SYKES

The ultimate simp. Seemingly helpless. But powered by his love and his dedication to his Amazing Life Partner, he perseveres, and does what most think is nigh impossible for someone of his ability level. He finishes the story, and now, we live in an epilogue dictated from his success.

33rd Champion
JONATHAN-CHRISTOPHER HALL

The Crownless King. A wrestling nomad. Across near every continent, he has fought with his all, governed by an unyielding love of the sport of professional wrestling. His role was ordained to be The Never Was, the fountain of knowledge, the bridge to the future. Not marketable. Taken for granted. Yet bitterness never seeps in, never taints his drive and passion. In this, the final year of his quest, he does what some think he could not do…something many others believed he always had capacity to achieve. The crown achieved. Now, The King of Conquerors.

34th Champion
CORAL AVALON

When the Golden Era choked into embers, as the darkness swallowed the world of professional wrestling in the deepest of pits, it was this man who kept the torch, who set the standard to aspire toward. A Lord by birth who refused his right by choice, so aloof of reality’s rigor. It is the ring where his aptitude is without rival. His hands are vice grips and his understanding of placing pressure on joints, tendons, and bones is supreme.

In the muck, he strode, unbeaten. Unconquered. The Financier of a Revolution in The ReVival. One would think, with a  silver spoon, the path would be smooth, but it was anything but. His record is filled with victory over legends; it’s also filled with his stumbles at the gate, all those times the bridesmaid.

Yet here he stands, rightfully, an Emperor of the ring. Already considered as one of the greatest of all time, and currently, in his element.

In his domain..

36th Champion
CECILWORTH FARTHINGTON

Four times over, Cecilworth Farthington has retained the Universal Championship. In the ReVival, he stands tied for most days holding the title at two-hundred sixty-seven. Every major show of 2025, he has stood at its end as Champion of Champions. The superlatives fail to express his accomplishments. And for that, in this moment, he is but one thing; grateful. Grateful for those with him, his family, who have helped, who have fueled, who have been there with him, fought with him, believed in him. An entire life questioning the self, of wondering if he is truly good enough. The answer is evident. And yet still…all he can think is of the others with him. The mark of a true great.

The mark of one of the greatest of all times.

Chandler Tsonda has held that same championship before. Unlike Farthington, he has surmounted the Almasy. He wasn’t expected to rise, nor was he a part of the promotion for it. Yet here he stands, having defeated his bitter rival in Ivan Stanislav, but also, with a chance to once again be Universal Champion. If he does, then he will be the first to hold the Pinnacle of All Sports in both the Revolution and the ReVival. His style is impeccable. This is his chance to once again run with the spotlight.

The wrestling world is watching.

Who are we to keep them waiting?

From the PINNACLE OF ALL SPORTS…

We are back in the Mercedes Benz Stadium. Two nights of Colossus has led us… to this moment.

Vince Howard: The following match is one fall…

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: Tell me these fans aren’t ready for this match!

Richard Parker: It’s a match that’s been buzzed about since Tsonda won the Almasy back in September. The improbable run… could it end with the fairytale ending so many fans want to see?

Nick Stuart: That’s the million-dollar question. Or will Farthington successfully defend the championship he took from the waist of the Russian Bear, Ivan Stanislav, eight months ago? We’re about to find out.

“I said ‘kiss me, you’re beautiful’
These are truly the last days'”

The weathered voice from the beginning of Godspeed You! Black Emperor’s “Dead Flag Blues” fades into the short acoustic section that begins Coheed & Cambria’s “Welcome Home.” After twelve seconds, the guitars thunder in and start to kick ass, as gold and green pyro goes off in perfect timing with the power riffs.

As the PRIME*View displays the words “Model Citizen” in white over a black background, Tsonda swaggers out from behind the curtain. He soaks up the fan’s reaction at the top of the ramp, smirk painted across his face. And amidst the haze of pyro, smoke, and green & gold lights, he sprints to the ring, slides in under the bottom rope, and finally acknowledges his opponent. Tsonda bounces on his toes, mouthing something that’s inaudible to anyone but him.

Richard Parker: You can feel the goosebumps in the air right now, this is big match city and you have two of the best to ever do it.

Nick Stuart: Look at you giving compliments to Tsonda.

Richard Parker: Don’t worry, it won’t last for long.

The lights dim in Atlanta for the final time of the evening. It’s time and a half for some shit to go down. The Almasy Winner, in the ring, awaits his opponents, and his opportunity for PRIME’s greatest prize.

There’s a hush in the crowd, murmurs and mutters of awe and excitement, but what happens next definitely takes the entire Mercedes Benz Stadium by surprise, for the music that plays out of the announcement system is not the one that was anticipated mere seconds before.

Instead…

“(I Want to be The One) To Watch You Die” by The Megas

Nick Stuart: Well, now this is a surprise.

Richard Parker: How could Cecilworth keep this from me? This wasn’t in the daily fanclub update.

Those who have been watching since the start of the ReVival era know exactly who this song belongs to and those who haven’t quickly learning, as walking on his own two feet, last seen in front of a PRIME crowd performing some high quality lumberjack action in Cecilworth’s Universal Championship defense against Cancer Jiles, is the 2nd Universal Champion of the era, the Founder of all things Glue, Phil Atken.

Richard Parker: You know what scares me right now? He looks almost happy.

Nick Stuart: This has got to be a moment for Atken in his own right, he never made it to his own Colossus, cut short before it, but here, tonight, in Georgia, he gets a bit of the magic sprinkled upon him.

Richard Parker: Please don’t ask me to think about your magic sprinkling.

As the crowd stands up to applaud the man, not always seen, but with a name that has leaked over the past few years of PRIME as if he was a tap that was never fixed, the former Universal Champion surveys the standing ovation he receives. He has not come out alone for this moment, as Farthington’s Universal Championship is slung over his shoulders. As Richard Parker alluded too, Atken almost seems overwhelmed at the moment, but does his stoic best to keep the appearance of a very whelmed man. As the lights spin over the arena, Atken takes his place in the middle of the entranceway, giving a bit of a wave to the arena crowd.

Nick Stuart: Phil Atken and his Glue movement have cast a shadow over PRIME, for positive and for negative

Richard Parker: You know who I bet isn’t enjoying this moment? Chandler Tsonda, waiting in the ring right now, Tsonda wants his hands on that belt over Atken’s shoulders and he’d rather the man he’s waiting for showed up right now for the fight.

As the crowd takes their seats once more, “(I Want to be The One) To Watch You Die” begins to fade away, replaced by the opening warbling fun time of “Choke” by I DON’T KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND.

This time, the Universal Champion has arrived.

Cecilworth Farthington, never one for an unnecessary level of pomp in his entrance, walks right to centre stage by the side of Atken, dressed in his finest fighting gear and very little else. Farthington is the first to embrace Phil, draping his arm around his shoulder, but the more dour Atken is happy to quickly turn this into a friendly handshake. Atken raises up Farthington’s arm, and the Mercedes Benz crowd continues to show appreciation for the Colossus moment they have been granted on this evening.

Nick Stuart: Cecilworth Farthington has been going out of his way to express his appreciation to the entire Glue enterprise in the lead up to this match, and I think we just saw him put the capper on the entire thing with this move.

Richard Parker: It’s a sweet gesture Nick, you know that it has to mean someone with a heart as dark and cynical as Atken but the more this goes on, the more Tsonda will be ready to strike the moment the bell rings.

For his last moment in the Colossus spotlight, Atken takes the Universal Championship off his shoulder and wraps it around the waist of Farthington, nice and tight like. Atken gives an encouraging pat to the back of Farthington as he makes his leave to return backstage, leaving Farthington to his battle with Tsonda. Farthington takes one last look back, and steadies himself for his night of nights.

Nick Stuart: Tied for the most defenses of the Universal Championship, the longest reigning of the ReVival era, a man who has spent a whole calendar year fighting for that very belt on Pay Per View… a lot MUST be on Farthington’s mind right now.

Richard Parker: He can’t let the curse of legacy get in his head, Nick, many have and it is more often a road to wreck and ruin than not.

Now shut your dirty mouth
If I could burn this town I wouldn’t hesitate
To smile while you suffocate and I…
I would just be just fine
And what a lovely time it would surely be
So bite your tongue and CHOKE YOURSELF TO SLEEP.

“Choke” being in full swing now, a good number of Farthington fans begin to sway their hands in time to the beautiful song with horrible lyrics as the champion approaches the ring, his attention now locked on nothing else but his opponent, the Almasy winner, and what awaits him in the ring.

Farthington gently steps up into the ring and pivots inside, leaning quickly against his own corner, making sure the championship gets pride of place before handing it over to Nixon.

Elvis Nixon stands between both men, holding the Universal Title. Vince Howard stands behind him, microphone to his lips.

Vince Howard: The following match is for the Universal Title! Introducing first, the challenger!

The buzz in the crowd grows as the announcer looks towards Tsonda.

Vince Howard: Hailing at five feet and eleven inches tall, he hails from San Diego, California by way of Hanoi, Vietnam. He is the 2007 Jewel in the Crown Winner. Two-time PRIME Hall of Famer member. Former Universal Champion. The 2025 Almasy Invitational Tournament Winner!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Vince Howard: He is the The Sultant of Style, the Viet Viper, the TSuperstar… THE MODEL CITIZEN! CHANDLER! TSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSONDA!

TS-ONDA! TS-ONDA!

Vince Howard: And his opponent, defending his title…

There’s a different kind of buzz in the crowd. One more mixed.

Vince Howard: Standing at six feet tall, he hails from Buckinhamshire, England. He is the leader of the Glueminati. He is the UNIVERSAL CHAMPION! He is the CONGA CRUSHER! CECILWORTH! FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARTHINGTON!

Howard leaves the ring. Nixon holds the title up in the air before handing it to the timekeeper. He gives his final set of instructions. Then he, signals for the start of the match.

DING DING

At the sound of the bell, the fans in the stadium reach a fever pitch, having waited two nights for this match. The Universal Champion and the Almasy tournament winner stare off at one another across the ring. Tsonda wraps his hands around the top ropes and squats slowly, feeling the weight of the moment. Meanwhile, Farthington looks across the ring, knowing he’s been here many, many times, and that this is his house. Neither man is in a rush to leave their corners, knowing that this will be a war of attrition, each man determined to give the other their best.

Richard Parker: You can feel the goosebumps in the atmosphere here!

Nick Stuart: Colossus Night 2. Universal Championship match. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Richard Parker: Well, if you’re FLAMBERGE, you may have wanted yourself to be in the match instead.

Nick Stuart: That would be a whole other set of fireworks.

Farthington, cool and collected, steps out of the corner, slowly walking to the center, and Tsonda meets him there—the two staring at one another. Tsonda can’t help himself as he starts to run his mouth at the Universal Champion, a spot he has been in before. Farthington cocks his head to the side, intrigued by what Tsonda is saying before firing off a tirade of his own. Within moments, the two are basically forehead against forehead, jawing and talking trash until Farthington fires a right forearm strike that catches Tsonda flush across the jaw.

Nick Stuart: And we’re off! Whatever Tsonda said was enough for Farthington to want the challenger to shut his mouth!

Richard Parker: Farthington isn’t someone you want to go toe-to-toe with. Otherwise, he does things like that.

Nick Stuart: Nothing to start the fire quite like a well-placed forearm strike.

Richard Parker: It’s the retaliation you have to look out for.

The Model Citizen shakes his head, happy to finally be in this position as he fires off a right hand of his own, rocking the champion back. Tsonda closes the gap between the two, pushing Farthington into the ropes before whipping him across the ring. The champion’s back hits the coiled ropes, and he leaps over Tsonda, who drops flat to the mat. Tsonda pops back up and goes for a hip toss on the returning Farthington, but the champion blocks it and reverses it into a hip toss of his own, sending the challenger crashing down.

Richard Parker: Not the start that Tsonda was wanting, to say the least!

Nick Stuart: Definitely not. Farthington seems composed and poised; this is an arena that suits him quite well. Meanwhile, it’s been a minute since Tsonda had a match of this magnitude.

Richard Parker: Outmatched is what I heard you say.

Nick Stuart: Just gotta knock some rust off for Tsonda.

Tsonda refuses to stay down for long, though, as he scrambles back up. Farthington is on top of him, locking in a collar and elbow tie-up before transitioning into a side headlock. Tsonda drives his forearm into the small of the champion’s back, trying to force him off, but Farthington grinds the headlock into the side of Tsonda’s skull and begins to drag him down to the canvas. Farthington then spins around and drives his knee into the back of Tsonda’s skull, driving it into the canvas to a chorus of jeers from the crowd.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: And the fans here in Atlanta are showing what they think of Farthington in that moment.

Richard Parker: It’s not like he did anything illegal though! He simply outwrestled Tsonda and that’s a theme we’re going to see over and over again. The Model Citizen is all flash in the pan, Farthington is the meat on the steak.

Nick Stuart: I think you know Tsonda better than that.

Richard Parker: Sure, but when you’re in the ring with the greatest wrestler on the planet, all pale in comparison.

As the jeers roar from the crowd, Farthington rises to his feet, arms stretched out, palms raised to the ceiling, as if to say ‘what?’ Tsonda moves to a seated position, shaking his head. He looks at the crowd and knows that tonight is about them as much as it is about him. Tsonda rises and motions for Farthington to come over. Farthington, though, shakes his head as he leans into the ropes. Tsonda immediately closes the gap, and the champion steps through the ropes, forcing Elvis Nixon to get in between the two wrestlers, stopping Tsonda in his tracks.

Nick Stuart: Farthington out here playing mind games, working to get under the skin of the Model Citizen.

Richard Parker: You don’t call him the Conga Crusher for nothing!

Nick Stuart: …what? What does that have to do with this moment?

Richard Parker: He’s crushing Tsonda’s Conga with his smarts.

Nick Stuart: You should workshop that some more.

With Tsonda yelling at Farthington, the champion motions for him to back off. Tsonda does so, reluctantly, and Farthington slowly moves back into the ring and begins moving around. Tsonda charges again, but once again the champion steps through the ropes, forcing Nixon to interject himself between them. Tsonda walks off quite upset as the crowd rains another series of jeers at Farthington.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Farthington, with a smirk on his face, moves back into the ring and stretches for a moment, asking Nixon to allow him a moment to compose himself after having to deal with Tsonda’s rage.

Richard Parker: Everyone in Atlanta wishes they were as smart as Farthington. They hate on him, but he is doing everything well within the rules.

Nick Stuart: By being annoying, sure.

Richard Parker: And? Being annoying isn’t illegal.

Nick Stuart: Correct, I guess. Still, we’re here for a wrestling match.

Richard Parker: And when Farthington is done stretching his hammys and calves, we will get back to it! We don’t want to see him get injured in the ring, do we?

Nick Stuart: …no.

As the champion finishes his mid-match stretches, he moves towards Tsonda. The challenger meets him only for Farthington to immediately retreat and slide out under the bottom rope and onto the stadium floor. Nixon stops Tsonda from charging out there, but Tsonda couldn’t care less at this point as he follows after Farthington, chasing him around the ring. Farthington stays ahead of Tsonda as the fans yell at him, and Tsonda remains hot on his heels. Farthington then slides back into the ring, and Tsonda follows after, only for Farthington to stomp viciously at the back of Tsonda’s skull. Each blow is sickening, one after another.

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

The Model Citizen, though, fights through it and nails a spinning back elbow that catches Farthington flush on the jaw.

CRACK!

Nick Stuart: And Tsonda caught Farthington with all of that one! Farthington is reeling!

Richard Parker: What a cheap shot!

Nick Stuart: After we just watched Farthington run around the ring and goad Tsonda to where he was stomping on the back of his skull as he re-entered the ring?

Richard Parker: I fail to see your point.

With Farthington trying to shake off the effects of the spinning back elbow, Tsonda immediately pounces and follows up with a side suplex, dropping him on the side of his skull. Farthington scrambles back up, only to be met with a Slingblade from a charging Tsonda. The Model Citizen follows this up with a knife-edge chop that echoes throughout the stadium. Farthington feels every inch of that and Tsonda fires a second one for good measure.

CRACK! CRACK!

Tsonda then grabs Farthington by the wrist and whips him into the ropes before executing a back body drop. Farthington’s body soars through the air before colliding with the canvas. Tsonda then bounces off the ropes and nails a leaping elbow across the sternum of the Universal Champion, dropping every pound of muscle Tsonda has (and the 3% fat he has to boot) across his chest. The crowd roars with approval as Tsonda has firmly seized control of this match while Farthington rolls out of the ring, disgusted by the events of the last few moments.

Richard Parker: Well, I will be the first to admit that things aren’t going quite the champion’s way right now.

Nick Stuart: Look at you, growing as a per—

Richard Parker: And it is clearly because Tsonda is on Performance Enhancing Drugs.

Nick Stuart: Spoke too soon there.

While Farthington is collecting and composing himself, Tsonda moves to the ropes and motions for Farthington to get back in the ring. Farthington milks Nixon’s count, though, while Tsonda stretches, keeping himself loose and ready for whatever Farthington is going to bring next, while internally crawling out of his skin with desire to get his hands on the champion. The champion takes his time getting back into the ring, dictating the pace, slowing it down from what had just occurred. As Farthington reaches for the ropes, Tsonda charges at him only for Farthington to sidestep him, brushing his hands against Tsonda’s back to send him flying into the ropes.

Tsonda, though, is always thinking and uses that momentum to hop onto the middle rope before launching himself backwards for a flying crossbody. Farthington, though, has him scouted as he counters with a vicious knee strike that lands flush with the jaw of the challenger as he soars through the air.

SMACK!

Nick Stuart: Farthington milked every second of Nixon’s count as he could, and it has paid off in dividends after that sickening knee strike!

Richard Parker: Nixon should check whether Tsonda has a concussion and just call the match for good measure. With the drugs Tsonda is on, he may not even know what day of the week it is.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda is not on drugs, and while he’s rocked from that knee to the skull, it’s going to take more than that to slow down the Model Citizen.

Richard Parker: I see. So you are supportive of Tsonda taking drugs. Got it.

Tsonda’s body crashes into the canvas as Farthington immediately bounces off the ropes and drives an elbow to the lower back of the Model Citizen.

THUD!

Tsonda cries out in pain, his story of back issues well documented. Farthington, seeing he has an opening, bounces off the ropes again and drops another elbow across his lower back. Tsonda writhes in pain, his face contorted, clutching at the small of his back. Nixon checks on him. Farthington immediately puts him into a single-leg Boston crab, which puts Tsonda in a precarious position as he claws at the mat, desperate to escape. Farthington wrenches as far back as he can while driving his knee into the small of Tsonda’s back.

Richard Parker: People wonder how Farthington has been able to hold this title for the past eight months… and this is how! He’s the smartest wrestler in the game today, and no question who is going to come out of this the winner tonight.

Nick Stuart: Farthington is playing the game right, but at the end of the day, Tsonda is still very much in this match.

Richard Parker: For the moment, but he could tap out at any given second.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda does have a documented history of back issues and Farthington is rightfully exploiting that weakness.

Richard Parker: When you say ‘exploiting’, it sounds so dirty.

Nixon checks on the challenger, the Almasy winner, but Tsonda refuses to tap out, even as Farthington increases the pressure by drilling his knee further into his back. Tsonda grits his teeth as he presses his palms against the canvas and lifts himself up, but that incurs further pressure as he has to carry Farthington’s weight as well. Tsonda is unable to sustain it and collapses onto the canvas again as he groans, feeling every inch of pain as it courses through his body. Farthington, meanwhile, looks nonchalant about the entire affair, as if he were posted up in a pool with Hank somewhere, enjoying the sunrays as they hit his face.

Nick Stuart: I don’t know how much longer Tsonda can hold out.

Richard Parker: Not much longer if you ask me. This is going to be the toughest match of Tsonda’s career, while Farthington looks as composed as I’ve ever seen him.

Nick Stuart: Just another day in the office for Farthington, by the way he looks, but you’re underestimating Tsonda a bit too much here.

Richard Parker: I know exactly what’s to come, and Farthington is more than man enough to weather that storm when it arrives.

Tsonda digs his elbows into the mat and begins to drag himself across it. Farthington digs his heels into the canvas, but the determination of Tsonda wins out in the moment as he manages to wrap his fingers around the bottom rope, forcing Nixon to tell Farthington to break the hold. The champion looks at Nixon as if he has two heads.

OI? Come again?!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

FOUR

At the count of four, Farthington breaks the hold and Tsonda can breathe a sigh of relief while trying to mentally overcome the anguish his body is experiencing. Farthington argues with Nixon for a moment, claiming he simply didn’t hear the referee and that there was no need to start shouting numbers at him as that’s considered quite rude in English culture. Tsonda, meanwhile, rolls under the bottom rope and sits on the ring apron, trying to gather himself. His back visibly stiff, he rolls his shoulders, grimacing. Farthington takes the opening as he bounces off the ropes and launches a missile dropkick between the middle and bottom rope, slamming both feet into the back of the challenger, which sends the Model Citizen flying off the ring apron and onto the stadium floor.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: There was no need for that, Tsonda was simply sitting there trying to recover!

Richard Parker: This is called a wrestling match, Nick. Until the bell rings again, there are no breaks as far as Farthington is concerned. He’s on the clock and he is extracting the maximum value for his time here. I don’t know why these fools are booing, they have to watch the Falcons each week and they still choose to do so.

Nick Stuart: Well, I don’t think you want to say that to any of these fans behind you.

Richard Parker: I’ll tell them that and that Dominique Wilkins is over-rated!

Nick Stuart: I’m waiting.

Tsonda rolls around on the floor, his hand pressed against his lower back. Farthington steps through the ropes. The champion looks back at Nixon, who is telling him to get back in the ring, but Farthington has other plans. Farthington leaps off the ring apron and drives a knee to the back of the Model Citizen, much to the chagrin of the crowd. Tsonda writhes on the floor as Farthington rises and stands over the Model Citizen. Nixon orders both men to get back in the ring, but Farthington refuses to do so. Immediately, he begins a count.

ONE!

TWO!

Farthington turns his attention back to Tsonda and grabs him by the shoulders, hauling him to his feet. The champion slams the face of the Model Citizen into the ringside barricade before telling the fans to move out of the way. He receives some middle fingers from the crowd, to which he looks aghast at such boorish behavior. He then takes a few steps back and rushes towards Tsonda, looking for a clothesline only for the Model Citizen to dip his shoulder and send Farthington over the barricade and into the crowd!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: And Tsonda finds himself back in the mix of things after sending Farthington crashing onto the stadium floor! Back meets concrete, and the concrete will always win!

Richard Parker: Nixon has lost control of the match! This is a wrestling match, not a free-for-all brawl!

Nick Stuart: With the way that Farthington has been acting, I would say this is fair play, and Nixon should allow them to continue this way!

Richard Parker: That’s because you’re a heathen, Nick.

FOUR!

FIVE!

Tsonda, who is on his knees trying to compose himself, fights his way up and realizes this could end in a double countout if he’s not careful. He reaches down and grabs Farthington, who struggles against the challenger’s grip. Tsonda immediately fires a series of forearm strikes to the back of Farthington’s neck before slamming him face-first into the barricade. He then locks Farthington in a front facelock and lifts him off the ground before slamming him onto the stadium floor with a vertical suplex.

CRASH!

SEVEN!

EIGHT!

Tsonda grabs Farthington and drags him back to the ring, rolling his body under the bottom rope.

NINE!

And Tsonda quickly follows after him. He grabs a dazed Farthington and slams his knee into his face, leaving Farthington slumped on his knees. Tsonda rushes off the ropes and drives a running knee that lands flush with the Conga Crusher’s skull.

BOOM!

As Farthington slumps to the canvas, Tsonda flips him over and goes for the cover as Nixon immediately starts his count.

ONE!

TWO!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: Tsonda nearly had Farthington there, but the champion managed to kick out at the last second!

Richard Parker: You consider that down and out? Come on, you’re blind if you think Tsonda had Farthington close to finished!

Nick Stuart: You thought Tsonda was done for five minutes ago!

Richard Parker: And you think Tsonda is back in it now? This is why you’re an amateur, Nick!

Tsonda rises to his knees and starts to stand when Farthington reaches up and rolls Tsonda up, pinning his shoulders to the canvas.

ONE!

TWO!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Tsonda manages to kick out at the last moment. Both men scramble to their feet, with Farthington firing a forearm strike to Tsonda’s jaw, rocking the Model Citizen where he stands. Farthington then spins Tsonda around before executing a snapdragon suplex, dropping Tsonda on the back of his skull.

CRUNCH!

The champion bounces back up and looks out at the crowd, those who were cheering Tsonda. As he does, Tsonda surprisingly staggers to his feet and runs up the turnbuckle before executing a forward somersault three-quarter facelock jawbreaker!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: RUNWAY VAULT! FARTHINGTON IS DOWN!

Richard Parker: What the fu—

Nick Stuart: Tsonda with his signature move, we may have a new champion!

Richard Parker: This isn’t happening…

Nixon begins his count as Tsonda hooks the leg.

ONE!

TWO!

THR— NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: Ha ha! You all thought Farthington was down and out!

Nick Stuart: Farthington just managed to get his shoulder up in the nick of time!

Richard Parker: Nick of time… he was maximizing the dramatics.

Nick Stuart: Sure, Richard, sure.

Tsonda slumps back on his knees, shaking his head, thinking he’d caught the Conga Crusher off guard only to come up just short. Tsonda rises and brings Farthington with him, firing a forearm strike to the jaw that sends Farthington stumbling into the nearby corner. Tsonda grabs Farthington by the wrist and whips him across the ring, slamming him back first into the opposite corner. Farthington stumbles out of the corner and Tsonda bounces off the ropes before executing a running bulldog that spikes Farthington’s skull into the canvas.

SLAM!

The Model Citizen erupts to his feet, pounding his chest as the crowd rises.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Tsonda turns around and bounces off the ropes before dropping a knee across the face of the Universal Champion. Farthington rolls onto his stomach and his feet thrash into the canvas from the shot. The Model Citizen drags the champion back to the center of the ring before crouching and locking in the Cobra Clutch!

Richard Parker: What is Tsonda doing? Submission moves? That’s not his game!

Nick Stuart: Tsonda can do it all in the ring and with the Breathtaker locked in, this could be the end of Farthington’s reign!

Richard Parker: If Farthington taps out to a camel clutch, I’ll eat my hat!

Nick Stuart: I would pay good money to see that.

Tsonda wrenches back to the point the fans can see all the muscles in Farthington’s neck and shoulders are tight. Nixon checks on Farthington, who doesn’t even dignify him with a response. Tsonda leans back, hearing the roar of the crowd, while Farthington grits through the pain. Nixon checks on the champion again, but Farthington grabs him and yanks Elvis into Tsonda, forcing the challenger to break the hold. Farthington rolls away from Tsonda, rubbing at his neck, while Tsonda rises, confused a bit as to what just happened. As he moves towards the Universal Champion, Farthington sweeps out Tsonda’s legs, sending him crashing to the canvas.

Farthington pounces as Tsonda tries to rise, firing a swift boot to the midsection before executing a Gotch Style Piledriver.

THWACK!

Tsonda’s head bounces off the canvas and he immediately moves to protect himself. Farthington scrambles up in a hurry and drags Tsonda back up before whipping him into the ropes. As Tsonda returns, Farthington hoists him into the air and holds him there before slamming Tsonda back-first onto his knee.

CRACK!

Tsonda’s eyes go wide as he arches in agony.

Nick Stuart: And the Conga Crusher is back, focusing on the back of the challenger!

Richard Parker: Isn’t it great that you can call him the Conga Crusher without it being a joke? You have to give the man his flowers or else… well, he’ll do it for you.

Nick Stuart: I’ve never given it any thought.

Richard Parker: Really? It’s all I think about.

Tsonda, writhing on the canvas in pain, is unable to respond as Farthington rises, grabs Tsonda by the hair, and drags him up. Nixon admonishes Farthington, who ignores it and whips Tsonda as hard as he can into the corner. The force with which Farthington launches Tsonda knocks the Universal Champion off his feet and sends Tsonda crashing violently into the corner, which sends Tsonda crashing onto the canvas as well with the sound of a gunshot from the impact.

BANG!

Tsonda clutches at his back, his body contorting from the impact and pain. Farthington rises, dusting himself off, and places his boot on the back of Tsonda’s head, before grinding the sole of his boot into his skull. Nixon yells at Farthington again, but, as has been standard in this match, Farthington brushes him off and continues doing what he does best. He yanks Tsonda off the canvas and pushes him into the corner before placing his forearm across the throat of the Model Citizen. He smacks Tsonda around for a moment before firing an open-handed palm slap to the chest of the Hall of Famer.

CRACK!

Tsonda leans forward from the blow, grabbing at his chest, but Farthington yanks his arms down and fires another palm slap that echoes through the stadium.

CRACK!

Richard Parker: Oh man, everyone, you’re in for a treat.

Nick Stuart: All I see is the Conga Crusher getting his rocks off if you ask me.

Richard Parker: Well, that’s the afterparty.

Nick Stuart: Gross.

The Universal Champion then drags Tsonda out of the corner and executes a Northern Lights Suplex!

ONE!

TWO!

TH— NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Tsonda manages to roll out of the pinning maneuver at the last second, to the frustration of Farthington. The Conga Crusher rises and snaps his boot across the face of the Model Citizen. Tsonda rolls away, clutching at his face, and struggles to his knees only to be met with a clubbing forearm from Farthington.

Richard Parker: I have to admit, Tsonda is taking one hell of a beating here. The man’s got heart, I’ll give him that.

Nick Stuart: High praise from you, Richard.

Richard Parker: Don’t get used to it.

Tsonda remains on his knees, but not for long, as Farthington drags him up and pushes him into the corner, where he fires another stiff forearm. He then drags Tsonda over to the corner and drives his shoulder into the midsection of the Hall of Famer. With the wind knocked out of him, Farthington follows it up with a front facelock before lifting him into the air and dropping him ribs first across the top rope. He then uses that momentum to hoist Tsonda up and execute a Falcon’s Arrow, driving the back of Tsonda into the canvas once again.

SLAM!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: This is a master class in how you take away someone’s momentum and pride. Tsonda is down and out, and we’re about to head to winter break.

Nick Stuart: You seem so confident as if you’ve never watched a PRIME match.

Richard Parker: PRIME matches with Farthington are a different ballgame. Try to keep up.

Nick Stuart: I’m glad I got you coal for your Secret Santa present this year.

The Universal Champion rises and walks over to the corner where he just had Tsonda. He begins removing the middle turnbuckle, which angers Nixon. Farthington ignores it as his fingers nimbly work the strings of the padding before yanking it free and throwing it out into the crowd. The lucky fan immediately throws it back into the ring, and Farthington is not amused in the least bit. He grabs it and exits the ring, walking over to the fan, holding out the ‘souvenir’ while admonishing the fan for his lack of appreciation.

Nick Stuart: Farthington is out here yelling at a fan!

Richard Parker: I mean, the fan is clearly an idiot. He must not go to Magic City often enough.

Nick Stuart: What do you know about Magic City?

Richard Parker: What happens in the champagne room stays in the champagne room. Unless you’re called for a federal trial and then, well, it’s there for all to see.

Nick Stuart: You… need help.

Farthington proceeds to explain the history of the turnbuckle to the fan, who gives him two middle fingers, presumably in a friendly gesture. The champion isn’t deterred though as he continues his history lesson. As he does so though, he is unaware that Tsonda is now soaring through the air and nails a flying crossbody to the back of the Universal Champion, which sends him crashing into the ringside barricade!

CRASH!

Tsonda staggers to his feet, wincing as he does, and snaps his boot into the ribcage of the Conga Crusher before reaching down and throwing the middle turnbuckle padding to the fan, who holds it high above his head and celebrates his new souvenir.

Richard Parker: What?! Why is that fan cheering?! He just had the turnbuckle cover and threw it back into the ring!

Nick Stuart: Maybe it’s about who threw it instead of the item itself.

Richard Parker: You make about as much sense as the fan.

Nick Stuart: I know, thinking is hard for you.

Tsonda then turns his attention back to Farthington and drags him up before firing an uppercut to the jaw that sends the Universal Champion stumbling back towards the ring. Tsonda helps him back into the ring and hops onto the ring apron. As Farthington struggles up, Tsonda springboards off the top rope and executes a leg drop across the back of the Universal Champion’s neck. Tsonda bounces up, feeling the momentum in his blood, and he catches a rising Farthington with a rolling elbow that lands flush on the Universal Champion’s jaw. With the champion dazed, the Model Citizen lifts him into the air before executing a Stalling lift implant DDT!

CRUNCH!

Nick Stuart: And Tsonda is back in business with that Golgotha Drop!

Richard Parker: All because of that stupid fan.

Nick Stuart: I don’t think that had anything to do with it.

Richard Parker: You would think that, revising history as you see fit.

Tsonda springs back up, sizing Farthington up, before he drags Farthington up and whips him into the ropes and executes a beautiful dropkick that sends the champion crashing back onto the canvas. Tsonda then drags Farthington to the nearby corner and begins to climb to the top rope. The fans all rise, knowing what’s about to come next… the Model Citizen. As Tsonda steadies himself, he immediately launches himself into the air and flips backwards for his high-arc moonsault. At the same time, the champion rolls out of the way. Tsonda manages to course-correct and lands on his feet, but immediately grimaces, his hand going to his lower back.

Farthington scrambles up and charges forward with a clothesline that Tsonda narrowly dodges, sending Farthington into the ropes. Tsonda spins around and goes for a back body drop, but Farthington lands on his feet. Tsonda spins around and Farthington locks in a front facelock and goes to lift him for a suplex, but Tsonda blocks it, locking his leg around Farthington’s ankle. The Universal Champion unloads a series of fists to the ribcage of the Model Citizen, stunning the challenger just enough to hoist him into the air. Tsonda though slips out and lands on his feet behind the Conga Crusher. Tsonda immediately wraps his arms around the waist of the Universal Champion and goes for a German Suplex, but Farthington blocks it. He then goes for a back elbow to break the hold, but Tsonda ducks under it and pushes Farthington away and into the ropes.

The champion hits the ropes and rebounds towards Tsonda, who catches him with a rolling forearm. Farthington is stunned on his feet and Tsonda grabs Farthington by the wrist, looking to whip him into the ropes only for Farthington to snap his boot into the chest of the Model Citizen. With Tsonda stunned, Farthington reaches forward only for Tsonda to lift himself up into the air and nail an enziguri to the back of Farthington’s skull, dropping him onto the canvas!

CRACK!

Tsonda clears the cobwebs in a hurry and rushes to the nearby corner, climbing to the top rope. He pauses for just a moment, his back clearly bothering him, before he launches himself into the air once again, this time connecting with the high-arc moonsault!

BOOM!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: WHAT A SEQUENCE! AND TSONDA HAS CONNECTED WITH THE MODEL CITIZEN!

Richard Parker: I’m still trying to piece together what I just saw.

Nick Stuart: Well, you better hurry up because Tsonda is going for the cover and we’re about to have a new Universal Champion!

Richard Parker: Wait… no!

Nixon begins his count.

ONE!

…

…

…

…

…

TWO!

…

…

…

…

…

…

THRE—

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: Farthington managed to kick out! I knew it wasn’t over!

Nick Stuart: Your face told a completely different story!

Richard Parker: That’s the Botox.

Nick Stuart: The… botox? What the hell?

Richard Parker: Youth sells, Nick. You could use some of that.

Tsonda rolls off the body of the Universal Champion, hands on his head, certain he’d won the match. Nixon confirms the two count as Farthington just managed to get his left shoulder up at the last possible second. Tsonda sits up, shaking his head. He rises and walks around the ring, trying to figure out what comes next while Farthington is laid out on the canvas.

The Model Citizen steps through the ropes and stands on the ring apron, trying to figure this out. It’s simply a puzzle that needs to be solved. The Model Citizen turns back to Farthington, watching the Universal Champion claw to his feet, refusing to stay down. Tsonda immediately springboards onto the top rope and goes for a hurricanrana, but the champion catches him and holds him on his shoulders before moving to the ropes and dropping Tsonda while holding onto his legs so Tsonda is hanging from Farthington’s neck while on the outside of the ropes. With his right foot, Farthington extends the bottom rope so that it is placed against the throat of his opponent.

Then he leans back.

Richard Parker: Oh, a snuff film. Let’s go!

Nick Stuart: Your Christmas gift this year is psychiatric therapy. I don’t even know how to describe what I’m seeing right here.

Richard Parker: Awesomeness, that’s what you’re seeing.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda’s body has been contorted around the ropes so the bottom rope is choking him while Farthington is wrenching on the back of the Model Citizen!

Richard Parker: Like I said, genius.

Well, Nixon doesn’t agree with that assessment as he immediately starts a count.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

FOUR!

FI—

At that point, Farthington yanks Tsonda back onto his shoulders before he runs full speed at the opposite corner and throws him neck and back first into the exposed middle ring post!

CRACK!

Tsonda slumps onto the canvas, breathing, but that’s it.

Nick Stuart: What a sickening move from Farthington there, I don’t even know what to say to that! That buckle bomb into the exposed metal!

Richard Parker: Once again, genius. You come for the king, you best not miss.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda is barely breathing and Nixon is checking on him, but this doesn’t look great for Tsonda.

Richard Parker: Pin him, call it a night.

Farthington drags Tsonda to the center of the ring and goes for that pinfall as Nixon has to start counting.

ONE!

…

…

…

…

…

TWO!

…

…

…

…

…

…

THRE — NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Tsonda just manages to get his right shoulder up, forcing a scowl across Farthington’s face. The champion looks over at Tsonda and slowly rises before bringing Tsonda with him. He smacks Tsonda around a bit before he drags him to the corner and drapes him horizontally across the middle turnbuckle. Farthington then hops onto the top turnbuckle and takes a moment before he drives both feet — and his entire weight — across the back of the Model Citizen, sending both men crashing to the canvas!

CRUNCH!

Tsonda cries out in pain as he immediately grabs for his back. Farthington, meanwhile, rises with a smirk on his face.

Richard Parker: Man oh man, this is delicious.

Nick Stuart: Farthington is sadistic, to say the least.

Richard Parker: That’s what makes him so great. How could you hate him? How could you hate seeing him do this to Tsonda?

Nick Stuart: I feel like many would have a differing opinion on that.

Richard Parker: And they would be wrong.

Farthington drags Tsonda to the center of the ring and reaches down, grabbing both of Tsonda’s arms and begins to pull them towards him. He places both of his feet on Tsonda’s ankles and yanks back, bringing Tsonda’s face parallel to the bottom rope. As Farthington draws back Tsonda, pulling on his back, the anguish is painted across the Model Citizen’s face. Nixon checks on Tsonda, who refuses to give up, while Farthington looks on with a look of glee. Tsonda grits through the pain and Farthington then drives his boot into the back of his opponent!

STOMP!

Farthington steps away from Tsonda, smirk plastered across his face, before he bounces off the ropes and launches a splash across the lower back of Tsonda.

SPLASH!

Farthington then kneels before Tsonda, smacking the back of his head repeatedly before he stands and walks around the ring, pleased to be in complete control of the match.

Nick Stuart: The absolute disrespect being shown by Farthington there!

Richard Parker: What respect has Farthington been shown?

Nick Stuart: You can’t be serious.

Richard Parker: As serious as Dusk’s dead body.

Farthington pulls Tsonda up and sends him into the ropes before driving a knee to the midsection of the challenger. Tsonda doubles over from the shot, and Farthington hoists him onto his shoulder and carries him to the nearby turnbuckle. He then puts him into a Tree of Woe and stamps away at his face before moving to the opposite corner. Farthington then runs full speed towards Tsonda and slams a knee into the midsection of the Hall of Famer. Tsonda groans from the impact, but is unable to do much of anything to stop Farthington. The Universal Champion moves to the opposite corner again and runs full speed once again, this time executing a basement dropkick to the face of the Model Citizen!

CRACK!

The Conga Crusher rises and taunts Tsonda. Farthington bounces off the ropes and goes for another basement dropkick, but Tsonda uses his core muscles to lift himself up, causing Farthington to crash and burn!

WHIFF!

Tsonda pulls himself up to a seated position on the top turnbuckle, his face a mask of pain. The champion isn’t down for long though as he slams his forearm into the back of Tsonda. Tsonda fights through it and gets himself unhooked so he can turn and block Farthington’s second forearm attempt with a boot to the face. With the champion stunned, Tsonda stands on the top turnbuckle only for Farthington to brush off the blow and run up the corner, firing a series of headbutts as both competitors stand on the top turnbuckle, battling it out.

Richard Parker: Oh, this is not going to be good.

Nick Stuart: There’s no way this ends well for anyone.

Tsonda fights back with a series of his own headbutts, stunning the Universal Champion. Farthington teeters, but manages to stay on the top turnbuckle and wraps his arms around Tsonda. He tries to lift Tsonda, but Tsonda lowers his center of gravity, effectively blocking the move. Tsonda wraps his arms around the Universal Champion before launching both of them backwards off the top turnbuckle to the floor below!

CRACK! THWACK!

Nick Stuart: Holy hell, Tsonda with a belly-to-belly suplex off the top rope and onto the stadium floor!

Richard Parker: Both men crashed hard onto the floor with Farthington taking the brunt of the impact! Tsonda should be disqualified for that!

Nick Stuart: And what rule did he break?

Richard Parker: I’m positive there is a rule in there to stop the use of damaging moves to the Universal Champion when that champion is Farthington!

Nick Stuart: There is not.

Richard Parker: Then let me talk to Lindsay Troy, immediately!

Both men roll around on the floor, wind knocked out of them, bodies battered and bruised. Tsonda manages to get back to his knees, but Farthington looks like he was just dunked onto the floor by Hank himself. Tsonda musters the strength to stand and walks over to Farthington and pulls him off the floor before rolling him back into the ring. The Model Citizen follows after him and yanks him up before slamming his knee into the midsection of his opponent. He then locks Farthington in a front face-lock and hoists him up, hooking his leg before executing a Small Package Driver!

CRUNCH!

Richard Parker: Wait… why was that familiar?

Nick Stuart: That was Tyler Rayne’s finisher, the Varga’d! My goodness!

Richard Parker: We can do that now? That sounds like cheating! And why is it called Varga’d again?

Nick Stuart: Nothing illegal about that and we don’t have time to explain the name to you.

Tsonda then goes for the cover!

ONE!

…

…

…

…

…

…

TWO!

…

…

…

…

…

…

THR— NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Farthington manages to kick out much to the chagrin of the Model Citizen. Tsonda runs his hands over his face, shaking his head, in disbelief. Tsonda, in a seated position, pushes himself away from the Universal Champion, and you can see the doubt in his eyes. The Model Citizen shakes his head once more and rises before he walks over to the nearby turnbuckle and climbs to the top of it. He turns his back to the Universal Champion and looks over his shoulder as he watches Farthington struggling up. Tsonda then launches into a top-rope corkscrew moonsault before transitioning it into a tornado DDT, spiking Farthington’s head into the canvas!

SLAM!

Nick Stuart: THE CROWNING GLORY! He just pulled that out of Troy’s bag of tricks!

Richard Parker: What. Is. Happening. Tsonda is that insecure in his own moves?!

Nick Stuart: All is legal when it comes to capturing the Universal Title!

Richard Parker: I’ll remember that later.

Once again, Tsonda goes for the cover.

ONE!

…

…

…

…

…

…

TWO!

…

…

…

…

…

…

THR— NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

And once again, Tsonda comes up short as Farthington manages to throw his left shoulder up at the last possible moment.

Tsonda, instead of letting the moment become too large, rises and brings Farthington up with him, driving his knee into the midsection of the champion. He then whips him into the ropes and goes for a spinning forearm strike only for Farthington to instinctively duck under it. Tsonda spins around as Farthington rushes by him to the opposite ropes before he launches himself into the air and executes a flying crossbody onto Tsonda, sending both men crashing to the mat. Both men scramble to their feet with Farthington ducking under a clothesline before executing a Penalty Kick that lands flush on Tsonda’s skull, sending both men down to the canvas!

CRACK!

Richard Parker: Farthington is not done yet! You counted him out too early, Nick!

Nick Stuart: I don’t think I did anything of the sort.

Richard Parker: Trust me, you did.

Nick Stuart: Well, if you say it then it must be so.

Both men lay on the canvas, chests heaving, bodies battered from the war they’ve been waging. Nixon looks at both competitors before beginning his count.

ONE!

TWO!

The crowd begins to rally, clapping in unison, trying to will Tsonda back to his feet.

LET’S GO TSON-DA! LET’S GO TSON-DA!

THREE!

FOUR!

Nick Stuart: Both men are completely spent here. We are witnessing an absolute war for the Universal Championship!

Richard Parker: This is what happens when you step into the ring with Farthington. He will drag you to hell and back, and the question becomes: who can survive it?

FIVE!

SIX!

Tsonda stirs first, rolling onto his stomach. His hand instinctively goes to his lower back as he grimaces. Farthington, meanwhile, pushes himself up to his hands and knees, shaking the cobwebs loose.

SEVEN!

Both men crawl towards the ropes on opposite sides of the ring, using them to pull themselves upright. Tsonda’s legs wobble beneath him as he leans heavily against the ropes. Farthington, across the ring, uses the top rope to steady himself, his face showing the wear of the match for the first time.

EIGHT!

Nixon stops his count as both men are vertical, barely. The crowd roars its approval.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: Both men beat the count, but I don’t know how much either of them has left in the tank!

Richard Parker: We’re about to find out.

Tsonda pushes off the ropes and staggers toward the center of the ring. Farthington does the same. They meet in the middle, both men swaying on their feet. For a moment, they simply stare at each other, neither willing to show weakness. Then Tsonda raises his right hand and fires a weak forearm to Farthington’s jaw.

SMACK!

Farthington’s head snaps to the side, but he responds immediately with a forearm of his own.

SMACK!

Tsonda rocks back on his heels but stays upright. He fires another forearm.

SMACK!

Farthington answers.

SMACK!

The pace quickens, both men trading forearms in the center of the ring, neither willing to back down.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Nick Stuart: Listen to the impact of those strikes! Both men are digging deep!

Richard Parker: This is pride at this point. Neither man wants to be the one to fall first.

The crowd is on their feet, cheering with each Tsonda strike and booing with each Farthington strike. Tsonda begins to get the upper hand, his forearms coming faster now. He backs Farthington up a step, then another. Farthington fires back, but Tsonda ducks under it and nails a European uppercut that snaps Farthington’s head back.

CRACK!

Farthington stumbles backward, and Tsonda presses forward. He grabs Farthington by the wrist and goes to whip him into the ropes, but his back seizes up mid-motion. Tsonda’s face contorts in pain, and he releases Farthington, his hand shooting to his lower back.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda’s back just gave out on him!

Richard Parker: And Farthington sees it!

The champion, sensing opportunity, shakes off the cobwebs and immediately fires a boot to Tsonda’s midsection, doubling him over. Farthington then grabs Tsonda and whips him hard into the corner. Tsonda crashes back-first into the turnbuckles and immediately arches in pain, his face a mask of agony.

THUD!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Farthington stalks toward Tsonda, a predatory look in his eyes. He drives a series of shoulder thrusts into Tsonda’s midsection, each one driving the air from the challenger’s lungs.

THUD! THUD! THUD!

Farthington then pulls Tsonda out of the corner and executes a snap suplex, planting him on the canvas. But instead of going for a cover, Farthington floats over and pulls Tsonda back up, executing a second snap suplex. Again, he floats over, pulls Tsonda up, and executes a third snap suplex, completing the trio.

SLAM! SLAM! SLAM!

Richard Parker: Three Amigos! Farthington is putting on a clinic here!

Nick Stuart: And each one of those landed directly on Tsonda’s injured back!

Farthington finally goes for the cover, hooking the leg.

ONE!

TWO!

NOOOOOOOOOOO!

Tsonda kicks out, but it’s weak. Farthington doesn’t look frustrated—instead, he looks focused. Calculated. He rises and drags Tsonda up with him, locking in a rear waistlock. Farthington lifts Tsonda and executes a German suplex, bridging for the pin.

CRASH!

ONE!

TWO!

NOOOOOOOOOOO!

Tsonda barely gets his shoulder up. Farthington releases the bridge and sits up, running his hand through his hair. He looks over at Nixon, who confirms it was only a two count.

Nick Stuart: Farthington is in complete control now. The damage to Tsonda’s back is mounting with every passing second.

Richard Parker: And this is exactly where Farthington wants to be. He’s broken Tsonda down piece by piece, and now it’s just a matter of time.

Farthington rises and drags Tsonda up once more. He hooks Tsonda’s arms and lifts him, looking for a double underhook suplex, but Tsonda sandbags it, his legs refusing to leave the ground. Farthington tries again, but Tsonda blocks it, locking his leg around Farthington’s ankle.

Tsonda then headbutts Farthington, breaking the grip.

CRACK!

Both men stagger backward, dazed. Tsonda wobbles on his feet, his hand going to his back again. Farthington shakes his head, trying to clear it. Both men eye each other from across the ring, the exhaustion evident on their faces.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda with a desperate counter, but both men are running on fumes here!

Richard Parker: The question is: who’s got more left in the tank?

The crowd starts clapping again, trying to rally Tsonda.

LET’S GO TSON-DA! LET’S GO TSON-DA!

Tsonda feeds off the energy, straightening up despite the pain. He motions for Farthington to bring it. The champion smirks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Richard Parker: Tsonda’s got heart, I’ll give him that. But heart doesn’t win championships. Excellence does.

Nick Stuart: We’re about to see if you’re right.

Farthington and Tsonda circle each other in the center of the ring, both men battered but neither willing to give an inch. Farthington feints left, then right, trying to find an opening. Tsonda stays on guard, his body coiled despite the pain radiating from his lower back.

The champion lunges forward and locks up with Tsonda in a collar-and-elbow tie-up. Farthington quickly transitions into a side headlock, grinding Tsonda’s skull. Tsonda shoves Farthington off into the ropes. The champion rebounds, and Tsonda drops down. Farthington hops over him and hits the opposite ropes. Tsonda pops up and goes for a leapfrog, but his back betrays him mid-jump. He doesn’t get the height, and Farthington catches him on his shoulder in mid-air.

Nick Stuart: Oh no! Tsonda’s back gave out again!

Richard Parker: And Farthington’s got him right where he wants him!

Farthington adjusts Tsonda on his shoulder and charges toward the corner, driving Tsonda’s back into the top turnbuckle with a modified Snake Eyes.

CRASH!

Tsonda bounces off the turnbuckle and stumbles backward. Farthington spins him around and hooks him for a backdrop suplex, but instead of falling backward, Farthington sits out, driving Tsonda’s back across his knees with a backbreaker.

CRUNCH!

Tsonda’s scream echoes through the arena as he rolls off Farthington’s knees, clutching at his back.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: My God, Farthington is systematically destroying Tsonda’s back!

Richard Parker: This is what separates champions from challengers, Nick. Farthington knows Tsonda is one big move away from being finished, and he’s setting it up perfectly.

Farthington rises and stalks over to Tsonda, who is trying to crawl toward the ropes. The champion grabs Tsonda’s ankle and drags him back to the center of the ring. Farthington then steps over Tsonda and locks in a modified Boston Crab, but instead of sitting back, he plants his knee in the small of Tsonda’s back and wrenches.

STOMP!

Tsonda cries out in agony, his hands clawing at the canvas. Nixon drops down in front of him, checking for a submission.

Elvis Nixon: Do you give up? Talk to me, Chandler!

Tsonda shakes his head violently, refusing to quit. The crowd rallies behind him.

LET’S GO TSON-DA! LET’S GO TSON-DA!

Nick Stuart: Tsonda is in incredible pain, but he will not quit!

Richard Parker: Then he’s a fool. Live to fight another day, Tsonda. There’s no shame in tapping out to the Universal Champion.

Tsonda digs his elbows into the mat and begins to drag himself toward the ropes. Inch by inch, he pulls himself and Farthington’s weight across the canvas. The crowd roars with every bit of progress he makes. Farthington wrenches back harder, drilling his knee deeper into Tsonda’s back, but Tsonda refuses to stop.

Finally, Tsonda’s fingers wrap around the bottom rope.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: He made it! Tsonda made it to the ropes!

Nixon calls for the break, and Farthington releases immediately, rising to his feet. He backs away, hands raised, but there’s a smile on his face. He’s not frustrated—he knows he’s close.

Tsonda uses the ropes to pull himself up, his face contorted in pain. His back is visibly stiff as he tries to straighten up. Farthington gives him no time to recover. The champion charges forward and drives a running knee into Tsonda’s gut, doubling him over.

THUD!

Farthington then hooks Tsonda’s arms, looking for a double underhook, but this time he lifts Tsonda up and spins, driving him down with a double underhook facebuster.

SLAM!

Tsonda’s face bounces off the canvas, and he rolls onto his back, stunned. Farthington crawls over and hooks the leg.

ONE!

TWO!

THR—NOOOOOOOOOOO!

Tsonda kicks out, but it’s weak. His shoulder barely leaves the canvas. The crowd erupts, but there’s a sense of desperation in their cheers now.

Richard Parker: How much longer can Tsonda keep this up? How much more can his body take?

Nick Stuart: I don’t know, Richard. I honestly don’t know.

Farthington sits back on his knees, looking down at Tsonda. He wipes the sweat from his brow and then rises to his feet. The champion walks to the corner and climbs to the second rope, looking out at the crowd with his arms spread wide.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Richard Parker: Farthington is telling everyone in this building: this is MY house, this is MY title, and this is MY moment.

Farthington hops down from the second rope and walks back over to Tsonda, who is trying to push himself up to his hands and knees. The champion bends down and slaps the back of Tsonda’s head, mockingly.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Nick Stuart: Oh, come on! There’s no need for that!

Richard Parker: Psychological warfare, Nick. Farthington is breaking Tsonda’s spirit as well as his body.

Farthington drags Tsonda up and whips him into the ropes. Tsonda rebounds, and Farthington pops him up for a pop-up powerbomb. Tsonda’s body soars through the air, and Farthington catches him, driving him down to the canvas with authority.

BOOM!

The impact shakes the ring. Farthington doesn’t go for the cover. Instead, he rises and looks down at Tsonda’s motionless body.

Richard Parker: Farthington could pin him right now. Why isn’t he going for the cover?

Nick Stuart: I think… I think he wants to send a message.

Farthington reaches down and drags Tsonda up once more. Tsonda is barely conscious, his legs unable to support his weight. Farthington has to hold him up. The champion hooks Tsonda’s arms behind his back in a double underhook, then bends Tsonda backward, lifting him upside down. Farthington tucks Tsonda’s legs under his arms, securing him in position.

The crowd realizes what’s coming.

NOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: No! Not this! Farthington is going for the Vertebreaker!

Richard Parker: It’s over. There’s no coming back from this.

Farthington holds Tsonda in the air for a moment, showcasing his dominance. Then he sits out, driving the crown of Tsonda’s head directly into the canvas.

CRUNCH!

The sickening sound of the impact echoes through the arena. Tsonda’s body goes limp as Farthington releases him, and the challenger crumples to the mat like a broken doll. The crowd is stunned into silence.

Nick Stuart: Oh my God…

Farthington slowly rolls Tsonda over onto his back and covers him, hooking both legs. Nixon drops down for the count.

ONE!

…

…

…

…

…

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TWO!

…

…

…

…

…

…

The crowd holds its breath.

…

…

THR—

Tsonda’s shoulder shoots off the canvas. The crowd EXPLODES.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: TSONDA KICKED OUT! TSONDA KICKED OUT OF THE VERTEBREAKER!

Richard Parker: WHAT?! HOW?!

Nick Stuart: I DON’T BELIEVE IT! THE HEART OF CHANDLER TSONDA!

Farthington’s eyes go wide. He stares at Nixon in absolute disbelief, holding up three fingers. Nixon shakes his head and holds up two. Farthington looks down at Tsonda, who is barely moving, then back at Nixon.

Richard Parker: There’s no way. That’s not possible. Nobody kicks out of that!

Farthington rises to his knees, running both hands through his hair. For the first time in the entire match, there’s genuine shock on the champion’s face. He looks out at the crowd, who are on their feet, chanting.

THIS IS AWE-SOME! THIS IS AWE-SOME!

Farthington shakes his head, trying to process what just happened. He looks down at Tsonda, who is still motionless on the canvas, barely breathing.

Nick Stuart: Farthington threw everything he had at Tsonda—targeted the back, wore him down, hit the Vertebreaker—and Tsonda STILL kicked out!

Richard Parker: I… I don’t have words for what I just saw.

Farthington slowly rises to his feet, his face transitioning from shock to something darker. Anger. Determination. He looks down at Tsonda and nods slowly, as if coming to a decision.

Richard Parker: Uh oh. I know that look. Farthington is about to do something drastic.

Nick Stuart: What more can he possibly do?

Farthington bends down and grabs Tsonda by the hair, dragging him up. Tsonda’s legs can’t support him; he’s dead weight in Farthington’s grasp. The champion has to physically hold him upright.

The crowd is on their feet, not sure whether to cheer Tsonda’s resilience or fear what’s coming next.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda kicked out, but at what cost? He can barely move!

Richard Parker: And Farthington isn’t done. Not by a long shot.

Farthington holds Tsonda upright, the challenger’s head lolling forward, his body limp. The champion sizes him up, looking to deliver the final blow. He opens his palm and slaps it across the face of Tsonda.

This causes something to stir in Tsonda. His fingers twitch. His legs, which had been unable to support him, suddenly plant themselves on the canvas.

The crowd notices immediately.

OHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Nick Stuart: Wait a minute… Tsonda is moving! Farthington woke up the beast!

Richard Parker: No. No, there’s no way.

Tsonda’s head slowly lifts. His eyes, glassy and unfocused moments ago, now burn with something primal. Pure. Unfiltered. Will.

Farthington feels the shift and takes a step back. Tsonda stands there, swaying slightly, but on his own two feet. His chest heaves with each breath. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. His back is screaming at him with every movement.

But he’s standing.

Nick Stuart: Chandler Tsonda will not stay down!

The crowd is absolutely electric now, on their feet, roaring their approval.

LET’S GO TSON-DA! LET’S GO TSON-DA!

Tsonda takes a step forward. Then another. He walks to the center of the ring, his eyes locked on Farthington. The champion watches him, almost transfixed by what he’s witnessing. Tsonda reaches the center of the ring and stops.

He points down at the canvas with both hands.

Right there.

Right here.

Right now.

Richard Parker: What is Tsonda doing?

Nick Stuart: He’s telling Farthington to meet him in the center. No more running. No more games. He wants to settle this like warriors.

Farthington stares at Tsonda for a long moment. The champion’s expression is unreadable. Then, slowly, a smile creeps across his face. It’s not his usual smug smirk. It’s something else. Respect? Admiration? Perhaps even excitement.

Farthington walks to the center of the ring and stands across from Tsonda. The two men are face to face, both battered, both exhausted, both refusing to be the one who breaks.

For a moment, neither moves. The crowd holds its breath.

Then Tsonda fires a forearm.

CRACK!

Farthington’s head snaps to the side. He rolls his jaw, then fires one back.

CRACK!

Tsonda rocks backward but holds his ground. He fires another.

CRACK!

Farthington responds immediately.

CRACK!

The two begin trading forearms, back and forth, the pace quickening with each exchange.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

The crowd is losing their minds, cheering with each Tsonda strike and booing with each Farthington strike. The sound becomes a cacophony of noise.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: Listen to this place! This is what Colossus is all about!

Richard Parker: These two are trying to knock each other’s heads off!

Tsonda suddenly switches it up, firing a European uppercut instead of a forearm.

SMACK!

Farthington’s head snaps back. He staggers but immediately fires a palm strike to Tsonda’s jaw.

SLAP!

Tsonda’s head whips to the side. He spins with the momentum and nails a spinning back elbow.

CRACK!

Farthington stumbles backward. Tsonda rushes forward, but Farthington catches him with a jumping knee strike to the face.

BOOM!

Tsonda’s head snaps back, but he doesn’t go down. Instead, he fires a superkick that catches Farthington flush on the jaw.

CRACK!

Farthington’s legs buckle, but he stays upright. He fires a short-arm clothesline, but Tsonda ducks under it and catches Farthington with a Pelé kick.

SMACK!

Farthington drops to one knee. Tsonda rushes to the ropes, rebounds, and goes for a running knee strike, but Farthington pops up and nails a pop-up European uppercut.

CRACK!

Tsonda flips in mid-air from the impact and crashes to the canvas. But he immediately rolls through and springs back to his feet.

OHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Nick Stuart: The athleticism! The resilience! Both of these men are operating on pure adrenaline!

Richard Parker: This is insane! They’re moving at a pace I didn’t think either of them had left!

Farthington charges at Tsonda, but the challenger sidesteps and shoves Farthington into the ropes. Farthington rebounds, and Tsonda goes for a tilt-a-whirl, but Farthington counters mid-rotation, landing on his feet behind Tsonda. Farthington hooks Tsonda for a German suplex, but Tsonda backflips out of it, landing on his feet. His back screams in protest, but he fights through it.

Farthington spins around, and Tsonda leaps up, looking for a hurricanrana. Farthington catches him on his shoulders, looking for a powerbomb, but Tsonda shifts his weight and executes the hurricanrana anyway, sending Farthington flying across the ring.

WHIP!

Farthington rolls through and pops back up. Tsonda is already charging at him. Farthington drops down, and Tsonda leaps over him. Tsonda hits the ropes, rebounds, and Farthington leaps up for a leapfrog. Tsonda slides under him. Both men pop back up simultaneously and spin to face each other.

They’re in perfect sync.

The crowd ERUPTS.

THIS IS AWE-SOME! THIS IS AWE-SOME!

Nick Stuart: What are we watching right now?!

Richard Parker: I… I don’t even know how to call this!

Both men pause for just a second, breathing heavily, then charge at each other again. They meet in the center with a collar-and-elbow tie-up. Farthington transitions into a wrist lock. Tsonda rolls through, reversing the pressure. Farthington cartwheels out of it and hits a leg sweep, dropping Tsonda to the mat. Tsonda immediately kips up to his feet, wincing as his back protests the movement.

Tsonda charges, and Farthington goes for a hip toss. Tsonda blocks it and counters with a hip toss of his own, but Farthington flips through and lands on his feet. Farthington immediately fires a superkick, but Tsonda catches his foot. Farthington goes for an enziguri with his other leg, but Tsonda ducks under it. Farthington spins through the momentum and fires a back elbow, but Tsonda ducks that too and hooks Farthington from behind, looking for a German suplex.

Farthington blocks it, throwing back elbows to Tsonda’s head.

THUD! THUD! THUD!

Tsonda releases the hold and stumbles backward. Farthington spins around and charges, but Tsonda drops down and pulls the top rope down with him. Farthington goes flying over the top rope to the outside.

CRASH!

The crowd roars. Tsonda looks at the ropes, then out at Farthington, who is struggling to his feet on the outside. Tsonda’s eyes narrow. He knows what he has to do.

Nick Stuart: Don’t do it, Chandler! Your back can’t take it!

Richard Parker: He’s going to do it anyway!

Tsonda rushes to the opposite ropes, rebounds, and sprints across the ring. He leaps through the ropes, looking for a suicide dive, but Farthington catches him in mid-air and transitions it into a spinebuster on the floor!

CRASH!

OHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Nick Stuart: GOOD GOD! FARTHINGTON JUST SPINEBUSTERED TSONDA ON THE FLOOR!

Richard Parker: Tsonda’s back just met concrete! This could be it!

Both men lay on the floor, gasping for air. Nixon leans through the ropes, checking on both competitors, then begins his count.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Farthington stirs first, rolling onto his stomach. Tsonda remains motionless, his hand clutching at his lower back.

FOUR!

FIVE!

Farthington crawls toward the ring apron, using it to pull himself up. Tsonda’s face is contorted in agony as he tries to move.

SIX!

SEVEN!

Farthington rolls under the bottom rope and into the ring. Tsonda manages to get to his hands and knees, crawling toward the ring.

EIGHT!

Tsonda reaches the apron and grabs the bottom rope.

NINE!

Tsonda pulls himself under the bottom rope, rolling into the ring just as Nixon’s hand comes down for ten.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: He made it! Tsonda made it back in!

Richard Parker: But at what cost? Look at him, Nick!

Tsonda lays on the canvas, writhing in pain, his hand pressed against his lower back. Farthington, on his feet in the corner, watches him with a mixture of frustration and… something else. Is it admiration?

Farthington walks over to Tsonda and stands above him. For a moment, it looks like he might attack. But instead, Farthington extends his hand.

The crowd gasps.

OHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Nick Stuart: Is Farthington… is he offering to help Tsonda up?

Richard Parker: I don’t believe what I’m seeing.

Tsonda looks up at Farthington’s extended hand. His eyes narrow with suspicion. The crowd is buzzing, unsure of what to make of this moment.

Tsonda reaches up and grabs Farthington’s hand.

Farthington pulls Tsonda to his feet. The two men stand face to face in the center of the ring, Farthington still holding Tsonda’s hand.

Then Farthington pulls Tsonda in close and fires a short-arm clothesline that nearly decapitates him.

CRACK!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: Oh, come on! That was a ruse!

Richard Parker: And you’re surprised? This is Farthington we’re talking about!

Tsonda crashes to the mat, but Farthington doesn’t let go of his wrist. The champion drags Tsonda back to his feet and fires another short-arm clothesline.

CRACK!

Again, Farthington holds onto the wrist and drags Tsonda up. He fires a third short-arm clothesline, this one turning Tsonda inside out.

BOOM!

Farthington finally releases Tsonda’s wrist, and the challenger crumples to the canvas. The champion stands over him, breathing heavily, looking down at the broken body of Chandler Tsonda.

Richard Parker: Farthington just played Tsonda like a fiddle. Offered him respect, then destroyed him.

Nick Stuart: That may have been the final nail in the coffin. Tsonda gave everything he had in that exchange, and Farthington just used it against him.

Farthington bends down and grabs Tsonda by the hair, dragging him up one more time. Tsonda’s legs are jelly beneath him. His eyes are glassy. His body is broken.

But somehow, he’s still conscious.

Richard Parker: Farthington is looking to end this once and for all.

Nick Stuart: The question is: how?

Farthington looks around the arena, then down at Tsonda. The champion’s expression hardens. He knows exactly what he needs to do.

Farthington drags Tsonda to the center of the ring, the challenger barely able to stand on his own. The champion releases him and takes a step back, sizing him up. Then, instead of going for another big power move, Farthington does something unexpected.

He walks toward the corner.

Nick Stuart: Where’s Farthington going?

Richard Parker: I… I think he’s going to the top rope.

Nick Stuart: Farthington doesn’t go to the top rope. That’s not his style.

Farthington climbs to the top turnbuckle, his movements deliberate and careful. The crowd buzzes with confusion and anticipation. The champion steadies himself on the top rope, then looks down at Tsonda, who is struggling to stay upright in the center of the ring.

Richard Parker: Wait a minute. Is he going to…?

Nick Stuart: No. He can’t be.

Farthington turns his back to the ring, positioning himself perfectly. He looks over his shoulder at Tsonda one more time, then launches himself into the air. His body arcs high above the ring as he executes a perfect high-arc moonsault, his form flawless as he rotates through the air.

The Model Citizen.

Tsonda’s finish.

BOOM!

Farthington crashes across Tsonda’s chest, driving every ounce of his weight into the challenger. Both men collapse to the canvas from the impact.

OHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Nick Stuart: FARTHINGTON JUST HIT THE MODEL CITIZEN! HE JUST HIT TSONDA’S FINISH!

Richard Parker: This is the ultimate insult! Farthington is beating Tsonda with his own move!

Farthington, wincing from the impact himself, crawls over and drapes his arm across Tsonda’s chest. Nixon drops down for the count.

ONE!

…

…

…

…

…

TWO!

…

…

…

…

…

The crowd is on their feet, knowing this could be it.

…

…

THRE—

Tsonda’s shoulder shoots off the canvas!

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: TSONDA KICKED OUT! TSONDA KICKED OUT OF HIS OWN FINISH!

Richard Parker: WHAT?! HOW IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE?!

Nick Stuart: The heart! The spirit! The REFUSAL TO DIE!

Farthington rolls off Tsonda, sitting up with his hands on his head. He stares at Nixon in absolute disbelief, then looks down at Tsonda, who is barely moving but somehow, impossibly, still in this match. The champion’s face twists from shock to frustration to pure anger.

THIS IS AWE-SOME! THIS IS AWE-SOME!

Richard Parker: Farthington just hit the Vertebreaker. He just hit the Model Citizen. What else does he have to do?!

Nick Stuart: I don’t know, Richard, but Tsonda will not stay down!

Farthington rises to his feet, his chest heaving. He runs both hands through his hair, pacing in a small circle. The composed, calculated champion is gone. In his place is something more desperate. More dangerous.

Farthington bends down and grabs Tsonda by the hair, yanking him to his feet. Tsonda’s legs wobble beneath him, his body operating on pure instinct at this point. Farthington hooks Tsonda’s arm and whips him hard into the ropes. Tsonda rebounds, and Farthington goes for a pop-up powerbomb, looking to set up something big.

But as Tsonda is launched into the air, something clicks.

Muscle memory.

Survival instinct.

Tsonda shifts his weight in mid-air and wraps his legs around Farthington’s head, looking for a hurricanrana. Farthington tries to counter, maintaining his base, but Tsonda’s momentum is too much. Tsonda swings his body backward, but instead of completing the hurricanrana, he transitions mid-move, grabbing Farthington’s right arm and pulling it across his own body as he falls to the mat.

Farthington crashes face-first to the canvas, and Tsonda, using every last ounce of awareness he has left, immediately transitions, wrapping his legs around Farthington’s arm and extending it fully.

Article 51.

Farthington’s finish.

The cross armbreaker is locked in.

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Nick Stuart: ARTICLE 51! TSONDA HAS FARTHINGTON IN THE ARTICLE 51!

Richard Parker: NO! NOT LIKE THIS!

Nick Stuart: FARTHINGTON COULD TAP! THE CHAMPION COULD TAP OUT!

Tsonda arches his hips, pulling back on Farthington’s arm with everything he has left. His face is a mask of pain and determination, his entire body trembling with the effort. Farthington’s face contorts in agony, his free hand reaching out desperately.

The crowd is absolutely deafening.

TAP! TAP! TAP! TAP!

Nixon drops down in front of Farthington, checking the hold, asking if he submits.

Elvis Nixon: Talk to me, Cecilworth! Do you give up?!

Farthington shakes his head violently, his teeth gritted. His hand hovers above the canvas, trembling. The pain is written all over his face.

Nick Stuart: Farthington’s hand is shaking! He’s thinking about it!

Richard Parker: Don’t do it! Don’t tap! You’re the champion!

Tsonda pulls back harder, arching his hips as high as he can. His back screams in protest, but he doesn’t care. This is it. This is his moment. Farthington’s hand lowers toward the canvas.

Inch by inch.

The crowd senses it.

TAP! TAP! TAP! TAP!

Farthington’s palm is centimeters from the mat.

Then he stops.

His hand forms a fist.

Richard Parker: He’s fighting it!

Farthington begins to drag himself toward the ropes. His free arm claws at the canvas, pulling his body and Tsonda’s weight inch by agonizing inch. Tsonda tries to roll backward, to pull them away from the ropes, but his body won’t respond. His back is too damaged. He can only hold the submission and pray Farthington taps before he reaches the ropes.

Farthington drags himself forward. Six inches. Then another six inches. Tsonda pulls back harder on the arm, hyperextending it. Farthington lets out a scream of pain but doesn’t stop moving.

Nick Stuart: Farthington is crawling! He’s fighting through the pain!

Richard Parker: That’s eight months of being Universal Champion! That’s what separates him from everyone else!

Farthington reaches out with his free hand. His fingers are inches from the bottom rope. Tsonda gives one final, desperate pull, arching his entire body. Farthington’s scream echoes through the arena.

Farthington’s fingers wrap around the bottom rope.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: He made it! Farthington made it to the ropes!

Richard Parker: YES! The reign continues!

Nixon calls for the break, and Tsonda immediately releases the hold, rolling away and clutching at his back. Farthington pulls his arm close to his body, cradling it as he rolls under the bottom rope and to the floor. Both men are down, both men are in pain, both men are spent.

The crowd is on their feet, chanting.

THIS IS AWE-SOME! THIS IS AWE-SOME!

Nick Stuart: What a match! What an absolute WAR we are witnessing!

Richard Parker: Both men just survived each other’s finishers! Tsonda kicked out of his own move! Farthington escaped his own submission! How does this end?!

Nixon begins his count as both men lay motionless, Tsonda in the ring, Farthington on the floor.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Tsonda pushes himself up to his hands and knees, every movement clearly causing him pain. On the outside, Farthington uses the barricade to pull himself up, favoring his right arm.

FOUR!

FIVE!

Nick Stuart: Both of these men have been through hell and back. Their bodies are broken. Their spirits are tested. But neither will stay down.

Richard Parker: This is beyond championship pride now, Nick. This is about proving who is the better man.

SIX!

SEVEN!

Farthington rolls under the bottom rope and back into the ring. Tsonda is on his feet, barely, using the ropes for support. Both men lock eyes from across the ring.

Both men know this has to end soon.

One way or another.

Nick Stuart: We’re in the endgame now. The next big move could be the last.

Richard Parker: The question is: who’s got one more big move left in them?

Farthington shakes out his right arm, testing it. It’s clearly hurting, but it’s still functional. Tsonda’s hand goes to his back again, his face grimacing. Both men push off the ropes and begin moving toward the center of the ring.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Both men move toward the center of the ring, their bodies screaming at them to stop, their hearts refusing to listen. They meet in the middle, and for a moment, they simply stand there, two warriors who have given everything.

Farthington throws a weak right hand. Tsonda’s head barely moves. Tsonda fires one back. Farthington absorbs it. They trade a few more strikes, each one weaker than the last, until finally, Farthington goes for a clothesline. Tsonda ducks under it and catches Farthington from behind, lifting him up.

Back suplex position.

But Tsonda doesn’t complete the move. Instead, he holds Farthington in the air for a moment, then drops backward, driving Farthington’s head and neck into the canvas with a reverse DDT variation.

THUD!

Tsonda doesn’t stop. He crawls to the corner, each movement excruciating. He grabs the middle rope and uses it to pull himself up. His legs tremble beneath him. His back is on fire. But he keeps climbing.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda is going up top! He’s going for the Runway Vault!

Richard Parker: He can barely stand, Nick! How is he going to pull this off?!

Tsonda reaches the top turnbuckle and steadies himself. He looks down at Farthington, who is lying motionless in the center of the ring. Tsonda takes a deep breath, grimacing as his back protests every movement.

Then he leaps.

His body flips forward in a somersault, his arms reaching for Farthington’s head in mid-rotation. He executes the three-quarter facelock perfectly as he comes down, driving Farthington’s jaw into his shoulder.

BOOM!

The Runway Vault connects flush. Both men crash to the canvas. The crowd is on their feet.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: RUNWAY VAULT! TSONDA HIT THE RUNWAY VAULT!

Richard Parker: But can he capitalize?! He’s not moving!

Tsonda lays on his back, staring at the ceiling, his chest heaving. Farthington is face-down, motionless. Nixon checks on both men, then motions for Tsonda to make the cover. Slowly, agonizingly, Tsonda rolls over onto his stomach. He crawls toward Farthington, inch by inch, his body barely responding to his commands.

Finally, Tsonda drapes his arm across Farthington’s back. Nixon drops down.

ONE!

…

…

…

…

TWO!

…

…

…

…

The crowd holds its breath.

…

THRE—

Farthington’s shoulder comes up off the canvas.

OHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

But wait.

Tsonda’s face lights up. He pushes himself up to his knees, arms raised. The crowd erupts. They think it’s over.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: TSONDA DID IT! NEW CHAMPION!

Richard Parker: Wait, Nick! Look at Nixon!

Nixon is waving his arms, shaking his head. He’s pointing toward the ropes. Tsonda’s celebration stops. His arms lower. He looks at Nixon, confused.

Nixon points again.

Farthington’s left hand is resting on the bottom rope. Just barely. Two fingers draped across it.

Nick Stuart: Oh no…

Richard Parker: ROPE BREAK! FARTHINGTON GOT HIS HAND ON THE ROPE!

Nick Stuart: Nixon counted three, but he saw the rope break! The match continues!

Tsonda stares at Nixon in disbelief. He looks at Farthington’s hand on the rope, then back at Nixon. His face goes through a journey—confusion, realization, devastation. He had it. He had the title. And it slipped through his fingers.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The crowd is booing the rope break, but there’s also a collective groan of anguish. They felt it too. They thought it was over.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda was a finger’s width away from becoming Universal Champion.

Richard Parker: But that’s the thing about Farthington—even when he’s out cold, his instincts are working. That’s eight months of being champion. That’s ring awareness at its finest.

Tsonda runs his hands over his face. For a moment, it looks like he might break down. But then something hardens in his expression. He’s not done yet. He’s come too far.

Tsonda rises to his feet, using the ropes to pull himself up. He walks over to Farthington, who is still down, still barely moving. Tsonda bends down and grabs Farthington by the wrist, dragging him away from the ropes and toward the center of the ring.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda is going back to the well! He’s going up top again!

Richard Parker: His back can’t take another one! He can barely walk!

Tsonda limps to the corner. Each step is labored. He grabs the ropes and starts to climb, but his back seizes up. He stops, grimacing, his face contorted in pain. He takes a breath, then continues climbing. One foot on the bottom rope. Then the middle. Finally, the top.

He turns around, his back to the ring, and looks over his shoulder at Farthington.

The Model Citizen.

One more time.

Tsonda launches himself backward, his body arcing high into the air. The rotation is perfect. The form is flawless. He crashes across Farthington’s chest with every ounce of weight he has left.

BOOM!

The impact echoes through the arena. Both men lay motionless on the canvas.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: THE MODEL CITIZEN! TSONDA HIT THE MODEL CITIZEN!

Richard Parker: This has to be it! There’s no way Farthington kicks out of this!

Tsonda, barely conscious, drapes his arm across Farthington’s chest. Nixon drops down.

ONE!

…

…

…

…

…

TWO!

…

…

…

…

…

The crowd is screaming. This is it. This has to be it.

…

…

THREE!

DING DING DING

The bell rings. The crowd EXPLODES. Confetti begins to fall from the ceiling. Tsonda rolls off Farthington, his arms raised weakly in victory. Nixon reaches down to raise his hand.

But then Nixon stops.

He’s looking at Farthington’s foot.

It’s on the bottom rope.

Nick Stuart: Wait…

Nixon waves off the timekeeper. He’s shouting that the match isn’t over. The bell was premature. Farthington’s foot was on the rope at two and a half.

WHAT?!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME! FARTHINGTON’S FOOT WAS ON THE ROPE!

Richard Parker: I CAN’T BELIEVE IT!

Nick Stuart: Tsonda has to feel like the universe is against him right now!

Tsonda sits up, looking at Nixon with tears in his eyes. Not tears of sadness. Tears of frustration. Exhaustion. Disbelief. He had it. AGAIN. And AGAIN, it was taken away.

The crowd is chanting.

THIS IS BULL-SHIT! THIS IS BULL-SHIT!

But the rules are the rules. Nixon is explaining it to Tsonda, showing him Farthington’s foot on the rope. Tsonda nods slowly, understanding but devastated.

Nick Stuart: How much more does Tsonda have to do? He’s hit the Runway Vault. He’s hit the Model Citizen. Both times, Farthington has found a way to survive by the skin of his teeth.

Richard Parker: That’s what makes him the champion, Nick. That’s why he’s held that title for eight months. Ring awareness. Instinct. Survival.

Tsonda gets to his feet. His legs can barely hold him. His back is destroyed. His body is broken. But his spirit… his spirit is still there. Barely. Flickering like a candle in the wind. But there.

He walks over to Farthington, who is just now starting to stir. Tsonda bends down and grabs Farthington, pulling him up. Farthington is dead weight, his body barely responding. Tsonda gets him vertical, holding him upright.

Farthington’s eyes flutter open. He looks at Tsonda, and for a moment, there’s recognition. Understanding. Respect, even.

Then Farthington’s survival instinct kicks in.

He grabs Tsonda’s right arm and drops to the mat, pulling Tsonda down with him. Farthington scissor locks Tsonda’s arm between his legs and extends it fully, his hips arching upward.

Article 51.

The cross armbreaker is locked in.

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Nick Stuart: ARTICLE 51! FARTHINGTON LOCKED IN THE ARTICLE 51 OUT OF NOWHERE!

Richard Parker: DESPERATION! PURE DESPERATION!

Tsonda screams in pain. His free arm reaches out, clawing at the canvas. The ropes are right there. Ten feet away. Maybe less. But it might as well be a mile.

Farthington wrenches back on the arm, every muscle in his body straining. His face is a mask of pain and determination. His right arm, still damaged from earlier, shakes with the effort, but he doesn’t let go.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda is going for the ropes! He has to get there!

Tsonda digs his elbow into the mat and pulls. He moves six inches. Farthington adjusts, arching his hips higher, hyperextending the elbow joint. Tsonda’s scream echoes through the arena.

CRACK!

The sound is audible. Something in Tsonda’s arm just gave. Not broke. But gave.

Richard Parker: Oh God, did you hear that?!

Nick Stuart: Tsonda’s arm! Farthington could break his arm!

Tsonda pulls again. Another six inches. The ropes are closer now. Five feet. Four feet. His fingers stretch toward them.

Farthington wrenches back again, and this time, Tsonda’s scream is different. More desperate. More terrified. He can feel his elbow joint stretching beyond its limits. He can feel the tendons pulling. The ligaments straining.

One more wrench and something will snap.

He knows it.

Farthington knows it.

The crowd knows it.

LET’S GO TSON-DA! LET’S GO TSON-DA!

Tsonda pulls again. Three feet from the ropes now. So close. He reaches out with his free hand, his fingers grasping at air.

Farthington arches back with everything he has left.

Tsonda screams again.

And then…

He stops moving.

His hand hovers in the air, trembling, reaching for the ropes that are just out of reach.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda has stopped! He’s not moving toward the ropes anymore!

Nixon is in front of Tsonda’s face, checking on him.

Elvis Nixon: Chandler! Talk to me! Do you submit?!

Tsonda’s face is a portrait of agony. Physical pain. Emotional pain. His eyes are wide, tears streaming down his face. Not from the pain. From something else.

His mind races.

The ropes are right there. He could make it. Maybe. One more pull. One more desperate lunge. He could grab them and survive. Live to fight another day.

But at what cost?

Another wrench. Another scream. He can feel his elbow joint at its breaking point. One more pull from Farthington and it’s over. Not the match. His arm. Maybe his career.

Images flash through his mind.

His multiple Universal Title reigns. Standing on top of the wrestling world, the belt held high, the crowd chanting his name.

His Hall of Fame inductions. Multiple times. The respect. The legacy. The immortality.

Fifty years old and he made it back. He fought his way back from retirement. From obscurity. From being written off. He made it to the main event of Colossus. He proved he still belonged.

Isn’t that enough?

Isn’t that legacy enough?

But then…

Another image.

A little girl. Just days old. His niece. The new light of his life.

She’s waiting for him at home. One day, she’s going to want to watch this match with him. She’ll want to hear the stories. She’ll want Uncle Chandler to pick her up and spin her around like he always does.

Uncle Chandler with two working arms.

Uncle Chandler who can still hold her.

Uncle Chandler who can still be there for her.

The championship?

The glory?

The validation?

It all means nothing if he can’t be there for her.

Farthington wrenches back again. Tsonda’s scream is primal. Anguished.

His hand trembles in the air.

The ropes are right there.

But they’re a million miles away.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda’s hand is shaking! He’s thinking about it!

Richard Parker: He has to tap! He has to! Farthington is going to break his arm!

Tsonda closes his eyes. Tears stream down his face. His lips move, forming words that the cameras can’t hear.

I’m sorry.

I tried.

His hand drops to the canvas.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

DING DING DING

The bell rings.

The arena is silent for a split second. Then:

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

A mixture of boos and anguished cries from the crowd.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda tapped out. Chandler Tsonda has submitted.

There’s no triumph in Nick’s voice. Just sadness. Respect. Understanding.

Richard Parker: Farthington retains. Eight months and counting.

Even Richard is subdued. No gloating. No celebrating. Just facts.

Farthington releases the hold immediately and rolls away, clutching at his own right arm. He lays on his back, staring at the ceiling, his chest heaving. He’s too exhausted to celebrate. Too broken to gloat.

Nixon retrieves the Universal Championship belt and brings it to Farthington. The champion sits up slowly, taking the belt and holding it against his chest. He looks over at Tsonda, who is cradling his right arm, tears still streaming down his face.

Vince Howard: Your winner… and STILL! CHAMPION! CECILWORTH! FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARTHINGTOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON!

Nick Stuart: Chandler Tsonda gave everything he had. Multiple finishers. Survived the Vertebreaker. Kicked out of his own finish. He fought with every ounce of heart and spirit in his body. But in the end… in the end, he made a choice.

Richard Parker: He chose to live to fight another day. He chose to protect himself. Some might call it quitting. I call it smart.

Nick Stuart: I call it human, Richard. At fifty years old, Chandler Tsonda proved he still belongs on this stage. He proved he’s still one of the best in the world. But he also proved that there are things more important than championships. And there’s no shame in that.

Farthington slowly gets to his feet, the belt draped over his shoulder. He looks down at Tsonda, who is sitting up now, still clutching his arm. The champion extends his hand.

This time, it’s not a trick.

Tsonda looks up at Farthington. For a moment, he considers not taking it. But then he reaches up with his left hand, and Farthington pulls him to his feet.

The two men stand face to face. Farthington nods. Once. A sign of respect.

Tsonda nods back.

Then Farthington raises Tsonda’s left hand in the air.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

The crowd gives Tsonda a standing ovation. He doesn’t feel like a winner. But the crowd is telling him he is.

Nick Stuart: What a match. What an absolute war. Cecilworth Farthington retains the Universal Championship, but Chandler Tsonda… Chandler Tsonda won the respect of everyone in this building tonight.

Tsonda pulls his hand away and raises it himself, acknowledging the crowd. Tears still stream down his face, but now there’s something else there too. Pride. He gave everything. He left it all in the ring.

And he’s going home to his niece.

Farthington raises the Universal Championship high above his head as pyro explodes from the stage. Confetti falls. The Colossus theme plays.

But the cameras focus on Tsonda as he exits the ring. He walks up the ramp slowly, favoring his right arm, his back stiff. The crowd chants his name.

TSON-DA! TSON-DA! TSON-DA!

He stops at the top of the ramp and turns around one last time. He looks at the ring. At Farthington celebrating. At the Universal Championship he came so close to winning.

Then he looks at the crowd.

And he smiles.

A sad smile. But a smile nonetheless.

He taps his heart twice with his left hand, then points to the crowd.

Then he disappears through the curtain.

Nick Stuart: Ladies and gentlemen, Cecilworth Farthington is STILL your PRIME Universal Champion. But tonight, Chandler Tsonda reminded us all why he’s a Hall of Famer. Why he’s a legend. And why, even at fifty years old, he’s still one of the very best.

The camera cuts back to Farthington in the ring, standing on the second turnbuckle, the championship held high.

Richard Parker: Say what you want about Cecilworth Farthington—and believe me, I know plenty of people have plenty to say—but you cannot deny what we just witnessed. Eight months as Universal Champion. Eight months of defending that title against all comers. Eight months of proving, night after night, that he is the bar that everyone else is measured against.

Nick Stuart: Chandler Tsonda threw everything at him tonight. Finishers. Submissions. Heart. Spirit. Everything that makes someone a Hall of Famer. And Farthington survived it all.

Richard Parker: That’s what separates the good from the great, Nick. The great from the legendary. Cecilworth Farthington is the finish line that no one can cross. They get close—God knows Tsonda got close tonight—but when the moment comes, when everything is on the line, Farthington finds a way.

Nick Stuart: He’s defended that championship against the very best PRIME has to offer. And tonight, on the biggest stage of them all, he did it again.

Richard Parker: The question isn’t whether Cecilworth Farthington is a great Universal Champion anymore. The question is: who in PRIME can possibly dethrone him?

Farthington climbs down from the turnbuckle and moves to the center of the ring. He raises the Universal Championship one more time, his face a mixture of exhaustion and triumph. The confetti continues to fall around him.

Nick Stuart: For now, that question remains unanswered. But one thing is certain—if you want this title, you’re going to have to go through Cecilworth Farthington. And as we saw tonight, that might be an impossible task.

But the lasting image of Colossus isn’t just the champion celebrating.

It’s the duality.

The champion standing tall, undefeated, the unmovable object.

And the challenger walking away with his head held high, having proven he belongs but knowing when to choose what matters most.

Because sometimes, the greatest victory isn’t winning the title.

It’s knowing when to fight another day.

FADE.

TO.

BLACK.