ReVival 84

RECORDED EARLIER TODAY

It’s hours before the doors open to welcome PRIME’s third consecutive Mexico City crowd and talent has been rolling in steadily for some time now. With it being the go-home before the first PRIME PPV of the year, even the backstage area is buzzing in anticipation. Normally, these nights don’t go off without a bang and surely tonight will be no different.

A byproduct of that electricity is increased security. Seemingly the Enemigos have tripled in number over night (what count are we up to now?) and it seems like no matter where you look, there’s a masked security guard looking for the first sign of trouble. One Enemigo is stationed at the door of the building, admitting PRIME talent and verifying ID’s and backstage passes for any new faces. He’s in the middle of one of the aforementioned checks and was admitting access when…

“Eyyyyyyyyyy bruh – mind holding that open?”

Across the parking lot, PRIME’s defending Intense Champion is carefully zig zagging his way through a maze of parked cars.

Why carefully, you might ask?

Well, Bryan Dawkins is carrying a stack of a dozen pizzas.

One that is significantly obstructing his view.

Every step causes the tower of boxes to lean a little more like the one from Pisa. Upon seeing the Enemigo at the door his pace quickens, making the journey across the lot that much more dangerous for the pizzas.

After moments that feel like hours, Dawkins finally makes it to the Enemigo, who happily (and silently) holds the door open.

Bryan Dawkins: Thanks, bruh…

Dawkins offers his elbow to the member of PRIME’s security detail, who cocks their head in confusion.

Bryan Dawkins: Just give me the knucks, bruh. Appreciate it!

Dawkins thrusts his elbow again toward the Enemigo, who shrugs and throws a playful punch…one that nearly causes the tower of pizza to collapse in spectacular fashion. Dawkins, seemingly unphased by the event, continues on his way, shifting his weight quickly and jostling the boxes back in order.

Now that we’re inside, it’s worth noting that our Intense Champion is sporting a new accessory, a bright orange headband with “BRUH” emblazoned upon it in white and teal.

Subtle.

Bruh turns the corner, making his way down the corridor while noting room names and numbers. Finally, he finds his destination. He haphazardly shifts the stack of pizzas, not-so-carefully balancing them on his non dominant hand, using his right to open the door.

Bryan Dawkins: Bruhs – I figured I’d pick up some–

You know that scene in Community’s “The Darkest Timeline” episode? The one where Troy enters his apartment with a stack of pizzas only to find the apartment on fire and total chaos happening within his friend group?

Yeah, this is kind of like that…

Kerry Kuroyama: YOU SON OF A BITCH!!

Blood, sweat, and spit everywhere.

Dawkins is suddenly watching Don Frye vs. Takayama. Rob Williams and Kerry Kuroyama have a hand locked behind one another’s head and are unloading tomahawk missiles on each others’ dome pieces.

Rob Williams: FUCK YOU I’LL KILL YOU!

If you bothered to ask, neither would have a good explanation what ignited the fire – but it’s burning white hot.

It started over the team name. The fight, that is.

Kerry wants Channel 4 Action News Team.

Rob demands The Killing Floor.

FLAMBERGE never even looks up from his phone.

The exchange descends into guttural chants.

Rob Williams: KEEEL YOU!

Kerry Kuroyama: FUCKIN’ DIIIIEEE!!

Punching, gouging, and throttling, they hit the wall. Then the floor. Then a row of lockers. They fight like Kerry was a boy named Sue and Rob was the sonuvabitch who named him.

Kerry Kuroyama: I ALREADY PRINTED THE T-SHIRTS!! REPAY MY DEPOSIT, YOU FUCK!!

Rob horsecollars Kerry around the neck and turns him into his extended leg, hurling him like a boulder.

Still fixated on his phone, FLAMBERGE leans two inches to his left as Kuroyama flies by him.

Kerry hits the concrete, recovers instantly, and searches for the nearest heavy thing that isn’t nailed to the floor.

But the only thing he immediately sees is the tower of pizza boxes in Dawkins’ hands.

Kerry Kuroyama: STAY BACK!!

Kerry slips a hand into a box and rips out a slice, holding it up to the Five Star Champion like he’s about to stab him with it.

Kerry Kuroyama: IT HAS PINEAPPLE, ASSHOLE!!

The sight of The Emerald Apex holding a piece of Hawaiian pizza like a weapon gives Williams a moment of pause.

It starts as a low chuckle.

Soon it’s roaring laughter.

Rob tries to go back on the offensive, but it’s too much. He wipes the tears from his eyes and waves Kerry off.

Rob Williams: Goddamn, man – I’ll pay your stupid deposit. Be careful with that thing, though.

Meanwhile, Dawkins stands off to the side, one hand shoving a slice of pineapple-ey goodness into his mouth, his other hand planted on his hip like a scolding mother.

Bryan Dawkins: (struggling to speak with his mouth full) –the fuck is wrong with you bruhs?

He finishes chewing and continues.

Bryan Dawkins: Look, I don’t know what the hell possessed our geriatric leader to draft this team. Last time I was this close to Rob I’m pretty sure he cost me the Alias Championship.

He shoots a quick side eye to his team captain.

Bryan Dawkins: But against all odds, we’ve got the strongest team in this thing! I mean…look at the championships in this room. We’ve got a former Universal Champ, multiple 5 Star Champs, multiple Intense Champs. Tell me who else has that going on?

Rob Williams: …pretty much all of them, right?

Rob starts counting on his fingers, but Dawkins isn’t deterred.

Bryan Dawkins: Sure, other teams might have chemistry…or history together…or our dear CEO…but god damn, bruh. We got talent. We’ve got…

Kerry Kuroyama: Pizza?

The Emerald Apex nods to the stack of piping hot ‘zas.

Bryan Dawkins: …I mean, you’re not wrong there, KK. Oh! Yeah…so, you guys ever see that movie about the turtles and the ooze?

Kerry Kuroyama: …you mean the 1990 Steve Barron classic, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? Starring the voice acting talents of Mouth from the Goonies, Cousin Oliver from the Brady Bunch, and Toshiro from Revenge of the Nerds? No, never seen it. That movie is older than half the people in this room.

Rob Williams: (under his breath) Glad I’m not the only one bad at math.

Kerry raises his eyebrows at Rob, eliciting a hand raise and wave.

Bryan Dawkins: Well, we’re kinda like that, right? Before tonight, we were all just…normal guys. Wrestlers. Doing our thing. But now? Together? This team, it’s our ooze. I mean, we’ve got the disciplined one…

Dawkins gestures at Kerry.

Bryan Dawkins: …the intellectual…

FLAMBO.

Bryan Dawkins: …the angry one…

He points at the 5 Star Champ.

Bryan Dawkins: …and the fun one!

Dawkins flashes the shaka before housing another slice of Hawaiian pizza.

Kerry Kuroyama: Hang on, wait… you’re saying I’m Leonardo? What the hell?! He’s the boring one!

Rob Williams: No, because you’re the leader. Yes, you’re the fucking boring one.

Bryan Dawkins: On the upside, he has swords.

Kerry mulls over this added perspective.

Kerry Kuroyama: …okay, point.

Pulling up a chair, he rifles through the stack of pizza boxes until he singles out the one holding the buffalo chicken pie, and snags himself a slice.

Kerry Kuroyama: Let me say this here and now…

Chomp.

Kerry Kuroyama: I didn’t choose to be on this ass-backwards team.

He throws Williams a pointed glare as he chews.

Kerry Kuroyama: …but so long as it means getting one over on Farthington, I’ll do my due diligence.

He throws FLAMBERGE the side eye following the namedrop, looking for any kind of reaction.

Somewhat unsurprising, the lizard king remains unphased.

Rob Williams: Yo, earth to the lizard. Wake the fuck up.

FLAMBERGE: ….non.

FLAMBERGE continues to be non-reactive and disengaged from the entire process until he finally puts his phone back in his pocket. He scans the room, sees that several sets of eyes are upon him, and then he sees the stack of pizzas. He walks over to them, lifts the lid on one (spinach and artichoke, we think? Something green, something weird), closes it, and shoves it under his arm.

FLAMBERGE: …this is some bullshit half-shell heathen nonsense you have signed me up for, Williams. I am the most successful team wrestler in this room, which is why I am sure you picked me, and I do not plan on that reputation changing – but do not think this means I care if you shatter into the million pieces in this fight as long as we win. Kerry – Farthington, he is not yours. He is going to be the unpredictable after he and I cross swords for L’Uni. You should let me handle him. Dawkins –

He holds a finger up for the Pineapple Prince, who raises an eyebrow.

FLAMBERGE: Listen.

He freezes in place. After several seconds pass, he shakes his head and leaves, pizza in arm, without saying another word.

Bryan Dawkins: …what the hell? I had some serious questions for him. His language is fucked, bruhs. Calls pineapples bananas…without the B!

FLAMBO pokes his head back through the door frame.

FLAMBERGE: Ouais, c’est ananas, and by the way, yes, I will talk to Joe about getting us the matching bandanas. Orange, bleu, rouge, violet, ouais?

He points to Dawkins, Kuroyama, Williams, and then himself. He blinks twice, and leaves again, we presume for real this time.

Rob Williams:…the fuck did he say?

We’ve got siiiiiigns, they’re multiplyin’:

I HOPE THE LASAGNA BOYS GET SPLINTERS
DO NOT PUT SPLINTERS IN YOUR LASAGNA, BOYS.
WATCH OUT JACK, THIS GUY ONLY KNOWS HOW TO PUSH
CARRY ME HOME BJP
OOH WEE OOH I LOOK JUST LIKE DANNY CHRISTIE
WELCOME TO PALLET TOWN, I’M PROF. OAK
WELCOME TO PALLET TOWN! YOUR CHOICES IN STARTER POKEMON ARE WEEDLE, CATERPIE, OR A SIXTEEN CYLINDER UNALIVING MACHINE.
IF ROB WINS THE MATCH, DO WE ADD PROFESSOR OAK TO HIS EVER GROWING LIST OF NICKNAMES?
PEOPLE CALL HIM THE POKEMON PROFESSOR! PILEDRIVER
WHERE IS BIG JOHN PEPPER ON THE SCOVILLE SCALE
I FEEL ASSURED FLAMBO HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH STEVE HARRISON’S DISAPPEARANCE
#RIALIBRE
I’M JUST HERE FOR CEELORTH BARTHING

With that, we head to ringside where The Intruders are already standing by alongside Vince Young and referee Jimmy Turnbull, as we hear just enough of Disturbed’s “Unstoppable” to know that the team has theme music, but not enough for the ACE Network to get a cease and desist from the band.

Nick Stuart: We’ve got an electric crowd here at Arena Mexico, and it’s time to kick off the in-ring action on ReVival 84 as The Intruders take on Pop Culture Phenoms!

Richard Parker: The D and Elise Ares have their hands full tonight… or do The Intruders? Either way, a hell of a contest to kick off the show!

Vince Young: The following tag team bout is scheduled for one fall! Already in the ring, at a combined weight of 555 pounds, they are…THEEEEE INNNNNTRUUUUUUDERRRRRS!

Intruder #1 can be shouting at the front row of fans, with Intruder #2 smacking the turnbuckle something fierce to show how tough he is.

Vince Young: And their opponents…

Lots of pomp and pageantry await us as “Live for the Night” by Krewella plays. Fog machine, spotlights, paparazzi taking pictures as the trio enter. Klein is always happy and jubilant, watching The D and Elise focused on the poor PRIMEates NOT touching them as they walk to ringside before Klein inexplicably heads to the back.

Vince Young: Making their way to the ring, at a combined weight of 442 pounds, they are The D…Elise Ares…the POP CULLLLLTURRRRRE PHEEEEENOOOOOOOMS!

The pair enter the ring, but are blindsided by The Intruders! Turnbull does everything he can to defuse the situation, as the big men pummel Ares and D, finally getting Intruder #2 and The D to start things off as the bell rings!

DING DING

Recovering from the pre-match attack allows the Director to refocus as he charges at Twonier, catching the hoss by surprise with a shotgun dropkick that sends Dos crashing to the mat. D hits the rope for speed before landing a cross body on the rising Intruder followed by the cover… but the big man kicks out with authority!

He shouts as he gets back to his feet once more, this time charging at the Director…who changes the Intruder’s course toward the PCP corner instead, allowing D to make the tag to Ares before the hoss can get back into it.

Nick Stuart: PCP keeping The Intruders well off their game here.

Richard Parker: Not too surprising when you consider their usual tactics of intimidate and, well… intrude.

The Leading Lady unleashes a flurry of offense on the Second in Command before the Phenoms land a double dropkick, sending him out of the ring. The crowd are into it now, as we see Intruder the First charging to his compatriot’s aid… only for both men to take a double cross body by PCP!

Turnbull begins the count as all four competitors begin stirring, with Ares managing to slide into the ring first. The Second Intruder finally makes it to his feet to get back in the ring as well, but a corkscrew basement dropkick by the South Beach Starlet rocks him!

Nick Stuart: Intruder #2 just getting hammered here!

Richard Parker: Hitting the big ol’ nail right on its head there, Nick!

She pulls the big man onto his back for the cover, but Uno is right there to pull his teammate out of harm’s way. The pair slide into the ring to corner Ares, but she ducks a double clothesline before taking The First One to the corner with a headscissors!

She turns around, only to get leveled with a clothesline by Deuces. He yells at the Leading Lady as he starts pulling her toward the Intruder corner… but Elise fights him off just long enough to make a tag to The D while Number One (wapa-cha) tags in as well.

Nick Stuart: Was that you who made that noise, Richard?

Richard Parker: No clue what you’re talking about, partner.

D ducks a clothesline, hitting the ropes for speed not once but twice before catching the One of Two with a sling blade that brings him to the mat hard. One slowly gets back to his feet with a growl toward the Director, but is dropped back to the canvas with a planting DDT.

Number Two (wapa-cha) rushes into the ring to go after the Director, but is met with a wheel kick by Ares to cut him off. D brings Two back up for a double underhook DDT, dropping the hoss down hard before bringing him to the ropes.

Nick Stuart: Looks like D’s going for a trifecta here!

Richard Parker: That’s a big guy for him to be propping up on the turnbuckle but it could well be worth it!

Before he can complete the Triple D-DT, however, he gets shoved away by a riled-up One who helps his fellow Intruder. One goes after The D, kicking him in the gut as he looks for a powerbomb… but the Director counters out, landing a DDT that drives Uno’s head squarely onto the canvas.

D gets to his feet as he turns his attention back to Two, who comes running in for yet another clothesline. They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting a different result… and sure enough, that becomes true for the Intruder as he gets nothing but air!

Nick Stuart: Down goes Number Two! The D has a chance to ride this error all the way into a victory!

Richard Parker: Damn, Nick, I didn’t know you were freaky like that.

Ares returns to the apron just in time for the tag from D, and the Phenoms double-team the big man setting up for a double dropkick. Elise continues the attack as she hits the ropes for speed, landing a cross body on Two before walking over him yelling “¿Que Tal Eso?” to the crowd.

This gets the fans in Arena Mexico riled up, and they pop big for Ares as she goes to work on the hoss with a few holds. She eventually brings Two to the corner, setting up for a bulldog into a cutter over the middle rope! Cuban Necktie connects, and Ares goes for the cover.

ONE!

TW–NO!

Nick Stuart: Number One breaks the pinfall, saving the match for his team!

Richard Parker: Here comes The D to… hey, don’t stare at me like that, Nick.

All four competitors take to brawling, and the fight spills to the outside as One and D trade shots back and forth and even drop over the guardrail to find themselves amongst the crowd. Ares and Two, on the other hand, have landed on the opposite side with a thud against the raised entrance ramp.

Turnbull has reached a count of three by this point, but the pair pay no mind as Ares sends Two off the ramp. The crowd dissipates where he has landed, and Dos gets to his feet just in time for a leaping cross body off the ramp by the Leading Lady as the count reaches five!

Nick Stuart: Oh my! Ares and Number Two are in danger of this going to a double count-out!

Richard Parker: Aw HELL nah! No way for a match like this to end, Nick!

Ares slowly gets to her feet as the count reaches six, and is already nearly to the ring by the count of seven. Two is back up by this point as well, charging with intent to the ring just as the count reaches nine… only to run into a basement dropkick by the Havana Harlot just as the count is officially broken.

By this point, D and Uno have finally returned to ringside as the Director sends the hoss over the guardrail with a running forearm smash. This sends the Big Intrusive One down hard on the floor as D hops over the rail.

He runs around ringside to help bring Two back into the ring itself, but the Big Number Two rises to his feet with what one can only assume is a snarl underneath his mask. He sends the Director over the rope to the floor before going after Ares for a powerbomb… but it gets countered into the Rodeo Destroyer, sending him headfirst into the canvas!

Nick Stuart: Holy smokes, that could be it!

Richard Parker: Here comes Number One, though!

One is crawling toward the ring, using the apron to slowly get back up as he reaches for a tag… or maybe not, brother, because D runs over to land a DDT off the apron to send both men back to the floor! D manages to recover as Ares takes to the ropes, waiting for Two to get back up… and lands a nasty springboard Superman Punch!

Amethystation connects! Two is wobbly as all get out, and this gives PCP the opening they need as Elise goes for one more Superman Punch while D connects with a crescent kick! DRIVE-BY AT THE ROXY!

D heads to the ropes to keep One from interfering, while Ares makes the cover!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING

Vince Young: Here is your winner… POP CULTURE PHEEEENOOOOOMS!

Klein finally makes his presence known once more, joining the Phenoms in the ring to celebrate as Intruder One pulls his compatriot out of the ring, the pair retreating up the ramp as they shout incessantly about how they’ll live to Intrude another day. Hey, that sounds like a hit song by Madonna from a spy flick of some sort… but never mind all that, because we quickly cut away from ringside!

…Previously On……THE NEWS…

Max Kael: Well… here we are again.

The voice of Max Kael is heavy with self pity as he stands before a mirror somewhere in the bowels of the NEWS Stage.

Max Kael: Because of the actions of one pathetic, mulling piece of filthy I have once again lost my face.

Looking up we see in the reflection of the mirror that Max Kael’s face is, indeed, ruined once again. The plexiglass mask obscures the ruined upper section of his face, his green eyes gleaming from the shadowy holes.

Max Kael: I am once again… Maxked Kael.

The heavy frown on his face slowly curls into something cruel and obnoxious.

Maxked Kael: … but not for long. Heh-heh…

^_^

The NEWS opens with its usual loud, excited NEWS music, complete with sexy saxophone. The only difference is that instead of showing the various members of the NEWS TEAM, instead we’re showing the four members of the SQUAD GOALS team.

Tony Gamble.

Daytona Diamonds.

Maximillian Wilhelm Kael.

Captain Cancer Jiles.

And then Maximillian Wilhelm Kael, again.

The music slows and ends as we’re taken to the NEWS THRONE where Max Kael is seated, as per usual. His usual jovial mood is smothered by the mask he wears over the ruined face he earned himself for not taking care of Blaze Claymore for good. His hands lay folded in his lap, his legs crossed as he looks every bit like a Baroque style painting.

Max Kael: WORMS of PRIME, it is I, your most trusted NEWS ANCHOR on Television, Maximillian Wilhelm Kael! And I am here today with you on the most auspicious of days! Why do you ask? Because we are on the Go-Home Show and it’s the last chance for everyone whose going to be at Culture Shock to get their shit in order! For me that means I need to get with my Squad Goals team so that we can work out how, and why, we’re going to hear the legs off Brandon Youngdumbs stupid team! But for that… We’re going to need… THE WHEEL OF INTERVIEWS!

The gigantic, oversized fortune style wheel is brought out. The entire thing looks even more glitzy and over-bedazzled than it was before with various multi-color sequences and shiny panels glued haphazardly about it.

Max Kael: LETS SPIN THIS BIIIIITCH!

Revealing a large red button from his pocket, Max smashes it as the wheel begins to spin rapidly. The clickity clack of the wheel’s indicator rattles out over the stage as the smile on Max’s face stretches wider and wider. Finally the wheel slows and stops with the indicator pointed down at… TEAM TRUST.

Max Kael: Oh! It looks like my interview today will be with my SQUAD GOALS team! Who could have possibly guessed that?! At least it’s not Cancer Jiles…

Suddenly the lights on the WON ACTION NEWS STAGE flicker out. They’re off for a good five seconds before they snap back on. Seated on three other large NEWS THRONES appear to be the other members of his Squad Goals team.

Only they aren’t.

Upon closer examination one can tell it’s just Max Kael dressed up as them with some bad make-up and prosthetics glued in place.

Max Kael: TEAM TRUST! I am so happy you could make it!

Tony Kaemble: Thanks for having us!

Maytonax Diamonds: Calamity-Caloo, howdy-howdy! Tarnation!

Cancer Jiles by Max: Do you think Coral Avalon thinks about me?

Max Kael: Wonderful! Happy to see you all! Now let’s get down to it. Who do you think our most dangerous opponent is in this?

The Squad Goals team look around to each other before Tony Kaemble raises his hand. Cancer Jiles by Max is quick to answer for him when he’s called on.

Cancer Jiles by Max:  The Night One card is really putting a lot of pressure on this team so I’d like everyone to just focus on War G-er. I mean I want us all focused on Squad Goals. The real enemy is Night One, final answer.

Max Kael: Interesting. Maytonax Diamonds, you look like you have something to share.

Maytonax Diamonds: Jesse done got stung by a fuckin’ Black Widow and Disney won’t pay for the surgery. FLIPPER FANCY, HORNY-TOADS, I’m straight simmerin’ partner!

Max Kael: Of course, of course, we can’t rule Disney out as the real enemy in all this. Well this has been enlightening but I’ve got to move onto something else now. Thank you all for coming!

Once again Tony Kaemble is about to say something when he’s cut off by Cancer Jiles by Max.

Cancer Jiles by Max: Sex with Vickie Hall is a lot more of a chore than Squad Games is gonna be, thanks for having us!

The lights flicker and go out before they come back, all the other “members” of Squad Goals having vanished.

^_^

Max Kael: Wasn’t that fun? Well now move into the not so fun part of the NEWS broadcast for tonight. Now we must turn our attention to… Blaze Claymore.

Sitting up a bit more straight, the smile that once hung on Max’s face drops back down into a sullen scowl, the bright lights of the stage making Max’s mask look as though it were made of silver to match his teeth.

Max Kael: Blaze, you’re like a bad orphan, no matter how many times I keep throwing you away, you keep showing back up. I don’t know why you won’t just go the fuck away but I will say this. You’ve really gotten under my skin.

He points at his face, worried that people might not get his pun.

Max Kael: And for that you’re going to have to pay. Oh I’ve got a whooooole theme park of terrible things I’m waiting to do with you with my one two hands! God forbid I get my hands on any weapons cause then the catalogue opens waaaay the fuck up. So here is what I am going to do, dipshit.

Max stands, straightening his bowtie before he slowly descends the NEWS THRONE.

Max Kael: I’m going to finish up here and then go to catering. Not to eat the god awful Mexican food they serve there.

Distant booing.

Max Kael: No, I’ll be waiting there to conclude our business. By killing you. We’re in Mexico, we’re allowed to do shit like that down here. So be sure to find me there, won’t you? It’s the polite thing to do and I’ve done enough chasing you.

Reaching the bottom of the throne, Max’s sneering frown snaps back into his practiced chrome toothed grin.

Max Kael: Tonight you meet your destiny, Snark gets his silly book back and I get my beautiful face back. Then I can get back to doing what I should have been doing all this time wasted with you.

He winks at the screen, or perhaps just blinks both his eyes separately.

Max Kael: … Love.

We cut away on the unpleasant image of Max Kael leering toward the screen.

ReVival finds itself… well, it definitely does not find itself in Mexico, which is where the current show is happening, no instead it finds itself in a stately and grand room, a room that was perhaps designed for dining.

Yes, indeed, the show has found itself in the beautiful company of the Farthington Manor Dining Hall. A long oak table stretches beyond the lens potential of the camera, the audience cut out from the tips. Four chairs are set equidistant apart, and upon this grand table sits all the kinds of meats one may consume, beef, ham, turkey, grouse, pigeon and, for those feeling fancy, swan.

Just within camera shot, at each end of the grand table is a Lasagna Boy. The host of this fine feast is the first to step into the room and he looks and admires each of the boys who have found themselves in hovering closeness to fine dining.

Cecilworth Farthington: Ah! The Farthington Friends are here, such good boys.

Farthington scoops out a handful of grouse and begins to jam it into Toddrick’s very clear and distinctive belly button hole. He then looks towards Miguel, tries to best guess his meat preference before he starts to shove swan in the same belly button hole of their attire that Toddrick possesses. Farthington looks to both lads and winks.

Cecilworth Farthington: A lil something for later, you wonderful specimens.

He nods to both of their now meat full belly pouches in a “I did that for you” manner. Farthington takes his place at one of the middle four seats and pretends he has seen to camera for the first time, ahead of the candelabra that now sits affront his face.

Cecilworth Farthington: Oh, well, hello traveler! Well met! I think that’s what you’re supposed to say in these sort of situations. I bet Coral would know better, but he said he’d come out later whenever I’d finished whatever bullshit I was going to do before I introduced everyone.

Farthington takes a small beat.

Cecilworth Farthington: It’s a fair callout. I do love bullshit. Anyhoodle, I don’t know if you all heard but this year at Culture Shock there is something called Squad Goals and I’m in charge of a team and that’s different from that time at Culture Shock where I was in charge of War Games because there are less numbers to deal with and therefore it’s more manageable.

Farthington looks behind the camera to Hank who is holding up the piece of card, solemnly shaking his head. Behind Hank, Joe Fontaine is somehow in the room. We’re not sure how he snuck in here unnoticed, but he’s there. fabby is nowhere to be found. Thank God.

Cecilworth Farthington: Oh yeah, that’s the bit Dirk told me not to read out like ten different times. We really shouldn’t have written it down to start with when you think about it.

Hank gives an enthusiastic nod.

Cecilworth Farthington: Now, since the SQUID GOALS teams were announced people were like “hey Cecilworth, can you explain your team please” and no, I can’t. I mean me and Coral tagged before and we got along despite the atrocious things I said to his unborn child because we both love to grapples and then I tried to balance grapple with fight and added Danny Christie, and then I just yelled “Big John” and now here we are. But you don’t need to hear from me, you’ll hear from me later while a lizard tries to explain why he wants to betray me. Now, now is the time for THE SQUAD.

The camera pans three feet to the right to find Coral Avalon standing there. He is dressed in a blue waistcoat and he has an entire turkey leg in his hand.

Coral Avalon: …I’ve been here for a while, you know.

Had he? Well, he hadn’t been on camera up until now, so it’s hard to say. He does have a turkey leg though, and that’s important for the narrative of this wonderful banquet. My man likes turkey. That’s the text and the subtext. All of the texts, really.

Coral Avalon: You know, we never did have a conversation about all of those atrocious things you said about my unborn child, but to be fair, at least you didn’t say any of them to my other unborn child. Well, okay, she’s born now. They both are. So I guess it kinda cancels out now? The whole borning thing?

He pauses, looking around at what I’m sure is a lot of confused faces.

Coral Avalon: You know what? I don’t know where I was going with this.

He points off-camera.

Coral Avalon: Someone pass me the salt, maybe?

The host nods wisely

Cecilworth Farthington: Turkey need salt.

There’s a scratching at the dining hall door. A thud follows. Then a muffled voice.

Danny Christie: Behave.

Another scratch.

Danny Christie: Behave, I said.

The door swings open and Danny Christie storms in, dragging a tall lurcher along with him — his dad’s dog, currently in Danny’s care while Big John recovers from his recent health scare.

The dog, however, seems far more interested in the banquet than any of that.

Christie doesn’t greet anyone. Doesn’t even look at them. His destination is clearly the table.

The lurcher immediately tries to jump up at him.

Danny Christie: Get down.

It nearly catches him with a kiss.

Danny Christie: Down.

Christie pulls out a chair, sits, and finally glances around the room. The feast. The squad. The general weirdness of it all.

A small nod.

Danny Christie: Alright.

That seems to count as his introduction.

He grabs a fork, violently stabs a long sausage like he’s halfway through a slasher film, and immediately feeds it to the dog. The lurcher devours it.

Above the table, perched like a massive bird on a surprisingly sturdy chandelier, is Big John Pepper.

He laughs with a deep, booming glee whilst he swings to and fro.

Big John Pepper: Good DAY, Traveler! I’m Big John Pepper, and the man below me with the mysterious dog is my best friend Danny Christie. Fun fact about me? I punched Paul Bunyan in the jaw. And I share a name with Danny’s hospitalized father.

Cecilworth looks vaguely excited, talking to Coral as if he’s correcting Coral in an argument he was never part of.

Cecilworth Farthington: See Coral, I said Big John!

For his part, Coral plays along with this argument that he didn’t sign up for and might consider finding the unsubscribe button for.

Coral Avalon: That’s definitely a Large Jonathan if I’ve ever seen one. …That chandelier can hold his weight, right?

Cecilworth looks up.

Cecilworth Farthington: I’m pretty sure Hank tested it.

Coral Avalon: Oh, if Hank tested it, then it’s gotta be sturdy.

Folks, don’t let your Hank ride a chandelier as though it were a horsey.

Big John Pepper: It is sturdy. And comfy upon my derriere.

Cecilworth holds his hand up, as if he is whispering a secret to Coral in an olde tyme fashion.

Cecilworth Farthington: I paid for the derriere upgrade.

Coral Avalon: Oh.

He has no idea what this means.

Coral Avalon: Cool?

Big John Pepper sticks the landing on a hard 🤙.

Big John Pepper: Like ice cream.

🤙 🤙 🤙 🤙 🤙

Cecilworth stares at Big John.

Cecilworth Farthington: Yeah, it was definitely this one. Did you see that shit? That’s why you pay for upgrades!

He looks around the table, to his squad, to Hank, to Dirk, he suddenly notices Joe and fabby too. Of course most of this attention is taken by the lurcher’s fascinating sausage party, with the tongue lapping helping to cover up any awkward silences of this perfectly normal team.

Cecilworth Farthington: Yup, yup, exactly as was planned, exactly as it supposed to be.

Coral Avalon: I’m glad you have a plan. I was worried you were just winging it.

Farthington throws his hands up in a “c’mon buddy” way to Coral

Cecilworth Farthington: Coral! You know me… wait… yeah, no, I see why you said that now.

Another pause, another beat, another mental flip of justification in the mind of the Universal Champion.

Cecilworth Farthington: Look at this squad in terror, Mr. Robert Williams and Company. There’s even a dog! I bet you don’t have a dog eating sausages right now. Well, I have seen FLAMBERGE consume large quantities of raw meat, but I think that was a different thing. This team here, there lads, if we don’t even know what we’re doing, how are you supposed to? WE ARE DANGEROUS.

The camera slowly begins to fade to black with the entire dining party staring atanother sausage mauling in the corner.

Nick Stuart: Welcome back to ringside. Coming up next we have a match between two relative newcomers to PRIME. Danny Christie takes on Keith Castle!

A cello begins with a driving ostinato in lowered strings and carries the opening role of the gorgeous classic “Palladio”. Karl Jenkins’ famous string piece is transformed by Tempus Quartet, a Mexican fusion string ensemble, who provide their heavy rock inspired interpretation. The violins commence with one as the voice, the other as the engine, and an electric guitar for further depth. Percussion, notably absent from the original score, is a cinematic addition.

The crowd’s energy and focus is on the stage. The ring announcer’s powerful exclamation introduces the performing athlete to the affirming fan base. Keith Castle steadily enters the scene with an intense expression. The hood of his white sleeveless jacket creates a canopy over his piercing gaze. There’s nothing flashy about Castle’s advancement but he never averts his eyes from the ring.

Vince Howard: The following match is for one fall. Making his way to the ring, from Longmont, Colorado, weighing in at 225 pounds…KEITH! CAAASTLLLLLLLE!

He pauses at the landing of the ramp to methodically tighten the white tape around his wrists. Castle follows with a systematic slide under the ropes and a quick standing recovery. He removes the jacket to now be fight-ready in his white trunks and white boots. The finish to his entrance is a deliberately invariable bow to show respect to the adoring fans.

Vince Howard: And his opponent…

The living legend that is Neil Diamond, with his iconic song “Sweet Caroline”, begins. The fans pop simultaneously with loud cheers. This is preceded by equally rapturous singing of the lyrics. Once the song plays to its chorus, out steps the custodian of Neil’s classic song, “Fair Game” Danny Christie. Danny is closely followed by his father, “Big” John Christie, in a trainer/cornerman capacity. Danny remains loose and comfortable, demonstrated by shadowboxing. John remains steely focused. The fans increase the volume as they belt out the chorus, and Danny laps it up. The bare-knuckle king sings with the audience as he makes his way to the ring.

Vince Howard: Making his way to the ring, accompanied by “Big” John Christie…from Wrexham, North Wales…weighing in at 215 pounds…”FAIR GAME! DAAAANYYYY CHRIIIISTIIIIIIE!”

With his arms outstretched, Danny touches the fingertips of every enthused fan on his journey to the squared circle. Once both men get to the first ring post, John begins to take over—first by supplying Danny with a sip of water and then applying Vaseline to specific areas of Danny’s face. John takes up a position outside the ring, while Danny lightly bounces on the canvas, basking in the moment. Both men acknowledge each other, and Ashley Barlow calls for the bell.

DING DING!

Nick Stuart: And here we go! Danny Christie is coming off a tag win with Big John Pepper against the Masters of the Moscowverse. Meanwhile we haven’t seen Keith Castle since his convincing victory over Felix Mullen at ReVival 82.

Christie strikes first, reaching in and grabbing Castle, then transitioning him into a hammerlock. Castle reverses it, twisting out and applying his own. They move towards the ropes, and Ashley Barlow steps in to separate them as Castle’s leg gets caught up in the bottom rope. They reset, each sizing each other up.

Nick Stuart: They’re similar in many ways, these two young men. Both around the same size, both seem to be hard working young men.

Richard Parker: But only one of them is born in the future.

Nick Stuart: What?

Richard Parker: The PRIME website lists Castle’s birthday as October 2026.

Nick Stuart: Well that is clearly a mistake then.

Richard Parker: Or he’s clearly from the future.

The two men grapple again, and this time Keith Castle takes control. Castle brings Christie down in a side headlock. Christie immediately backs into the ropes, then launches Castle to the other side. Christie comes back and tries a clothesline, but Castle ducks. Then Christie goes to the other side, and when he comes back Castle is waiting for a back body drop.

Nick Stuart: Christie slips over Castle’s shoulder, then hits him with a huge chop!

The fans cheer as Castle takes a second to compose himself, then sends his own chop to Christie. Christie smiles and it looks like he says something like “oh, we’re doing this? Okay.” Then he sends his own, harder chop into Castle.

Nick Stuart: Looks like a take on the classic test of strength here, both men opening their chest up to see who chops the hardest.

Richard Parker: My money is on future boy. Who knows what kind of chopping technology they’ve invented.

Castle’s face is a grimace for one moment, but it’s clear the thrill of this has taken him as well. He grins, nods, then sends another huge chop. Christie backs off a few steps, nods, then sends a chop so vicious it causes Castle to drop to the ground.

Nick Stuart: Looks like Christie proved his strength!

Castle pops up but Christie is ready for him. Stunning him with two quick punches, Christie pushes Castle into the corner and uses his shoulder to drive into Castle’s body, causing him to slump down in the corner. Christie grabs his head, then gives him a few punches before running out in the middle of the ring and slamming him down in a running bulldog.

Nick Stuart: Big move by Danny Christie, and here’s the cover!

ONE!

TWO!

Ashley Barlow can’t get her hand down a third time before Castle kicks out. Christie nods, then grabs Castle’s head as he tries to lift him up. But before he can, Castle quickly swipes his arms up, breaking the hold and stunning Christie long enough for Castle to take Christie down with a spinning heel kick.

Nick Stuart: Excellent anticipation from Keith Castle!

Richard Parker: That’s because…

Nick Stuart: If you say it’s because he’s from the future I’m calling Doug Tim.

Richard Parker: Anyone but Doug!

Christie tries to pop right back up but Castle has the opening he needs. He picks Christie up, then drops him in a Michinoku driver and goes for a quick cover.

ONE!

TWO!

Nick Stuart: And now it’s Castle with the near fall! We’re off to a quick, fast-paced even affair here!

Richard Parker: We certainly are, partner!

Funny what a threat of shock collars can do to you.

Keith Castle didn’t necessarily expect that to do the trick, based on the way he quickly pops up and attempts to pull Christie up with him. His slight strength advantage over Fair Game allows him to move Christie into the corner, where he attacks him with punches and kicks. Slowing the pace down a little, Castle pulls Christie’s arms between the ropes to apply a rope-assisted armbar.

Ashley Barlow quickly intervenes, telling him he has to release the hold in five seconds or be eliminated. Castle smartly holds the arm for the full five seconds before letting go.

Nick Stuart: Impressive maneuvers from Keith Castle.

Grabbing the same arm he just barred, Castle throws Christie into the opposite side, following him with a clothesline in the corner. Then, he attempts to do the same thing. He gets Christie to the initial corner, then runs to the corner to splash him…and connects with turnbuckle pad.

Nick Stuart: Nobody home!

Richard Parker: He should’ve seen that coming!

Castle is stunned momentarily, turning around to rest in the turnbuckle. He gets no chance to rest, however, as Christie is determined to turn the momentum around. Christie unleashes a flurry of punches and kicks, then grabs Castle and, with an impressive show of strength, tosses Castle towards the middle of the ring with a gutwrench suplex. Without even leaving the ground, Christie crawls towards Castle and is on top of him with an old school ground-and-pound.

Nick Stuart: Christie is showing his amateur background, and it seems like he’s got the momentum, and the crowd behind him!

After a little more tussle on the mat, both men get to their feet, and Christie grabs Castle, putting his arm between his own legs.

Nick Stuart: He’s looking for a pump-handle piledriver!

Richard Parker: But future boy is slippery!

Indeed, Castle breaks out before Christie can apply maximum damage, and Castle turns around to deliver a back elbow that would break Christie’s jaw if it connects…but it doesn’t.

Nick Stuart: Christie ducks!

As Christie pops back up, he sticks out his left hand, coming up in an uppercut that connects straight on Castle’s chin, causing him to fall backwards.

Nick Stuart: LEFT HAND LARRY CONNECTS! CHRISTIE WITH THE COVER!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

DING DING DING!

Vince Howard: Your winner…”FAIR GAME! DANNY CHRIIIISSTIIIIE!”

Nick Stuart: Well, that was a quick and ferocious affair, but Danny Christie keeps his win streak going with a win over upstart Keith Castle!

The lights inside Arena Mexico dim crimson, which can mean only one thing as a low murmur ripples through the crowd and blaring bass and drums wreck their ears. The unmistakable opening of The Soviet National Anthem erupts through the laboring arena speakers.

The Mexico crowd reacts immediately.

BOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

Nick Stuart: Folks, like it or not, my run sheet tells me we have something from Ivan Stanislav’s Squad Goals team, and there’s not much we can do about it.

Richard Parker: This is the sound of history, Nick!! Just take it all in!

Nick Stuart: I’d much rather leave it, Richard.

The PRIMEtron flickers to life. Red banner. Gold star. Hammer and sickle. Meanwhile, standing on the stage, back straight, chin raised, is Alexei Ruslan. He stands rigidly at the top of the ramp like a parade marshal.

He waits. He soaks in the noise. The boos from the crowd. The jeers. The hatred. He smiles a thin, crooked smile barely visible beneath his bushy mustache. He raises his microphone.

Alexei Ruslan: Arena Mexico!!

BOOOO!!!!!!

Alexei Ruslan: In times of chaos, nations require leadership. In times of weakness, men require strength! And tonight, Ivan Stanislav unveils the banner under which victory itself shall march! A team forged not in friendship, but in purpose!

The crowd vents their frustration.

Alexei Ruslan: A team destined to bring discipline to the decadent circus that PRIME has become! A team—

Then, suddenly, from backstage, Scott Hunter burst through the curtain.

Nick Stuart: SCOTT HUNTER! HE’S ATTACKING RUSLAN!!!

The crowd is dismayed, as is Nick, when they realize they’re wrong. Scott Hunter doesn’t attack Ruslan. But he does duck down and scoops Alexei up onto his shoulders.

Alexei Ruslan: H..hey!!!

Hunter, with a wide grin on his face, charges down the ramp happily carrying a furious, red faced Ruslan, who kicks and flails wildly.

Alexei Ruslan: Put me down!! Put me down you cукин сын!!!

Hunter makes it to ringside, while the crowd cheers slightly. Perhaps hoping for an electric chair drop, or something suitably horrific for the most hated manager in PRIME. But instead, Hunter complies, putting Ruslan down gently next to the ring, fixing his hat, and adjusting his tie.

Ruslan fails again, batting away Hunter’s hands.

Alexei Ruslan: Don’t touch me!

Hunter nods, with a perplexed look on his face.

Alexei Ruslan: Get over there until you’re called!

Alexei points near the commentary table. Scott looks there, unsure, mouthing “there?”

Alexei Ruslan: Yes there!!

Scott makes his way to where Ruslan points and waits, looking thoroughly confused.

Alexei climbs into the ring, fury plastered on his face as he clears his throat.

Alexei Ruslan: As I was saying… tonight… ahem… the world witnesses the banner of discipline. The banner of strength! THE RED VANGUARD!!!

If Alexei expects cheers, he gets none, but he doesn’t care. In Russia, ever boo from a Western crowd is translate into praise, and in that sphere, he’s receiving uproarious applause.

Alexei Ruslan: I present to you the leader. The commander! Two-time Universal Champion! A man canonized in wrestling Halls of Fame! The most dominant wrestler of 2025! The Leader of The Red Army! The Russian Bear! IVAAAANNNN STAAAAANISLAVV!!

The anthem doesn’t stop. If anything, it seems to grow in strength as the living monument, Ivan Stanislav, emerges. He stands for a moment at the ramp, towering beneath the crimson glow of the PRIMEtron. He wears his crimson uniform, with medals glittering along the breast of his coat. He doesn’t react to the vitriol of the crowd. He wades through it, one lumbering step after another, until he steps up onto the apron and then up over the top rope like a child stepping into a sandbox.

Nick Stuart: Here he is, the leader of the anointed “Red Vanguard.”

Richard Parker: History is being written tonight, Nick!!

Ivan’s eyes cut to beside the commentary desk, where Scott Hunter waves. There’s a long pause, while Alexei proudly hands Ivan the microphone. The music fades. The boos grow louder. Ivan growls.

Ivan Stanislav: Mexico City. Scream if you wish. Jeer if you must. But tonight, I introduce my team for Squad Goals. The team that will destroy the decadent, filth-ridden rabble commanded by Tom Battaglia! For The Red Vanguard, secondary arm of The Red Army, stands together.

Ivan motions to the entryway.

Ivan Stanislav: Allow me to introduce my hand-picked team…

Ivan can barely contain a grin.

Ivan Stanislav: First… a Universal Champion of long ago, a Hall of Famer by convenience, a man who I nearly executed in a steel cage last year. The man who’s only win against me comes as a technicality…

Nick Stuart: Chandler Tsonda beat Ivan Stanislav fair and square in the Almasy last year!

Richard Parker: Yeah but Ivan did beat him at UltraViolence too!

Nick Stuart: Can’t Stanislav, for once, just admit defeat!?

Ivan Stanislav: I introduce to you, CHANDLER TSOOOONNNNDAAA!!

The Soviet National Anthem refuses to stop as all eyes move to the entryway, waiting for Chandler Tsonda to emerge.

Nick Stuart: Here come the fireworks.

The ACE Network’s greatest scourge is dead air. So you can almost hear the studio execs itching and squirming when there is no movement whatsoever from Argyle.

Richard Parker: My god, Ivan is so powerful he has made Tsonda INVISIBLE!

Ivan Stanislav: Ah, perhaps Chandler is feeling tad bashful about finally admitting the glorious supremacy of Soviet way and enlisting. We give him a moment to collect his thoughts.

Alexei Ruslan checks his watch and taps his foot, but The Russian Bear, to his credit, never sweats, though the next phrase comes out through gritted teeth.

Ivan Stanislav: Let us try again to summon our friend who is having little bout of stage fright. I introduce to you, CHA—

He doesn’t get a chance to finish.

I said “kiss me, you’re beautiful”

These are truly the last days

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Nick Stuart: It seems Tsonda is reporting for duty in the Red Vanguard after all, and listen to that ovation, Richard!

The first matter of course, for Tsonda, is the fans of Arena Mexico, who he poses for, nodding and saluting to the crowd. He offers not a speck of attention to the collective in the ring, and it’s possible that as the thunder of Coheed & Cambria’s “Welcome Home” rips through the PA system, the Model Citizen is taking his sweet time.

Richard Parker: He’s doing this on purpose to waste Praporschky Stanislav’s precious time! Mutiny!

Of note, the black-clad Tsonda already has a microphone. At the top of the ramp, he puts the mic to his mouth, and finally turns towards Ivan.

Chandler Tsonda: Sooooooo sorry, boss man. Got caught up in the penultimate episode of Heated Rivalry and the time just got away from me. Did you need something?

Though he’s not the only person making murder eyes at the Viet Viper, Alexei Ruslan is making the most murder eyes.

Chandler Tsonda: (looks around, feigning surprise) Oh, were we gonna do the Squad Goals summit right now? (cartoonishly slaps his forehead) Ugh, I’m totally screwing up your well-orchestrated plan, aren’t I? My baaaaaad. Here, I’ll come down there right now and stand right next to my good friend Alexei and we can catch up.

The last two words are delivered in a lightly threatening way. Tsonda begins making his way to the ring. One cannot see actual steam coming out of Ivan’s ears. Tsonda keeps his cool once he slides into the ring, leaning against one of the corners while facing Stanislav and Ruslan, who remain in the center. Ruslan slides behind Ivan to the opposite side, so Stanislav is between him and Viet Viper.

Ivan Stanislav: Next, I introduce to you, young up-and-comer in PRIME who will have rare opportunity to see what true leadership is about! BOBBY NEPTUNE!!!

The extraplantary hum of “Cosmic Road” hits and Bobby Netune steps out on the ramp, while the screen flashes behind him:

LOOK UP

Alexei immediately looks up, as if to expect a piano to fall. Ivan stands with his feet planted while Bobby spreads his arms to the side and looks heavenward to the stars. He gets a warm reception but the crowd feels tentative. Sure this guy seems chill, but we’ve only known him for two matches and haven’t totally made up our mind about him yet, and why did Ivan pick him anyway? That’s the vibe.

He makes his way into the ring and stands by the ropes, closer to Chandler, while the two “teammates” face the Russians.

Ivan’s expression sours as he cuts his eyes over to the announce desk, where Scott Hunter waits expectantly.

Ivan Stanislav: And… Scott Hunter…

Instead of his music playing, Scott somehow produces a microphone from behind his back and rapidly rolls into the ring under the bottom rope. He pops up right in front of a wide-eyed Alexei Ruslan and sings loudly at the top of his lungs.

Scott Hunter: IN THE BURNING HEART!! JUST ABOUT TO BURST!!! THERE’S A QUEST FOR ANSWERS AND UNQUENCHABLE THIRST!!!! IN THE DARKEST NIGHT!!! (Scott throws both arms in the air triumphantly, and Alexei cringes the cringiest of cringes) RIIIIISING LIKE A SPIIIIIIDER!!! IN THE BURNING HEART THE UNMISTAKABLE FIIIIIREEEE!!!!!!!!

Ivan Stanislav: (momentarily losing his composure) BE QUIET!!!!!

Ivan regains his composure immediately, but not without impulsively rubbing his forehead.

Scott stares at Ivan while also leaning toward Alexei and whispering.

Scott Hunter: He got angry.

Alexei shoos him away, and Scott whispers again.

Scott Hunter: He yelled.

Scott very slowly places the microphone on the mat, then foot-pushes it out of the ring. Standing back up, he raises a hand and “salutes” Ivan as a gesture of peace. Ivan uses all of his training not to reach out and pop Scott’s brains out of his head.

There they stand, Scott Hunter, Chandler Tsonda, and Bobby Neptune on one side of the ring, while Ivan Stanislav and Alexei Ruslan stand in the middle. There’s tension in the air, as the crowd actually begins to swell and build a slow crescendo.

Nick Stuart: This is sounding and looking less like a team coming together and more like the beginning of a handicap match!

Richard Parker: Handicap match?! It might look like three on two, but Ivan counts for at least four people. Not to mention… they’re all just… you know, getting used to one another. I remember when I went to this speed dating event one…

Nick Stuart: No one wants to hear about your speed dating past, Richard. Let’s just focus on the ring!

Ivan sneers at the crowd’s reaction. Ruslan points at Tsonda and motions for him to throw the microphone to him, but Chandler isn’t having any of it. Ivan motions towards the trio of do-gooders.

Ivan Stanislav: You know why I picked each of you for this match? This Squad Goals match?

Ivan strokes his chin with one hand thoughtfully.

Ivan Stanislav: It is quite simple. You see, Chandler, we have had our differences in past. We have had our matches. You have finished in pool of your own blood. I have sent you to hospital on a few occasions. And so on. I want to say I picked you because you are gifted. Talented. Truly a legend worthy of his station in PRIME. But, the truth is, Chandler, I just wanted to see look on your face when you learned you…

He points at Tsonda. The Model Citizen offers no reaction, other than to stare bullet holes through the Russian Bear.

Ivan Stanislav: …work for ME.

Alexei laughs while Stanislav points next to Scott Hunter.

Ivan Stanislav: And you, you vapid ignoramus. I could say I picked you because you have fighting heart. You are stubborn to fault. You are becoming true respectable wrestler here in PRIME.

Nick Stuart: I kind of think Ivan is sort-of complimenting them? But… not really.

Richard Parker: It’s a Russian thing. For every one compliment, you need to have two, or maybe three, insults, I think? I can’t remember the exact rule now.

Ivan Stanislav: But I simply wanted you to see what true leadership looked like. Not elitist babble from Lindsay Troy. And now you have to stand behind me, and watch me beat “The Queen” into oblivion. And help me do it!

Ivan turns to Neptune and bends forward slightly, lowering himself more to Neptune’s height.

Ivan Stanislav: And you? I picked you because you are new to PRIME, and many people have been saying not-very-nice-things about me and The Red Army, and I’m here to show you by example and set record straight.

Ivan straightens up and locks his spine.

Ivan Stanislav: So the three of you have a choice: get in line behind me and learn what true leadership is, and have your careers rise to an even higher level… or you can sit on the apron come our match and I will beat that whole rag-tag group of miscreants myself!

Ivan pauses for one moment.

Ivan Stanislav: Well? What do you have to say?

Chandler Tsonda, Scott Hunter, and Bobby Neptune all look at each other and non-verbally react to varying degrees. All three make eye contact, and Scott suddenly gets an “I got this” sort of look on his face. Stepping forward, he holds his hand out toward Ivan. Ivan looks down at him, his smug sense of superiority filling the ring. He holds the microphone out, and Scott takes it.

Scott Hunter: Thank you, Eye-van Stain-as-loaf, Ee-vawn Stahn-ya-slobble-snark, Oiven Stannyslurp….

Ivan’s teeth grind at maximum intensity. Scott gets the picture.

Scott Hunter: Sorry. Look, I would like to thank you for all the kind words. My new friends here and I have thought things over, and I think I can speak for all of us when I say…

Scott looks back at Chandler and Bobby, who nod in affirmation.

Scott Hunter: This could have been an email.

The crowd pops, laughing in a low roar while Ivan tries his best not to allow his right eyelid to twitch.

He fails.

Ivan Stanislav: Is there anything of use that any of you have to say?!

Tsonda pushes himself out of the corner, still holding his microphone, and he nods at the Russians, and then at Neptune and Hunter.

Chandler Tsonda: Fine.

The whole wrestling world looks at the Model Citizen, who never takes his eyes off Alexei Ruslan, despite the mess of talent assembled in the ring.

Chandler Tsonda: Fine, fine, fine. You want us to play along and get you your moment to do Dr. Evil monologues about why you chose this team? Fine. We all know none of us expected you to pick us, of all people, to be on your team. Maybe you did it to “stick” it to us. Maybe you did it for your ego. Maybe, deep down, you did it because you do actually step outside of the hallucinated unreality that Alexei has built for you, and you can see that, on pure talent, we all are the best group to go against The Anglo Luchador’s team.

Tsonda shrugs.

Nick Stuart: It sounds like Chandler Tsonda is doing his best to de-escalate the situation, at least.

Richard Parker: If they all just listened to Ivan, there’d be no escalation in the first place!

There’s a few boos from the crowd, who don’t seem to agree with Tsonda’s attempt at diplomacy. He raises his hand to try to plead with them to hear him out. Ivan smirks as his mood brightens.

Chandler Tsonda: You’re right, Bear. We went into the WARCHAMBER together, and you left me in a pool of blood. I got my pound of flesh, but you won. And then I have a fuzzy memory, so you’ll have to help an old guy recall, but I seem to remember Tsonda vs. Stanislav II didn’t exactly pan out the way you wanted. But I’m willing to put that aside. I’m willing to swallow my pride, to accept you as the leader and to…

Chandler suddenly shakes his head and smirks.

Chandler Tsonda: Sorry, even as a bit, I just can’t. (spitting with anger, pointing one finger at Alexei) Fuck you. (pointing at Ivan) Fuck you. (pointing at Bobby and Scott) Not sure about you guys, come back to me on that one. (pointing back to Ivan) And fuck you again, for a grand sum total of: fuck you.

RAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

Tsonda springs through the air at Ivan, crashing into him as Stanislav backpedals one step as the two legends start to brawl like mad in the middle of the ring.

Richard Parker: You were saying something about de-escalation?

Nick Stuart: Nevermind.

Scott Hunter and Bobby Neptune follow after Chandler, with Scott trying to pull Tsonda off of Stanislav, while Neptune and Ruslan struggle to contain the Russian Bear. The crowd goes nuts as the complete implosion of The Red Vanguard erupts before their eyes, with no sign of stopping in sight.

As we cut elsewhere, Stanislav chokes Tsonda, Tsonda pulls on Ivan’s beard, Hunter tries to pull Tsonda away, Neptune is on Ivan’s back, and Alexei is on his hands and knees picking up Ivan’s fallen medals.

“WELCOME MY LITTLE DEVILS!”

We suddenly cut to what should by now be a familiar change of camera feed, seeing the same thing that Satan Jones’ followers see every time he goes live.

Satan Jones: And you are LIVE! WITH! SATAN!

A funny thing happened as he said that. We could hear the crowd in attendance say the last three words in unison with the Foot Soldiers member. This idiot can’t be getting popular, can he?

Satan Jones: Welcome once again to gorgeous Mexico City, a city with rich culture, the birthplace of Ricky Martin and empanadas.

Neither of those things are remotely true.

Satan Jones: And tonight is a very special night. Tonight I will make my singles wrestling debut as I take on Jake Marley.

Kris Roswell (off camera): Jack Marley.

Satan Jones: Jack Mackey.

Kris Roswell (off camera): Jack Marley.

Satan Jones: Marley & Me. I’m very excited, as is my tag partner Kris Roswell. Say hi, Kris.

The camera quickly moves towards Kris, who isn’t in ring gear. He waves cheerily.

Satan Jones: But Kris isn’t the only person we have in the locker room, oh no! We also have fellow PRIME rookie sensation Bobby Neptune!

Bobby Neptune enters frame and stares directly into camera with those distant gray eyes of his.

Bobby Neptune: Greetings people of PRIME. Yes it is I, Bobby Neptune, live with your horned and hoofed, SATAN.

He turns to Satan with a smile.

Bobby Neptune: Do you mind if I ask what planet you come from? I haven’t encountered your species before.

Satan surveys his guest with an appraising look. There’s a lot in that look. Primarily it is a look of “wait a second, I’m supposed to be the weird one here.” But after a moment of this look, it goes away as Satan does his favorite thing: he plays in the space.

Satan Jones: I’m from planet —

Or he tries to before his tag partner intervenes.

Kris Roswell (off camera): Don’t say Uranus.

Satan looks off camera, affronted.

Satan Jones: Oh come on, I wasn’t going to say that!

Kris Roswell (off camera): Then what planet were you going to say?

He pauses for a second, then changes the subject entirely.

Satan Jones: So Bobby! You have the immense privilege of being our second guest on the show. Our first guest, RIA Lockhart, faced you at the last show. So I have to ask: how does it feel to be off to a hot start in PRIME, and did you find out what her shoes smelled like?

Old trusty reliable Satan.

Bobby Neptune: Ah yes, RIA was a worthy and fearsome opponent whom I beat by the skin of my teeth. If she is an example of what PRIME has to offer then I know I made the right decision crashing-I mean coming back to earth.

Now for that…other question.

Bobby Neptune: Now, um, As for her feet, I, uh, can’t say I received an accurate sense reading. Do you…smell all your opponent’s feet in the ring….how?

Satan Jones: If I can get my hands on them, absolutely! That’s a warning for you later tonight, Mabry!

Kris Roswell (off-camera): Marley.

Satan Jones: Now I am a keen interviewer, with skills of observation unparalleled. In fact if I didn’t have an 8 pack they would’ve fired Simon Tillier already. So don’t think I missed that comment you just made.

Bobby appears nervous — did Satan pick up his slip of the tongue?

Satan Jones: Do you honestly expect me to believe that teeth has skin?

Phew. Bobby smiles.

Bobby Neptune: I suppose it depends on your home planet. Which reminds me.

He straightens up and puts on his ‘official’ voice.

Bobby Neptune: A Public service announcement: Every day, people are being displaced from their home universes thanks to sudden tears in the multiverse. If you or a loved one has suffered from multidimensional displacement, please contact Kenny Freeman and tell him to knock it off.

Satan nods along as if he understood everything Bobby just said.

Satan Jones: Yes, of course, call Kenny Freeman. You know, I was in the ring with him a few weeks back. I didn’t experience any multivitamin displacement, or whatever you said, but I bet he experienced some displacement when Kris kicked his head clean off his body.

Kris Roswell (off camera): It’s still attached.

Satan Jones: By a thread.

Kris Roswell (off camera): By a neck.

Satan Jones: Anyway, Bobby, you find yourself on Ivan Stanislav’s Squad Goals team. So I have to ask, for the people at home who don’t know, what is Ivan like? Is he really an 8 foot Russian monstrosity sent to take away our American treasures  like pickleball and bagel bites?

Bobby Neptune: I haven’t spoken to him one on one, so I know not of his pickleball animosity. But as you just saw Ivan’s team has uh…differences and is…um…in the process of working through those uh…differences.

His smile is now strained. Satan, ever the observant interviewer, notices.

Satan Jones: Maybe Russians have skin on their teeth.

Or not.

Satan Jones: Well then. This has been a fantastic interview, but I have to get ready for my match with Jack Marley.

There’s a quick murmur off camera, as if Kris was ready to correct Satan for mispronouncing his opponent’s name before realizing that Satan did not actually mispronounce it.

Satan Jones: So my final question for you, Bobby, was the same I asked of RIA on the last show. What can we expect to see from Bobby Neptune, Space Cadet, in the coming months?

Bobby Neptune: You will see me rise, higher and higher until one day you look up at the stars and see that I’ve become one. Perhaps you will too, Mr. Jones.

Satan Jones: Hell yeah, Bobby. Hell yeah.

He holds a fist up for Bobby to bump. The Flying Object observes the hanging object cautiously, then slowly brings his fist up to bump it. As soon as they make contact, Satan brings his hand back, opening it before bringing it back in a closed fist against Bobby’s.

Satan Jones: All right, thanks for watching, my little devils. And tune in later for my match.

He pauses for a moment, then frowns.

Satan Jones: I need a signing off catchphrase. Let me test something out.

He furrows his brow, then leans into the phone.

Satan Jones: Welcome to hell.

Another pause.

Satan Jones: Wait. That should be an intro. God dammit!

And the feed suddenly cuts.

Backstage at Arena Mexico. We go to a locker room featuring a close-up of a man who considers this hallowed building somewhat of a shrine. A church.

RAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!

The Anglo Luchador.

TAL: Buenos noches, Ciudad de Mexico. I am the captain of the hardest and most violent Squad Goals team.

The camera pans out to show the Luchador flanked by two wrestlers. One is the firebrand (get it?) himself, the Lighthouse.

Blaze Claymore.

The other runs the show. The Lady of the Hour. The Queen.

Lindsay Troy.

And behind them, audibly talking on the phone, one can only assume is Sage Pontiff. You can’t be too sure of things these days, but the crowd both in the arena watching on the PRIMEView and at home can make out his beard and hear his distinct tone. Why he’s not in the forefront is anyone’s guess.

TAL: A few weeks ago, ACE Network came to me and said, “Towel, we’d like you to head up one of the Squad Goals teams for Culture Shock.” I was a bit skeptical at first, like one, why wasn’t Lindz the one telling me? And two, well, they didn’t really explain it too well from jump. But then they told me two things that made me jump at the opportunity.

The Luchador nods a bit before continuing. Sage carries on his phone conversation unabated.

TAL: First, they said I would be going up against a team headed by Ivan Stanislav. My old foe. Four-hundred pounds of Siberian potatoes and banned Soviet enhancements. This occurred before that sentient block of Siberian permafrost stole a win from me two weeks ago, but it didn’t matter.

The Luchador cackles a bit

TAL: I don’t need a reason to throw hands with that truckload of bear shit.

RAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!

Richard Parker: Such language! What if kids are watching?

Nick Stuart: Then I’m going to call Child Protective Services.

TAL: The second thing they told me was that the Queen didn’t break the news because, well, she was going to be competing in the match. I started to put two and two together. Me, taking on Team Ivan, and I have the chance to perhaps select the only person on this planet who hates him more than I do? A woman I saw tear through Empire Pro Wrestling under a mask because a bunch of sexist pigs didn’t think she belonged in the same ring as them? A wrestler who rose to the top of every company she signed a contract to? A friend I’ve known for over two decades?

A devilish rictus grin forms on his face.

TAL: You’re GODDAMN RIGHT I’m all in now. But who would I be taking into battle with me? You need grit. You need violence. You need…

The Luchador turns his head to look at Claymore, who lowers his trademark red shades and gives the ol’ Johnny Cage wink, thumbs up, and nod to his captain.

Blaze Claymore: Brutality.

TAL: I was gonna say “a wild card,” but that works too. And does that make me Scorpion? Where’s my spear?

The Luchador feels himself going off track, and an elbow to his ribs from Troy reiterates it, so he clears his throat and recomposes.

TAL: Anyway, who better to be that wild card than a man in Blaze Claymore who stood face to face with me in a bathroom? I may still think he’s a bit fucked in the head. I may not agree with all his tactics. But you don’t gotta like or agree with someone to know that they’re the spark you need to face a team like Ivan’s head on.

The Luchador turns behind him for a moment before continuing.

TAL: And even though he’s letting his chatty chakras dominate during a time when he should be promoting this match, I don’t even care. It doesn’t matter if his head’s in the game right now because we’re just puffing our chests out. When the time comes, and I need someone to carve a couple of pounds of flesh out of each and every member of that team across the ring from us? He may exist on a higher plane of consciousness, but he has no fuckin’ conscience. He might look like a hippie, but he will break your leg off at the hip and beat you to death with it. There’s no one I would trust more to leave another team in need of a blood bank more than Sage. Pontiff.

The Luchador laughs to himself.

TAL: But don’t take it from me. Let ‘em all tell you and the rest of the world while Team Ivan should be shaking in their fur-lined boots.

He nods to the crew, and while Blaze and LT both open their mouths and inhale to speak, they are overwhelmed by the conversational purple haze of the Bodhisattva, who strides forward–past them, then past TAL. He’s dressed in what could charitably be termed “farmhouse granola,” beaten Carhart overalls that have been patched with so many multicolored panels of fabric and festooned with so many sacred geometry and mushroom patches as to look entirely removed from their origins as humble workingman’s duds.

He’s shirtless underneath. Of course he is.

Sage Pontiff: Firstly, we acknowledge that there were numerous indigenous nations and tribes living on the land that is now known as Mexico City. Guamares, the Children of the Wind; Huastecos, The People of the Land; The Concheros. These nations and peoples stewarded this land for many generations, and we would like to thank them and pay respect to their elders, both past and present.

He nods, solemnly. The Luchador tries hard not to roll his eyes so much that his forehead starts twitching. You picked him, he thought, you live with the bullshit to get the violence. Lindsay Troy, unsure of the protocol around this kind of thing, bows her head momentarily while glaring at TAL from behind her curl-hidden eyes. Blaze seems genuinely moved by the proceedings, fully locked in and seeming to hold back tears.

Sage Pontiff: Secondly…I know, I know. None of this is very enlightened of me. But enlightenment can take forms and change a man, and sometimes–rarely, but sometimes–you spend too much time trying to put the shroud of importance on what you do that you start seeing nothing but forest.

He grins, and despite his collection of healing wounds, it still feels million dollar.

Sage Pontiff: Then you end up busting your nose cause you didn’t see the trees, right? So now I’m all trees. And that comes with acceptance, and acceptance is real powerful medicine. The medicine of acceptance led me to understand that I was living in the dark, that I was letting the world poison myself and the land I am now stewarding in corrosive ways. It also led me to understand two things: I enjoy fighting. I’m fucking good at it. I can’t speak to the spiritual health of these motley souls. Maybe they will find being near me a first step on a path of shedding worldly things for the common good. But I do know that I relish a challenge. And I especially like making those challenges bleed. So pull my string and see what kind of dervish you’ve got on your side, Cyclone Mackey Jr. But all the beautiful violence in my bones is gonna come at a price. And not the kind you can write a check for.

Blaze Claymore: Hey, TAL, I know we didn’t get off on the best foot – because that foot was slipping and sliding on a bloody, piss-stained bathroom floor – but I appreciate getting the second chance. That goes for you too, Ms. Troy; you didn’t have to let me into PRIME in the first place given everything that happened in SHOOT, but you did and while it’s taken me a bit to get back on my feet, I think this team is exactly where I need to be right now. And Sage… no hard feelings on my end about you handing me a loss to kick off my 2026. I look forward to the next time we can go toe-to-toe.

What’s with all the foot stuff? Someone check to see if Blaze has an OnlyFans. Nevermind. Don’t do that.

Blaze Claymore: I know we’ve got a tall order ahead of us, and not just because Ivan is as tall as he is wide, but you better believe I’m not about to let this team be one-and-done. Just like the Planeteers, we all bring our unique talents and, together, can defeat the forces looking to defeat Captain Ivan from polluting this tournament. With Sage’s love of the earth, my fiery spirit, TAL’s heart, and Lindsay’s…

LT raises an eyebrow, daring Blaze to continue.

Blaze Claymore: …what I’m saying is that all that matters is that we’re a team. A squad. A squad with goals. And in the end that’s all any of us ever really need to be winners in life.

Blaze flashes a thumbs up to the rest of the crew before slowly removing himself from being the center of attention.

Lindsay Troy: Yes, well, this has all been very moving and inspiring. You’ve put quite the team here together, old friend.

She claps TAL on the shoulder. Hard.

Lindsay Troy: After all, you don’t see me come out from behind the desk here in PRIME unless someone wants me to Grim Reaper their career into the grave.

LT looks at the camera and gives it a wink.

Lindsay Troy: Not looking too good for you boys. Except for Scott; we already had a little chit-chat.

Interspersing his lanky frame, Sage pulls from the side pocket of his overalls three envelopes, each held closed with a small Rat Fink sticker. One by one, he hands them to his team, nodding and smiling with each handoff as if they were declarative, decided. They all look for the explanation–Sage doesn’t provide one. Simply clasps his hands and bows. Taking the bait, TAL opens his, pulling out two things: a piece of paper with an address, and a plane ticket. His eyes look confused to both of the others, before he turns to the walking figure.

TAL: Jesus Tittyfucking Christ.

Sage Pontiff: See you all in three days. Bring layers, the temperature can get a little unpredictable this time of year.

We cut elsewhere.

Hey you.

Yes, you.

YOU!

You know what time it is?

Oh yeah you know.

It’s 5 Star Champion Rob Williams.

It’s The Lasagna Boys.

It’s a bunch of pallets.

It’s the biggest match in the history of PRIME.

Nay.

Not just PRIME.

Wrestling.

Not just pro wrestling.

ALL OF FUCKING WRESTLING!

Do you understand this?

Do you feel a cool chill going up your back?

That sloshing feeling at the bottom of your tummy?

The gurgling of your insides?

Expired gas station sushi being digested and giving you botulism doesn’t make you feel this level of unease for the events that are about to transpire.

Let me guess…you don’t know WHAT THE FUCK an Elevated Pallet Match is, do you? You, fool that you are, heard the stipulation, and without further elaboration, your imagination ran wild. Is it a pallet in the ring? Technically, there is elevation off the canvas. Is it an entire ring sized pallet? Is the pallet suspended above the ring? In the scaffold? How do you fit three people on a pallet in a wrestling match? How do you even win? What?

DING DING DING DING DING DING DING DING

All your answers…

Will be questioned!

Vince Howard: The following SPEEEEEEEEECIAL ATTRACTION bout is an ELLLLLLLEVATED! PAAAAAAAAAALLET! MAAAAAAAAAAATCH!

Arena Mexico has been witness to many historical bouts in professional wrestling. This crowd, however, cheers, not because of what they know, but for what may be possible. Because even they DO NOT KNOW WHAT AN ELEVATED PALLET MATCH IS!

Vince Howard: This match has NOOOOOOOO TIME LIMIT–

Oh, that’s good. We wouldn’t want a time limit draw in the pallet match.

Vince Howard: –and is set for–

Oh…oh you thought you were getting some rules? You thought you were finding out some of what is going on here? Oh yeah? Ha ha ha. No. No. No you don’t.

Why?

Key the ignition. The engine is revving up.

Oh, we got a beat.

It’s…a really bad beat.

No…seriously…this beat is bad.

It is poo poo shit.

It’s so bad.

Oh God, this BEAT is SO TRASH!

When I step in the place 

Throw your hands in the sky!

AHHHHHHHH!

Come on fucking guy!

These girls can’t have me and it makes them fucking cry

AHHHHHHHH!

Come on fucking guy!

On my way to court in a suit and a tie!

AHHHHHHHH!

Come on fucking guy!

My brother’s in the can and won’t get out ’til next July!

AHHHHHHHH!

Come on fucking guy!

Ah C’Mon by Chuggo blares through Arena Mexico. And the Mexico City fans? The locals from the neighborhood? They boo. They boo so much. Like a lot. And you would too. Why? Because they are being subjected to a LITERAL war crime to the ears. The boos only grow, though, when THEY arrive.

They?

The Lasagna Boys.

No. Not like you know them. Not like how anyone knows them. Tonight is THEIR night. Purple camo button up baseball jerseys and fatigues to match. Toddrick’s are cut up to Daisy Duke length so his leg braces have space to breathe. They also wear matching do-rags. Miguel is pushing a wheelbarrow. Toddrick is following behind, crip walking. Well, as best as he can. Which isn’t good. Like, not good at all.

The people are shit

That’s how I feel!

I’ll smash ya fucking head

That’s how I’m real!

Anything you need

That’s what I deal!

My stomach was empty

That’s why I steal!

Miguel stops right before the steps from the entrance of which they burst. He throws up an X. Tonight, they are here to kick Mother Fucking Ass.

Tonight…

They are…

The.

Lasagna.

Boyz.

I don’t trust nobody

That’s why I don’t blink!

Whatever gets me drunk

That’s what I drink!

I fuck all day

That’s why I stink!

Bitches love the blanco

All covered in ink!

A wheelbarrow and stairs…Miguel didn’t think this through. Does this shock anyone? Like, this…Lasagna…is so brain shitted that it doesn’t even matter. On with it. He pushes the wheelbarrow down the steps and follows with it, holding the handles. Each step causes what is inside to jostle and shoot up; a plethora, a virtual cornucopia of fast food bags. All the shit in this wheelbarrow clears, ya heard? YEEEEEEEEEEET! YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET! Toddrick follows behind, trying to maintain his crip walk, and damn near tripping over in the process.

The kids buy my shit

That’s how I get cash!

Bitches see them kids buyin’

That’s how I get ass!

I grew up inside a stripper

That’s why I’m trash!

Remy Martin in my glass

That’s how I’ve got class!

You probably noticed the high stacks of pallets on both ends of the elevated platform of the entrance, beside the stairs. You might also have noticed stacks of pallets underneath at the next level. You might also notice how inside the ring, there is a stack of pallets. Like just in the center of the ring. Like, dead center. Miguel keeps pushing the wheelbarrow and, when he gets to the ring ropes, he tips the contents all over the inside of the ring. Toddrick ‘climbs’ the nearby turnbuckle and grabs his nut sack and thrusts towards the fans filling this hallowed hall of wrestling.

Rappers got me angry

That’s why I’m pissed!

They’re all fucking garbage

That’s why they got dissed!

The girls come to see me

Because they can’t fuck!

You’ll never sell records

Because your rap sucks!

He then flops over and drops an elbow onto the fast food bags, causing a greasy mess of cold, disgusting, smuggled over the border maybe food that’s probably what Fred Dick threw to them in their old kennels, and Miguel is strutting about, rolling his shoulders, ready to throw down like he’s a bad ass who fights people because that’s a thing he does.

I heard your shit comeback

Saying my name with that gun chat

Your mom’s box smells like a muskrat

I’m a knockout

You’re a love tap

You wanna go against Chuggo? Yo, fuck that!

You wanna go against Chuggo, yo fuck that!

Toddrick is covered in Chicken Big Mac and Burger King Fish Sandwich and Wendy’s Chili, but he’s feeling fly, and immortal, and ready to do the business to Rob Williams, because that is what one does when they have a chance to face a man who left him for dead in the desert while covered in goat fur and piss.

I’ll put a sign on your back that says “I can’t rap”

And a bruise on your face that says “I can’t scrap”

The way bitches shut you down screams “I can’t mack”

You’re a filthy piece of shit and you ain’t got jack

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrft!

ENOUGH of THIS.

Guitar riff.

Layne Staley.

Man In The Box by Alice In Chains.

The 5 Star Champion has arrived!

The Lasagna Boyz stare towards the entrance, toward the stairs, ready to go, ready to fight, ready to beat ass. But Rob Williams is nowhere to be found. He isn’t coming out. Seconds move on. So much time spent.

Then.

The revving of an engine.

The honking of a horn.

I’m 

The man 

In the box!

Buuuuuuuuuuried 

In 

My shit!

From the loading side of the lower floor access, a forklift bursts forth and into the arena, loaded with a massive stack of pallets. The driver? Rob Williams, wearing a snake skin safety vest to match his snake skin boots, as well as a snake skin safety hat.

Woooooooon’t 

Yoooooooooooooou 

Cooooooooooooooome 

Aaaaaaaaaaaaand 

Save me?

The horn continues to be honked wildly as it goes down the main aisle,

Save me?

The 5 Star Champion rips ass down the aisle and nears the ringside area, all before stopping and revving the engine further. The Lasagna Boyz beckon him into the ring, Miguel grabbing bags of Chipotle, grabbing the guacamole and burrito bowls inside and throwing them at the forklift.

Feeeeeeeheeeeeeeeeeheeeeeeeeeheeed 

My eyes

Can you sew them shut?

Jesus Christ

Deny your maker

The Legend nearly rams the pallets into the ring, but stops just short. He then unbuckles himself, dropping from the seat, and rips the 5 Star Championship from his waist, throwing it up with both his arms. Wet hair. Ripped tatted arms. Grizzled and gnarly as fuck. Rob Williams looks like the guy at the end of the bar who will break a pool cue in half and use it to gut someone.

And then, he gets hit with burrito.

He who tries

Will be wasted

Feeeeeeeheeeeeeeeeeheeeeeeeeeheeed 

My eyes

Now you’ve sewn them shut

His head shoots in the direction of Miguel, who is chopping his crotch wildly and getting winded in the process. The 5 Star Champion deposits his title onto the seat as he reaches into the forklift cabin, and with a jerk, the pallets begin to rise all the way up. Once they are at their apex, The Legend rounds the back of the forklift, climbing up it, then over the top, only to hop onto the stack of pallets.

He checks the strap of his safety helmet.

Safety first, you know?

I’m the dog who gets beat

The Legend leaps forward, and in the process, dives into the ring, blasting the absolute unholy living FUCK out of both Toddrick and Miguel. Arena Mexico is going NUTS. Man In The Box is still going. The 5 Star Champion is up on his feet, throwing deuce middle fingers at Miguel, then at Toddrick.

DING DING

Williams rips the safety helmet off his head and spikes it right into Toddrick’s face. Then, he grabs hold of Miguel by the ankles, jerking him across the canvas, and with his legs spread, viciously begins stomping his nuts and his asshole.

Man In The Box is still playing.

Miguel is making bleeting noises as his genitals are crushed into horrible, shitty box wine. Toddrick tries to pick himself up, but Rob sees him, dropping the ankles of Miguel and yanking the smaller of The Lasagna Boyz by the neck, bieling him into the stack of pallets.

Miguel shudders and quivers in the ring as snot and drool pours from his facial orifices. There is lots of tears. He rolls onto his gut and his little feets kick against the canvas, and then Rob Williams lifts him off the canvas and headbutts him, causing the bigger Lasagna to collapse into the ropes, causing him to carom off them. On the rebound, The Legend grabs hold of him in a facelock, snapping him into the pallets with a suplex.

It doesn’t look good for Miguel. The stack of pallets cascades and scatters. Toddrick cries out as the avalanche buries him. The 5 Star Champion, though, presses on, grabbing Miguel by the ears, and slamming him face first into a nearby pallet. The board busts through.

Must be shit wood.

Man In The Box is still playing.

Toddrick begins to crawl away, but not before Williams charges toward him, using his heel to rub the poor Lasagna’s face in the greasy mess of fast food.

Rob Williams, for his part, leaves the ring, going back outside and to the forklift, grabbing his 5 Star Championship.

Hey, Rob?

WATCH OUT!

DIVE TO THE OUTSIDE!

The smack of Miguel against the floor is absolutely HIDEOUS.

It isn’t helped by Rob beginning to whip him across his back like a scalded dog.

Toddrick is crawling out of the ring, along the ramp. Away from this.

The Legend isn’t stomping Miguel’s nuts this time, just his ass cheeks and asshole.

Man In The Box is still playing.

The strap of the 5 Star Championship snaps through the air at the speed of sound, and as it strikes Miguel, he will, surely, learn his lessons. Miguel staggers in pain from the canvas, trying to scurry away from the absolute total beatdown he is suffering. Rob Williams just follows, snapping the 5 Star Championship at him, across his back, his shoulders.

Toddrick is climbing up the entrance steps, his legs splayed out helpless in their braces.

Each strike of leather is like lightning, and causes Miguel to yelp and cry out and run. Well, run as best as he can.

Toddrick is nearing the curtain.

Unfortunately for him, Miguel’s running away has caused him to try and run up those same steps, with Rob following. At the top? Miguel tries to beg off. This does not clear, bro.

This does not clear!

Rob Williams stomps him across the chest. Then, with a look at Toddrick, he rips him off the ground, yanking him up by the head and nards, gorilla pressing him above his head.

He then launches him from the entrance platform…

Into the stack of pallets below.

Of which he crashes through.

He gets splinters.

And gets cut up by nails.

Is this the worst thing that can happen?

No.

Because Rob Williams, for some crazy reason, has a standing headscissor on Miguel. He is near the edge of the other side of the entrance platform.

Oh.

Oh no.

He…

He…

Drops…

And….

PILEDRIVES

MIGUEL

THROUGH

A

STACK OF PALLETS.

Man In The Box is still playing.

DING DING DING

Whatever THIS is…it’s over. Replays show the crushing blow. Miguel, going head first, through a stack of like ten fuggin pallets. And Rob Williams? He climbs out of the wreckage, covered in splinters, and breathes out saw dust like he’s a goddamn dragon.

Vince Howard: YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUR WINNNNNNER! ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOB! WILLIAMS!

It’s only after this announcement that Man In The Box stops.

Give us a moment.

We got to collect some bodies.

The Lasagna Boyz just got Reverse New Jack’ed

ReVival moves on.

Oh Jeez.

This is probably the last place our Heaven Sent Weederific Hero Jack Marley should be hanging out but here we are.

It’s bright.

People are walking in and out.

Jack is foaming at the mouth as he watches the food simmer in catering.

Yea, catering, that is where the greatest Clownfish to ever clown a fish is hanging out with his trusty pupil Jimmy Lawson.

Jack Marley: Everyone is talking about squad goals this and squad goals that.

He scoffs as his mouth begins to water at all the grub.

Jack Marley: They should be talking about Jack Marley this, and Steve Harrison that.

Jimmy nods along with Jack.

Jack Marley: I am literally putting my life on the line tonight for this company when I fight against Satan and does anyone care?

Jimmy Lawson: Yes?

Jack shoots Jimmy a look.

Jack Marley: NO! I shouldn’t be surprised though, mon. Steve always warned me that this place was full of the most self-absorbed wrestlers in the industry.  Are you writing that down?

Jimmy puts his hands up to show he has nothing to write with.

Jack Marley: You do everything else on your phone, use that!

Jimmy Lawson: Speaking aloud as he types on his phone ‘you do everything else on your phone, use that!’ GOT IT!

OUCH MY HEAD HURT NOW.

Jack Marley: I’m not even complaining about having to get ready in the Janitors closet even if the Janitor took a few more pictures, then he promised…

Silence.

Jimmy Lawson: Uh…should I write that down too?

Jack ignores the question.

Jack Marley: …As I was saying, I can overlook that because I get to spend all my time in catering which, let’s be honest, is like my home away from home. I can live with all of that, but the disrespect my obvious wrestling skills are being shown is disappointing to me. Nobody here even cares about Steve disappearing, and I bet all the weed loosely bouncing inside my jeans that Clay Byrd and those people in Vae Victis celebrated him being gone.

Jimmy Lawson: Whoa–Whoa, that is a lot to lose.

The Weed Fiend nods his head as he watches a plate of Swedish meatballs walk by him.

Jack Marley: That’s the point, Jimmy. Some people are just so bitter and broken they can’t get over anything or apologize for being a dick. It is ok though because I don’t need anybodies thanks for fighting against the evils of Satan tonight. I will knee him back to hell and we will party all niiiiiight long.

Jimmy Lawson: We gonna get lit!

Jimmy pauses and looks behind Jack and then points.

Jimmy Lawson: Um…there is something behind you.

Jack slowly turns around and that something is the great and knowledgeable fabby. He holds a hotdog out to Jack and nods for him to take it.

Jack Marley: Yoooo, what’s up fabbylicous! Is that for me?

fabby nods. Jack grabs the hotdog and smiles and then hands it to Jimmy.

Jack Marley: You a real one for this, fabby. I knew someone as respectful as you wouldn’t forget. JImmy is going to hold on to this and I am gonna crush it after my huuuuuge match.

Jack pats fabby on the shoulder which fabby looks completely surprised by. He shrinks a bit thinking Jack was going to hit him. When nothing happens he looks back at Jack confused as to what just happened. Jack being Jack doesn’t even notice and continues.

Jack Marley: You are also a hell of a security guard for those awards, mon. The Glue is lucky to have such a loyal man working for them.

fabby stares at Jack for several uncomfortable seconds, the only types of seconds that fabby is capable of. He then turns and walks out of frame. If you listen closely, you can distinctly hear the sounds of off-key fart horns as he leaves.

Jack Marley: Uh…see ya later, brotato!

Jimmy Lawson: Dad is texting me because I haven’t been answering his calls.

Jack waves him off.

Jack Marley: Tell him I am fighting for The Miracle Man tonight and he should take some notes!

Jimmy looks horrified by that suggestion and shakes his head.

Jimmy Lawson: Are you kidding?

Jack grunts at Jimmy. A serious look comes to Jack’s weathered by the THC face.

Jack Marley: Look, kid, I don’t need to hear someone my own age talking to me like I am a child. You can go run off and do his bidding but I am taking care of business tonight like only the Ganja God can.

Jimmy walks away with his head down and Jack starts flexing for some reason. He obviously forgets what happens each time he does that but tonight is different as nobody is around to point out how small they are. He points to the camera.

Jack Marley: Whatcha gonna do Satan when Ganja Gods wrath rains down upon YOU!

The scene cuts as it heads to a land of pineapples and facism, yay, why won’t anybody think of the children?

The camera crew finds itself wandering the backstage area, as one does on nights like this, looking for action or anything that PRIME’s viewership might find interesting. They round the corner and find themselves at PRIME’s proverbial watering hole.

Catering.

It’s where all the cool kids hang out. At least that’s what I’m told.

Tonight, the spread is immaculate – PRIME really went all out with procuring the best local cuisine that Mexico City can offer. I hope this place has a good plumbing system…

Anyway!

We find our current Intense Champion, Bryan Dawkins, sitting by his lonesome at a table. You’d think with the aforementioned spread, Dawkins would be feasting on a number of Mexican delicacies.

But you’d be wrong.

Instead, he’s picking at the remains of one of the Hawaiian pizzas from the teambuilding effort with his Squad Goals team earlier in the night. That pizza’s got to be…three, maybe four hours old?

Gross.

The Intense Title sits on the table at his side, Dawkins’ only companion tonight. His squad has disbanded for now; Williams has his title defense later in the night and the other two members are likely off with Vae Victus and those Glue Bois.

Unfortunately for Dawkins, he’s not alone for long.

“Well well well…”

A deep, unmistakably Russian-flavored voice rumbles from behind Dawkins, followed by a higher-pitched, but no less Ruskie voice.

“What do we have here, Starshy Praporshchik?”

Ivan Stanislav and Alexei Ruslan don’t often slink out of their locker room into catering. It’s not just because they’re two of the most reviled members of the PRIME roster, but also they don’t trust food that isn’t properly screened and tested first. But something, or rather someone, has brought them out of their hole.

Stanislav still wears his crimson uniform, while Ruslan is in his ever-present brown overcoat. The two flank Dawkins from behind, with Stanislav casting a long shadow over the Intense Champion. Stanislav muses sarcastically.

Ivan Stanislav: Imagine this. Bryan Dawkins. Resident backstabber. Sitting alone, untrusted by anyone. Ruslan parrots Ivan.

Alexei Ruslan: Imagine this indeed!

Dawkins shoves the last bite of a pizza crust into his mouth before rolling his eyes and crossing his arms defiantly. He lolls his head back and forth in jest.

Bryan Dawkins: Ooh, wait, I know this one! Who are “two assholes who have nothing better to do than slink around the backstage area looking to impose the will of the…”

Air quotes.

Bryan Dawkins: “…Motherland.”

He turns in the chair, feigning shock and awe.

Bryan Dawkins: Damn, I’m good at this game. Honestly, I’m surprised you announced yourself this time, Alexei. You’re the one with the lengthy history of backstabbing around here.

Ruslan wrinkles his nose while Ivan towers over the seated Dawkins.

Ivan Stanislav: You know, Bryan, all insults aside, I wished to congratulate you. Very well played.

Dawkins cocks an eyebrow at the Russian Bear. Compliments don’t come often from the behemoth and when they do, they usually aren’t sincere.

Bryan Dawkins: You can say a lot of things about me, Ivan…but me not being a smart bruh isn’t one of them. I mean, I did align myself with your cause at one time. But you’re gonna have to be more specific.

Ivan crosses his arms over his barrel chest while Ruslan slides slightly around the table, inching towards Dawkins’ blind spot.

Ivan Stanislav: Well… I heard you practically begged Rob Williams to recruit you into his Squad Goals team. Not because you wished to compete… but you were too yellow to risk having Night One match against Starshy Praporshchik Stanislav. And here I was, ready to give you that honor. Well done.

Dawkins locks eyes with his former leader, only breaking his stare to do a quick glance to his side to avoid a repeat of what happened on ReVival 81. That assault might’ve been a month and a half ago, but the limp in Dawkins’ gait is a daily reminder of what Ruslan is capable of.

And then…he laughs. Not a Stanislavian ‘DYAHAHAHA’ but as much of a bellow that the Hawaiian can muster. After a few moments, during which Ivan and Alexei share a glance that was heavy with both confusion and frustration, Bryan composes himself.

Bryan Dawkins: Bruh…that’s rich. Not sure I need to remind you, but it’s not like I’ve got a line of people at my door begging to help me. The fact that you were able to pick at my carcass for nearly ten minutes a few weeks ago without so much as a faint stop, stop, he’s already dead! from the rest of the PRIME roster should tell you that.

The Intense Champion stands, the small circular table the only thing between he, Ivan, and Alexei.

Bryan Dawkins: And you can say what you want about Rob Williams…lord knows I have…but bruh is a winner. And he’s surrounded himself with them. Our captain is the current 5 Star Champion. FLAMBO’s a former and future Universal Champion. Kerry, the bruh who held the 5 Star title for a long time. And yours truly, the reigning Intense Champion and owner of the longest current win streak in all of PRIME…

Dawkins picks up the aforementioned championship and slings it over his shoulder.

Bryan Dawkins: I know this concept is foreign to your ancient ass these days. I mean…what’d that last Universal reign last. Two weeks? At your advanced age, I’m sure you have a hard time remembering what being a champion feels like.

He cracks a slight grin. Ivan smirks as he looks over at Alexei.

Ivan Stanislav: If I had a kopek for every time some young upstart made joke about my age, Alexei, I would be wealthy man.

Ruslan shakes his head and chuckles to himself, but says nothing. He draws his eyes back to Dawkins, his expression exceptionally bored.

Ivan Stanislav: Well, if you feel so confident then, Dawkins, I can assume you have actually found your yaichki and I will plan to beat you into oblivion on Night One, yes?

Bryan Dawkins: Ooh boy, more empty promises from the (really, REALLY bad Russian accent) Rrrrrrrussian Bear! I’m sure that this match would be totally fair and Red Army free, right? Hard pass, bruh. I’m focused on something I thought you’d understand; teamwork, the pursuit of the greater good with my team. Then again, if I know anything, Ivan is all about Ivan and no one else. Not even your half-wit accomplice over here.

He gestures at Ruslan, whose mustache juuuuust begins to twitch. Probably a precursor to him pulling out a weapon of mass destruction from that overcoat.

Ivan grunts once, arms still across his chest.

Ivan Stanislav: As I expected…

Alexei actually turns to the camera, looking straight into the lens.

Alexei Ruslan: Do you see that, Nico? Your father is a coward.

The second that Nico’s name escapes Alexei’s lips, the table is shoved violently into Alexei’s midsection, pinning him against the wall.

Bryan Dawkins: You keep my son’s name out of your fucking mouth before I send you to hang out with dear Fanya…

He turns to Ivan, all the while maintaining pressure on the table and keeping Alexei from making an escape.

Bryan Dawkins: You hear that? Keep my family out of this. If I was a coward, I’d be running. This look like running to you, comrade?

Ruslan gnashes his teeth and oofs, trying to push at the table, but it’s useless while Dawkins keeps the pressure on. Ivan sighs, reaches with one hand to Alexei’s side of the table, and he shoves it, slowly and purposefully, back against Dawkins, creating space for Alexei to breathe. Stanislav’s words are, for the first time, measured and focused.

Ivan Stanislav: That sounds like courage to me, Dawkins. So… you will have match with me? Night One? You can work out all this frustration you have on The Russian Bear? Hm?

Dawkins relinquishes his grip on the table, especially after seeing the ease with which Ivan’s strength counteracted his. He instead grips his title.

Bryan Dawkins: Fine…but he better keep his mustache out of this or else I’ll keep my promise. He’ll end up in the ground.

Alexei dusts himself off and slides closer to Ivan. Stanislav shoves the table off to the side. It careens with a screech across the floor, hits another table, and breaks in half. The Bear moves right up into Dawkins’ bubble, his chest to his face.

Ivan Stanislav: Deal. And if you are so confident. It will be for that.

The Russian Bear points down at the gold draped over Dawkins’ shoulder. Bryan sighs.

Bryan Dawkins: Bruh…we’ve been through this. What have you done to deserve a shot at this? PRIME needs a champion it can be proud of…not an interim one.

Ivan smirks down at Dawkins.

Ivan Stanislav: So you are afraid to lose that piece of metal that somehow makes you relevant?

Bryan Dawkins: I was relevant the second I left your shitty “Ivan Stanislav support group”.

Ivan chuckles to himself.

Ivan Stanislav: You have done good job for yourself, that is true, Bryan. After all, you won title from part-time nepotism champion Mr. Wade Troy. Then defended against a cracked Max Kael. Followed by an “absolutely-deserving” Sage Pontiff.

Ivan taps his huge finger on the gold of the belt.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Ivan Stanislav: You believe this belt proves something? But have you really, really, had a chance to prove anything? Perhaps we know truth. You know that moment you face something real in the ring… your little streak ends. The first time you have opportunity to face Ivan Stanislav? It all comes crumbling down. And your relevance, not just to PRIME, but as a man, crumbles with it.

Ivan leans closer. Voice lower.

Ivan Stanislav: When you reach upper echelon, Dawkins, you have to think bigger. You must ask yourself very simple question. Do you want to remain champion, or do you want to feel comfortable.

He taps the belt again.

Tick.

Ivan Stanislav: Because champions defend this. Cowards protect it. What are you, Bryan Dawkins?

Dawkins ponders for a moment in silence, letting Ivan’s words seep into him like poison.

Bryan Dawkins: You already know what I am…and that should scare the shit out of you. You’re on, bruh. But you’re gonna have to pry this title out of my cold, dead hands.

Ivan’s lips curl slowly into a smile. Not a laugh. Just a smile.

Ivan Stanislav: Ah. That is the hope, Bryan.

Ivan pats Dawkins once on the shoulder, almost paternal.

Ivan Stanislav: I look forward to proving you correct.

The Russian Bear turns, Alexei falling behind him as they begin to leave. Ruslan mutters acid at Dawkins.

Alexei Ruslan: I could have pushed that table…

The duo pass the massive spread of Mexican cuisine PRIME has laid out. Tacos. Carnitas. Enchiladas. Bowls of salsa. Ivan walks past them without a glance.

Then, he stops.

One tray sits awkwardly among the rest of the spread. Plain. Unremarkable.

Boiled potatoes.

The Bear studies the contents with grave seriousness, as if checking for poisons. Then, after a slow nod of approval, he picks up the entire tray meant for the roster. Alexei clears his throat.

Alexei Ruslan: Ivan, that is the entire tray.

Ivan continues walking, uncaring of the searing heat and steam at his hand and side, holding the tray like a football.

Ivan Stanislav: Yes.

The two Russians (and tray of boiled potatoes) disappear through the door without another word, leaving Dawkins to his thoughts.

SMASH CUT TO CATERING.

Pacing like a caged animal, facing the Arena Mexico hallway, is an impatient looking Maxked Kael. The mayor of Arkham’s eyes, framed by the new plexiglass covering, dart back and forth – looking for something. Or someone.

Suddenly, we hear footsteps echoing down the hall. As they get closer, an eager Kael leaps out from his hiding spot and goes to throw a punch. Suddenly, he pulls back, seeing the shocked face of an HVAC repairman, who immediately drops his plate of delicious looking chimichangas.

Meat, sour cream, and beans plop against the floor as the shocked service worker holds up his hands and shakes his head.

Max Kael: Oooo Fiddlesticks!

Just as Max shoves the man away, somehow being the one who’s offended, he sees a white blur passing by.

Max Kael: … Who’s been snortin’ that Columbian Marching powder?? Huh?!

We turn to see a confused-looking Blaze Claymore already several feet past the scene, turn around, look down at the HVAC staffer patiently trying to scoop up a changa that has been thoroughly chimied and then greet Max with a smile.

Blaze Claymore: Oh. No thanks… I don’t do drugs and I’m pretty full. Plus, we’re in Mexico, not Columbia. Just… for reference.

With a nod, Blaze turns and continues to walk away as Max stares, visibly confused. He looks at the camera and winks. Or actually, one eye blinks just slightly out of order with the other one. His attention returns to Blaze, slightly slack jawed, a finger pointing in Claymore’s direction.

Max Kael: HEY! You’re not supposed to be over there!

Blaze stops again, lowering his head and sighing before slowly walking back towards the catering services and up to Max with hands on his hips.

Max Kael: You’ve got to stand over here, this is the designated murder zone, where I might perish you.

Blaze Claymore: Wait… ohhh shit. Are you still upset about the whole trying to burn down your studio? Aw, hell. Look, it was just a goof – a little kiddin’. I didn’t want to risk Snark’s sidekick getting in my way again.

Kael wrinkles his nose, leaning down at Blaze, getting uncomfortably close.

Max Kael: Listen here you little shit. You’ve been an irritating little side quest but now you’ve gone and graduated to a main quest problem. So I’m afraid we’re gonna have to break my brother’s ex’s lil’rule about not killing people on live TV, shucks!

Shrugging apologetically, you’d almost think Max was being sincere about his feelings before lips pull back into a hungry, metal toothed snarl.

Blaze Claymore: Ugh. You could stand to brush and kill some of that T-1000-level gingivitis first.

The Lighthouse steps backwards and creates some distance between himself and the Black Heart of PRIME.

Blaze Claymore: Besides… shouldn’t Snark be here for something like that?

Max Kael: Shouldn’t Sonja be here guilting you into something like this?

Blaze’s gaze narrows, betraying the smirk on his face.

Blaze Claymore: Nice try, Max. But I know what your book did to her. What it did to all of them. I’m ending it. I’m the one who is going to save Sonja from what you did to her. But that would be the royal ‘you’ in this case since I know you’ve never done a damned thing on your own without Snark pulling the strings. Who exactly is managing who in that relationship, Max?

Waving his hand above his head, Max dismisses Claymore’s words.

Max Kael: Save that harpy hearted harlot? HA! She’s not the one who needs saving but I guess you’ll get to figure that out on your own. So here is what’s about to happen. I’m going to kill you and take back that stupid book. Snark is going to return my beautiful face and your life is gonna end in a puddle here in Mexico. Then I can forget all that rubbish about only being able to destroy the book by winning it in a contest.. Or something. It’s not important. Now hold still so I can twist your head off, please and thank you.

Blaze holds up a hand.

Blaze Claymore: Sure. But first… what was that about destroying the book by winning it in a contest?

Max’s hands are rising to strangle Blaze but they stop when Claymore mentions the book stipulation. His brow drops as his eyes narrow, little black pupils glaring down at the man in front of him. The mask distorts the flesh enough to keep it pg but there is definitely a lot of mangled skin shuffling around.

Max Kael: I don’t know, it sounded like Leperchaun bullshit to me. The book’s ownership could only be transferred by winning it in a contest or something. Personally I’d just embed it in a rock and only the smartest book professor could yank it free. Because Max is pathetic he looks to Blaze for some kind of acknowledgement of the brilliance of his idea.

Blaze Claymore: Smartest book professor you say…

He looks down, seemingly defeated, and pauses for dramatic effect.

Blaze Claymore: I can’t claim to know much about books, but you seem to know a lot. I suppose that’s why Snark trusts you. And, I’d just feel real, real awful if you killed me here, next to the catering room, without any guarantee that you’d be able to get the book back. I mean… officially. Because of the Leprechaun rules I mean. What do you think we should do?

Kael takes a step back, eyeing Clay up and down while scratching his chin.

Max Kael: You make a good point, you don’t seem to have the book on you. Killing you, while appealing on a visceral level, it doesn’t get me any closer to that damned book. But you do know where the book is, right?

Blaze Claymore (deadpan): Oh, of course! Why didn’t I think of that!?

Max blinks way too hard. And too much.

Blaze Claymore: I… yes. It’s safe. But I have no intention of letting you – or Snark – ever have it back. Not without a fight.

Oh, that’s easy! That’s the simple jolt that jumps between the few remaining brain cells in Max Kael’s head. You can see it spread across his face. His fists ball up as he looks fully prepared to throw down, right then and there.

Blaze quickly holds up his hand again and sighs, shaking his head.

Blaze Claymore: No, no, no. Not like this Max. Not like this. It’s so… easy.

Max Kael: Yeah? And?

Blaze Claymore: Don’t you want to … show the world? Show Snark? Show… Cecilworth, how ruthless, intelligent, and reliable you can be on PRIME’s biggest stage? At Culture Shock?

Though it’s difficult to see what’s going on under that messy plexiglass mask, Max’s eyes dart back and forth as though he’s in deep consideration over what Blaze had just said. His tongue darts out over his dry lips, nodding to himself.

Max Kael: Yeah… yeah. A double booking! Something thoughtful. Something appropriate. Something that sends a message! I’ll kill you, live on PPV, get Snark’s stupid book back, get my beautiful face back and be one step closer to achieving love’s truest goal! Of course I’ll need to make sure you don’t do anything Blaze Claymore-y so let’s say we just make this between you and me. No Interference.

Max’s hand creeps forward, a dangerous grin stretching across his face.

Did Max just play himself?

Is he this stupid?

Why is he smiling?

Because we all know why Blaze is smiling.

We watch as the Lighthouse locks eyes with the nearby camera that has been recording this entire exchange and lifts his eyebrows, as if to say “everyone heard that right?”, before turning to accept Max’s handshake – and terms.

Blaze Claymore: You win, you get Snark’s book back. I win, the book is destroyed. I’m so glad we could find a solution that will make sure you get everything that’s coming to you.

Max Kael: Yes, well I-

Blaze Claymore: Oh! And speaking of things coming to you, I do believe Mr. Snark Darkly is approaching quickly with a rather sour look on his… uh… face. I’ll give you both some privacy.

Before Max can respond, Blaze scoots his way off camera and down the hallway as the lights filling the hallway around the catering room go out.

Snark’s darkness surrounds Max well before his arrival, the shadows bending in toward Max as though they were spider-webs being pulled taunt by his struggles.

Then he’s there.

A crescent moon hanging downward off his face, dozens of teeth puckering out of his current manifestation of what he passes off as a mouth. He’s unhappy and it’s clear he’s unhappy at Max specifically.

Snark Darkly: What did you just do?

Max Kael:  Uh…

Kael looks either way, as if judging for potential escape exits. Finding nothing, he shrugs apologetically before lifting his hands up into the air.

Max Kael: DOUBLE BOOKING!

Returning to the commentary booth we see Richard Parker putting bags over his feet while Nick Stuart staring at him in confusion.

Nick Stuart: What the hell are you doing, Parker?

Richard Parker: Don’t worry about it, Stuart, I just heard something about the next guy.

Nick Stuart: Heard things like what?

Richard Parker: Don’t worry about it, Nick, just, lets do our jobs and call the match, okay?Parker finishes bagging up his feet as Nick shakes off the weirdness of it all, turning toward the camera.

Nick Stuart: Up next we have a big debut match for TWO new names here in PRIME with Satan Jones facing off against Jack Marley!

We cut to a shot of the local Mexico City faithful cheering on the show.

Suddenly “Let ‘Em Know” by T.I. begins to play. Satan Jones makes his way out onto the lower stage of the Arena Mexico entrance ramp. His hand is held out ahead of him with his phone on, live streaming his entrance for ReVival 84.

Vince Howard: The following contest is for ONE fall. Introducing first… From Kansas City, Kansas, weighing in tonight at two-hundred-forty pounds… SAAAAAAAATAAAAAAAAAN JONES!

Jones continues toward the ring completely infatuated by his phone, showing off the front row as he swaggers toward the ring. At ringside he finally puts his phone away and quickly slips into the ring. With the speed and agility afforded youth, Satan Jones jumps up to his feet, hands spread wide as he gets a generally subdued reaction from the crowd.

Richard Parker: This kid has a chance to get off on the right… foot. Tonight with a win on his first night!

Nick Stuart: Was that a foot pun?

Richard Parker: I said don’t worry about it, Stuart!

“Thatch” by Goose cuts off Satan’s entrance music. Out onto the upper stage comes running Marijuana Madman Jack Marley!The crowd isn’t 100% sure who he is but the energy he brings causes them to cheer this Mad Jack. Moving to the groove of his music, Marley points toward his “This is for The Miracle Man” t-shirt while quickly marching down the stairs to the lower stage.

Pointing toward the crowd, he nervously jogs down the ramp and into the ring. This process is as slow and careful as possible, with Marley popping back up immediately, attending to his afro as to ensure it is still in perfect condition.

Vince Howard: And introducing his opponent. From Burlington, Vermont, weighing in tonight at one-hundred-ninety pounds… JAAAAAAAAAACK MAAAAAAAAAAARLEY!

The crowd is ready for Big Time Wrestling.

Nick Stuart: Go, Jack, go!

Richard Parker: What? Did you just cheer for this weirdo?

Nick Stuart: Yeah, I… I don’t really know why I did that. The man’s raw charisma, no doubt, threw me into a moment of joyful support!

Jimmy Turnbull signals for the bell.

DING DING DING DING!

Before Marley can get himself ready, Satan Jones flies out of his corner, shoulder tackling his smaller opponent down onto the mat with a loud thud! The crowd’s cheering immediately turns over to boos.

Nick Stuart: Satan Jones pushes his advantage, both physically and by catching Jack Marley off guard.

Richard Parker: A smart fighter takes every advantage they can get!Satan Jones doesn’t seem bothered by the negative attention as he begins to reign massive boots down across the debuting veteran. There isn’t much Jack can do other can cover up as best he can and weather the storm.

Finally Satan Jones tires himself out and steps away, his hands held above his head as the crowd indulges him with a little local Mexico City hostility. Jack scrambles over to the ropes, pulling himself up when Satan circles back around and grabs the Marijuana Madman’s afro. Marley lets out a loud yelp, panic setting in when he realizes his hair is suddenly under assault. He quickly slips up to his tippy toes as Jones laughs, enjoying the discomfort he’s causing his opponent.

Nick Stuart: This Satan Jones doesn’t seem like he’s over concerned with fairness.

Richard Parker: Well, his name is Satan Jones. And I’ve heard he gets a lot worse than this.

Marley stomps his heel down into Satan’s foot causing the big man to scream, releasing Jack’s afro. Hobbling back, Satan grabs his foot and begins swearing loudly.

Nick Stuart: A little of Satan Jones own medicine getting used against him!

Crack!

Jack Marley sends a knife edge chop across the vast landscape of Satan Jone’s chest, wobbling the man on one leg.

Richard Parker:  There is no way Jack is gonna break Satan with some chops!Crack!A second chop forces Satan to release his foot, nearly falling over as he leans back, unbalanced and on one bad foot.

Crack!

A third and final knife edge chop causes the big man to fall backward, over the top rope and to the outside as the crowd rallies behind the wily veteran!

Nick Stuart: Looks like he got him, Parker! Never underestimate the power of a chop!

Richard Parker: Like you’ve ever taken one, Stuart! Not wanting to lose the momentum, Marley scrambles between the ropes before turning, raising his hands as to indicate he’s preparing to do a moonsault.

RAAAAAH!

Nick Stuart: This Mexico Arena crowd is all about The Coral Protector!

Richard Parker: The What??

Nick Stuart: The Clownfish!

Richard Parker: Where are you getting these?!

Nick Stuart: Sherlock Tokes!

Waiting for an unprepared Satan Jones to clamor up to his feet, Marley jumps up onto the ropes, launching himself into a wobbly, and very dangerous looking Moonsault!

Richard Parker: Ban that move!

Nick Stuart: That might not have been the prettiest looking moonsault I’ve ever seen but it was effective!

Jones takes this jagged looking Moonsault full on, the sound of both men’s bodies colliding echoing around the Arena Mexico! The crowd is going crazy for Marley as they express their love through thunderous applause. It takes Marley a few moments to get back up to his feet but he manages to slide back into the ring just as Turnbull begins a ten count!

Richard Parker: …what!? A count out!?

One.

Two.

Three.

Satan begins to drag himself back up, a look of confusion and pain on his face. Fans at ringside jeer and talk shit as he stumbles around, trying to get his bearings after taking that especially dangerous looking moonsault.

Nick Stuart: Jones is getting back up to his feet but did the moonsault take out too much!?

Four.

Five.

Six!

Richard Parker: He’s back in the ring!

Nick Stuart: And Jack Marley is there to meet him!

The eyes on Jones finally lock in as he stares back up into the ring. Rushing forward he slides beneath the bottom rope, breaking the count. Marley charges forward, dropping and elbow across the back of the big man but the strike just shatters harmlessly across Jone’s massive shoulders.

Richard Parker: Satan Jones is just too much meat to be moved by the scrawny old man!

Nick Stuart: He’s not that old, Parker!

Back on his feet, Satan Jones begins throwing haymaker rights and lefts, each strike aimed at taking Mad Jack’s head right off his neck. Thankfully for Marley, he might be older but his body still remembers what to do in these situations. He dodges each right and left, dancing away from the frontal assault by Satan.

Nick Stuart: I don’t know how much of this from Marley is instinct and how much of it is being actively decided upon!

Richard Parker: This idiot is all about weed, you think ANYTHING he does is an active choice!?

Ducking under a particularly vicious looking right hand, Marley takes to the ropes, building up some steam as he rushes back past Jones. After hitting the ropes a second time, Marley launches himself up into the air with a Cross Body!

The thicc Satan Jones catches Marley, moving only a step or two back before smirking confidently. He plants poor Jack right in the middle of the ring with a brutal swinging powerslam!

Richard Parker: SUCH POWER!

Nick Stuart: Satan Jones using his power advantage here to absolutely crush Jack Marley with an out of this world Power Slam!

You can see the air being driven out of Marley’s lungs as the full weight and power of Satan Jones drives him into the mat and he is thus helpless as he’s flipped onto his stomach.

Richard Parker: Uh oh.

Nick Stuart: Satan Jones looks to be going for some kind of submission hold!

Grape vining the Madman’s left leg, Satan Jones locks in a strange looking heel hook, pulling the foot far further up toward his head than would normally be called for.

Nick Stuart: Looks like he’s going for some kind of modified Heel Hook!

Richard Parker: Right, right, modified.

There is a great deal of confusion from both the fans and referee Turnbull when Jones begins to tickle Jack Marley’s foot through his shoe.

Nick Stuart: I, er, I don’t know exactly.. What’s going on.

Richard Parker: Stuart, I told you I’d heard things!

Marley thrashes around, trying to break the heel hook and it doesn’t seem he’s registering the weird behavior that Jones is exhibiting. Realizing this avenue of attack isn’t working, Satan Jones finally comes to the conclusion that he needs to take the boot off. And so he starts untying his opponent’s laces.

Nick Stuart: It looks like Satan Jones is hellbent, no pun intended, on getting that boot!

Richard Parker: Yeah, well, we’ve all got needs!

Nick Stuart: I don’t kink shame but in the middle of a professional wrestling match is a bit much!

It’s now Jack’s turn to realizing something. That his opponent was currently trying to take off his boot. This causes the veteran to increase his thrashing, dragging himself to the ropes which he eagerly grabs a hold of.

Nick Stuart: Jack is in the ropes, this has got to be the end of this ridiculousness!

With Jack in the ropes Turnbull immediately demands that Jones release the heel hook. After a few admonishments, Jimmy begins the five count

One!

Panicking, Satan Jones begins untying the shoe faster.

Two!

He manages to get the boot half-unlanced, deciding to just try pulling the boot off at this point.

Three!

Jack Marley screams as Satan Jones begins yanking on the boot, pulling hard enough to cause damage!

Four!

With one last yank, Satan Jones manages to steal the boot right off Marley’s leg, releasing the hold!

Nick Stuart: Finally!

Richard Parker: I think what you really mean to say is “For Now”, if you know what I mean.

Nick Stuart: I do and I wish I didn’t.

Jimmy Turnbull begins demanding that Satan Jones give him the boot. The referee’s argument quickly falls into silence as Satan Jones takes a deep breath with the boot over his nose and mouth. The crowd acts with equal parts disgust and stunned silence.

CRASH!

Jack Marley does not. With his opponent infatuated with his boot, the Marijauna Madman drives Satan Jones head down with a bulldog! He quickly rolls the big man over and hooks the leg!

One!

Two!

Kickout!

Big Satan Jones throws his shoulder up, his eyes watery and unfocused.

Nick Stuart: The veteran could do it here in his debut match and put this big challenge down!

Richard Parker: He should just give him the other shoe and see if he’ll just sit the rest of the match out!Dragging Jones up to his knees, Jack hooks his head and drives it down with a short Snap DDT! Rolling him over, Marley hooks the leg once again!

ONE!

TWO!

Kickout!

Nick Stuart: Oh so close! Another kickout from Satan but Jack almost had him!

Once again the big man manages to throw his shoulder up, surviving a second pinfall attempt by the veteran Marley. The crowd is now once again fully rallied behind the one shoed Madman! That said, it’s clear the man is starting to get a little winded as he doesn’t climb back up to his feet quite as fast.

Richard Parker: You see what’s happening, Stuart? Man’s getting tired! He’s working on borrowed time now!

Nick Stuart: You may be right, Parker, but he’s come so far now, I don’t think Marley is looking to surrender at the end!

He moves toward one of the nearby corners as he waits for Jones to climb back up to his feet. Still dazed, Jones does rise to his feet in the center of the ring, watery eyes scanning the ring for his opponent.

Marley charges forward looking to take out Jones’ leg but the big man darts forward with surprising speed and brutality, shoulder tacking Marley before he can drop his shoulder to Satan’s knee!

Richard Parker: Did you see that counter from Satan Jones?!

Nick Stuart: I did but Jack can still save this!

Stumbling back up to his feet, Jack shakes off the shoulder tackle and darts beneath a wild haymaker, hitting the ropes! Unfortunately for the wily veteran he is once again cut off with a full force shoulder block. This time he strikes with such force that Jack’s body ragdolls through the air before crumbling to the ring.

Richard Parker: HAHA! What about now!? Did you see that?!

Nick Stuart: Yeah that didn’t look good for Jack Marley.

Satan Jones grabs Marley by the afro, generating a massive number of boos. He props him up in the center of the ring before the big man throws himself into the ropes.

SMACK!

The Shoulder Tackle that follows looks more like a freight train running down Little Orphan Annie. Marley is sent down hard onto the ring as Satan Jones staggers around, seemingly surprised by the effectiveness of his own shoulder tackle.

Nick Stuart: I don’t even think Satan Jones was ready for that Shoulder Tackle’s power!

Richard Parker: Cover him! Cover him!

Dropping down, Satan Jones hooks Marley’s leg…

One!

Two!

THREE!

DING DING DING DING!

Vince Howard: The winner of this match… SATAN JOOOOOOOOONES!

Jones doesn’t seem to relish in his victory like most normal people. Instead he rolls Marley back over into the heel hook from earlier and begins tickling and playing with his opponent’s feet.

Richard Parker: Yeah, like I said I’ve heard things.

Back in the ring Turnbull is trying desperately for Satan Jones to release the… the foot fetish. Unsuccessfully.

Nick Stuart: Well, a big debut victory for SATAN JONES… though. Yeah, we need to get that ring cleared, will somebody get him off Jack Marley?!

Richard Parker: You know, Old Jack was doing well until Satan Jones got his boot. I don’t think that’s a coincidence, Stuart, I just think it’s a weird and distasteful strategy.

Nick Stuart: I’ve… I can’t say I’ve ever seen a foot fetish used as a tactical strategy before but I think I might agree with you.

We cut away as Satan Jones finally releases Marley’s foot.

It seems that we are experiencing technical issues with the Masters of the Moscowverse pretape, until suddenly the strangest thing appears on the PRIMEview:

With that very quick, very strange moment passing, ReVival 84 rolls on!

Coming soon to prime-wrestling dot com…

Ahead of their absolutely titanic match for the Universal Title…

Ahead of the absolutely chaotic night of Squad Goals…

A sit down interview unlike any other…

JALKIN’ SHOP

hosted by Joe Fontaine

Vince Howard: The following contest is scheduled for one fall. Introducing first…

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

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

“WHEN MY BACK’S TO THE WAAALLLL!!!”

And huge, white block letters fill the screen:

I!!!

WILL!!!

CON!!!

QUER!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

“DRAW! THE! DAGGER!

CUT OUT THE PAIN! TO FIND THE POWER!”

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

“DRAW! THE! DAGGER!

CUT OUT THE PAIN!”

He remains on the ropes, and in timing with the song, beats his chest four times while roaring out the crescendo.

I!!!

WILL!!!

CON!!!

QUER!!!

The Comeback Kid stays for a moment, eyes scanning the arena, allowing the music to reach its breakdown. He hops to the mat and takes his place in his corner, ready to go.

Suddenly, the arena lights dim to a warm yellow-gold, like sunlight.

And then, the jingle-jangly guitar of Natalie Imbruglia’s rendition of “Torn” begins to play.

Stepping onto the stage immediately are Toddrick and Miguel, the Lasagna Boys, who gesture towards the curtains with the classic point-over-the-head gesture.

And from there, he emerges.

Big John Pepper.

Massive, muscular, and insanely light on his feet, the blonde mustached man practically ballets down to the ring, twirling his body to the music.

Before Vince Howard can start the introduction, he’s interrupted by a familiar voice with a megaphone.

Fred Dick: And his mothafuggin’ opponent… from our GORGEOUS U.S. NATIONAL PARKS… Standing as tall as three skyscrapers… weighing in at two Grand Canyons… he is… THE MAN! THE MYTH! THE LEGEND! BIIIIIIIG! JOOOOOHN! PEPPERRRRRRR!!!!

Fred Dick is the caboose of the train that leads Big John Pepper to the ring.

At ringside, Big John Pepper gives his park ranger hat to a young lady sitting ringside with her dad.

As he steps into the ring, the song reaches its first chorus while rainbow strobes flutter across the arena.

🌈 🌈 🌈 🌈

Nothing’s fine, I’m torn!

I’m all out of faith

This is how I feel

I’m cold and I am shamed

Lying naked on the floor.

Illusion never changed

Into something real

I’m wide awake and I can see the perfect sky is torn.

You’re a little late.

I’m already torn.

Big John steps into his corner, gives Fred a BIG THUMBS UP, and waits for the bell.

DING DING

Hanlon begins by circling his larger opponent, jawing at the big boy scout to try and get inside his head. The two lockup, and Pepper uses his strength to shove Hanlon back almost halfway across the ring. Hayes pops up smiling and fires in with a forearm shot. Big John responds with a huge open handed chop, but is met in return by a barrage of rapid forearm strikes. The assault causes Big John to stumble back, but he quickly rights himself and takes Hanlon down to the mat with a running lariat.

Pepper reaches down to pull The Event Horizon up to his feet, maintains wrist control, and sends Hanlon back to the canvas with a short-arm clothesline.

Big John brings Hayes up to his feet again, this time lifting him directly into a vertical suplex. Instead of falling, he holds Hayes up high and waits.

And waits.

And waits some more.

Still waiting, by the way.

Before crashing him down to the mat.

Nick Stuart: There aren’t many people in PRIME who have the capability to out-muscle Hayes Hanlon, but you can add Big John Pepper to the list if tonight is anything to go by.

Richard Parker: It’s just a temporary distraction, Nick. He’s no doubt thrown by the knowledge that he’s going to have to team with Brandon Youngblood for Squad Goals, and Brandon wears the white tights. You know what they say about people who wear the white tights.

Nick Stuart: Sure don’t.

Richard Parker: They use a lot of bleach.

Nick Stuart: Okay, sure.

Richard Parker: For the pee stains.

Cue the sound of Nick slowly rolling his chair away from Richard. Just in case.

Meanwhile, Hanlon tries to get to his feet, except there’s the small problem of a rather large foot being on his chest. Then comes a second one. Big John turns on the feet and starts running in place on Hanlon’s chest.

He’s a maniac, maaaaaaniac on the chest. And he’s steppin’ on the spot you wear a vessssssst.

Nick Stuart: It’s the Big John Stepper!

Richard Parker: And it’s Ashley Barlow here to tell him to knock that off.

Indeed she does. Not because it’s necessarily illegal, but more because Ashley has to deal with a lot of bullshit and her bullshit battery is running awfully low these days.

Big John reaches down and pulls Hanlon up, but is met with a forearm to the jaw. The Comeback Kid ducks another lariat and rebounds with a running shoulder tackle that staggers Big Pep but doesn’t knock him down. He hits the ropes again and puts all of his weight behind a second shoulder block. This one drops Big John, but the parks and rec wrestler gets to one knee before Hayes can take advantage of the situation.

A kick to the midsection doubles Pepper over, and Hayes is able to use his own impressive strength to lift the larger man up and into a powerbomb that lands hard enough to shake the ring.

Nick Stuart: Hayes Hanlon with the first cover of this match!

1

Richard Parker: He’s got the far leg hooked, too.

2

Nick Stuart: But Big John Pepper gets the shoulder up!

While Big John starts to shake off the cobwebs, Hayes starts toeing the mat with his foot as if he’s getting comfortable in the batter’s box. He starts adjusting invisible batting gloves, points a single finger to the upper levels of the arena, and then rolls his shoulders and moves to shift sleeves that don’t exist before adopting a batting stance. Big John Pepper turns just in time to catch a double axe handle swing to the jaw that’s hard enough to spin the big man once before he tumbles back to the mat.

Nick Stuart: Huge shot by the former Universal Champion!

But instead of going for another cover, Hanlon slides out of the ring and trots a route around the outside. He makes a point of exaggerating a single step by each ring post, as if stepping on an imaginary base, before sliding back into the ring.

Nick Stuart: That trademark Hanlon showmanship on full display here tonight, Richard.

Now in the ring, Hanlon takes a moment to taunt the crowd with his arms wide, a position that Big John sees as an invitation. He moves into position, hooking and lifting Hayes into the air with a big torture rack. Hammerin Hanlon struggles to break free, firing a series of elbows into the side of Pepper’s head that force him to release his grip somewhat. This allows Hayes to slide back off his shoulders, grab John around the waist, and take the man over with a massive German suplex.

Nick Stuart: Hanlon impressing here tonight with a display of his own power! Big John Pepper is not a small man, and he’s being muscled around with relative ease.

Richard Parker: That’s why they don’t call him Small John Pepper.

Nick Stuart: I walked right into that, didn’t I?

Richard Parker: Like a man trying to push a pull door.

Hanlon tries for a second cover, but Big John has already rolled to the ropes to prevent it. The big man pulls himself up, turns to face his opponent, and finds himself across Hanlon’s shoulders. Now it’s Pepper’s turn to fight his way out, landing a big right hand to Hayes’ midsection, then a second. Hanlon is forced to set Big John back down on his feet.

There is a commotion in the crowd as Hayes fires off a big right hand to Big John Pepper. Pepper retaliates with one of his own. The two trade heavy punches, this despite the protest of Ashley Barlow, with each strike taking more and more from each man. Hayes connects with a hard shot that causes Big John to take a bracing step back, but once he’s stabilized Big John winds connects with a right of his own. This is followed by another clubbing blow, and then comes the wind-up and before a final shot.

The punch rocks Hanlon, and he stumbles back towards the ropes. Hayes tries to shrug it off. He takes two powerful strides towards the center of the ring, raises a hand to John, but then his entire body locks up and he topples over face-down like a tree onto the canvas.

Timmmmberrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

Nick Stuart: Hayes Hanlon is down, and there is… Fans, there is something going on in the crowd tonight.

Richard Parker: Is some weirdo luchador stuff? You know how much I hate the weirdo luchador stuff.

Let’s call it luchador-adjacent, Richard.

The commotion in the crowd has picked up as more people are looking and pointing up to the rafters, to the point that the competitors in the ring have taken notice. The first to see it is Big John Pepper, who places a hand on the referee’s shoulder as he excitedly gestures towards the rafters.

Richard Parker: It’s Wyatt Connors back from the dead!

Nick Stuart: It very much is NOT.

Hanlon is the last to look, despite his instincts telling him that this would be the perfect moment to lock in this win.

Richard Parker: But he has wings like an angel! And red bug eyes. Like an angel!

Nick Stuart: Since when did Connors ever have those things?

Richard Parker: He’s biblically accurate now!

What they all see is a man who is also a moth. A mothman, if yew weeell. And he’s slowly gesturing towards the ring with a bottle of Mountain Dew.

Nick Stuart: It’s the Center City Mothman!

Richard Parker: There are so many questions that I don’t want the answers to, and one that I do.

Nick Stuart: Which is?

Richard Parker: Since when do cryptids get passports?

Hanlon makes his move. He lunges for Big John, but the mustachioed protector of parks scoops the much younger man up off his feet into a fireman’s carry and gets to twirlin’. Oh, how he twirls. So many spins.

Nick Stuart: A bit of a throwback maneuver here…

Richard Parker: Or a throw-up maneuver, depending on when you last ate.

He completes the dizzying airplane spin with a toss, a pivot, and then brings Hanlon down in a big seated powerbomb.

Nick Stuart: Protect Our Parks! That could be all!

Big John makes the cover.

1

2

3!!!

DING DING DING

Vince Howard: The winner of this match… Big John Pepper!!!

As the sound of Natalie Imbruglia’s voice once again fills the arena, all attention is once again drawn upwards to the rafters as all eyes look in search of the Center City Mothman. Alas, there is no Mothman, only part of a Mountain Dew label drifting slowly to the ground below.

And while everyone wonders how the hell something like that could just disappear, we fade elsewhere.

The camera cuts backstage to The Anglo Luchador standing by with Angelica Brooks standing near Argyle position. The Luchador’s eyes are wide as she puts the microphone to his face.

Angelica Brooks: Angelica Brooks standing by with The Anglo Luchador. Did you see who appeared in the match between Big John Pepper and Hayes Hanlon?

TAL: Did I see? Of course! And before I could catch him backstage to see who was under the mask, he ran off. And i still haven’t seen my son since before that match went on. I thought he was just going to get a tamale.

Angelica Brooks: So you’re saying you don’t believe him when he says he’s not the Center City Mothman?

TAL: Believe? C’mon, I don’t know! It’s not like kids never lie to their parents. I lied to my mom all the time about staying at training extra hours just so I could smoke blunts and drink Modelo behind the gym, and if you’re watching Mom, sorry. But I’m not jumping to conclusions unless I get hard evidence, and so far, I don’t really have any…

Just then, a big booming voice can be heard from off-camera.

Voice: You rotten son of a gun! You had your boy try to distract me from winning my butt whooping contest!

The unmistakable voice in fact turns out to belong to Big John Pepper, fresh off his tilt with the Event Horizon.

Pepper presses his nose against TAL’s as he steps into the frame.

Big John Pepper: You rascal. You scallywag.

Where Big John Pepper comes from, those are fighting words.

TAL: I’m sorry, what are you on about? I’m as shocked about that… thing as anyone. So you can take your 19th Century headass out of my face unless you want to offer up your services to help look for my son.

Big John Pepper pokes TAL in the chest with his big John finger.

Big John Pepper: I just saw your son. He was dressed like a mothman in the balcony of a Mexican arena.

He pokes TAL in the chest again.

Big John Pepper: He pointed mountain dew at me.

He pokes TAL in the chest again.

Big John Pepper: You’re an irresponsible father—

The Luchador swats the big man’s big paw away and gets up in his grill.

TAL: Look, I don’t know what set of laws you practice from whatever fucked up storybook you Jumanji’d your way out of to get here, but we don’t act on hunches and assumptions in the real world. Either you offer up some hard evidence that my son was the one dressed up as an Appalachian cryptid out there, or you get your unvarnished ass out of my way so I can look for him.

Big John does not move an inch.

TAL: I seriously don’t know who you think you are. I can’t deal with this right now. I have a Squad Goals match to deal with. FUCK.

BJP sneers.

Big John Pepper: Who do I think I am? I’m Big John Pepper. Best friend of Rip Van Winkle — or should I say, FORMER best friend. But now? Now when I look at your stupid, masked face, I feel nothing but disdain.

Big John mimics ripping his heart out of chest and throwing it on the ground. Then he mimics peeing on it.

Big John Pepper: You did this to our friendship, Rip. And now, I’m going to do this to you. METAPHORICALLY. Fight me in a butt whooping contest — a PILLOW FIGHT. LIKE THE OLD DAYS. AT CULTURE SHOCK!!! There, we will settle our scores like we always have… one last time. You weasel.

TAL: Friend… FRIENDSHIP?!?!?! I… uh, um, I, GODDAMMIT.

The Luchador starts hyperventilating.

TAL: You have done nothing but gaslight me since you’ve gotten me! Now I can’t find my son and I have to deal with land acknowledging murder hippies and angry bosses on my team to fight Ivan goddamn Stanislav and I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a year and GODDAMMIT, what did you say? A PILLOW FIGHT?????

Big John Pepper: Yes. Like the old days, remember? Some of the pillows would be stuffed with feathers. Others would have bowling balls. One time during a dispute over Sandra, you remember her, we were both sweet on her, there was a pillow that was just full of knives. I don’t remember whose idea that was. But we always settled our scores. And we always had a blast. 🤙

The Luchador is still hyperventilating.

TAL: FINE, NO PROBLEM! PILLOW FIGHT! GOD. I’m going to go find my son and talk to him and…

Vinny Battaglia: from out of almost literal nowhere I’m right here, Dad. And got you a tamale too.

The Luchador startles at the sudden appearance of his younger son.

TAL: GODDAMMIT! Don’t sneak up on me like that! We have to go have a talk, and then…

He inhales and exhales deeply.

TAL: …I’m going to bed.

Vinny Battaglia: But I wanna rap with Big Jo…

TAL: NO! Let’s go.

The Luchador grabs his son by the arm and walks off, leaving Big John and Angelica standing there on camera.

Big John looks at Angelica, pointing his thumb at Vinny.

Big John Pepper: That kid’s the Center City Mothman, y’know. Guess you could say I’m something of a mentor to him…

Sigh.

We cut.

The lights are hard and white and make the ring look small beneath them. From the ring itself, the surroundings are like a tunnel, shooting straight up, with rows and rows of fans cheering wildly.

That’s because now, two of the most beloved wrestlers in PRIME are set to square off.

Nick Stuart: Folks, this is a match that needs no introduction. It’s Kerry Kuroyama. It’s Chandler Tsonda.

Richard Parker: I hope they kill each other.

Nick Stuart: Richard Parker!!!

Richard Parker: I’m just joking around Nick. I sincerely hope they MAIM each other!

Like stormclouds blocking out the sun, the arena lights dim until the Arena Mexico is nearly black.

“BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!

“BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!

“BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!

“BOOM! BLAP-BLAP! BAP-BOOM-BLAP!!”

The house shakes to the thumping beat of “Blouses Blue” by Konrad OldMoney & Sleep Steady pouring in through the public address system. Upon the PRIMEview, a montage of head-dropping and face-kicking in-ring action spliced with savage scenes of wind, rain, and lightning plays through a loop.

The camera begins racing up the rampway. As it nears the top, the spotlight hits.

KERRY KUROYAMA stands on the stage, turned away from the camera, with the emerald-shaped “KK” logo on the back of his green and silver robe in clear view.

Two verdant words form across the PRIMEView.

E M E R A L D

A P E X

In a single motion, Kerry dramatically tears off the robe and tosses it aside, revealing the elaborate GREEN DRAGON tattoo decorating his back. He pumps a fist over his head and twirls around as a row of fountain pyros erupt in the background. As the audience reacts, AMI TROY steps in beside him and favors him with an approving wink and nod.

She throws up a towel in a high arc. He opens a palm behind his back to PERFECTLY catch it. At the last second, she draws back a balled up fist as if to hit, causing him to flinch, and resulting in the towel landing on his face.

With a pleased-with-herself smirk, the Merry Mischief Maker heads down the ramp. After a beat, Kerry pulls off the towel and follows.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is our MAIN EVENT! Introducing first… accompanied to the ring by “The Merry Mischief Maker” AMI TROY…

Swaggering and slapping hands down the aisle, Ami excitedly pumps her fists at the mention of her name.

Kerry’s gaze is pure intensity. He stares ahead at the ring with purpose and conviction.

Vince Howard: He hails from Seattle, Washington, USA, and weighs in at two-hundred and thirty-two pounds…

Kuroyama climbs to the apron, holds open the ropes for Ami to enter the ring ahead of him, and follows her in. They pick a corner, where the former scales to the second set of ropes and the latter steps up to the first.

Vince Howard: Representing VAE VICTIS… he is the EMERALD APEX…

Kerry raises his fist. Ami crosses her arms and poses alongside her well-tamed beast. Green and silver fireworks explode in the rafters.

Vince Howard: KEERRRRYYY KUUROOOYAAAAAMMMAAAAAAA!!!

Ami steps out of the ring and Kerry moves to his corner.

“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.

Vince Howard: And his opponent… hailing from San Diego, California, by way of Hanoi, Vietnam! He is the A-LISTER, THE MODEL CITIZEN, CHANDLER… TSONDAAAA!!!

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.

Well, kind of.

Most of his face is hidden by a black luchador mask.

Richard Parker: I’m a man who appreciates beauty, and yet I hate Chandler Tsonda despite his beauty. This mask he’s chosen to wear removes any prior hesitation towards hating him I may have had!

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.

The crowd hums like a living thing. Beer breath and anticipation hang in the air. People lean forward in their seats the way one leans toward the rail of a ship.

Elvis Nixon stands between both men as they stare at each other, glare even, from each of their corners.

Neither man acknowledges the roaring crowd, or the magnitude of the moment. The entirety of their focus belongs to the other.

DING! DING!

They begin to circle one another.

Kerry moves lightly on the balls of his feet. His hands are low but ready. His eyes stay fixed on the black mask of Chandler, who moves more slowly. His steps are measured and quiet. He keeps his shoulders square. He watches Kerry the way a man studies a chessboard before he commits to the first move.

They come closer.

Kerry feints.

Chandler steps back.

They circle again.

The crowd grows louder, the weight of this moment having only grown heavier.

Then Kerry steps in.

They lock up.

The sound of their bodies meeting is thick and sudden. Shoulder to shoulder. Forearms grinding. Their boots scrape across the canvas. And the roaring crowd can barely contain them.

Kerry quickly takes the advantage with a wristlock. Chandler’s arm twists, and he rolls forward, kips up, but Kerry —

Kerry torques the wrist once more.

Nick Stuart: Impressive technique there by both men, wouldn’t you say Richard?

Richard Parker: Well Nick I think you could get a couple opera singers out here singing Hanson’s mmm bop, and it would be more interesting than this.

Nick Stuart: Not gonna lie, that does sound interesting.

Richard Parker: Ugh. You’re right. But you see what I was trying to do.

Nick Stuart: Of course I do.

Meanwhile, Chandler doesn’t panic. Why would he? He’s Chandler Tsonda. He’s the Model Citizen, he’s got a sick new mask. Why would he panic?

No. He doesn’t panic.

He sends his foot directly backwards.

Nick Stuart: Oof!!! Mule kick!!!

Richard Parker: Did he kick him in the nards?

Nick Stuart: No, Richard. He didn’t kick him in the nards.

Richard Parker: He should’ve. Should’ve kicked him right in the nards.

Kerry lets go, drops to a knee.

Enziguiri by Chandler Tsonda!!! Right to the side of Kerry’s head!!!

Kerry starts to fall from his knees to the mat, but Chandler catches him, scooping him into a hammer lock.

Which just so happens to be the set up to Tsonda’s particularly brutal

Nick Stuart: SPINAL TAP!!!

Richard Parker: Tsonda is trying to win this thing RIGHT NOW!!!

Elvis Nixon makes the count as Chandler Tsonda covers!!!

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

Kerry kicks out!!!

Chandler doesn’t stop. Like an animal sensing its prey is wounded, he sets about his work. He brings Kerry to his feet, whips the Emerald Apex into the ropes, and Kerry returns, ducks a lariat, stops, swivels on his heel— YAKUZA KICK BY KERRY!!

Chandler staggers backwards into the ropes, tangles up in them.

Kerry charges forward!!!

Nick Stuart: Chandler pulls the top rope down, and Kuroyama tumbles to the outside!

Richard Parker: I hope he broke his neck.

Nick Stuart: HEY! That’s Kerry Kuroyama. The Greatest Five Star Champion of the ReVival Era, maybe of any era. Have some DAMN respect!

Richard Parker: nah.

Chandler looks down from his elevated position in the ring at Kerry, who writhes on the floor outside. Slowly, Kerry begins rising to his feet. One knee. Then slowly, painstakingly, a rise up to his feet.

TOPE SUICIDA BY CHANDLER TSONDA!!!

KERRY DIVES OUT OF THE WAY!!!

CHANDLER COLLIDES LIKE A CRASH TEST DUMMY INTO THE GUARD RAILS!!!

Kerry Kuroyama, like the dragon on his back, exhales sharply through his nostrils. He grabs Chandler up by that black mask, and applies a double underhook!!!

Nick Stuart: BLACK TAHOMA BREAKER BY KERRY KUROYAMA!!!

Richard Parker: And Chandler Tsonda, a man famous for mostly having back problems, is straight up not having a good time right now.

Nick Stuart: He’s a hall of freaking famer, Richard!

Richard Parker: He’s in the hall of fame for back problems?

Meanwhile, Kerry has rolled Chandler back into the ring, breaking Elvis’ count out somewhere between 6 and 7.

And, by the way, has taken complete control of this match, applying a tight, vicious, elevated cloverleaf to Tsonda in the middle of the ring.

Nick Stuart: This is dangerous for the Model Citizen, Richard. He has nowhere to go.

Richard Parker: I hope he breaks his back.

Nick Stuart: I’m gonna lose my freaking mind.

Tsonda cries out in pain as he clamors for the ropes. He crawls, in a panicked scramble, pulling Kerry backwards with sheer momentum.

Just before Tsonda reaches the ropes, he screams three times.

Because Kerry immediately breaks the hold. Then he stomps the small of Tsonda’s back.

Then he drops an elbow on the small of Tsonda’s back.

Then he does a senton, landing flush on Tsonda’s back.

Nick Stuart: Now it’s Kerry who makes the cover! Elvis Nixon counts.

Richard Parker: I hope Elvis Nixon breaks his hand!

ONE!

TWO!

THR– kick out by Tsonda!!!

Nick Stuart: Why!? What did Elvis do to you!?

Richard Parker: He sucks dude everyone knows it except for you for some reason. Probably because you suck.

Kerry remains in control, dragging Tsonda up to his feet and whipping him into the turnbuckles. Like a lion, Kerry approaches slowly, stalking, unavoidable. Tsonda’s breaths, hitched and short, betray his desperation. As Kerry closes in, he’s met with an elbow to the face!

Another! Another!

Kerry staggers backwards!

Chandler dropkicks Kerry in the knee. He wraps Kerry’s head in the fold of his arm! Scoops him up in the air by his trousers!!

Nick Stuart: GOLGOTHA DROP!!! THE BIG IMPLANT DDT!!!

Richard Parker: I don’t know what to say. I’m over the bit.

Chandler Tsonda makes the cover! He hooks the legs!

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

THREEEEEEEEE!!!

NO!!!

Right at the last second, Kerry found a kick out within him. And so, the match marches forward.

But now it’s Chandler stomping Kerry in the back. Over, and over, and over, and over, until Kerry has actually scrambled to a turnbuckle and turned himself towards Chandler, which protects his back, but exposes him to a good, old fashioned, mud hole stomping.

And that’s exactly what Chandler starts doing.

Stomp after stomp after stomp!!!!

Kerry can only retreat once he is stomped into a flat position, below the bottom ropes, where he finally slides out and escapes the hell he was just in.

Kerry uses this brief moment to catch his breath. But just as he turns to climb back into the ring?

Nick Stuart: TOPE SUICIDA BY CHANDLER TSONDA!!!

And this time it lands flush.

Kerry? Wiped the hell out.

Tsonda? Also, probably wiped the hell out.

But Kerry was on the receiving end of that one. And so it’s no surprise that it’s the Model Citizen who first begins the ascent to his feet. Once he reaches them he climbs back into the ring.

Elvis Nixon begins counting Kerry out.

Slowly, like, s l o w l y, Kerry begins to reach his feet. Once he gets there, he is most displeased to, once more, finding Chandler Tsonda flying towards him through the air.

This time, however, Kerry was fortunate to have enough time to move out of the way.

But most unfortunate because, for whatever reason, Tsonda thought it would be a good idea to do a springboard shooting star press. Had he ever done one before? Regardless, he’s just so damn athletic, that when Kerry moved, Tsonda had nothing to catch him, so he completed his natural rotation and, well, he landed on his feet.

Kick to the head by Tsonda!

Kerry ducks it!

SQUALL LINE LARIAT BY KERRY KUROYAMA!!!

HE TURNS CHANDLER TSONDA INSIDE OUT LIKE A SHIRT!!!

Kerry grabs Tsonda, pulls him up to his feet, and rolls him into the ring.

He pursues swiftly.

Chandler staggers up to his feet. And KERRY WRAPS HIM UP!!! KUROYAMA DRIVERRRRRRR!!!

NO!!!!

Nick Stuart: A TORNADO DDT REVERSAL BY TSONDA!!!

Richard Parker: HE PULLED A RABBIT OUT OF HIS ASS!!!

Nick Stuart: TSONDA MAKES THE COVER!!!

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

THREEEEEEEEEE!!!

NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

Somehow, someway, Kerry kicked out. Call him Kerry Kickouts the way he keeps kicking out. Tsonda pounds the mat. He scrawls up to his feet. Kerry slowly climbs to his.

Tsonda snatches Kerry by his arm!

He whips Kerry into the ropes!

No, Kerry reverses, whips Tsonda!

Tsonda bounces off the ropes!

KERRY CATCHES HIS ARM!!!

PUMP HANDLE!!!

KUROYAMA DRIVER!!!

KERRY MAKES THE COVER!!!

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

THREEEEEEE!!!!

Blouses Blue hits the speakers.

Nick Stuart: Kerry Kuroyama has done it! A feather in a cap that gets more impressive every week it seems!

Richard Parker: I hope someone broke something.

Nick Stuart: You said you were done with that bit!

Richard Parker: I was gaslighting you!

Nick Stuart: Folks we are out of time!!! We will see you at Culture Shock!!!

In the ring, Ami Troy and Kerry Kuroyama celebrate as Vince Howard announces he’s the winner.

And now there’s nothing left to do but to

FADE.

TO.

BLACK.