ReVival 85

The camera opens on a wide shot of the TD Garden. Boston is loud and restless, arching for the first stateside show of the year. The camera sweeps the packed seats, signs, and the sea of noise.

Nick Stuart: Welcome to ReVival, live from the TD Garden in Boston, Massachusetts! What a night we have ahead of us coming off the heels of Culture Shock! Folks we have—

The arena lights drop, and then bleed into a familiar crimson.

A brash cacophony of brass blares through the arena as the first notes of the Soviet National Anthem roar through the Garden like a tide. Boston answers in the way it answers everything it doesn’t like.

BOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Richard Parker: Now we’re starting off right, Nick! Sit up straight!

Nick Stuart: I’ll sit however I like, RIchard. Indeed, it says on the sheet that we have the Intense Champion, Ivan Stanislav… offering to give some words to… anyone who has to listen to him.

It’s crimson from the rafters to the floor, washing over the thousands of unhappy faces (and one happy Richard Parker). On the stage, twin columns of pyro detonate, gold and red, frame the entrance ramp.

Then, from the rafters… banners drop.

Enormous Red Army banners, red and gold, unfurling from the upper deck on all four sides simultaneously. Each one emblazoned with the face of Ivan Stanislav, looking proud and austere and severe… all at once.

Richard Parker: MAGNIFICENT!! Look at this Nick. LOOK. AT. THIS!

Nick Stuart: Someone planned this in advance. There were people up in the rafters and I don’t think they were PRIME technicians. Ugh.

Richard Parker: Talk about preparation! Talk about respect for the occasion! And listen to this crowd!!!

BOOOOOO!!!

There’s already litter flying into the ring.

The PRIMEtron beams to life, and it’s not showing the standard Red Army entrance graphic. It’s a produced, polished video package. Footage of Ivan Stanislav hoisting the Intense Championship, freeze framed in gold light. Then Ivan standing in Red Square, belt over his shoulder, expression solemn as if receiving a state honor. Ivan shaking hands with Russian heads of state.

Richard Parker: Look at that! Look at what Ivan has done for the Intense Championship!! We are all honored!

Nick Stuart: What exactly are we looking at, right now?

Richard Parker: History, Nick. History!

Nick Stuart: I’m sure PRIME’s legal team will have their hands full.

Richard Parker: The Russian taxpayers will happily pay any and all fees associated with this. I’m sure of it!

The video package ends on a single title card in Cyrillic, held for five full seconds, before cutting back to the Red Army logo.

Then the streamers fall.

Red and gold, cascading from the rafters in thick spiraling ribbons, filling the air above the entrance ramp with color. They drift down over the crowd, who bat them away with the enthusiasm of people who did not ask for streamers and resent their presence deeply.

Richard Parker: This is the feel-good moment of the year, right here, Nick. And I’m happy to be experiencing it with you!

Nick Start: Other than you, not a single person wants to see any of this!

Then the shapes emerge. Kenny Freeman and Randall Schwartz come out first, each carrying a pneumatic shirt cannon.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

Red Army shirts rocket into the upper deck. A few people catch them. Just as many tear them to pieces or throw them to the floor.

Richard Parker: Hey, those are collectors items!

Nick Stuart: Seriously? Shirt cannons?

Richard Parker: It’s a par-tay!!

Freeman reloads. Schwartz fires again. More shirts. More anger.

Then, Tony Gamble emerges behind the duo, wearing one of the shirts. With Ivan’s scowling face, it reads “OUR INTENSE CHAMPION” underneath. The Permascar Superstar smirks as Speedy Riggs, in his red and yellow referee shirt, strides out behind him.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And then, Stanislav arrives. He’s dressed in his ring gear, even if he doesn’t have a match to wrestle, and the Intense Title, resized and stretched, sits firmly around his thick waist. The leather strains. The gold gleams. And the crowd’s boos climb to another register.

Richard Parker: THERE HE IS! The PRIME Intense Champion! Ivan Stanislav! The Russian Bear! The gift that Boston absolutely does not deserve!

Nick Stuart: We can see him, Richard.

Richard Parker: I’m enhancing the experience!

Ivan doesn’t acknowledge the hatred or the streamers or banners. He marches down the entryway as he always does, like he owns the building and everyone else are guests he didn’t invite.

At ringside, fans press against the barricade. Some scream. Some film. Some make gestures that the broadcast team declines to describe. Ivan reaches the apron, steps up, and clears the top rope with ease. The rest of the Red Army files in behind him. Freeman and Schwartz stack their empty shirt cannons in the corner. Gamble leans lazily against one corner. Speedy settles near the opposite turnbuckle.

Ivan raises one hand and the music dies down, while he reaches into his pocket to produce a microphone, which looks like a toy in his grip.

Ivan Stanislav: Boston.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ivan Stanislav: I know. I know.

He begins to walk around the ring, hand clasped behind his back.

Ivan Stanislav: You boo because you are Boston. It is your nature. You boo at everything you do not understand, and you do not understand very much.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ivan Stanislav: But tonight, even you must pause. Even you, in your great, stupid stubbornness, must look at this…

He taps the belt around his waist.

Ivan Stanislav: …and acknowledge that I am your champion! DYAAHAAHAA!!

He guffaws his signature laugh while the crowd pelts the ring with debris.

Ivan Stanislav: Ivan Stanislav is your PRIME Intense Champion! Say it with me if you like. Or do not. It is true, either way!

Ivan stops in the center of the ring and faces the hard cam directly.

Ivan Stanislav: I have been Universal Champion. Twice. I have broken men who believed themselves unbreakable. I have outlasted every faction, regime, every new favorite son of PRIME. Now, I am Intense Champion. Some of you will say, Ivan, is this not a step down? Is this not beneath you?

He lets the question hang.

Ivan Stanislav: These people have never understood what I am. The Intense Championship is not beneath me. Nothing is beneath me, because I raise everything I touch. This title has sat around good wrestlers, and fine wrestlers, and poor wrestlers… but never worn by Ivan Stanislav. Until now. Now, it ascends to greatness!

Richard Parker: He’s absolutely right, Nick. This championship’s cache has grown so much!!

Nick Stuart: Bryan Dawkins held the title for a long time, Richard, and he elevated…

Richard Parker: Quiet, Ivan’s talking again!

Ivan unhooks the belt and lifts it into the air.

Ivan Stanislav: This is gift. To Boston, who does not deserve it. To PRIME, which barely does. And to my motherland, Russia…

BOOOOOO!!!!!

Ivan Stanislav: …which deserves everything! Я люблю всех вас!! (I love you all!!)

Nick Stuart: Are… you weeping, Richard?

Richard Parker: No… I just have something in my eyes…

Nick Stuart groans.

Stanislav drapes the belt over his shoulder and gets back to business. He surveys the arena, letting the noise wash over him, before something shifts beneath his expression.

Ivan Stanislav: Before we finally start the show, there is some static I want to address.

He shifts the belt on his shoulder and begins to walk around the ring again.

Ivan Stanislav: You will always find, in PRIME, certain types. People who control the card. Who try to control the narrative. Who decide who fights whom, and when, and under what circumstances. They also make sure to avoid truly challenging conflict whenever it is presented.

Ivan leans against the ropes.

Ivan Stanislav: People who are part-time CEO’s. Who still need upwards of forty chair shots and a small collection of sycophants to win a match.

A beat.

Ivan Stanislav: And they write articles. And goof around. While all of you suffer, they sit on their pile of money and live their cherished lifestyle, and let each and every one of us know that we cannot “sit with them.” They sit at a table where one does not need to worry about groceries, or price of gasoline.

Ivan smirks.

Ivan Stanislav: Still, for years, we have all wanted one thing. Yes, Boston, there is one thing we can all agree on. We have all wanted Lindsay Troy to hop off her mountain of money and have legitimate match with me. One on one. Not safe match against family. Not comfortable match against best friends. Not match against a has-been who was stricken with cancer. No. A match against someone who would truly push our “Queen.” To challenge her to actually work for once. And it has never happened. Despite her ability. All her power. All her “influence” it has never happened.

His voice drops slightly.

Ivan Stanislav: You, Lindsay, are not a coward in the loud, obvious way. You are a coward in the quiet, careful, administrative way. Enjoy your hollow “win” at Squad Goals. Prance around. Have your own child be part of it. Have your articles and celebrations and whatever childish antics you drum up to make you feel relevant. The woman I knew twenty years ago has allowed her ego to devolve herself into a petulant child, and you do amuse me all the same. And if, by some miracle, you manage to grow a spine? You know where to find me.

The Soviet National Anthem explodes back to full volume while Ivan roars over the din of the music.

Ivan Stanislav: Boston! You hate me! This is fine. This is good! At least you are honest!

BOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Ivan Stanislav: But your champion is here regardless. And I am PROUD to do it! So for all of you here in attendance, those of you around the world, and the sycophants and cowards in the back, Intense Champion Ivan Stanislav will be watching each and every one of you. Now… on with ReVival 85!!! DYAAHAAHAA!!

The laugh booms through the arena, while Boston is absolutely beside itself.

Richard Parker: Man, can Ivan get a crowd ready for a show!

Nick Stuart: Strong words to Lindsay Troy, and to PRIME as a whole. I expect nothing less from that egomaniac! He’s even smiling!

Richard Parker: Yes, but he’s OUR egomaniac!

Ivan and the rest of The Red Army make their way up the entryway towards the back, with the hatred of the arena full of Bostonians at their back, screaming into a void. Stanislav looks completely at peace. The camera cuts to Nick and Richard. Nick twirls a pen in his fingers while Richard stands. He grabs the waist of his pants and pulls him down into his seat.

Nick Stuart: Regardless of what our Intense Champion has to say, Richard, we have a fantastic show in store for you! Crash Jackson vs. Felix Mullen…

Richard Parker: It better get better than that…

Nick Stuart: Veterans Chandler Tsonda and Bryan Dawkins against The Foot Soldiers. Big John Pepper versus a returning Nate Colton, Anna Daniels and Cancer Jiles…

Richard Parker: Cancer Jiles? It really is all downhill from Ivan Stanislav…

Nick clears his throat.

Nick Stuart: And Whoresman against Whoresman, Rob Williams, the Five Star Champion, against Daytona Diamonds!

Nick looks off camera towards the ring.

Nick Stuart: Looks like the ring has been cleared of debris, Vince Howard is present, and we’re ready to go!

Nick Stuart: Let’s get right to the action, folks.

Actually, wait before we do that.

Because we must acknowledge… SIGNS!

I’M JUST HERE FOR THE TSONDAWKINS
WHORESMEN ARE FINE
THE SNAKE PIT EATS CORN BY UNHINGING THEIR JAWS AND SWALLOWING IT THE LONG WAY
BIG JOHN PEPPER THREW MY CAR INTO A LAKE
LIES AND BLASPHEMY BIG JOHN PEPPER WOULD NEVER DEFILE A LAKE ON ONE OF HIS BELOVED PARKS WITH YOUR SHITTY CAR, MISS LIPPY
FUCK YOU NATE COLTON I WAS PROMISED COCAINE
FUCK YOU NATE COCAINE I WAS PROMISED COLTON
I’M VERY CONFUSED ABOUT WHAT I WAS PROMISED, CAN I JUST GET A CHRISTIE TO GO?
FARTHEVER CHAMP
I GOT STUCK IN TRAFFIC. WHEN’S FRED DICK vs. BOBBY DEAN?
COME ON OUT TO CLASS-ACTION STUART’S BOUNCY HOUSE EMPORIUM, JUST ACROSS THE STATE LINE
THE REVIVAL ERA HAS LASTED LONGER THAN THE CONFEDERACY, SUCK IT BIGOTS
I’M HERE FOR KRIS JENKINS

Nick Stuart: Tonight we have Felix Mullins versus Crash Jackson in what promises to be a…

Richard Parker: Shitshow.

Nick Stuart: Eloquently put as always. Somehow Felix Mullins is already in the ring.

Richard Parker: He’s been here for days I’m sure.

The arena lights drop into darkness, save for the backlights in the entryway, as a mix of curious silence and spontaneous cheers comes over the crowd. With haste, a figure emerges from the back and stands head high, fist raised, and strikes a pose for a brief second.

LEEEET’S GET READY TO RUUUUUMMMBLE

The bell dings as Volbeat’s “A Warrior’s Call” floods the airwaves and brings the lights back up. A chaotic light show takes over the entrance ramp, with flashing white and red strobe lights, before Crash jumps in the air and…

Gets knocked the fuck out.

Like legit he’s run off stage by none other than…

Richard Parker: Aw Jesus, it’s The Intruders.

They storm the ring, grab the microphone, and inadvertently knock out Felix Mullins.

Intruder #1: AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

Intruder #2: AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!

Intruder #1: WE ARE HERE TO DEBATE THE MERITS OF SOCIALISM!

Intruder #2: WITH HOT DOGS!

Yes, they have those.

Intruder #1: AND FISTS!

Yes, they have those too.

Intruder #2: WE HAVE STUDIED THE BEST THINKERS IN HISTORY!

Intruder #1: SO-CRATES!

Intruder #2: CONFUSE US!

Intruder #1: SIGMUND FROOD!

Intruder #2: VELMA DINKLEY!

Intruder #1: THAT NAKED GUY ON A ROCK!

Intruder #2: TRUE GENIUS CANNOT BE RESTRAINED BY PANTS!

Thank God these two are idiots, then.

Intruder #1: AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

Intruder #2: AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!

They left like they came.

With both Crash Jackson and Felix Mullins kneecapped by The Intruders, Jimmy Turnbull has no choice but to declare this match a no contest.

Nick Stuart: Over before it even started.

Richard Parker: Reminds me of prom.

Previously On

Max stands with his back to the camera surrounded by darkness.

Max Kael: That swine, Blaze Claymore, thought he could steal from the Kael Family and get away with it. In doing so he also stole away my face… my face.

He hisses the words as he holds up the plexiglass mask, the light above Kael glittering through the mask.

Max Kael: You made me into Masked Kael. A deformed, wretched monster that could never be seen by the light of Cecilworth’s love.

With a roar, Max throws the mask away though we never hear the sound of it hit the ground, swallowed by the void that surrounds the Mayor of Arkham.

Max Kael: … and I made him pay for it.. Heh-heh!

Twirling around with his arms stretching out, Max reveals that his face has once again been fully restored. Not just the damage to the flesh but also the black tears and minor scars that had lingered there before. A full reup, gleaming and fresh.

Max Kael: And nothing says revenge better than a life lived well! With a face as beautiful as miiiine! Hah-HAH!

We cut away to Max’s malicious laughter in the darkness.

–

…Snark Darkly Presents…

…THE NEWS…

Typical intense NEWS MUSIC plays as we’re brought to the WON ACTION NEWS TEAM STAGE. Dominating the stage, as is customary in the year 2026, is the NEWS THRONE, atop of which is seated Maxmillian Wilhelm Kael, Lead Anchor, Mayor of Arkham and passive threat to humanity.

Max Kael: WORMS of PRIME, welcome to WON ACTION NEWS! Tonight we’re coming to you live from my home state of Massachusetts, in the quasi-great city of Boston!

Muffled boos from the distant crowd.

Max Kael: Tonight my son, Sutler Reynolds-Kael, will be working the SPORTS DESK as a temp since we’ve lost our last two.

Cut over to Sutler who is leaning against the SPORTS NOOK texting on his phone. He doesn’t acknowledge the camera before we cut back to Max.

Max Kael: What a go-getter. You know he can turn a computer on all by himself? Anyway, let’s not waste this beautiful face, straight to the INTERVIEW PHASE! Time to SPIN THE WHEEL!

The INTERVIEW WHEEL manifests to the right of Max as he pushes a button causing it to spin rapidly.

It slows.

It sputters.

It finally lands on… an unexpected name.

The doors to the left side of the stage crack with eldritch energy, which flash with colors unknown and alien to the human mind. Ozone fills the stage as the doors fly open…

???: What the hell? This isn’t the locker room…

A man can be seen through the haze, carrying a heavy gym bag in his hand. He steps forward, waving his free hand in an attempt to clear the air.

???: Did I get turned around again? I swear, this is the last time I ask the Enemigos for directions.

Eventually he comes forward enough, and the smoke clears enough, for us to make out a tall, blonde, handsome man in a blue satin jacket.

Oh hey. Haven’t seen him in a while.

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!

Solid reaction for the New Diamond, appearing for the first time since his shoulder injury at Colossus. He doesn’t seem to be in the kind of high spirits we’d want for his glorious return…probably because he just wandered onto a strange set and inhaled some fumes he’ll definitely be feeling later.

Nate Colton: Tom, if this is your idea of a rib…

Finally, his eyes settle on the grinning face of one Max Kael.

Nate Colton: Oh, Christ. It’s you.

Max Kael:  Close, they call me… Maximillian Wilhelm Kael. Welcome to THE NEWS! Have a seat… heh-heh!

There is a chair next to Nate. Whether it was there before or not seems irrelevant at this point, it’s there for the sitting.

Max Kael: Take a load off, stay with us awhile! I’ve got some questions I’ve been dying to ask you.

A particularly mischievous smile stretches across Max’s face. Nate begrudgingly sits down, because there’s a certain amount of rolling with the punches one has to do in PRIME, no matter where they are.

Nate Colton: All right, let’s get this shit over with.

A low, guttural giggle escapes Max’s throat as he leans back in his throne, pleased that Colton was playing along.

Max Kael: So tell me, Colton… not that long ago I made a promise on Jabber to do something or somethat to your delightful little family. If you had to lose one member of your family, who would it be? Who’s your least favorite little Colton maggot, hmm?

If you were to spend a week designing a question whose sole purpose was to piss off Nate Colton, you couldn’t have done a better job than Max. The New Diamond is already snarling, and there’s quite a lot of bass in his voice when he responds.

Nate Colton: Jesus H. Christ. I ain’t been back ten minutes, and someone’s already coming at my family. You want me to knock your teeth out now, or wait until I’m free for the night?

Max Kael: Please, it’s Max Kael. Or Maximillian Wilhelm Kael. Speaking of my teeth.

He turns to Camera 2, producing a bag of teeth.

Max Kael: Brandon Youngblood, you owe me a sizable fortune for this bag of my teeth. I AM OWED.

Kael turns back to Nate and Camera 1.

Max Kael: Sorry about that, anyway, you were telling me the least valued Colton Family member?

Colton is still staring at the bag, mouthing “what the fuck?” at it, before snapping his attention back to Kael.

Nate Colton: You’ve probably died a couple times since then, so maybe you don’t remember. But the last guy to really hurt someone in my family was Ivan, and as much as he bitches about the result, not even he can deny that I handed his ass to him for it. Now, most folks would see that and be smart enough to back off. But if you really wanna play that game? Fuck it. My least favorite Colton is me.

He presses his hands down on the desk and rises from the chair, staring Max dead in the eyes the whole time.

Nate Colton: What are you gonna do about it?

Max stares at Nate in awkward silence, the smile on  his face twisted into a frown.

Max Kael: Damn, that was actually a really good answer. I don’t have a good follow up for that, I don’t have a follow up for that.

Kael turns to look at Sutler, who does not return the look as he remains occupied by his phone.

Max Kael: I don’t have a good foll-. He doesn’t even care.

Tossing the bag of teeth away, Max shrugs, exasperated by his guest already.

Max Kael: Most of my follow up questions were agreeing with you that it was Beverly Colton, your sixth removed Cousin from Chicago who is a career Hot Dog Roller technician for Seven-Eleven before twisted in the conversation into it being you, Nate Colton, but yeah.

He shrugs again, hands landing flatly in his lap.

Max Kael: Good job ruining the bit. Stupid Nate Colton. How’s it like being the insufferable hero all the time, Mister Goody-Two-Shoes?

Nate Colton: It’s a pain in my ass. But someone’s gotta do it, just so the rest of you goddamn jackals don’t tear this place apart.

He really should sit down here, but Colton has no sense of decorum. It’s enough to make one scoff, honestly.

Nate Colton: Y’know, Max, I’ve seen you play with the rest of PRIME like they’re toys you’re trying to break for a while now. I haven’t stepped in ‘cause I trust them to handle their business…and honestly, I had my own shit going on. But now I’m back with a fresh start and a clean slate. So the next time you think about taking your crayons outside the lines, know that I’ll be there to stop you.

The frown on Max’s face twist once again. It seems that Nate Colton knows exactly what to say to turn that frown, upside down.

Max Kael: Oh noooo. Nate Colton’s the new sheriff in town is he?! We’ll I’m the mayor and so long as I sit here and you sit… or stand down there, you’re just pushin’ air.

He jabs a long, accusatory finger at Nate from atop his NEWS THRONE before slinking back into it, his bravado seeming spent for now.

Max Kael: … or maybe I’ll just stick to abstract art, where the lines blur. Heh-heh… Sheriff.

Nate Colton: Mm-hmm. Just so you’re aware.

With that, he heads back to the mysterious doors. They start to crackle again…

Nate Colton: Knock that shit off.

They…don’t. If anything, it gets worse.

But eventually, they open, and the New Diamond leaves.

The Mayor of Arkham glares at the two doors where Colton had just made his exit. They rattle, creak and shudder for a moment before slamming shut.

Quick as a hiccup Max plasters on that horrible smile of his, sickly green eyes staring into the camera.

Max Kael: And now to Sulter with SPORTS!

We cut to the SPORTS NOOK but it is now empty.

There is no Sutler Reynolds-Kael.

Max Kael: … Well, where the hell is HE now!?

–

We return to Max Kael who has a somber look on his face.

Not, like, a real good one? It’s definitely him doing his best to look somber. Like, not with much effort or success, but it’s what he’s trying to look like.

Max Kael: At Culture Shock, the Snake Pit, like a Hydra or a King Ghidorah with Tony Gamble as the tail or some shit. A chimerical nightmare borne from the dark mind of Cancer Jiles. When he first approached me about this nefarious Frankensteinian monstrosity, I told him it could not be done.

His brows arch up as he stifles a laugh.

Max Kael: I doubted. Boy. Was I wrong.

Smash to Camera 2 where Kael angrily shakes his bag of teeth at the camera before returning to Camera 1.

Max Kael: WORMs of PRIME you were all there to see our glorious victory, but you didn’t have a chance to share in the aftermath of that historic, some are calling it even biblical, win. As PRIME’s most trusted source in NEWS and a hell of a great reporter, I managed to get behind the scenes and infiltrate my own team’s celebrations directly following our victory… all the way up until tonight!

We cut away as ominous music plays.

We’re shown the elimination of every one of Youngblood’s team. Suspiciously none of the Snake Pit’s eliminations are shown.

As Daytona Diamonds asserts himself as the one true cowboy of PRIME, triumphant music begins to play. That music slowly blends into the deliciously warm tones of a familiar song…

“Thank you for being a friend… TGravel down the road and back again…”

We’re treated to a shot of the Snake Pit at Disney World, shoving children out of the way of park rides as they go straight to the front. At one point Max headbutts a father and Disney security quickly rushes in to protect the Mayor of Arkham when he flashes his 10k VIP badge.

“Your heart is true, you’re a pall and a confidant…”

Now the Snake Pit has infiltrated a children’s hospital where they’re apparently stealing wishes from the patients using some kind of Wish Stealing gun designed by Snark Darkly. The key is to get them before they actually name the wish.

Awful people.

“And if you threw a party, inviting everyone you knew!”

Max and Daytona are standing on the side of a mountain. Max hands over a golden key before weaving toward his Zeppelin, THE SPIRIT OF ARKHAM/THE GLORY OF ME Airship. It seems the Mayor of Akham has gifted the Rhinestone Cowboy his zeppelin.

For being a friend or some shit.

“You would see the biggest gift would be from me and the card attached would say…”

The Snake Pit, hanging out of the zeppelin, smash through a wedding, raiding it for alcohol and food before absconding back up into the sky. They repeat these raids through orphanages and family clinics before landing in Boston.

“Thank you for being a friiiieeeeend!”

The video ends as Max Kael, Cancer Jiles, Tony Gamble and Daytona Diamonds stroll out onto the NEWS stage.

Max Kael: Let’s get this party started!…or continued!

The three others hoot and cheer and start to walk off as Max turns toward the camera with a smile.

Max Kael: … and that’s… THE NEWS!

Cut to black.

A knock comes a-rapping at the Steel Door O’Doom.

Lindsay Troy takes a long sip from an extra-large Dunkin’ iced coffee (not the one in a bucket; she’s not a heathen), and over her shoulder, hanging down her back is the literal pelt of Ivan Stanislav, or a very close facsimile thereof. She admires the silky smoothness of the hair and makes a mental note to wash it thoroughly later.

However, before she can react to the sound on her door, Scott Hunter saunters in wearing a thick, fluffy, pink Russian hat with flaps that cover his totally normal-sized ears. In his hands is a thick manila folder, also known as a ‘dossier,’ that contains… well, he’s about to tell you what it contains.

Scott Hunter: I have compiled a two-hundred-page dossier on Red Army weaknesses, including charts, diagrams, four limericks, and two jaunty sea shanties. I also have a one-page pamphlet with a paragraph about their strengths.

He slams the folder, or “dossier,” down on her desk and flips it open dramatically.

Scott Hunter: As you can see, the retreat was a masterclass in efficiency. Note the aggressively symmetrical placement of seventeen unplugged extension cords, which encourages mindfulness about unused potential. Check out the wall-sized whiteboard covered entirely in arrows pointing to other arrows, a clear roadmap if you really think about it, and the strategic absence of chairs to promote dynamic standing ideation despite everyone quietly sitting on the floor anyway.

Troy takes another long sip and watches as Scott points to a place among his scribblings.

Scott Hunter: Here are my detailed notes on the inspirational value of a clock with no hands. Ivan said on more than one occasion that time is a suggestion, you see. In my drawing here, you see the library of self-help books arranged strictly by color rather than topic since ‘visual coherence equals mental coherence,’ and the ceremonial bell rung every hour for no discernible reason other than tradition. In fact, I left convinced that the mismatched mugs labeled with incorrect names, the thermostat locked at a spiritually challenging sixty-four degrees, and the printed agenda that simply read ‘ALIGN’ twelve times were all subtle productivity hacks, even though nothing of substance actually happened for three days.

Scott smiles, very pleased with himself, and is nearly 47% sure she will now give him a raise or possibly some Raisinets, which are sometimes better than a raise, to be honest, depending on the batch.

Lindsay Troy: Scott, this is impressive.

Scott knew this was impressive. Tell him something he doesn’t know, why don’t you?

Lindsay Troy: It’s impressive because it actually isn’t the least bit helpful in any way whatsoever.

Troy looks up at him stoically, then takes another long drag off the straw to her delicious coffee drink.

Scott Hunter: Oh.

Lindsay Troy: But I admire the attempt.

He stares at her, not sure what to do. She stares back. She drinks more coffee and keeps staring. He keeps staring. She blinks. He looks at her drink.

Scott Hunter: So… um… big gulp, huh?

Troy nods.

For a moment, Scott stays quiet. Then…

Scott Hunter: Welp… see you later!

…he turns with a grand gesture and heads through the door out into the hall, closing the door behind him.

Troy watches the door for a moment, blinks again, sips her coffee again, and admires her Ivan-pelt again, petting it for good measure.

The PA is overtaken by “Kick Push” by Lupe Fiasco (Foot Soldiers Remix). Without delay, the tandem of Kris Roswell and Satan Jones step out through the entryway, with the latter holding out his phone and actively livestreaming through their entrance.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following tag team contest is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, competing at a combined weight of four-hundred and twenty-five pounds… the team of Kris Roswell and Satan Jones… THE FOOT SOLDIERS!!

Nick Stuart: ReVival continues, ladies and gentlemen, and we’ve got tag team action next up on the docket! Making their way to the ring right now are the young duo of Kris Roswell and Satan Jones, better known as the Foot Soldiers, and they’ll be facing one hell of a challenge tonight against a team of experienced PRIME veterans in Bryan Dawkins and Chandler Tsonda!

Richard Parker: Is that goofball STILL livestreaming?!

Nick Stuart: And what if he does, Rich? Are you perhaps a bit jealous that he surpassed you in followers?

Richard Parker: What?! P’FUH!! I could care less about that! And he won’t have more followers for much longer, once that check I sent to the North Korean Click Farm finally clears!

The Soldiers hit the ring, Roswell continuing to mug with the crowd while Jones does a 360 with his phone held overhead so his audience can take in the capacity crowd. Then…

“I said ‘kiss me, you’re beautiful’
“These are truly the last days'”

The weathered voice from the beginning of Godspeed You! Black Emperor’s “Dead Flag Blues” fades into the short acoustic section that begins Coheed & Cambria’s “Welcome Home.” After twelve seconds, the guitars thunder in and start to kick ass, as gold and green pyro goes off in perfect timing with the power riffs.

As the PRIME*View displays the words “Model Citizen” in white over a black background, Tsonda swaggers out from behind the curtain. He soaks up the fan’s reaction at the top of the ramp, smirk painted across his face.

Then, a moment later…

The arena’s lights fade to black momentarily before exploding in a pyrotechnic display of orange and teal fireworks. Some good old fashioned white ones are thrown in for good measure.

“WOO HOO”

“Song 2” by Blur blasts through the PA, the homage to the glory days of the early 2000s serenading the crowd to sing along. Out steps Bryan Dawkins, clad in his signature white sunglasses with orange and teal lenses and flashing a little smirk to the PRIME faithful.

When the two partners converge on the stage, the bumps fists, and make their way down the ramp side by side.

Vince Howard: And their opponents, fighting at a combined weight of four-hundred and nineteen pounds… the team of BRYAN DAWKINS and CHANDLER TSONDA… or, as I’ve taken to calling them… TSON-DAWK!!

Nick Stuart: Dawkins and Tsonda on their way to the ring now! Folks, this is hardly a random pairing of two great PRIME talents! Chandler and Bryan are former Amigos of the Revolution era!

Richard Parker: But I doubt either one of them expected the reunion to go down like this! The Amigos was a long time ago, Nick! Tonight, these guys are just hoping they can still hang with the new young bucks in PRIME!

Nick Stuart: Both former Amigos are coming off individual defeats in the Squad Goals team events of Culture Shock, with the added loss of the Intense Championship weighing on Dawkins. Undoubtedly, they’re looking to change their luck by earning a win here tonight, but it remains to be seen if the passage of time has affected their team synergy!

Tsonda and Dawkins slaps hands with fans reaching across the barricade as they make their way to the ring, confident staring down their younger counterparts waiting for them between the ropes. They enter the ring together, and both teams keep to their respective corners while referee Elvis Nixon makes his final checks and runs down the rules to all participants.

Nick Stuart: Nixon looks ready to get this underway, as he cues for the bell!

DING DING

Nick Stuart: And here we go! The Tsuperstar is volunteering to begin on behalf of the veterans, while kicking aficionado Kris Roswell will start off for the Soldiers!

Somewhat unsurprisingly, the younger Roswell kicks things off with… a kick. Specifically a high angle axe kick, which the Viet Viper deftly sidesteps. Tsonda quickly traps Kris into a rear waistlock. A cursory attempt to wrest the younger athlete to the mat ends with Roswell forcing Chandler’s hands apart and breaking loose by way of a jumping double mule kick that hits the Model Citizen in the abdomen. Tsonda drops to a knee and holds his midsection in pain as Roswell rolls to his feet and hits the ropes.

Nick Stuart: Kris Roswell in motion… goes up for a DROPKICK–NO!! Chandler steps to the side and REVERSES right into a backbreaker!

Richard Parker: Saw it coming from a mile away!

Nick Stuart: Tsonda rolls Roswell onto his shoulders!

One!

Two!

Kris kicks out!

Chandler scrambles to his feet. As soon as he raises his head, Roswell’s heel just BARELY grazes the tip of his nose. Startled, Tsonda jumps to his feet and backs away.

Nick Stuart: WHOA! Spinning heel by Kris Roswell only NARROWLY misses its mark!

Richard Parker: The Tsuperstar looks TSPOOKED after dodging that bullet!

Tsonda breathes a sigh of relief. Roswell beckons him back into the fight with an impressive series of standing kicks in the air. Impressed by the show of spirit, the Model Citizen chuckles, then goes over to the corner where Dawkins is standing by.

Nick Stuart: Tag made to Bryan Dawkins, who will try his hand at this young upstart!

The former Flyin’ Hawaiian storms the ring with the grounded ferocity of a pissed off honey badger. Roswell tries to meet him with a low kick, but Dawkins doesn’t give a shit, quickly snatching the younger wrestler by the ankle, flipping him onto his back by way of a dragon screw, and setting him firmly into a cross ankle lock.

Nick Stuart: Submission attempt put in place by Bryan Dawkins, keenly going right after what is arguably Kris Roswell’s greatest weapon!

Richard Parker: Savvy vets, showing these Yeunglings that they still have much to learn about this sport!

Nick Stuart: Roswell is howling in pain, as Bryan’s BJJ mastery is being put to use to wring that ankle joint!

Kris reaches for the ropes, but they’re several feet away. Dawkins torques the hold even harder. Without any other option, Roswell decides to free himself in the only way that comes naturally to him: using the free leg, he kicks at Dawkins.

Nick Stuart:  Kris getting some heel shots into the exposed head of Bryan Dawkins… and he SLIPS FREE as soon as his grip slips! Roswell, crossing over to his corner… and tag is made to Satan Jones!

Richard Parker: Really HOOFING IT into the ring!

Jones meets the former Intense Champion as he gets to his feet and lights him up with a series of punches. Dawkins quickly gets an arm up to block one and promptly returns fire. Satan reacts to the blow with zest, and in an instant, the two are throwing down.

Nick Stuart: This match descends into fisticuffs as Bryan Dawkins and Satan Jones go toe to toe with each other! Right and lefts just being thrown with reckless abandon!

Richard Parker: And neither one is backing down!

Nick Stuart: Elvis Nixon is desperately trying to maintain some order here, but his words are falling on deaf ears!

While the ref pleads with the two brawlers to give the boxing a rest and get back to some good ol’ fashioned wrasslin’ action, Dawkins suddenly ducks a left hook out of nowhere and grabs Jones from behind.

Nick Stuart: Bryan Dawkins into a GERMAN SUPLEX, and the SHOULDERS ARE DOWN!

One!

Two!

KICKOUT by Satan Jones!

Both men scramble to their feet, with age clearly not being a factor for Dawkins as he gets to Jones first and wraps his arms around his ribs. But before he can complete the belly-to-belly, Satan fights his way out by planting both palms into the former Intense Champion’s chest and PUSHING with all his might!

Nick Stuart: BIG SHOVE BY SATAN JONES!!

Richard Parker: THAT’S THE MOST DEVASTATING MOVE I’VE SEEN IN MY LIFE!!

Dawkins sells it like he’s been shot in the chest by a cannon, bouncing freely off his back and shoulders and sprawling wildly toward his corner. As he goes down, veteran instincts kick in at the last second, and he spots Chandler’s outstretched had from the corner of his eye.

Nick Stuart: Tag out to Chandler Tsonda! Satan Jones charges! Tsonda up on the ropes… into a SPRINGBOARD HURRICANRANA that takes Jones to the mat!

One!

Two!

SHOULDER UP!

Jones powers up to his feet. Before he can get all the way there, however, the Tsuperstar seizes him from behind and runs him into the nearby turnbuckles. Satan staggers while the Hall of Famer slips out to the apron, climbs to the top rope, and takes the younger wrestler by the head with timing and precision of a seasoned veteran. Before Jones can react, he’s taken to the mat with a forward flipping neckbreaker.

Nick Stuart: RUNWAY VAULT by Tsonda! And he HOOKS THE LEG!

ONE!

TWO!

THR–NO!! Jones got the shoulder up again!

Richard Parker: But look at that cocky smirk on his face!

Nick Stuart: Confidence is showing strong on the money-making mug of the Model Citizen, as the veteran wrestlers begin to gain a foothold in this match over the Foot Soldiers! Tag made back to Bryan Dawkins, as the former partners try and get a rhythm going!

Chandler parks Satan against the turnbuckles while Dawkins steps in and softens him up further with some shoulder blocks against the turnbuckles. A quick tag brings Tsonda back into the ring, and the former Amigos from the Revolution era go right into motion, taking Jones by either arm and sending him running into the ropes.

Nick Stuart: Here comes Satan Jones off the ropes… DOUBLE BACK DROP by TsonDawk! Chandler makes the cover, just as Bryan absolutely LEVELS Kris Roswell off the apron with a forearm!

ONE!

TWO!

THR–JONES SHOVES HIS WAY OUT AGAIN!!

Dawkins goes back to the apron, where Tsonda meets him for another tag out. Back in the ring, Bryan grabs hold of Satan Jones by the hair horns to pull him up the rest of the way and tuck him into a headlock.

Richard Parker: Those horns are a lot sturdier than I thought they’d be…

Nick Stuart: Dawkins looking for a BULLDOG… NO!! SHOVED OFF BY SATAN JONES!!

Dawkins runs uncontrollably to the Foot Soldiers’ corner, just as Kris Roswell pulls himself back up to the apron. With perfect timing, he repays the favor from Bryan’s forearm with — what else? — a kick.

Nick Stuart: And Dawkins runs directly into a HIGH KICK over the ropes by Roswell! And a running CHOP BLOCK from JONES as he staggers back cuts him right down to the mat!

Richard Parker: He SHOVED his knee out from under him!

Nick Stuart: Satan Jones has the chance to make the tag here!

Satan leaps for his corner, and the TAG is made to Kris Roswell, who hits the ring and meets Dawkins with a SOCCER KICK to the head before he can push his way to his feet! Tsensing things aren’t tsecure, Tsonda tsurges into the tsquared circle, only to run tsmack dab into a tspinning heel kick that tslices the air.

Nick Stuart: Kris Roswell in the ring like a house of fire, proving that the Foot Soldiers are still alive and KICKING in this match!

Richard Parker: Heavy emphasis on that second word!

Nick Stuart: Dawkins up… ENZUIGIRI KICK puts him back down! Here comes Tsonda… DROPKICK TSENDS HIM OVER THE ROPES to the OUTSIDE!

Roswell tags out to Jones. A sharp kick to the rings motivates the former Intense Champion to get to his feet faster. Satan Jones grabs him from behind and shoves him HARD to the corner where Dawkins’s chest hits the turnbuckles. He bumps off his back and rolls to his feet, just as Roswell steps in and levels him with a stunning superkick!

Nick Stuart: THE SUPEREST OF ALL KICKS!! Dawkins goes down, and Satan Jones flops over onto his chest, SHOVING HIM down into a pin!

ONE!

TWO!

BROKEN UP by Chandler Tsonda, who slips into the ring at the last second!

Roswell goes after Tsonda, but is immediately stopped by the official Nixon as the Viet Viper promptly returns to his corner after breaking up the pin. Kris begrudgingly goes to his own corner, and eagerly calls to be tagged back in. Without a moment’s thought, Jones walks over and concedes to his partner’s request.

Richard Parker: Kick Kickswell really wanting back into the action.

Nick Stuart: Kris Roswell is tagged back in, and he immediately throws himself on Dawkins!

Before Bryan is up, Roswell meets him with a chop to the back to double him over, and immediately follows up with a kick to the face…

Nick Stuart: Roswell with the Look Down, Now Look–NO!! Dawkins CATCHES THE LEG!

Richard Parker: Are you SURPRISED, Nick! I mean, GEE, I wonder what the KICK GUY is gonna do next?!

Nick Stuart: Dawkins sends Kris into a twirl… and right as he comes around, BRYAN LOCKS IN THE UNDENIABLE!! HE’S GOT THE D’ARCE CHOKE LOCKED IN!! ALL HE’S GOTTA DO IS TAKE HIM TO THE MAT, AND THIS IS OVER!!

But rather than happening, Kris Roswell KICKS off the mat, flipping himself and Dawkins over onto their backs in a place where he’s much closer to the ropes.

Nick Stuart: ROSWELL GETS TO THE ROPES!

Richard Parker: Saved by the FOOT, of all things!

Nick Stuart: The foot on the bottom rope keeps the Foot Soldiers’ hopes alive in this match, as Elvis Nixon calls for the break! Dawkins reluctantly makes the break! That was quick thinking by Kris Roswell!

The former Flyin’ Hawaiian tags out to Chandler, and nods to the top turnbuckle. Picking up what he’s putting down, Tsonda leaps to the top while Dawkins meets the kick-happy Roswell with a low kick of his own to double him over, and promptly scoops him over his shoulder.

Nick Stuart: Dawkins and Tsonda are cooking up a double team maneuver here! The Model Citizen is on the top rope, and the BRUH has Roswell up on his shoulder!

Richard Parker: Taking this kid down for good, kicking and screaming!

Nick Stuart: NO! Satan Jones hits the ring, and SHOVES Dawkins from behind! Roswell FALLS to his feet!

Dawkins gets his hands up and stops himself from crashing into the corner, and potentially knocking Tsonda off balance. Instead, Chandler LAUNCHES himself off the top rope…

Nick Stuart: TSONDA OFF THE TOP ROPE WITH A FLYING CROSS BODY ONTO BOTH FOOT SOLDIERS…

…

…CAUGHT!!

Roswell and Jones brace themselves in time to catch the diving Tsuperstar in their arms and remain on their feet! Sparing each other a quick glance, they immediately get the same idea, and fling the Model Citizen back over their heads.

Nick Stuart: DOUBLE FALLAWAY SLAM BY THE FOOT SOLDIERS!!

Richard Parker: A move with NO SHOVING and NO KICKING?! I don’t believe it!

The Soldiers scramble to their feet in the center of the ring, seeing Dawkins pulling himself up by the ropes on one side and Tsonda slowly recovering on the other. With a quick do-si-do, they send each other running in either direction.

Nick Stuart: Jones and Roswell into motion… Satan Jones COLLIDES with Bryan Dawkins with a running SHOVE that sends them both over the ropes to the outside! Kris Roswell with a kick RIGHT FOR CHANDLER’S HEAD–DUCKED!!

The Viet Viper spins the younger wrestler around and pulls him up into the fireman’s carry.

Nick Stuart: Tsonda COUNTERS with that veteran instinct! Now Kris Roswell goes up to the shoulders… TSONDA LOOKING FOR THE NARCISSIST’S NOOSE–

…

ROSWELL COUNTERS WITH A CRUCIFIX ROLL-UP!

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!!

Richard Parker: KICKED OUT!

Nick Stuart: Did he? NO!! NO!! NIXON IS SAYING HE GOT THE HAND DOWN FOR THE THREE BEFORE THE KICK OUT! IT’S OVER!

DING DING DING

Tsonda shoots to his feet, grabbing his head in frustration. Roswell sits up, stunned and mouth agape. He’s joined by Satan Jones, who slides into the ring and immediately begins celebrating as “Kick Push” hits the PA once more.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the winners of the match, by pinfall… KRIS ROSWELL and SATAN JONES… THEEE FOOOOOOT SOOOLDIIIIIIEEEEEERRRSSS!!!

Nick Stuart: A quick reversal from OUTTANOWHERE, and the Foot Soldiers come away with a surprise victory over two seasoned PRIME veterans!

Richard Parker: If I were Chandler Tsonda, I’d be tearing Elvis’ silly pompadour off his head for that fast count!

Nick Stuart: Tsonda was just a HAIR too late on that kickout! Nevertheless, despite the result, the former Amigos more than proved they still have the chops from the old days! Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to translate into a win over this young and up-and-coming team of Roswell and Jones!

Satan livestreams the celebration shared between the Foot Soldiers, while Dawkins and Tsonda regroup and shake their heads in disappointment.

And ReVival moves on…

Small sections of the PRIME faithful are already singing the song in anticipation.

“Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond kicks into PRIMEview and around every corner of the sold-out arena.

It is immediately met with a rapturous ovation from the crowd.

It’s deafening.

Richard Parker: Listen to the PRIMates!

Nick Parker: Danny Christie, new Alias Champion, here we go!

HAAANNNNDDDSSSS

Richard Parker: Are you singing with me? REACHIN’ OUT..!

TOUCHING MEEE

Richard Parker: I can’t hear you!

TOUCHIN’ YOOOOUUUUUUUU

The sellout crowd, ringside staff and even the hotdog man are belting this cult classic in total unison. Euphoria completely takes over and out steps Danny Christie on the entranceway.

Also singing.

Basking in the immediate adrenaline hit.

SWEEEETTT CARROOOLLLIINNNEEE

Richard Parker: DUH DUH DUH

Nick Parker: Listen to this crowd!

The Alias Championship is fastened around his waist- not over his shoulder, not in his hand- around his waist, where it belongs. Danny throws a sharp combination into the air, shadow boxing his way down the ramp, bouncing on his toes with that coiled, fighter’s energy that never fully switches off. He peels left toward the barricade and a cluster of fans surge forward. He slaps hands, grabs one kid by the back of the head and touches foreheads with him like a soldier. A woman near the front is in tears. He points directly at her. She gets worse.

He rolls under the bottom rope and pops straight back to his feet, unbuckling the Alias Championship and hoisting it above his head as he rotates slowly, drinking in every corner of the building.

The music cuts.

The crowd does not.

SWEEEETTT CARROOOLLLIINNNEEE

They carry it themselves, completely a cappella, completely unprompted. The production team make no move to restart it. There is nothing to do but let it happen.

Richard Parker: They don’t need the song!

Danny soaks up the adulation and seems in no hurry to ruin this moment. It remains very authentic and raw. He has a few false starts with the microphone going to his mouth but can’t find an opening to speak.

A “Fair Game” chant thunders into action.

He releases a smirk.

Nick Parker: Danny Christie.. never the emotional cat.

Richard Parker: But he can’t help it, listen to this crowd!

With a slow tension build, the microphone goes up to his mouth once more. Danny’s eyes lock deep into the hard-cam with a laser focus like never before.

Danny Christie: …………Cheers.

Another pop.

Nick Parker: A mutual love it seems.

Richard Parker: Always been a man of few words.

Danny Christie: But it’s not just a cheers to you. It’s a cheers to…. My wife at home, little John and Jade Christie- who should be in bed- my coaches, my family..

He pulls the mic down away from his mouth. Then right back up again, instantly.

Danny Christie: Am I missing anybody?

He allows the fans to speak. Which they emphatically reply with a chant of: Pepper.

Danny Christie: Alright…. cheers you big park ranger doofus.

The PRIME faithful cheers with overwhelming delight. And in this moment Danny can’t help but snigger.

Somewhere in the third row, a voice carries. The words don’t reach the broadcast clearly but Danny’s head snaps toward the source before the syllable is even finished. A heavyset man grins wide, tapping the back of one hand repeatedly against his open palm.

Danny Christie: What did you say, you prick?

Beat.

Danny Christie: Hey, I may have tapped out- but so did your daddy when the stick turned blue.

Instant pop.

Danny Christie: Go on, get the fuck out of here!

The camera jolts, unexpectedly. With an awkward panic consuming the PRIME production team no doubt.

Nick Parker: Some unauthorised turn of events, folks.

Richard Parker: The guy is obviously referencing Danny Christie tapping out at Culture Shock in Squad Games. It’s not the first time, either.

This has incensed the current Alias Champion as he quickly transitions into fight mode, presented in his tone and demeanour.

Danny Christie: But like I was saying. Before your man gets all mushy and starts thanking everyone down to Joshua Taro Freedom. Let me tell you this-

Richard Parker: He’s a real fighting historian. No kidding.

Danny Christie: The open top bus parade isn’t happening. The party ends and dies right here. Because listen… this is day one.

A cheer comes from the PRIME faithful in acknowledgement.

Danny Christie: And if this Alias Championship is all about the namesake, with every respect in the world.. whether you’re Tony Gamble, Kerry Kuroyama or anyone..

Nick Parker: Two former champions right there.

Danny Christie: Danny Christie can only be Danny Christie.

A “Fair Game” chant rumbles again, but he presses on.

Danny Christie: And it’s my name that is on this. Treating it with the respect it rightfully deserves. To honour it.. to have and to hold, in sickness and in health. Till death do us part.

Nick Parker: He’s got that crazy look in his eyes again.

Richard Parker: He’s a Roman gypsy traveller.. they’re all crazy!

Danny Christie: So this is a message to the entire PRIME roster. I’m putting you all on blast. This is my division. This is my house.. and I don’t care if you’re a big Russian doll or a lunatic with a bag full of teeth- you’re all getting it!

You want a piece of this? A piece of the gold? Not a hope. Because it’s my name that’s on the line here and if any of you sausages want a shot then no problem. Let’s settle it.. let’s make it fair.

Nick Parker: Here we go, the new stipulation for the Alias Championship.

Richard Parker: Well if the PRIME rumor mill is anything to go by.. it’ll be a bra and panties ladder match in hell.

Nick Parker: I wouldn’t go that far but “Fair Game” Danny Christie has promised a PRIME first.

Danny Christie: You want to know what Fair Game looks like? Really looks like?

He begins to pace, with methodical pacing.

Danny Christie: It’s not a cage. It’s not a ladder. It’s not some gimmick cooked up in a boardroom to shift tickets and get the social media numbers up. No pyro. No entrance ramp. No ring announcer in a dickie bow telling you the rules.

He stops.

Danny Christie: Because there are no rules. There never were. That’s the lie this industry sells you.

Nick Parker: Where is he going with this?

Danny Christie: I’ve been in wars. Proper ones. And I’ll tell you what separated the men from the pretenders every single time. Not the lights. Not the crowd. Not the contract on the table. It was this-

He taps his chest twice.

Danny Christie: What you’re made of when there’s nothing else. No safety net. No smoke machine. No twenty foot LED screen telling everyone what to feel.

He looks directly into the hard-cam.

Danny Christie: So whoever steps up for this championship.. we’re not doing it here. We’re not doing it in an arena. We’re doing it where fights have always been settled in this part of the world. Before promoters. Before television. Before any of this.

A murmur ripples through the crowd.

Danny Christie: On a field. Fresh air. Mud under your boots if it’s been raining and it probably has. Hay bales for a boundary if you even need one. No canvas, no ropes, no pyro going off in your face. Just two men and a piece of gold and whoever is still standing at the end of it.

He raises both fists briefly. Almost like an exhibit.

Danny Christie: And these. That’s it. That’s all it’s ever needed to be. No equaliser. No insurance policy. You let your fists go and we find out the honest answer. No pinfalls. No submissions. You’re done when your body has got nothing left to give and your heart finally tells you to stay down.

He lets that breathe for a moment.

Richard Parker: …is he saying what I think he’s saying?

Danny Christie: As your proud Alias Champion, I’m challenging any and all of you to an……….

Beat.

Danny Christie: …………Old Fashioned Straightener!

The crowd erupts.

Danny Christie: A proper one. Old school. The kind your granddad sorted his business out with and never talked about again. Bring whoever you want. Send whoever you’ve got. I’ll be on that field waiting.

He drops the mic to his side without letting it go.

Nick Parker: An Old Fashioned Straightener. Contested on farmland. I have never in my career called anything like it.

Richard Parker: I don’t think anyone has.

Nick Parker: Danny Christie rewriting the rulebook on what an Alias Championship defence even looks like.

Richard Parker: Or burning the rulebook entirely.

Backstage. In a hallway not so far down from Argyle Position. A man in a mask dressed in business casual, khakis and a collared golf shirt, looks over a runsheet like he’s not expecting to be on camera tonight.

Because The Anglo Luchador, fresh off double duty at Culture Shock, wanted to take a show off.

Ha.

There are no days off in PRIME.

NONE.

Especially when smartasses with the eternal urge to troll roam the hallways.

Like one who calls out to the Luchador while he’s not looking.

Voice: Oh good, already preparing for a role out of the ring. Are we penciling you in for a retirement match at UltraViolence?

The Luchador turns around and groans like it’s a reflex.

TAL: Goddammit. What do you want, Tony?

Tony Gamble flashes a smile, and not just the one he’s got permanently on his mug in scar form. No, this one is in its phase two shit-eating stage. He is also not dressed for action, but his show off was not his decision. Still in his OUR INTENSE CHAMPION t-shirt, The Grin casually approaches the eternal slumberer with one hand tucked into the pocket of his black slacks.

Tony Gamble: Nothing at all, I was just on my way to another victory party and got blessed with such a great opportunity that I would be a fool to pass up. And while I occasionally play one on Jabber, we both know I am no fool.

The Luchador groans.

TAL: Which one? For Ivan winning the Intense Championship, or for Jiles’ Squad Goal win?

The Luchador puts his fingers onto the bridge of his nose and pinches, trying to offset Excedrin Headache #98072938 of the year so far.

TAL: You know what, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. I just want to make sure the pyro is in place for the next match.

Tony nods.

Tony Gamble: Well don’t let me stop you, I’m all for you making sure my boy Pepper looks good out there.

A pause.

Tony Gamble: Well, not really my boy, more like an acquaintance. He said hi in the hallway once.

Another pause, a brief one.

Tony Gamble: Anyway, who you planning to have send you off on your retirement?

TAL: Oh Tony, Tony, my sweet summer child. Luchadores don’t retire. We wrestle forever, I thought they would’ve told you that when we were down in Mexico.

The Grin is unimpressed.

TAL: But I figured you wouldn’t know that because if you were smart enough to pick up on things, you’d know that Big John Pepper would never use pyro in his entrance because he cares so much about the forest that he wouldn’t risk even one ember floating on a breath of a breeze threaten a single tree.

He puts the runsheet down.

TAL: But for real, Tone, do you just like pressing buttons to press them, or are you trying still to cope from Cancer leaving you and Big Hess like two Odd Couple-ass babies on the doorstep of the Red Army and then jetting?

Tony Gamble: Honestly, I was too busy ordering cases of bottled water on that trip to Mexico to even bother checking up on the Luchador lore.

He shudders at the thought of what transpired when he drank from the tap in his hotel room. He almost missed.

Tony Gamble: And while I do enjoy pressing buttons for the hell of it, I’m not very fond of people pressing mine. Not that I can’t handle it, but moreover because I feel that type of behavior is beneath someone of your high stature. I mean, not everyone can rub elbows with the boss lady like you just did.

He snickers.

Tony Gamble: But you best be careful, the brown might stand out on your mask.

The Luchador laughs.

TAL: Oh man, that’s funny stuff. Listen, why don’t you go say that to Lindz directly. I haven’t seen you shoved in a broom closet in awhile. Or just go to whatever victory party you’re headed to because while this has been a hoot, I still have work to do.

Tony Gamble: Tell her that she needs to wipe better… I guess I could, but she’s probably busy trying to convince Danny Ferguson to come back and boost her ego with another win over an old friend.

Flashing a genuine smile, the Permascar Superstar begins to walk in the direction of his original destination.

Tony Gamble: Have fun working, Loser. I mean, Luchador.

Gamble walks off, and the Luchador picks the runsheet back up and just groans.

TAL: Never changes, ugh.

We move elsewhere.

The Whorehouse.

By definition, a place of fun and debauchery, a hive of scum and villainy. And right now? It sounds like it. Music. Loud. Too loud. There’s bass behind the door. We’re talkin’ real bass. The kind that rattles drywall and makes your fillings feel like they’re about to jump out of your teeth.

And beneath that bass, there’s laughter. Not the hollow kind. Not the kind you fake between beer sips and half-hearted jokes. No. This is real. And that’s a problem.

Rob Williams stops just short of the door, followed by Anna Daniels. Fred Dick almost walks into both of them because spatial awareness is more of a suggestion than a skill.

Fred Dick: …yo, is that–

Anna tilts her head, listening like there’s something underneath it. Something off.

Anna Daniels: Oh, that is interesting.

Rob says nothing. But his jaw tightens. Because he recognizes that laugh. And that? That feels like a knife in the back. Fred leans in closer, pressing his ear to the door like it might whisper secrets directly into his skull.

Fred Dick: …they got, like… a DJ in there or sum shit?

Anna smirks.

Anna Daniels: If they do, we weren’t invited to the party.

Rob finally moves. One step forward and then another. No knock and no warning. Just his hand on the handle, a pause, a deep breath, and then he pushes the door open.

That bass comes barrelling out like a bull out of the gate. Strobe lights. White hot flashes cutting the room in pieces. Music blaring from somewhere unseen. Bottles everywhere. A cardboard cut out of Dale Earnhardt wearing a gajillion Mardi Gras beads around his neck. A banner hangs limp from the ceiling with big, bold letters scrawled across it. It reads: “TEAM SNAKE PIT 4 LYFE”. Oof.

And there at the center of it all?

Daytona Diamonds. Mid-laugh. Head kicked back, shirt half open, chest heaving like he just ran a mile or fought God and decided to celebrate both. There’s life in his eyes again. Not the cracked, glassy kind. Not the thousand-yard state.

No, this is sharp. Present. And he’s not alone.

Cancer’s draped across the couch like he’s always been there, one leg kicked up, drink in hand, grin already halfway to smug before anyone even says a word. Max stands just off-center, arms folded, posture perfect, watching the room like it’s a chessboard. Tony leans against the wall, glass raised high –  which is pretty much to everyone else’s waist – laughing through the tail end of something we didn’t hear, but it clearly killed.

The door slams open hard enough to rattle the frame. As if on cue, the bass and music stops with a record scratch like an old 80s movie. The laughter stops with it. Daytona turns and sees them. Rob. Anna. Fred. There’s a flicker of… a frown? A grimace? Something in between? And then it’s gone, replaced with that grin. That Daytona grin.

Daytona Diamonds: Well shit…

A pause.

Daytona Diamonds: …look who finally decided to show up!

You can feel it in the air. That rising tension that tends to pop up when there are outsiders in your space. Rob’s about to charge forward only to be stopped by a gentle hand on his shoulder. His eyes dart towards his Fuck Your Tag Team teammate who tsks at the proceedings in front of her.

Anna Daniels: Tonaaaaaaa~. Havin’ a shindig without giving us an invite? Not even a heads up! How rude!

Even so, she seems to glide through the Whorehouse without much of a care even amongst Max (who wants to eat her and not in the fun way), Tony (who often writes checks his ass can’t cash), and the very smug motherfucker she’ll have to beat up tonight anyway. Instead, her focus is on that banner hanging overhead.

Anna Daniels: Huh. Well, this is a lie.

The Muse wastes no time in ripping the declaration down and throwing it haphazardly towards the couch before making herself a drink.

Rob Williams: What the fuck is this, ‘Tone? It’s one thing to get a little piece on the side, but you don’t bring it home, for chrissake. You don’t see a buncha fucking pumpkins and lizards in here, do you?

Anna Daniels: Note to selves, strangle Flambo with scarf.

All eyes land on her.

Anna Daniels: Don’t mind us. Just thinking out loud. Continue with the alpha male shit. Give ‘em a show!

Daytona ponders that for a second. Really ponders it, biting at his lower lip and trying to decide whether or not he should say the words that are already poised at the back of his throat. In for a penny, in for a pound, ain’t it?

Daytona Diamonds: Well, hell, Robby… reckon they might be in here if y’all had… y’know… won, right?

Before things can escalate, before the temperature in the room can go from a simmer to a boil, before Cancer can finish snickering to himself, Daytona lifts both his hands, palms out, shaking his head.

Daytona Diamonds: Listen, listen. We’re all friends here. Ain’t no alpha male shit to it, Anna. We’re just celebratin’ is all. Hell, I figured y’all would show up and really set this party off like a roman candle! A win for one Whoresman is a win for all Whoresmen! S’why it don’t even matter which one of us wins tonight!

Big grin. Not Tony’s. Big wink. Daytona bridges the gap between him and his Whoresmen compatriots, reaching out to put one hand on Rob’s shoulder. A visibly winded Gamble (who ran over here from his last segment) tip toes to look over the back of the couch Cancer’s laid out on, turns out Tony left his yellow pages back in the Red Army locker room.

Daytona Diamonds: …ain’t that right, Robby?

The only thing louder than the shitty yacht rock music is Rob’s teeth grinding.

His jaw clicks.

There’s fire in his eyes as he clenches both of his fists.

For a moment, everyone thinks he’s going to throw a match into the powder keg.

Rob Williams: Right.

Instead, he smiles.

Rob Williams: As always, the great Daytona Diamonds is right. God, man, how the fuck do you do it? Well shitfire, ‘Tone. Don’t mind us losers. Get back to celebrating with your team!

The air is awkward and tense, but the smile is genuine. Daytona shrugs and hollers for the music to be turned back up. Everyone picks up their glasses for a toast.

Until they see Rob pissing in one of Daytona’s spare cowboy hats.

Everyone watches in shock. You can hear a mouse fart in the room next door.

With a little jiggle, Rob puts everything back in its place. He then turns to Daytona, holding up the hat with a mischievous same smile.

Rob Williams: Here you go. Boss. Golden crown for King ‘Tone.

The room stops breathing. Nobody blinks. For a second, the room doesn’t even exist; just that hat in Rob’s hand and the slow, dawning realization of what he’s just done. Daytona stares at it. Not at Rob, but at the hat. The grin he had? Gone. Not faded, but gone. Wiped clean off his face. Gamble wishes he could.

There’s a pause. A long one. Awkward silence even with the music still blasting.

And then Daytona steps forward. Fast. His hand comes up and smacks the hat clean out of Rob’s grip, sending it spinning, tumbling across the floor, piss splashing across the floor and (thankfully) missing everyone else in the room.

Daytona Diamonds: The fuck you think you’re doin’, Robby?!

He’s in Rob’s space now. Chest to chest, nose damn near touching nose, eyes blazing like two twin infernos.

Daytona Diamonds: You lost your goddang mind, boy?!

Rob doesn’t back up. If anything, he leans in. That smile still there, maybe even a little wider now.

Rob Williams: Thought you said it don’t matter, right? A win for one Whoresman is a win for all of us.

Rob kisses Daytona.

That’s it. That’s the spark. Daytona shoves him. Hard. Not a warning or a tap, but a full shove. And that’s when the room explodes.

Max is moving immediately, stepping in from the side, arm coming across Daytona’s chest to hold him back. Tony nearly trips over himself when he comes from behind the sofa, scrambling to grab at Daytona’s arm, trying to pull him off before this turns into something worse.

Cancer doesn’t rush, but he does stand, setting his drink down slow, watching it all unfold.

Anna Daniels: Oh no, no, no! We are not doing this here!

Fred’s hovering just behind, hands half-raised like he wants to help, but has no idea where to put himself without losing a limb.

Daytona’s still trying to push forward through them.

Daytona Diamonds: Nah, fuck that! Get the fuck over her, Robby! I’m beatin’ your ass whether you like it or not! You better hold that belt real fuckin’ tight while you still got it, y’hear me?!

Rob just laughs. The tension stretches, pulls, threatens to snap again. Max forces Daytona back another step. Tony keeps his hold, even though he’d rather watch them beat the living shit out of each other. For Hess. Right now, he helps the space between them grow, inch by inch. Anna eases Rob back the same way, though she never takes her eyes off Daytona.

Anna Daniels: Ain’t no alpha male shit to it, ‘Tona? You sure? Y’all need to get this shit out of your system. Just not here.

And just like that, the lines are drawn. The room splits. The Whoresmen on one side, Team Snake Pit on the other. Cancer shakes his head like he knew this was exactly how it was going to end. Tony backs off with a muttered “Crazy bastards…” under his breath. Max is the last to release Daytona, giving him one final look before stepping away.

Fred and Anna back their way out of the room, but Rob stops in the doorway as Daytona stands across from him, hands balled into fists, chest still heaving, upper lip still half-snarled.

No more party.

No more music.

Just tension hanging thick in the air and a piss-soaked cowboy hat lying forgotten on the floor.

And two men staring each other down.

Waiting.

For later.

ReVivall cuts back down to ringside.

There, Nick and Dick sit.

Nick Stuart: So…

Richard Parker: Please tell me that one of them no-showed. I want this match to be over as quickly as possible.

The reason for all of the glee down at the commentary table is, well, also sitting with Nick and Dick, with his salted boots up on the table, and his shirt off and the rest of his shit all over the place, is none other than King COOL himself, Cancer Jiles.

Cancer Jiles: Gentlemen, it has been too long, hasn’t it? Oh, and how about that Night Two curb stomping by Team Snake Pit?

Richard Parker: Screw you.

Cancer Jiles: Dick, why is it you seem to think that I couldn’t just snap my fingers and the newest Bandit, Big Ian Pepper, couldn’t make it so you never talked again, or took a breath again without the use of a machine?

No answer.

Cancer Jiles: Not only that, but I’m looking at my boots, and I can tell they just miss the touch of your face. I can see it– they are just pouring out they miss you so much.

No comment.

Cancer Jiles: I’m thinking maybe they need a little warm up before taking Anna out later tonight? What do you think?

Back to no answer.

Cancer Jiles: Eggsactly.

If you’re wondering, no, there isn’t an entrance for Big John Pepper. He’s a Bandit now, and as such he doesn’t need one(get one). Plus, as Jiles’ new shield, he goes where Cancer goes, so he came down to the ring with King Crumb during the segment prior.

That trash isn’t going to block itself.

Luckily, the more professional half of the commentary team tries to get things back on track before someone gets kicked in their insubordinate face.

Nick Stuart: SAY CANCER, any thoughts on Big John’s opponent, the returning Nate Colton? You two have shared that ring on more than one occasion before. Did you offer any advice to Big John beforehand?

There is a pause.

The pause is because Cancer has lowered his T-shades and is now looking at Nick like he is the one who wanted to get kicked in the face.

Cancer Jiles: Who the fuck is Nate Colton?

There are audible groans from commentary,

Then…

The lights go out.

RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!

The PRIME*View lights up.

Nick Stuart: I believe you’re about to find out.

It’s too late.

Jiles has already fallen asleep.

Allegedly.

The screen shows a grand, sweeping plain, untouched by modern society. Long grass, winding rivers, the occasional tree…

…and a Man.

The Man is dead. He must be. The grass around him is covered in dried blood. So is his chest, thanks to a grievous wound suffered at the claws of the Smilodon.

He must be dead.

And yet, he stirs.

His eyes flutter open. He reaches to his torso and touches the wound, causing him to wince in pain.

The wound is raw. Tender. Painful.

But…it is healing.

With a groan, he pushes himself to his feet and immediately scans the ground. Some distance away, he spots his weapon.

The Man walks toward it, one halting footstep after another, like a baby giraffe. Unsure, unsteady, but unwilling to give up. With time he reaches it and picks it up off the ground.

He looks at the spear head, also coated with dried blood.

He smiles. His prior attempt was not a total failure, then.

The man now looks out across the horizon. He searches for tracks. Listens for footsteps. Tests for a scent.

And then…he walks.

BOOM

BOOM

BOOM

BOOM

Every footstep taking him away from the camera…

Boom

Boom

Boom

boom

…and towards his prey.

boom

boom

boom

boom

The drumbeats fade in our ears, but grow louder in those of his quarry.

The Persistence Predator has returned.

BOOM!!!

The PRIME*View cuts out, accentuated by the explosion of pyrotechnics. Once our ears stop ringing, we’re treated to a different, but familiar, sound.

Eagles. “Tryin’.”

RRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!

The PRIME*View lights up with a field of white. Three words appear in blue:

THE

NEW

DIAMOND

These fade away, replaced by a logo. It’s the letter C in the shape of a diamond, with a smaller N inside. The logo is framed by the name.

NATE

COLTON

And here he is.

RRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!

Nate Colton: HE’S BACK!!!!!

The fans give out a raucous cheer as Nate Colton emerges from the curtain. He holds his arms up high, showing off his blue satin jacket–his family name emblazoned on the back; his first name stitched on the front.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

The New Diamond wastes little time in making the long walk down the ramp. He’s still reaching out to slap hands with the crowd, but doesn’t really look at them. His focus is entirely on the ring, and his opponent.

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

He climbs the steps, ducks between the top and middle ropes, and enters the ring. He heads directly to his corner and undoes his jacket, showing off his gear–white trunks that reach his upper thigh with a blue stripe down the side, white boots with blue trim, white MMA gloves, and blue elbow and knee pads.

Then, instead of handing his jacket to a ring attendant, he makes another appeal to the fans, and throws it at Jiles who is still “sleeping” down at commentary.

RRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!

Of course, Nate connects with his throw, causing King Crumb to not only awaken, but respond as you might imagine he would– ya know, if someone had thrown their jacket at him and it hit his hair.

NUCLEAR.

Cancer Jiles: SFGSHJSAGIAMGOINGTOGUTYOURPIGASSFORTHATDKD!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick and Dick laugh. The people sitting ringside laugh. The people sitting in the cheap seats laugh. Lindsay Troy, wherever she is, laughs. Nate, unable to keep his composure, decides to join in on all the fun. Jiles, no longer fatally grief stricken, straightens his T-shades, finds the rest of his COOLYPIAN reserve, and then hands Big Ian Pepper Nate’s jacket– the same one that Nate had just tossed at Jiles that hit him in the head and hair. Then, Jiles instructs Ian to put the jacket on, and, well, when he does, instead of a fat guy in a little coat, it is a monster in a fairly big jacket.

Sadly though, for Nate, the result remains the same.

King Crumb sits back down.

Totally bloviated.

Cancer Jiles: Looks like whoever that is is going to need a new jacket, huh Dick? HAHAHAHAHAHA!

His cackle echoes the loudest since it is he who always laughs last.

King Crumb points at Colton, and tells Big John Pepper to, “tear his good arm off and beat him to death with it, this way he won’t miss the jacket as much.” He then cackles again. Big John meanwhile nods, and stalks his way towards the steps. Then, he slowly walks up them and steps over the top rope as if it were a curb.

Nick Stuart: He is as big as they come, there’s no denying that.

Cancer Jiles: You might say Big Ian Pepper is quite the tall task for the returning…

Nick Stuart: …Nate Colton. It’s Nate Colton, Cancer.

Cancer Jiles: That’s who that is? I thought he was taller. Then again, I guess nobody is tall when standing across from Big Ian Pepper.

Inside the ring, Jimmy Turnbull goes over the rules with Nate and Big John. He makes sure to tell Big John that if he tears Nate’s arm off he will be disqualified, and then reassures Nate he would step in before something like that could happen.

Nate then asks Jimmy, “but what if Jiles takes you out?”

DING~!

Big John is a monster. He is huge. He is fast. He makes Nate, who by all accounts is a big dude, look small, but how much gas is in that tank?

Time to find out.

BJP charges in, and swings wildly trying to send Nate into orbit. Colton, after being away, shows no signs of rust and easily ducks underneath the attempt. There is no time for Nate to relax though, as BJP quickly changes his direction and charges back at him. He swings again, and Colton is able to duck underneath it again.

Nick Stuart: Big John was closer that time. If he connects, especially with Nate’s bad shoulder, he might end the comeback before it can even happen!

Richard Parker: Not the end of the world. Just saying.

Cancer Jiles: Concur.

Colton lands two quick jabs to Big John’s face in an attempt to try and slow the big man down. It does not work, and when Big John reaches out for the third time, he’s able to grab a hold of Nate.

Cancer Jiles: GOT HIM! NOW BREAK HIM!

Big John wraps his tree trunk arms around Nate’s waist. Right before he can squeeze the life out of him, The New Diamond performs a double ear slap that disorients his captor enough for him to wiggle free. Once freed, Nate lands a standing drop kick that knocks John back. Now with some distance between the two of them, Colton springs up and into action, landing a running forearm strike.

Pepper retreats back to the ropes…

…Colton wastes no time, and clotheslines Big John over the top rope!

However, Big John sticks the landing. He doesn’t waste time or a single breath either, and reaches under the bottom rope to grab a hold of Nate by the legs. He pulls him down and out of the ring like he’s trying to kidnap him and throw him in a hole. Both men start to exchange on the outside, with Big John getting the better of it.

Nick Stuart: Jimmy Turnbull is at five! They better be careful out here.

Nate is down on a knee, blocking a double-axe smash that would splinter a shield. The impact sends him flat to the floor. Jiles then shouts from commentary for Big Ian to get back in the ring, as to not get counted out. Big John listens, and while doing so, gets the attention of the referee.

Nick Stuart: LOOK OUT NATE!

Nick’s cry is in vain.

Jiles, seeing Nate down, well, seeing Nate getting back up to his feet with his back to Jiles is more appropo, regardless, Jiles simply just can not contain himself. He quickly springs into action, and like the nice guy that he is, helps Nate back up to his feet by shoving him into the ring post!

Bad shoulder first.

Jimmy Turnbull might not have seen it, but he sure as hell heard the noise it made. As such, he quickly pushes past Big John, who may or may not be oblivious to the whole thing, and catches Jiles tiptoeing back towards commentary. Before Cancer can take his seat and plead the fif, Jimmy tosses him from the match and bars him from ringside!

And the crowd goes wild.

RAHHHHHHHHHH~!

Nick Stuart: I can’t believe it! Jiles is out of here! Nate might have a chance to get back in this match just yet!

Richard Parker: It’s not often I get my wish. I had forgotten how good it feels.

Jiles storms and pouts his way up the ramp; the crowd egging him on the whole entire way. Big John looks on, confused as to what eggsactly has just happened. Colton, well, yes, he’s still alive and has used the distraction to regain his composure. He’s on his feet, and ready to pounce on the unsuspecting BJP.

However, he is not inside the ring.

No.

Nate Colton, maybe because it’s his first match back, or maybe because Big John hulked his jacket in half, or maybe because his shoulder hurts so bad right now after Jiles pushed him into the ring post that he can’t think straight, or maybe because Big John is so big that the only way to hurt him is from above…

…but Nate Colton is up on the top rope.

He leaps.

As Big John turns.

Everything looks good.

Then, it doesn’t.

Nate hangs one second too long, and Big John catches him by the throat!

Richard Parker: HE CAUGHT HIM IN MID AIR, NICK! BY THE THROAT!

Nick Stuart: Nate is in big trouble here!

Richard Parker: Good one, Nick.

Nate slaps and scrapes and punches and kicks, but, to no avail, he can not break free. Plus, this time around Big John has learned his lesson, and is holding him at arm’s length, which pretty much means Nate has been successful at attacking Big John’s forearm, but unsuccessful in freeing himself.

As such, up Nate goes, and down Nate goes.

Nick Stuart: Chokeslam from Yosemite!!!

Richard Parker: Is that what he really calls it?

Nick Stuart: I don’t know, but I do know that Jiles isn’t out here to correct me if it isn’t.

Richard Parker(in his best Jiles voice): Chokeslam from COOLYMPUS… that stupid crumb.

The impact sends Nate flopping around the canvas. The air is gone from his body. Breathing, once taken for granted, now seems like an unlikely possibility. Big John, still wet behind the ears and without an instructor, takes his time tracking Nate down. Nate meanwhile, has been buying seconds, rolling away from his pursuer.

Then, Nate rolls/crawls his way toward the corner.

Big John follows. He doesn’t think. He reaches down, and Nate is able to grab his arm. Before Big John can simply pull Colton up, The New Diamond kicks BJP in both his shins, staggering him, and then at the same time of the stagger, pulls down on BJP’s arm with all his might.

Big John’s head smashes into the top turnbuckles, and ricochets backwards half way across the ring.

Nick Stuart: Big John is hurt! That might have broken his nose! Savvy play by the vet on the… rookie of the year candidate.

Richard Parker: Savvy play indeed.

Nick Stuart: Nate seems to be back in control after a couple of tough bumps. Can he capitalize and somehow put Big John down long enough to win this match? He still hasn’t been off his feet, RIch.

Nate uses the ropes to pull himself upright. He knows this is it. His last chance. He might be The New Diamond, former 5-Star Champion, but he’s just come back. If he takes another shot like that last one, it is GAME OVER, Jack.

Still, Nate has the advantage, and now is the time to press it. He bounces off the ropes, and instead of going high, he goes low, clipping Big John in the knee.

Nick Stuart: Was that his bad shoulder?

Richard Parker: Maybe Jiles being the idiot that he is, really fixed it for him– like Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon.

Nick Stuart: No, he’s definitely wincing.

Yes, it is true. Nate, is in fact, wincing. However, that was the one move John, nor anybody for that matter, saw coming. So, Nate indeed connects with Big John’s knee, and Big John for the first time in this match, goes down. Nate then stomps and pulls and twists and wrenches at Big John’s leg/knee, attacking it like a hungry desperate dog chewing on a bone. He then drops an elbow on Big John’s knee, right where he clipped him. The pain causes Big John to sit up, and when he does, Nate Colton, The New Diamond, PRIME’s prettiest pig, is right there, ready to knee him right in the face.

Richard Parker: Well, if it wasn’t broken before it sure is now.

Nick Stuart: Has there even been a pin attempted yet?

Richard Parker: You don’t pin Big John Pepper. You only hope to survive him. Plus, you probably only get one solid shot to beat him. Then, if that is squandered, you just head for the hills and take your countout like a man.

Nick Stuart: So no.

Big John is totally rocked.

The devastation from the knee is two fold. Firstly, from the initial blow to the face, and then secondly, from when the back of Big John’s head slams into the apron. Colton doesn’t go for the pin, though. He might have had Big John, too. Then again, he might have had a two count that ended with him getting gorilla pressed out of the ring. So, he stays on the offensive and double backs to the knee and leg to ensure Big John doesn’t get up, and if he does, he sure ain’t moving around too good.

Nick Stuart: Big John is in BIG trouble.

Richard Parker: Okay, Pulitzer.

Nate blocks a sluggish attempt at a counter offensive from Big John, and is careful not to be caught in his clutches.

Then….

Big John makes a big gamble for big boys. He swings hard for the fences, a real maker of hay. If it’d connected, Nate Colton would be resting in a pile of hay waiting for his funeral pyre. Instead, Colton ducks under the blow and…

Nick Stuart: COLTON CLUTCH!

Usually, it’s a preamble for a suplex. But Big John Pepper is big indeed, and Colton is visibly struggling to keep the hold locked in, let alone able to suplex him. Pepper tries to stand up straight in order to prevent Colton from having any sort of good grip on his hold, so Colton jumps up onto Pepper’s back and wraps his legs around him.

Pepper can’t seem to find a way to get this Colton off his back, and so he reaches for the ropes desperately, and takes several staggered steps towards them.

Nate Colton knows that if he lets Big John reach the ropes, it’s not going to end well for him. And Pepper might actually reach the ropes before he succumbs to the effects of his family’s vaunted hold. And so, Colton decides in this moment that he would do something different.

He suddenly – and violently – releases his leg scissor hold and kicks his feet out as far as they’ll go behind him.

Big John Pepper might not succumb to the Colton Clutch.

But even a tall tale will succumb to fucking gravity.

Boom.

Nick Stuart: IT’S COLTON CLUTCH DROP SLEEPER!

Colton covers Big John Pepper with all of his weight, and Jimmy Turnbull makes the count.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Big John Pepper barely ekes out a kickout, but it’s too late.

DING DING DING

Nate Colton looks up at Turnbull, and is in a celebratory mood when he realizes that Turnbull count had beaten Pepper’s kickout!

Vince Howard: The winner of this match… NAAAAAAATTTTEEEEE COOOOOOOLTOOONNNN!!!

Colton rolls out of the ring before Big John Pepper can fully recover, his arms raised in the air in victory. In the ring, Big John Pepper is less than pleased about what just happened, and is arguing with referee Turnbull.

Nick Stuart: Somehow, someway, Nate Colton’s come away with the victory tonight!

Richard Parker: Good. I hope Cancer Jiles has an even worse time later. I want the eGG Bandits to go 0-Forever.

Well, I’m sure Cancer Jiles will have a thing or two to say about that, but that’s a story for about four segments from now.

ReVival moves on!

The scene opens in a carpeted hallway somewhere in the TD Garden. As the camera pans over, Matt Mills is revealed holding the signature PRIME microphone in hand. While not in his usual “backstage interview” area, the consummate professional greets the PRIMEates with his typical demeanor.

Matt Mills: Greetings from the Society Suites here at Level 6 of the TD Garden. As always my name is Matt Mills and I’m here with a special guest. The newest holder of the Silver Ticket, Elise Ares, The D, and Klein… the Pop Culture Phenoms.

Boston makes their feelings known with a series of boos as the shot pans over to show Elise Ares smirking behind her signature LED Sunglasses that read “H E R” and a new accessory, a sterling silver necklace that clasps the PRIME Silver Ticket, encased in a clear protective plastic around her neck like a prized locket. Beside her, The D rests his arm on her shoulder and Klein stands behind them with his arms crossed. His typical brown cardboard boxhead spray painted black to match his way too tight black t-shirt and black denim jeans. For some reason he has a walkie talkie on his shoulder.

Elise Ares: Hey BBY, it’s totes nice to see you again. Since I rejoined PRIME… it’s almost like you and the rest of the employees here forgot just who in the hell I am. Well, I’m happy to remind you that PRIME’s Leading Lady is just that. A star. A leader. A prominent figure to build your business around.

The D: Matty, my boy, it’s nice to see PRIME is starting to recognize something that we’ve been telling you since we stepped foot in this place. The PCP need more TV time. There is nothing that’s more “must see” than the PCP… and you my friend, have come by at just the right time.

Matt Mills: I’m guessing a celebration is in order?

Elise Ares: A celebration? Ha, that was soooooo totes eight years ago. Who do you think we are? Blaze Claymore? We’ve moved up in the world!

The D looks directly into the camera.

The D: Let me invite you to be the very first person to witness a piece of PRIME history. The grand opening of the Silver Ticket Suite. A luxury VIP exclusive penthouse for the Pop Culture Phenoms and their chosen associates, come on it… we’ll give you the exclusive tour!

Klein presses the walkie talkie on his shoulder, but doesn’t say anything before letting it go and opening up the door to the Silver Ticket Suite. He opens his right arm as if inviting in the guests. One at a time Elise then The D enters, but when Matt Mills tries to follow, Klein is quick to put his hand up.

Elise Ares: Oh, BBY… not you.

The Leading Lady of PRIME points her finger directly at the camera before using her index finger to waive him in.

Elise Ares: You.

The D steps back out and grabs Matt Mills’ microphone and guides the camera man in, when Klein makes sure to slam the door shut behind them Mills-free. Elise takes a giddy skip before spinning around with her arms extended and walking forward with her typical hip-tastic swagger.

The D: If you look to your left you’ll see our premium seating area. Our compère Klein will be around to offer food, drinks, a therapy session… uh… more drinks, while you watch the show on our 72” 4K Television. To your right is a personal bathroom so you don’t have to piss next to the poors.

Elise Ares scampers back into view excited.

Elise Ares: Oh D! Can I show them my favorite part?

The D: Well, I was trying to save the best for last but…

Elise Ares: Follow me… and don’t let me out of your frame. Trust.

She says with a wink as she pulls the camera man along to the end of the room where a large beige colored curtain runs along the wall. Grabbing the curtain, Elise rips it aside to show an excellent view of the ring and opens up to the TD Garden full of fans. Everyone turns around as Elise walks out onto the balcony where four seats sit and the spotlight firmly planted on her.

Elise Ares: What a view, am I right? It’s totes like sitting with all the poors except you don’t ACTUALLY have to sit with the poors. Whoever came up with the concept of luxury suites was a bonafide genius. It’s so obvs! Why didn’t I think of it myself?

The D joins Elise on the balcony, makes his way past PRIME’s Silver Ticket holder and takes a seat, propping his boots up on the railing and resting his arms behind his head.

Elise Ares: You see this is where the magic REALLY happens. 5*Star, Intense, Alias, Tag… the championship match doesn’t matter. From right here in the Silver Ticket Suite I can watch them all! Really take my time. Read the room. Pick the best time to cash in my ticket because I’ll always be just a couple of sections away.

The former PRIME 5*Star Champion smiles and leans back against the barrier between her and the arena.

Elise Ares: So BBYs if you have a championship that you’re fond of… and it’s something that you’d like to keep… by all means, entertain me. I’ll be here with my ticket for the show. I totes suggest you don’t put on a bad performance because if you do…

Ares picks up the ticket hanging from around her neck and fiddles with it between her fingers.

Elise Ares: I’ll be happy to show you how to entertain.

The D gets up and passes behind Elise Ares, patting her on the shoulder.

Elise Ares: Good luck out there champs. Break a leg.

The Queen of Sports Entertainment Style follows her tag team partner back into the suite, slides the glass door shut in front of her and pulls the curtain closed as the crowd jeers the scene to black.

We cut to the parking lot where Bobby Neptune and Kenny Freeman are walking side by side, chatting amicably.

Bobby Neptune: -and that’s why Randall isn’t allowed to handle the portal gun. Ever.

Kenny Freeman: (nodding) I made myself the designated portaler of the duo a long time ago for a reason. I haven’t forgotten landing smack dab in the middle of a forest full of Kenny Treemen… never again.

Bobby Neptune: You’ll need to tell me that story sometime.

Bobby smiles.

Bobby Neptune: I have to say, Kenny, I’m pleasantly surprised you’re staying true to our multiverse wager. After getting to know Ivan, I expected…well, not this. I appreciate it.

A shadow crosses his face. He looks over his shoulder to make sure they’re alone.

Bobby Neptune: Kenny, between you and me, Ivan threatened me before squad goals. He told me if I beat you at Culture Shock, I’d be a dead man. I stood up to him, and I’ve been looking over my back ever since, but…the Army being this cooperative? It’s a huge relief, you have no idea.

The relief dies the moment the footsteps register. Heavy. Deliberate. Closing fast. But there’s no time. A hand like a steel trap closes around the back of Neptune’s neck, and it doesn’t matter what world he’s standing on. It tilts sideways.

Ivan Stanislav doesn’t just throw Bobby through the passenger window of a nearby car so much as he uses him as a human battering ram, one massive arm driving forward, all seven feet four hundred pounds of Soviet fury channeled into a single point of contact. The window shatters on the first impact, and Bobby’s momentum carries him halfway through the frame, glass shards catching his shoulders and bloodying his face, before Ivan hauls him back by the scruff like something he caught.

The car rocks side to side. Elsewhere, a car alarm chirps once and goes silent.

Stanislav wrenches Neptune back upright by the neck, his feet fully off the ground, and slams him against the car, rocking it again.

Ivan Stanislav: How does PRIDE feel now?

He roars the words. Not at Bobby, perhaps. Maybe at the garage. At the air. At the world.

Ivan Stanislav: How does victory taste?!

He hurls Bobby against the car, and he crumples to the pavement, still unsure just where north and south are, and what has just happened. Ivan looms over him, chest heaving, jaw set. His eyes burn.

Ivan Stanislav: I told you what your impertinence would cost…

The Intense Champion stares at Kenny.

Ivan Stanislav: Now watch.

Kenny doesn’t move. Even he doesn’t know quite what just happened. Something moves behind his eyes. Fear. Calculation. Loyalty even. He watches Stanislav stalk to the other side of the car.

Kenny Freeman: Ivan…

But the leader of The Red Army isn’t listening. On the other side of the car, his fingers dig into the frame, his legs plant against the concrete, and he begins to lift. The car groans and fights him, but the chassis tilts. One wheel leaves the ground, then two, and Stanislav is lifting an automobile with his bare hands, his whole body shaking with the effort. A sound tears out of him, not quite a roar or a scream, but something older than both together.

One of his suspender straps snaps like a gunshot and swings free. He doesn’t notice.

Ivan Stanislav: I will BURY you beneath your pride.

The car tilts further, with Bobby Neptune too dazed to roll away, the shadow of the car falling over him.

But Kenny steps between Bobby and the car.

Kenny Freeman: Ivan! Stop!!

The car climbs higher, another inch, Ivan’s face a mask of pure exertion and fury.

Kenny Freeman: STARSHY PRAPORSHCHIK!!

A beat. Two. Then slowly, agonizingly, Stanislav lets the car back down. The suspension crashes as it hits the pavement. Ivan stands over it, both hands on the frame, breathing like a man who just crested the top of a wave.

One could hear a pin drop.

Then, Ivan straightens, the heat of his eyes searing into Kenny now. He rounds the car, one heavy footfall after another. He looks at Kenny, standing between him and Neptune.

Kenny Freeman: He’s done. He got the message, Ivan. Y… you’re right. It’s over.

Ivan looks at him for a long moment, his eyes moving past Kenny to Bobby, who struggles to stand up, blood oozing out of the slashes on his face.

Ivan Stanislav: It is over when I say it’s over.

But Kenny stands his ground, even if fear causes his face to slacken. Ivan points a huge finger at one half of the Masters of the Moscowverse.

Ivan Stanislav: Do not forget, Kenny, when no one in PRIME gave a damn about you… I did. When they all abandoned you, I took you in. I have been patient with you. And you shake his hand?

Ivan nods towards Neptune.

Ivan Stanislav: Try not to go looking for something beyond the mercy and good-will of Ivan Stanislav. You will not find it and my patience is running thin. Next time you interact with him, it had better not be friendly banter or respectful handshake.

Ivan drives one heavy boot into Bobby’s ribs. It’s the period to the end of his sentence. Then, he closes his hand around the back of Kenny’s neck, the same way he grabbed Bobby not long before, and turns him towards the exit. The two walk away from the wreckage.

Neither look back.

PREVIOUSLY RECORDED

An errant camera man is grabbing cover footage as the fans for ReVival 85 begin to slowly filter in to TD Garden; the air in the arena still chilled from the Boston Bruins’ last home game before the playoffs.

In the distance we can see a man with brown hair tied back in a ponytail and a Sharpie marker in hand. As the camera approaches, we see a smiling Blaze Claymore handing a signed poster back to a young fan who is barely tall enough to reach over the metal barricade.

Blaze crouches down and extends an open palm to the young fan who gives the Lighthouse a vicious high five, causing the fighter to pretend to tumble backwards into the recently-erected ring apron and prat-fall onto the ground.

SZZZZTHZZZ

Voice: Hey, Blaze.

We watch as the Lighthouse’s eyes snap open, looking around frantically until he sees the fans’ attention turned toward the entrance ramp. And the towering face of Sonja Cuchilla on the PRIMEview.

Sonja Cuchilla: And hello… Nathan.

Every muscle in Blaze’s body tenses at once as the word “Nathan” just sits there, like a gift she is giving to him.

His feet shift beneath him as his jaw sets, sliding a series of 8×10 photos that had been loosely hanging from his hand into his back pocket. His eyes lock on the screen as Sonja seems to almost smile back at him.

Sonja Cuchilla: I know you’re probably in some arena right now, maybe in a dressing room, or maybe you’re with your fans… signing things… pretending to be “Blaze Claymore” as a way to avoid me.

The focus on Sonja’s face zooms out to show her sitting on a chair; somewhere warm, lit by a fireplace with a steaming cup of hot cocoa on the table, which she reaches for slowly and deliberately. She lifts the drink from a kitchen table, the sun setting behind her out of a large French window, before taking a sip and smiling.

Sonja Cuchilla: But it’s not just me who you’ve been ignoring Nathan. It’s everyone here in Montevideo.

Blaze grits his teeth but doesn’t turn away.

Sonja Cuchilla: Just like Minneapolis all over again. Your friends and neighbors prepared to cheer you on, even though they knew you would lose to Ivan Stanislav, only to have you vanish again. Now you can’t even make a simple visit home for your own birthday.

Sonja pauses, lowering her gaze and looking wistfully off screen.

Sonja Cuchilla: You have spent so much time trying to play the hero over these last few months, Nathan, but did you ever think that all your hometown ever needed was just you? The boy who would deliver papers at their doorstep on his Huffy bicycle? The kind teenager who would mow lawns for $5 over the summer? The kid who they could always count on to host secret screenings at the Fox Theater?

Blaze’s hand goes to the back of his neck. His eyes drop from the screen for the first time — just a half-second, a flinch he can’t stop — before they come back.

Sonja Cuchilla: Well, I guess it’s Sonja to the rescue again. Since you couldn’t find the courage to face me — or Montevideo — I’ve brought you a special birthday gift.

The scene on the video screen cuts to find a woman in a quilted vest standing in front of the Montevideo Lutheran Church. Her gray, curly hair is frazzled as she tucks her hands into her pockets, rocking back and forth on her heels.

The Sharpie is still in the Lighthouse’s other hand. His thumb clicks the cap on and off without him noticing.

Woman: Happy Birthday, Nathan… or I guess if you’re going by Blaze now, that’s alright. I’m not one to judge. It’s Sharon Fellows, by the way. And I just wanted to let you know I still remember how you and Marcus would race your bikes on Sundays trying to see who could make it from one corner of Main Street to the other the quickest.

The woman’s eyes flicker briefly before her quiet smile turns into an almost imperceptible sneer.

Sharon Fellows: We’ve been praying for you to find your way home to us, son. And I hope the Lord can guide you back soon.

A glitch between pointed flashes of static show the scene’s colors invert—like a photo negative—before we see a man in a ballcap and overalls lean against a rusted pickup truck. He squints at the camera like he’s looking into the sun.

Man: Ey’ there son… how ya doin? Hopefully you’re not too old to remember ol’ Coach Connor. You were a spitfire on the Sundogs little league team back when you were about ye-high and I’m sure you’re still a spitfire today.

The man laughs, a dry laugh that slowly morphs into something more sinister as he raises his ballcap and clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth.

Coach Connor: Shame it’s been 20 years since then… and 14 since you left us for all that Hollywood nonsense. You really could have been something here, Nathan. A pillar of the community… and you still can be. But, either way, happy birthday, son. And remember what I always told you: when your back is up against the wall, just pretend that…

The coach tails off as his eyes go vacant, staring off somewhere into the distance before another glitch of static takes us to find a young woman in her late 20s standing outside of the Montevideo elementary school. She is holding a stack of crayon drawings — stick figures — some wearing capes, some in the middle of a giant box with lines like a crude wrestling ring, and one standing on top of a lighthouse.

Teacher: Hi Nathan, it’s Claire… Claire Caswell. You were a senior when I was a freshman, but I still remember your talent show performance… it inspired me, actually. To pursue my own passion for teaching and art. I always tell my students about how you were my personal superhero…

The stack of papers in Claire’s hands fall to the ground as we see a set of drawings that had been sitting underneath the ones initially shown. These show stick figures with bottles in their hands… laying on the floor with “X”s where their eyes should be… and huddled into a corner of the page with rushed, aggressive, thick, black crayon markings surrounding them.

Claire Caswell: Happy birthday, Nathan. I hope you’ll come back soon…

Claire looks up as the skin around her eyes begins to darken, turning almost black.

Claire Caswell: The kids are absolutely dying to meet their hero. And so am I.

The screen cuts to black. Blaze is breathing through his nose, slow and controlled. His eyes are wet but his feet haven’t moved. The Sharpie cap has gone still in his hand.

BLAZE. BLAZE. BLAZE. 

While the arena is only a quarter full, those who are in attendance are filling every inch and pocket of TD Garden with their voices, prompting the Lighthouse to lift his head and look around in shock.

BLAZE! BLAZE! BLA-

SZZZZTHZZZ

The black screen flashes back to Sonja Cuchilla as the cheers turn to boos.

She waits, seemingly knowing that her return would prompt such a response… and then, as if on cue, she interjects.

Sonja Cuchilla: I know that was hard to watch, Nathan. It had to be. You think those people care about you. That they’re yours? They’re not. They’re mine.

Her voice is quieter now. Softer… but somehow more threatening.

Sonja Cuchilla: While you were gone I was the one who was present. I knocked on their doors. I sat at their tables. I listened to their stories about you. And I decided that it was finally time for you to hear them.

Sonja looks up and locks eyes with the camera, a purple light flickering behind her pupils as she lets the words linger.

Sonja Cuchilla: Max Kael may have opened the door, Nathan, but I walked through it. You keep looking for something else to blame. A curse. A shadow. It’s not about that… or even your stupid lighthouse. It’s about you finally acknowledging that Montevideo never needed you to save it. It needed to be saved from you. Just like I did.

The camera zooms out even farther to show that Sonja is not simply sitting in some random living room… she is in Blaze Claymore’s living room. And, amid a row of French windows behind her, we see the citizens of Montevideo slowly enter the frame like stumbling husks, gathered like a silent mob outside his home.

Blaze takes one step forward. Toward the screen. Toward her.

Sonja Cuchilla: So happy birthday, Nathan, from all of us in Montevideo. Maybe when you’re ready to stop chasing ghosts and pointing fingers at the shadows, you can finally come home as the prodigal son you were always meant to be.

Sonja flashes a devilish smile.

Sonja Cuchilla: I’ll be sure to keep the light on for you until you do.

SZZZZTHZZZ

The screen goes black. The arena sits in the hum of dead air.

Blaze stands for a moment before forcing his feet to move, one after the other, along the barricade, his eyes locked on the empty screen even as he meets every hand extended to him.

Halfway down the rail, the Sharpie is still in his hand. A child in a backwards baseball cap and PRIME t-shirt holds out a poster. Blaze suddenly stops, turns and kneels down before uncapping the marker, signing the poster and whispering something that makes the kid’s eyes light up.

Blaze reaches the edge of the lower bowl, pauses, and turns back toward the crowd. A brief nod.

The Lighthouse reaches the entrance ramp’s threshold, pausing briefly, before stepping forward to meet the darkness.

“A Darkness In My Soul” by Solid Space hits the PA system, heralding the arrival of Anna Daniels. The Muse walks down to the ring without any sort of flourish or preamble. All business. As much business as a member of the Poor Whoresmen cares to bother with, anyway.

Fans in Boston reach out to her, but she cares nothing for them.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first… from Sydney, New South Wales, Australia… she is THE MUSE! ANNNNNAAAAAA DAAAAAANIELS!!!

Daniels simply makes it to the ring and hops up to the apron. She wipes the bottoms of her boots on the ring apron before she steps inside, then slinks to a corner to await her crumb of an opponent.

Nick Stuart: Anna Daniels is as ready as ever for her crumb of an opponent.

Richard Parker: I hope she kills him, Nick. I really do.

Speaking of him…

The lights slowly draw to a dim. A COOL, yet unnerving chill moves throughout the crowd. The PRIMEates in attendance shoot upright, eager to pound on their chests and let their voices be heard.

Instead, Screamin’ Jay takes it away.

“I’m the one your mama warned you about”

“When you see me I will leave you no doubt”

“I’m the coolest man that ever walked this earth”

“I’ve been the coolest since the day of my birth”

Usually there’s a series of pyros here, but since Nate Colton used them all during his opening movie and Brandon Youngblood is now scared of loud noises, Jiles gets a sparkler and a couple of snap bangs instead.

“I am the COOL”

BOOOOOO~!

Out from the back steps Cancer Jiles, only one of his name. Vickie is with him. They embrace. They kiss. It is every bit as horrible as you might think.

Richard Parker: Kill me. Now.

Nick Stuart: Same.

King Crumb and his Valkyrie make their way down to the ring. Arm and arm they walk, PRIME’s IT couple in every sense of the word. On their way, of course Jiles takes the time to belittle the smallest fan there is. This time around it is a Tony Gamble fan, and not a Messiah fan, so a change of pace.

Richard Parker: He is despicable. He is worthless. I still can’t believe he drafted a better team than Youngblood — like screw Daytona Diamonds — that scab. He is just as bad as Jiles is now.

Nick Stuart: Really?

Richard Parker: Well, no. Of course not.

The lovely couple reach the ringside. Jiles helps Vickie up the stairs, and into the ring, all the while shouting about chivalry and capes. The two then share in another “warm” embrace, and afterwards, Vickie and Anna get into a verbal spat that makes Jiles/Youngblood look like crayons on the wall.

Richard Parker: Cat fight.

Nick Stuart:  I guess Jiles left his shield in the back for this bout, could come back to haunt him.

Soon thereafter Vickie, exits the ring, Jiles picks back up with the berating, and then the ref calls for the bell.

DING DING

Nick Stuart: It’s The Muse versus The Manhunter! We’re off and running!

In the many iterations of this match we may encounter in the Multiverse, not one of them starts off with a traditional collar-and-elbow tie up.

With these two? Come on.

Anna gets DQ’d in one version of this match with a swift 65 yard field goal that scrambles Jiles’s little eggies. Jiles gets DQ’d in another version because Vickie Hall jumps the rope and starts clawing away at Daniels’s eyes for the sin of “being another woman in Cancer’s immediate proximity”.

Something interesting happens in this world, though.

Jiles, with pepper in his black boots, figures now is as good a time as any to cash in the one superkick Vickie’s allowed him to have tonight, and he throws Terminal Cancer…

But he’s beat to the punch (the kick?) by an Interrobang from Daniels!!

EVERYONE in the front row shoots to their feet at this immediately explosive shot! Jiles has rubber legs, and then he splats to the mat from the impact!

Richard Parker: YES! DO IT ANNA!

Nick Stuart: This could be some sort of record!!

Daniels rushes forward and goes for the cover! Elvis Nixon is there!

ONE!

TWO!

…

THRE-NOOOOO! Anna’s been pulled out of the ring by her feet!

EVERYONE in the arena boos at this, and it’s easy to see why.

Nick Stuart: Vickie Hall, that harpy, has just disrupted what was about to be the quickest match in the ReVival era!

Richard Parker: UGHHHHHHHHHHH

Vickie and Anna are nose-to-nose on the floor outside the ring, Vickie screaming in Anna’s face about how “no one does that to her man” and “she should go back to whatever century uggos come from”, apparently completely unaware of the absolute Costco On A Sunday-sized receipt is coming her way.

It starts with a headbutt from Anna that may have just broken Vickie Hall’s nose.

And then the punches. So. Many. Punches.

Vickie tries and fails to cover up from this absolute barrage. She lowers to a knee, which is an invitation for Anna to throw knee after knee after knee. Vickie then crumbles to the ground entirely. Anna peels her up, slings her over her shoulder, marches to the ringside barricade, and tosses/dumps Vickie Hall outside to the concrete face-first like so many bags of garbage into so many dumpsters.

Satisfied, Anna turns her attention back to the ring. Cancer Jiles is still down. Elvis Nixon hasn’t even begun a ten-count, because honestly, he forgot in the heat of the moment. He doesn’t need to, either…Anna marches up the ring steps and climbs to the top rope!

She measures her opponent and flies! Anna Daniels, From On High!

…

Jiles rolls out of the way! Daniels’s frog splash finds nothing but canvas! Jiles quickly scrambles and tries to steal a pin!

ONE!

Anna gets the shoulder up!

Jiles reaches out and fish hooks Anna’s cheek. Nixon begins giving a five count as Jiles sneers, but soon that sneer is turned into panic!

Nick Stuart: Anna Daniels is biting into Jiles’s finger!

Richard Parker: RIP IT OFF HIS STUPID HAND, ANNA! SNAP IT LIKE A SLIM JIM!

Jiles finally gets his hand free and he clutches at it in pain. Daniels takes the opportunity to get back to her feet. She launches herself forward and ROCKS Jiles with a rolling elbow smash! It causes Jiles to stumble into the ropes, and on the rebound, Daniels catches him with a German suplex! She bridges to her toes for the pin!

ONE!

TWO!

Jiles slips free! He scrambles up and goes for a knife-edge chop! Anna ducks it and counters with a low kick! Another missed chop, another pair of quick snapping low kicks, and Jiles is beginning to favor one leg!

Anna runs towards the ropes, rebounds for momentum, and flies! Superman Punch!

…it connects! Jiles is bent over! Daniels rebounds off the opposite ropes! Flowing DDT! Jiles is SPIKED on the mat!

She rolls Jiles to his back and shoots the half!

ONE!

TWO!

…

Jiles BARELY gets the shoulder up in time!

Nick Stuart: I tell you what, partner – Anna Daniels is looking REALLY impressive out there. She’s on the verge of knocking off a PRIME Hall of Famer!

Richard Parker: It’s LITERALLY the only thing in the world I want tonight, Nicky!

Daniels looks up at Elvis Nixon in a mix of anger and disbelief, but he stands firm at the two count.

Finally, she shrugs. A couple of other arrows are still in her quiver.

She reaches for Jiles’s legs and begins wrenching, twisting, and maneuvering, setting up for the Flower of Remembrance! Jiles wriggles and writhes and does everything in his power to make this hold as difficult as possible to apply!

Anna throws in a couple of stomps and almost locks in the submission hold – but with one final burst of energy, Jiles is able to kick himself free!

Anna gets backed into the ropes, bounces back, and comes back with a straight kick aimed at Jiles’ face that might have taken his head off… if his head had been there. Instead, Jiles lies back to avoid the kick. Anna, overcommitting to the kick, is turned around and that allows Jiles to roll her up.

ONE.

He grabs her pants.

TWO.

Richard Parker: HE’S GOT THE TIGHTS!

THR–KICKOUT!

Somehow, Daniels slips away from the snake’s coiled grasp, and both combatants end up on their feet. Jiles immediately tries for the Terminal Cancer, because he only has one arrow in his quiver and the rest is just sand he keeps in his pocket to throw in people’s faces. Anna ducks this arrow. Actually, it’s more like she bend backwards like in the fucking Matrix and the boot passes harmlessly over her head.

Jiles turns and another Interrobang is screaming for his head. However, as Anna’s leg bends for the kick, Jiles manages to duck underneath it.

Nick Stuart: Both of them are trying to kick each others’ head off!

Richard Parker: Decapitation by murder kick is exactly how I’ve always pictured Jiles to go out. Brings a smile to my face.

Nick Stuart: What the hell?

Richard Parker: I didn’t say anything.

Anna turns and Jiles loads up the poison egg mist. However, before he can unleash it, Anna hits him with a cross chop right to the throat that stops the Coolympian Yojlk entirely.

Jiles stumbles away gagging. Anna lines him up and smashes him with a running high knee. It causes Jiles to stumble backwards into the ropes and bounce back, wherein Anna nails him with a second knee, bicycle-style. Jiles falls to the ground, and Anna jumps into the second ropes, jumps up to the top rope with a spin, and then launch off the top rope with a springboard shooting star into another knee right into Jiles’ chest.

Nick Stuart: RETROGRADE AM-KNEE-SIA!

Richard Parker: YES!

Anna falls into the cover.

ONE.

TWO.

THRE–NO!

That wasn’t a kickout.

Jiles actually physically grabbed Elvis Nixon’s wrist to stop the three count, much to Nixon’s disgust and annoyance. I’m sure Jiles is just as disgusted and annoyed – it’s Elvis Nixon, after all. He’s on Jiles’ kill-on-sight list. The fact that he has not, in fact, killed him on sight is a testament to how much Anna Daniels has beaten his ass so far.

Anna Daniels sees Jiles grabbing hold of Nixon’s arm, and does the only reasonable thing she can think of.

Nick Stuart: SHE’S BITING HIM!

Okay, maybe that’s not as reasonable as what you and I might think, but it’s perfectly reasonable for Anna Daniels. Jiles yells and tries to get this madwoman off of him, who’s still got her teeth in him even after he makes it to his feet. Referee Elvis Nixon counts to five, and since Anna Daniels clearly hates numbers being yelled at her, she finally relents and turns to Nixon as though she might be his next meal.

Richard Parker: I maybe would reconsider being in the same ring with Anna Daniels right now. She’s got the taste of blood now. Nobody’s safe.

Nick Stuart: She’s always had a taste for blood, I thought.

Richard Parker: Recency bias. I’m sure she had a taste for Whoresmen stuff – you know, booze, drugs, that kind of thing – but now she’s regained her taste for blood. Watch out.

To wit, Anna goes right back to Jiles and bites him right on the top of his head. No longer concerned with the simple pleasures of FUCK YOUR HEAD, she’s now enjoying meal time. Gotta get your daily egg intake. Elvis Nixon makes a five count to get Anna to stop biting him, but he eventually has to stop at four and try to physically get between Anna and Jiles to try and get them separated.

Eventually, Anna is forced to release Jiles from the bite.

But Elvis doesn’t see something very important.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Nick Stuart: COOLYMPIAN YOJLK!

Richard Parker: MOTHERFU–

Richard’s curse doesn’t finish, because before the important fuck word can be completed beyond the point of no return, Jiles uncoils one like the snake he is.

Nick Stuart: TERMINAL CANCER!

Anna Daniels is one tough alien lady, but the kick lands true and she’s thrown backwards into the center of the ring. Jiles, visibly bleeding from Anna’s biting, quickly jumps on top of her and stares Elvis Nixon down the entire time Nixon makes the count.

ONE.

TWO.

THREE!

DING DING DING

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Jiles slides off of Anna Daniels with his arms raised in triumph, well before Vince Howard makes the decision official.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen… the winner of this match… CAAAAAAANCERRRRRR JIIIIIIIIIIILES!!!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Nick Stuart: Anna Daniels beat him from pillar to post, but at the end of the day… By hook and by crook, Cancer Jiles has somehow won this match!

Richard Parker: I’m going to be sick.

Nick Stuart: Folks, we have more to come, so stay tuned!

The scene cuts away as Cancer Jiles’ arms are raised in the air and the crowd is two seconds from throwing even more litter in the ring than they did in the Cold Open.

The lights of the TD Garden begin to dim and the fans ponder what this could signal – the next match of the evening? A dark surprise? A very local and focused power outage? There is buzz with speculation and prediction all over the joint, but PRIME’s loyal fans are not left waiting for too long, for you see, there is music.

What music?

Well it starts with a bit of a wailing of the ole guitar and is quickly followed a bunch of “ah ah ahahs”

Yes, indeed.

“Choke” by I DONT KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME.

The Universal Champion has arrived in Boston.

Nick Stuart: What a couple of nights this man had at Culture Shock. To be honest, I’m shocked to even see him here tonight. I thought he’d be off in Farthington Manor as some kind of recovery room.

Richard Parker: Clearly he has sat with the healing steam once more and it has empowered him to stand here, triumphant once more, in Boston.

The single spotlight shines on Farthington, who as opposed to a classy or sparkling suit for the evening in the TD Garden has instead elected for a classic baggy hoodie and track pants combination, but there’s still one very shiny object, the PRIME Universal Championship, still around his waist.

Farthington is quick to make his way to the ring, from a surprisingly raucous amount of support from Boston.

Nick Stuart: These fans really seem to be behind the Universal Champion tonight.

Richard Parker: How could you not be after Culture Shock, Nick, he survived a man who probably knows him better than anyone in the ring. He took his team to Squad Goals victory after a bruising battle, I mean I know I’ve always been a fan but… I have no idea where that resilience comes from. The man’s stamina is like no other and I think Boston, if not the entire PRIME Universe is going to respect that.

Unusual for Farthington, as if doing it without realising, full absent minded, he actually slaps hands with a few of the fans on his way into the ring. He does then look at his hand and wonder what the hell he just did, but sometimes it’s the thought that counts. Farthington curses the lack of wet wipes in his hoodie pocket, but the flip side is, it does make him look better in front of the eyes of the TD Garden.

Nick Stuart: Now often after a big win for Farthington, we have a big Glue Fiesta in the ring, what do you think it means for him to be standing out there alone right now?

Richard Parker: I don’t know and I don’t like it.

Farthington hops into the ring and spins around, landing roughly near Vince Howard, who provides an offering of a microphone to the Universal Champion, who gladly accepts the gesture from the ring announcer.

Farthington looks out to the crowd, almost overwhelmed by a level of support he’s never felt before, perhaps ever in his career, as he tries to bring the microphone to his mouth. He pauses as a second wave of respect hits him right in the feelings gland, delaying whatever his intention was for coming out in the ring. Finally, on the third attempt, he manages to compose himself, with a bit of support from looking straight down to the Universal Championship that has sat around his waist from Culture Shock to Culture Shock.

Cecilworth Farthington: Boston, I only ask for a few minutes of your time tonight. A few things that I would like to say in front of all of you, and of the viewing audience at home. It has to be quick because all my limbs hurt and even standing here, right now, I feel like my entire body is on fire.

The camera picks up a fan yelling “NO, YOU’RE ON FIRE CECILWORTH” and it mercifully wasn’t an arson threat.

Cecilworth Farthington: First thing to address is the obvious. I stand here tonight in the ring alone, no Joe, no Hanlon, no FLAMBERGE, not even… eurgh… fabby. That’s going to invite questions. I welcome those questions because I’m here to be raw, I’m here to be honest and tell you that as I speak, at this moment, I don’t have an answer for you why I stand here alone. High profile losses… they sting… they eat at you… they make you a different person. What person you choose to become, that can take some time.

Farthington’s lip curls up as he bites down upon it for a moment, trying to carefully think about his next words of wisdom.

Cecilworth Farthington: When you believe yourself to be inevitable, it’s the biggest kick in the balls you could imagine. FLAMBERGE has been there twice now, the Almasy final and Culture Shock. It can be a pit that takes time to dig yourself out of and that’s why I want to make it clear that tonight is not a victory lap.

There’s a smattering of “GLUE! GLUE! GLUE!” chants through the general noise and hullabaloo of the rest of the TD Garden crowd.

Cecilworth Farthington: Other men here would proclaim themselves Gods at this point. They would say they had proven that there’s nobody in this company that could beat them, but the reality is… every single person who has stepped into this ring against me for this Universal Champion could have beat me. A ref counts a little quicker, someone moves an inch to their left, the ropes end up being a little bit nearer. Time and time again I have been taken to my very limit and through the forces of the Universe that I cannot comprehend, this championship, it is still with me. I have won coin flip after coin flip and as much as mathematics may be dead in this company, I think we all know that the odds run shorter and shorter with every flip.

Farthington stops for a moment to rub his nose as the TD Garden crowd vocalise their support for the champ once again.

Nick Stuart: A surprisingly reflective mood for the champion tonight.

Richard Parker: When you’ve been through what he has, I don’t blame him for taking a moment to process all of this.

Farthington walks around the ring in a circle, as if trying to force his thoughts back into his brain.

Cecilworth Farthington: See, I’m the beatable champion, every single person who has stood in the ring against me has thought they would be the one, and it’s a fair thought, equally all of them had the talent and the credentials to be the Universe’s new master. Yet, my brain, she is a tricky beast, and she isn’t going to let me go down without a fight. For over a year I’ve made sure to go down swinging and it just so happened that a tank of resilience has brought me to where we are now. FLAMBERGE learned a lesson I wasn’t planning to teach, it’s not about your God given talents, it’s not about picturing yourself with the Universal Championship, it’s about picturing your life without it. Does it lose meaning? Does it lose purpose? That’s a thought that has haunted me for over a year, a thought that has kept this Universal Championship tight around my waist. I’m still not sure what it’ll mean to lose this, and I will lose it, there is no such thing as an eternal champion in this industry.

Farthington looks down to the ground, perhaps admiring his shoes, just for a lil moment. He’s quick to tilt his head back up and smiles, and the TD Garden smiles and holler with him.

Cecilworth Farthington: But it’s still not that time yet!

There is now hooting that has joined with the hollering.

Cecilworth Farthington: The second thing I wanted to touch on was to express nothing but gratitude to my Squad Goals team. Just like my War Games team, we were labelled an eclectic mix, we were up against DA BIG DAWGS of this company, and people I don’t think much fancied our chances. If there’s one thing I want people to remember about me and Culture Shock 2026 is… the power of believing in people. The power of believing and building talent. Seeing what others do not see, seeing what others have written off. PRIME is so rich with the best in the world that it can be easy to start looking down on others. I hope Squad Goals was the shock to the system of complacency that some have held up for the last year. The accepted order in this company has shattered and that means every door of opportunity is now open.

Richard Parker: This is very magnanimous… I wonder what his angle is.

Farthington points his finger to the back, as if to say it could be anyone’s year back there.

Cecilworth Farthington: So thank you to man of legend Big John Pepper, thank you to NEW Alias Champion Danny Christie and… I mean, of course, it didn’t hurt to have Coral Avalon on the team either…

There is an ear shattering amount of pop for the mention of the former Universal Champion, and Cecilworth’s odd frenemyfriend who is not an enemy no more.

Cecilworth Farthington: Thank you Coral for standing by my side in the ring once more, you know none of this happens without you. None of this happens without you pushing me.

There are rather spectacular “CORAL! CORAL! CORAL! CORAL!” chants that Cecilworth encourages by swinging his arms around as if he was some form of music conductor. He encourages it for a few moments, letting it die naturally.

Cecilworth Farthington: My final message to everyone, and I do mean everyone in PRIME in this. If you want to make twenty twenty six your year, I welcome the challenge. Just don’t lie to yourself, don’t convince yourself that you are inevitable, because we all know now, this tank inside of me? It’s a mystery even to me. You may hope it’s finally reached empty, but it could run you over all the same. Boston, thank you for indulging me tonight, and thank you for letting me be your guide to the universe.

With that “Choke” fires back up and Cecilworth delivers the microphone straight back to Vince Howard.

Nick Stuart: No Glue here tonight and a very different Cecilworth Farthington. Richard, do you think the two are connected?

Richard Parker: I hope to god they aren’t Nick, but I’m as lost as you.

Nick Stuart: Well, the Universal Champion has made it clear that he’s going to keep fighting and warning any potential opponent against complacency. 2025 was Farthington’s year and it seems like he intends to make 2026 his year too.

Richard Parker: I’m inconsolable right now. Inconsolable.

As Farthington hops out of the ring and absentmindedly slaps a few more fan hands, the scene cuts away.

The scene goes backstage where Angelica Brooks stands behind the PRIME ReVival backdrop.

Angelica Brooks: Fans, I’ve been greeted by someone we haven’t seen in a while…

She pauses as the camera pans over and Jonathan-Christopher Hall steps into focus. The crowd cheers as Hall calmly walks towards Brooks, smiling and nodding politely. The former Universal Champion is sporting a baby blue button-up shirt and faded gray board shorts.

Angelica Brooks: Jonathan-Christopher, we haven’t seen you in some time. What brings you back to ReVival?

JCH nods along for a moment before considering his response.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: That’s right, Angie, you haven’t seen me for a while. In fact, the last time I appeared I was lying flat on my back, pinned by Rob Williams…

Boos chime in from the bleachers at the thought of the name.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: (Hearing the boos) It’s okay, honestly. You know, Angie, after that match I was hurt. But these weren’t the mental scars I am used to. I needed some time to recover… physically.

Hall continues to nod along to his own comments.

Angelica Brooks: So I take it you’re cleared?

Hall gives his head a short shake of ‘no’.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Unfortunately, not quite yet. I need to go through a few more tests – I had a serious concussion you see – but I’m told by the end of the month I should make a full recovery.

Hall cracks his neck to the left.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I’m hopeful to be back in May, or, at the very latest, after UltraViolence.

Brooks looks like she’s got the information she wanted but Hall has more to say.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: However, just because I can’t wrestle right now, doesn’t mean I’m going away. The cobwebs have cleared, I can think on my feet again. I can do a lot. I just can’t get out there in that ring… not yet.

At first, Angelica is reluctant to go in this next direction but considering how calm and relaxed JCH projects himself, she’s a pro… she has to. It’s on everyone’s minds.

Angelica Brooks: So, Jonathan-Christopher… you seem different. Happier. Positive. Dare I say… confident. This looks like a new you-

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: It is a new me!

Angelica Brooks: And that’s right. But you know… Vickie Hall still lurks in these walls.

Unphased. Jonathan-Christopher not only doesn’t flinch when the words of his wife are mentioned, his body language suggests he expected her name to come up.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: Yeah, Angie. Yeah, Angie, I know. Just because I’ve been off television doesn’t mean I’m not watching. I see her by Cancer’s side, and every day it digs at me deep. But it’s been over a year now since she left me. And Angie…

There’s a long pause. It’s not a reluctant one so much as Hall is trying to be as thoughtful as he can with his words.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I’ve moved on, too.

Another chorus of cheers from the crowd.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: And I’m not just talking about Vickie. I’ve moved on from her, of course. I’ve moved on from Cancer. I’ve moved on from needing Rob Williams. I’ve moved on from Ivan Stanislav. Angie, I have moved on. Period. The Jonathan-Christopher Hall I am today is the man I was always meant to become. I’m training hard and I’m willing to get back to work. In just a few short months, I am going to walk into Lindsay Troy’s office and ask her to book me again. I don’t care if it’s against any of those men – although I’d rather it not. Because it’s time I started my own journey, my own story, far away from any of those other rotten individuals. See, Jonathan-Christopher Hall has never been the ‘main character’ in his own story, Angie.

Hall smiles and winks.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: That’s about to change.

Hall continues nodding along while Brooks looks pleased she received so much from the interview.

Angelica Brooks: Jonathan-Christopher, thank you so much for your time. I’m sure I speak for many of the fans when I say we can’t wait to have you back.

Another polite smile from Hall and then he offers to shake her hand.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I’m not naive, at least not anymore. I know there are going to be hiccups in my comeback story. But I am standing firm. Vickie Hall and company… they are truly in my rearview mirror. This time it’s not about anyone other than myself.

Pause.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall: I can’t wait to prove it.

They shake hands and Hall walks off.

Angelica Brooks: Back to you guys!

Backstage.

Dark.

…

Still dark.

Well, this is fucking boring. Did production switch to the wrong camera?

Still dark, by the way.

Ugh. Why did we even camera in here? And where is “here?”

Finally, a door (but not a random door) opens, shedding light into the room, if not the situation. A figure enters with the pained motions of someone recently involved in an ass-kicking.

He flicks on the light switch, and at last we have our answers.

It’s the communal locker room.

And except for Nate Colton, it’s empty.

Colton lumbers into the room. He came here from the medical station, where Dr. Fihlguud gave him a clean bill of health–or more accurately, a rubber stamp that read “Not Dead”–and sent him on his way.

Now he’s here, desperate to wash the stink of sweat and strain and frustration off his body. Even more desperate to feel a sense of camaraderie, something he’d missed in his time away.

Bad news there, buddy.

Everyone else has either cleared out for the night, or they were never here to begin with. They’re all in the Whorehouse, or the Army HQ, or the Carton, or the Gluem with a View (they’re workshopping it.) Of those who aren’t part of a clique, most had already secured their own locker rooms–from the ostentatious display of Chandler Tsonda to the spartan conditions of Danny Christie.

Nate shuffles to the lone occupied locker, filled by his own possessions. He throws himself down on the bench in front of it and begins the laborious process of untaping his wrists.

This room used to be a living, beating heart of any ReVival. It’s where he’d talk strategy with Nathan Filmix before Survivor events, even though they knew that any plan was dead on arrival. It’s where Dougie Doubleday would fuss over his brother’s pre-match preparations, which Dabney took in stride. It’s where Adam Ellis handed out cigars and showed pictures of his baby daughter.

None of them would be here tonight, that’s for damn sure.

WIth his wrists clear, he makes quick work of the gloves, then bends forward to unlace his boots. He hisses with pain and puts his hand to his left side, but it only slows it down for a moment.

Brandon Youngblood used to hold court here, answering questions from the newbies and letting them know the lay of the land. Lessons that none of them would forget, delivered by a man who loved the business with his whole heart.

When Hayes Hanlon won the Universal Title at Colossus, he came right back here to celebrate after the cameras turned off. Champagne flowed, then beer, then gin. There’s a picture of Nate and Hayes showing off their new titles that neither one remembers taking.

Remember when we were the future, Hayes?

He was a hero here, when he showed the first crack in Tyler Best’s armor.

He was a villain here, when he violated their trust to protect someone else.

The others swarmed in Lisbon. They kept their distance in Spokane. They gave advice to his little brother in Chicago.

Now, the living, beating heart is silent. The lifeblood has run out. Only a husk remains, with a Diamond unsure of where to go.

He does not sit with Vae Victis.

He does not march with the Red Army.

He doesn’t ride with the eGG Bandits, revel with the Poor Whoresemen, or stick with the Glueminati. He doesn’t fit into the Trash’s New World, or

Maybe once, he harbored dreams of superstardom, the kind that came with skyboxes and personal jets and leather couches that traveled across the world just for his comfort. But he always knew he was never meant for that life.

Nate Colton is a common man…a type that has become increasingly uncommon. Downright rare, in fact.

The boots go, followed by the socks–held at arms’ length–then the knee and elbow pads. Finally he goes after his ankle tape with a small pair of scissors, pulled from his gym bag.

The camera doesn’t pick up any sound, but Nate’s not working in silence.

He can still hear the echoes.

Pretty soon he’ll head for the showers, which means he’ll have to peel those trunks off eventually. Since ACE isn’t that kind of channel, we cut elsewhere.

A darkness. The chyron states the date; April 4th, 2026.

Estadio Azteca.

Culture Shock Night Two

The after.

But we don’t really see it, do we? Just the outline. We hear just the heavy breathing. Yet we can make out the furrow of The Diamond’s brow. Singlet straps slung to his hips. He begins to speak, his tone low.

Brandon Youngblood: Tonight…I assembled a team. A group I knew had what it took to take down every single one of your men…Jiles…Jiles…every single one of them has reason to hate…to loathe everyone you picked. Everyone has a reason to loathe you…

He trails off, his hands planting firmly on his hunches. A light chuckle.

Brandon Youngblood: Hell…I ever got more help than I intended. Money talks. But your bullshit…no matter what…it always walks.

He stands.

Brandon Youngblood: An ace in the hole. Big. John. Pepper. Because Cancer Jiles always needs the carton stacked. Because he can’t do anything on his own.

His glower is immense, his tone intense.

Brandon Youngblood: I let down RIA…Hayes…Clay…I let them down tonight. I let my squad down. And for the first time…for the first time ever…you have a little taste of success against me…

He damn near headbutts the camera.

Brandon Youngblood: Never. Again. I was going to make you my little hobby. I cost you the richest prize in all of sports after you cost me against Kael. But I’m not done with you. Violence asks for violence. You’ll receive it. You. Big John Pepper. Anyone…and everyone…who gets in the way.

A step back.

Brandon Youngblood: Nothing is going to save you. Not any bandit. Not Lindsay Troy. No. One. Watch you back…

We fade elsewhere.

The lights dim. The arena goes quiet. And then… a *whistle*. Low, haunting, and familiar.

“The Ecstasy of Gold” by Ennio Morricone spills over the crowd like a slow sunrise over a battlefield. The stage lights up with the color of burnt gold, shadows stretching long across the ramp, across the ring, across every face in attendance. Gold dust drifts across the PRIMEview’s black screen. The horns swell. The strings climb. And then, it all cuts off. A hard, violent snap. The gold burns out. The music stops. Darkness or half a heartbeat and then the speakers kick in.

“Fastest Horse in Town” by Sturgill Simpson hits like a shotgun blast. The light flips to glittering white, a sparkling brightness pouring down the stage and then there he is. Daytona Diamonds. Standing at the top of the ramp, all in white like the hero in a would-be western. The crowd starts to boo. They really can’t help themselves. Daytona doesn’t flinch or smirk or even blink. He just stands there, bathed in harsh light, looking less like a showman and more like a man being judged.

The camera cuts in tight just as that driving guitar kicks in. Jaw set, eyes locked forward. Determined, yeah, but under it? There’s something else. A tension behind his eyes. A tightness around his mouth. Something coiled up that ain’t got nowhere good to go. Anger, maybe. Guilt, definitely. Like he knows exactly what he’s about to do and he ain’t proud of it.

The boos keep coming and Daytona finally moves. No strut or his usual swagger, no playing to the crowd, just a straight line down the ramp. Thud. Thud. Thud. Every step measured, every step deliberate.

Right behind him is former Intense Champion, current manager and co-founder of the Whoresmen, Fred Dick, on a golf cart.

Vince Howard: Ladies and gentlemen, making his way to the ring… standing at six feet, one inches… weighing in at two-hundred-and-ninety pounds…

Daytona rolls his shoulders when he reaches the ring, taking one more deep breath before he grabs the ropes and hoists himself up onto the apron.

Fred claps wildly for his friend and stablemate from his seat in the golf cart.

Vince Howard: …he is The Rhinestone Cowboy…

Daytona steps through the ropes, crossing the ring in a straight line, eyes already drifting to his corner like that’s the only place that matters. No stop for the usual pose. The music keeps driving behind him, but it doesn’t reach him. Neither does the boos. None of it does.

Vince Howard: …DAAAAAAAAYTOOOOOONAAAAAA DIIIIIIIIAAAAMOOOONNNNDDDS!

Slowly, The Rhinestone Cowboy removes his hat. For a second, he just holds it there. Turning it once in his hands like he’s thinking about something he can’t quite put words to. Then he sets it on the turnbuckle, just like always. Daytona turns, leans back into the ropes, arms draped over the top strand. The music fades. The boos don’t. It doesn’t matter, though. What matters is the man about to come down that ramp. Daytona’s eyes stay glued to the stagstable mate.

Fred, meanwhile, has the golf cart in reverse. He damn near drives it off the ramp as he ascends upwards towards the Argyle position, but manages to steady it, and get it where its headed.

The arena lights cut.

The PA whines a familiar guitar tune. Something we know, but you know, distorted.

It’s more hymnal. Sadder. Ready for a funeral.

A single spotlight shines down on the curtain beside Fred Dick’s golf cart.

The voice isn’t Marty Robbins. It’s Mike Ness.

To the town of Agua Fria rode a stranger one fine day. 

Hardly spoke to folks around him, didn’t have too much to say.

No one dared to ask his business. No one dared to make a slip.

The stranger there among them had a big iron on his hip.

“The Legend” Rob Williams steps out onto the entrance ramp. The 5 Star title gleams like a thousand diamonds – noticeably strapped to his waist. He holds a single arm up and pyro explodes all around him scaring the absolute shit out of Fred. The fans explode in cheers for what they deem the lesser of two evils

Vince Howard: And his opponent. Measuring in at 6’2, 240 pounds. He is the TWO TIME, TWO TIME, PRIME FIVE STAR CHAMPIOOOON… ROB!!! WILLLLLLLLLIAMS!!!!!!

Ness wails the story of The Ranger asking after Texas Red as Rob Williams climbs onto the golf cart, planting one foot on the ground and holding onto the side. Luckily Fred eats all his meats and veggies, lest the golf cart would tip.

Rob’s eyes stay locked on Daytona’s as he takes the fateful ride down to the ring.

He looks… lighter.

No longer plagued with all of the questions and self doubt. Can he defend the title this time? Is he just a one-trick pony?

It doesn’t matter.

Williams is here to fuck.

It was twenty past eleven when they walked out in the street.

Folks were watching from the windows, everybody held their breath.

Cause they knew that Handsome Ranger was about to meet his death.

Fred lets Rob off at the steps and he climbs in slowly, soaking in the roar of the fans before stepping in to square up with Daytona.

Both men are steady.

As they get close, noses almost touching, that same mischievous smile crosses Rob’s face.

It doesn’t matter which of these men walk out with the title.

They’re here for something else. To run themselves into one another as hard as possible until one of them just can’t go on.

Nick Stuart: Meanwhile, Fred has parked the golf cart, and he is making his way over to the commentary table.

Richard Parker: YOU GONNA HANG OUT, FRED DAWG!?!

Fred sticks a headset on his head and has a seat next to Richard.

Fred Dick: Yew know iiiiit.

Nick Stuart: Great. Now that you’re here, rumors are swirling — especially after the events earlier tonight, that this match might signal the end of the Whoresmen.

Fred Dick: Let that rumor swirl, Nick. Know what else swirls? Turds in a daggum turlet bowl my friend. Don’t matter if its a whispered little, tiny turd like yourself—

Richard Parker: Ha!

Fred Dick: — or a big ol loaf turd. They swirl all the same, Nick.

In the ring, the story writes itself.

Daytona Diamonds, who had one of, if not the most legendary Intense Title reigns in the company, looking for his second belt against his stablemate and friend, Rob Williams.

Rob Williams, seeking to legitimize his second reign with the Five Star title, and show the world that he is the Legend that his shirt says he is, against his friend, and one of the most talented wrestlers in the world, Daytona Diamonds.

Referee Ashley Barlow calls for the bell.

DING! DING!

Much was made over how this match would start. A fake-out fingerpoke of doom? A purple nurple competition? Rock, paper, scissors to see who gets to do a low blow, no take backs?

One might find it hard to believe, but the Whoresmen do have notions of respect. They aren’t incredibly strong notions, but they’re notions all the same. And a match against each other, in the main event of ReVival 85, with the Five Star Championship on the line?

Eventually, it was thought best to respect the moment.

And so, the two lock up in the middle of the ring. They jockey for position, but the roided-out rhinestone cowboy takes the upper hand with his strength advantage, quickly transitioning Rob into a side headlock. How many side-headlocks has Rob Williams been transitioned to in his life? Seventeen thousand, maybe, give or take? All that is to say, he has quite a bag when it comes to reversals for this.

In this case, he goes with old faithful.

Nick Stuart: Big time atomic drop by Rob Williams!

Fred Dick: Hahaha, look at Toner grab his ace. S’funny.

Daytona does grab his ass and arch his back as he marches away from that atomic drop, only to turn around and — BAM! BIG Lariat by Daytona drops Rob on his back.

And Diamonds starts putting in that work.

A series of stomps to the ribs. One after another, stomping Rob’s ass all over the ring until Rob reaches the turnbuckles. Daytona goes for another stomp, but Williams falls out of the way! Daytona’s foot goes through the ropes, and though it only takes him a few seconds to free it, that’s all the time Williams needs.

Williams with a shoulder block into the back of Diamonds’ knee!

Rob wastes no time. Front facelock, snap suplex! He floats over, rolls through, keeps hold — another snap suplex! And a third, stalling this one just long enough to let the blood rush before planting Diamonds hard on the canvas.

Rob pops to his feet, quick off the ropes…

Nick Stuart: Basement dropkick right to the side of Daytona’s head!

Daytona rolls, dazed, trying to create space

Williams doesn’t give it.

He’s already on him.

Rob hooks the wrist, drags Daytona up. Short-arm lariat! No, Diamonds ducks it, spins through, kick to the gut! He yanks Rob in tight!!!

Snap powerslam!!!

And this time, it’s Daytona who holds on.

He doesn’t release the grip, instead rolling through, muscling Williams back up. A powerslam this time, this one with extra stank on it! The ring shakes, and Rob clutches at his back as he tries to crawl away.

Diamonds kips up. Gives a little shake of the head, clearing the cobwebs, and charges!

Running knee lift to the ribs sends Williams spilling under the bottom rope to the apron.

Daytona follows, grabbing a handful of hair. He pulls Rob up!

SNAP SUPLEX ONTO THE APRON!!! ROB ARCHES HIS BACK AND CRIES OUT IN PAIN AND SPILLS TO THE FLOOR!!!

Fred Dick: Them’s my boys right there!

Nick Stuart: No rooting interest tonight?

Fred Dick: I just hope both teams have fun.

Nick Stuart: Ah, but they’re on the same team, aren’t they???

Richard Parker: Nick, everyone sees what you’re trying to do. You didn’t pull this crap when FLAMBERGE and Cecilworth went at it, but you got time for the Whoresmen, huh? Typical. “Biased” Nick. That’s what they should call you.

Meanwhile, Daytona has pulled Rob Williams up by the hair.

But Rob with a burst of energy whips Daytona HARD into the ring post, and that big hunk of man meat drops just as hard to the floor. Williams, with extra effort, brings Daytona to his feet and shoves him into the ring with help from the apron.

Ashley Barlow stops her count as Daytona rolls towards the center. He slowly starts climbing towards his feet. Meanwhile, Rob has climbed onto the apron, measuring up the distance required to travel.

Daytona turns towards Rob!

Nick Stuart: SLINGSHOT SPEAR THROUGH THE MIDDLE ROPE DROPS DAYTONA! ROB MOUNTS HIM NOW, PUMMELING HIS FRIEND WITH FIST AFTER FIST AFTER FIST!!!

Fred Dick: Come on boys, do some real shid! I see this typa shid between yall on a tri-weekly basis!

Williams gathers himself to his feet. Brings Daytona up with him. He sends a boot into Daytona’s gut— DDT!!! NO!!! Daytona sent a knee into Williams, probably caught some of his meat into doing so, freeing himself up just enough to transition to Williams’ side and—

Nick Stuart: THE DUSTY TRAIL!!! THE DUSTY TRAIL!!! THE SAITO SUPLEX!!! HE MAKES THE COVER!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THRE — NOOOOO!!! KICK OUT BY THE CHAMPION!

Fred Dick: Gon’ take more than dat neow! Daytona a daggum tank, MAKE NO MISTAKE! But Rob is like fightin’ a smort mef-head. Which is kinda crazy. That’s a one of one typa deal.

Nick Stuart: A what?

Fred Dick: A smort mef-head.

Nick Stuart: What are you even saying?

Fred Dick: Somebody what’s intellergent but also likes to do a toot of mef.

Nick Stuart: …oh.

Daytona doesn’t argue the count. Doesn’t even look at Ashley. He just exhales through his nose, slow, controlled, like he expected it. Like he needed it. He pushes up to a knee, then a foot, dragging Rob up with him by the wrist. No wasted motion. No hesitation.

Forearm. CRACK.

Another. CRACK.

Rob fires back. Louder. Meaner. The two trade in the center now, no guard, no give, just leather and bone and bad intentions. The crowd starts to rise with each shot, a rhythm building.

CRACK.

CRACK.

CRACK.

Daytona rocks. Rob steps in. BIG right! Daytona stumbles back into the ropes.

And comes roaring forward with a rebound lariat that damn near turns Rob inside out!

Nick Stuart: SIX SHOOTER BY DAYTONA DIAMONDS!!!

Rob doesn’t stay down.

He can’t. Not yet, at least. Not when he can still muster some source of fight from within his body.

He rolls through the impact, somehow, some way, tumbling to a knee instead of flat on his back. Eyes glassy, sure — but alive. Daytona turns, expecting a body, not a man still rising.

Rob surges forward!

DOUBLE LEG!!! NO!!! Daytona sprawls, stuffs it, clubs him across the back of the neck! Once! Twice! Rob drops to a hand, trying to power through, trying to will himself upward, but Daytona snakes around—

Rear waistlock!

Nick Stuart: He’s got him hooked!

Daytona lifts!

Rob grabs the ropes!

Boot to the mat, desperate, clinging, and then a back elbow! Another! He breaks the grip, spins — DESPERATION SUPERKICK!!! DIDN’T LOOK PRETTY, DIDN’T HAVE TO!!!

Daytona staggers!!! BOOT TO THE GUT!!!

Nick Stuart: Rob Williams what are you thinking???

Fred Dick: Dat he a bad bench what can do whatever he fuggin’ want because he da Five Star mothafuggin’ champeen!!!

POWERBOMB!!!!

POWERBOMB BY ROB WILLIAMS TO DAYTONA DIAMONDS AND THE GOD DAMN RING DAMN NEAR GAVE OUT!!!

HOLY JESUS!!!!

ROB MAKES THE COVER!!!

HE HOOKS THE LEG!!!!

ONE!!!

TWO!!!

THREEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

.

.

.

.

.

NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Nick Stuart: Somehow, some way, Daytona found a kick out.

Fred Dick: I gots da best stable in tha whole mothafuggin’ woooorld, Nick, you lil’ fuggin turd burglar. Dat much is on display righcheuh tonight, LAWD YES it’s on display!

The whole arena collectively exhales.

Rob stays on his knees for a second longer than he should. Not shocked. Not frustrated. Just… processing. Like he felt it. Like he knows how close that was. His hands stay planted on the mat as he nods once, slow, almost to himself.

Then he looks up at Daytona.

And there’s a flicker there. Not anger. Not even competitiveness.

Something uglier.

He grabs Daytona by the head, dragging him up again, less finesse now, more intent, like the line between proving something and taking something is starting to blur.

And then he slaps the PISS out of Daytona’s mouth.

Fred Dick: Uh oh.

Nick Stuart: What is it, Fred?

Fred Dick: If I know these two like I think I do, a pissin’ contest just got started.

Fred, it turns out, DOES know these two like he thinks he does.

And I’ll be damned if Daytona doesn’t snicker juuuust a little bit before reaching his hand as far back as he can, spitting on the palm, and

SMACK!!!

Spit flies from Rob’s mouth.

A hard right from Rob!

A hard left from Daytona!

They reset on instinct, circling half a step, breath heavy, chests rising and falling in sync like two men who know each other too well. The crowd noise swells again, but it feels distant now, like it’s happening somewhere far outside the ring.

Rob steps in first — quick jab!

Daytona slips it.

Counter! Short right hand snaps Rob’s head back!

Rob grins through it.

And fires back harder.

Forearm. Daytona answers. Forearm. Rob answers louder. The rhythm returns, uglier now, less about feeling out and more about taking something from the other man. Sweat flicks with every impact, teeth grit, boots scraping canvas as neither gives an inch.

Daytona steps through one, drives a knee up into Rob’s midsection, doubling him over. He hooks him quick! Snap suplex!

Rob blocks! Wide base! Headbutt to the jaw!

Daytona stumbles!

Rob spins, scoops!

Nick Stuart: URANAGE!!! NO!!!!

Daytona twists out mid-air, lands on his feet behind him!

Waistlock!

GERMAN SUPLEX!!! NO!!! Rob flips through, lands on his feet!

Both men turn!

DOUBLE CLOTHESLINE!!!

They crash down hard to the mat together.

Richard Parker: And I’ll be damned if there isn’t some applause scattered through the audience, just out of sheer appreciation for that brutal exchange, Nick.

Nick Stuart: I think you’re right, Richard.

Fred Dick: Ain’t nobody gon’ ask me what I think?

Nick Stuart: What do you think, Fred?

Fred Dick: …I think you’re right, Richard!

For a second, neither man moves.

Then Daytona rolls first.

Not fast. Not explosive. Just that same deliberate crawl, dragging himself toward the ropes, fingers clawing at the canvas like he’s pulling the whole damn ring with him. Rob follows a beat behind, pushing up to a knee, shaking the cobwebs loose, eyes already hunting.

They spot each other at the same time.

And both surge.

Daytona charges with a big boot! Rob ducks, catches Daytona’s arm, whips him back towards him, back body drop OVER THE TOP FUCKING ROPE!!!!

NO!!!! Daytona catches himself on the apron!

Rob spins!!!

Daytona slingshots in!!!

Nick Stuart: SPRINGBOARD LARIAT FROM THE MASSIVE RHINESTONE COWBOY!!!! CRAZY ATHLETICISM FROM THE BIG MAN!!!

…only,

Rob dodges.

And Daytona spills to the canvas.

Rob seizes the gap like he’s stuck in traffic and he don’t give a damn who he wrecks. Daytona lunges to his feet, but he catches Rob’s boot in his gut.

DDT!!!

NO, INTO A DIAMOND CUTTER!!!

Nick Stuart: OLD TIME ROCK AND ROLL BY WILLIAMS!!! HE HITS IT CLEAN!!! HE HITS IT CLEAN!!!

Richard Parker: Fred just dropped his head set!!!

Nick Stuart: ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! IT’S OVER!!! IT’S OVER AND ROB WILLIAMS RETAINS THE FIVE STAR CHAMPIONSHIP!!!

DING!!! DING!!!

Vince Howard: Heeere is yoooour winner… aaaaaaaand STILLLLLL!!! THE PRIME FIVE STAR CHAMPIONNN… ROOOOB!!! WILLLLLLIAMMMMSSS!!!

Fred Dick has slid into the ring, clearly worried about what may occur here.

Is this the moment the whoresmen come undone?

Anna Daniels has rushed to the ring from the back and joins Fred inside the squared circle.

Fred Dick rips the Five Star out of Ashley’s Barlows hands.

Meanwhile, Rob helps Daytona to his feet, but Daytona SMACKS his hand away.

Nick Stuart: Uh oh.

Rob sticks his hand out. To shake hands. Why not? They’re friends after all, right?

Daytona smacks his hand away again.

Richard Parker: Daytona, what are you doing man!?!

It seems all the Kings Whoreses and all the Whoresmen are asking the same question.

Daytona LUNGES for Rob!!!

— and embraces him. In a hug.

And Rob, well…

Rob hugs him back.

Fred joins the hug.

So does Anna.

When the hug ends, Daytona takes the Five Star title from Fred. With all the swagger the Rhinestone Cowboy can muster after a grueling match with a homie, he wraps the title around Rob Williams’ waist himself.

The foursome lift each other’s arms in the air.

And though the crowd may be disappointed.

And though Lindsay Troy may roll her eyes.

Just know that there’s tens, dare I say, hundreds of American rednecks, weeping and applauding at home as the events unfold.

It’s Rob Williams’ title.

But it’s the Whoresmen’s night.

FADE

TO

Whoresmen 4 lyfe.